TITLE:  Haunted

AUTHOR:  Eloise

RATING: PG13

DISCLAIMER: Joss and ME own Wes, Cordy and all things Angel. I'm only playing with them. I promise to put them away carefully when I'm finished. (Oh yes, M Night Shyamalan and Hollywood Pictures/Spyglass Entertainment own "The Sixth Sense").

NOTES: Just a little character reflection piece set way back in the good old days of Season 1. Hm, it seems I may be living in denial. The cosmetics Cordelia uses do actually exist (Lush Fresh Handmade Cosmetics) – chosen for their unusual names!  The quote is from Isaiah Ch 59 v 9 (King James Version)

"We wait for the light, but behold obscurity; for brightness, but we walk in darkness."

Haunted

The door opened.

The tall dark headed vampire came into the apartment, holding a carrier bag in one hand. He placed it on the kitchen table, removed three bags of gelatinous red fluid, and put them in the refrigerator. He moved to the living room, and then continued to unpack the plastic bag, setting its contents carefully on a table beside the couch.

A sketchpad; charcoals and pastels of varying sizes; a bottle of water; a tube of makeup bearing the name 'Cutie Pie'; a pair of thin framed glasses, one lens badly cracked. A strange assortment of objects, he gazed at them for a long time. As if playing that children's parlour game, the one where everything is hidden under a teacloth; an item is removed, and you have to guess which is gone. But he had no one to play with.

He finally stood up, rubbed his eyes briefly, and went into the bedroom. Opened the wardrobe, and played the memory game all over again. He lifted a small paisley overnight bag, and filled it with an odd assortment of clothes, none of which really matched. Snapped it shut, and returned to the living room. He sat down heavily on the couch.

'They're going to be okay, Dennis. Wes woke up, and he translated the scroll. Cordy's awake, and she's going to be fine.' He was telling himself, as much as anything. 'They're both in rough shape, though; Wes got some bad burns in the explosion…' his voice tailed off, long fingers finding the damaged spectacles, turning them over in his hands, a rosary of sorts. 'And Cordy, well, she's been through hell.' His voice cracked. 'She's seen it…'

It terrified him. He had come so close to losing his companions, his two best friends. They kept him human, their concern for him poorly hidden behind her feigned self-involvement, his quiet self-deprecation. He rubbed his eyes once more, and stood up, lifting the overnight bag carefully. He folded the mangled glasses, and slipped them into the pocket of his duster.

*~*~*~*

The door opened.

Cordelia led the way into the apartment, closely followed by her two male companions. She moved with an easy grace, the air of confidence of one who is in possession of the knowledge that she is special, and that this vital piece of information must be shared with the world at large as often as possible.

At this moment, however, she was intent on expressing her dissatisfaction with her current clothing ensemble. This consisted of a pair of red three quarter length pants and a multi-coloured sleeveless top. Incredibly, not one of the psychedelic myriad of colours vying for attention on the garment appeared to be red.

You might be dead, Angel, but you're not blind! And I know you have some kind of dress sense.' She flapped her hand vaguely at the vampire's monochromatic attire.

'Black, Cordy. Everything  - uh – goes with black.' It was a weak attempt at defence. 'I just picked out stuff I've seen you wear…'

'Never at the same time!' She rolled her eyes in frustration. 'It's not like you're Mr. Fashion Retard here.'

This time she gestured to the tall Englishman, who had been doing his best to ignore the conversation.

'Uh…what?'

She continued on unabated.

'I mean, what statement are we making here, Wes? Homeless shelter meets One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest?'

An imperious flick of her wrist indicated his white T-shirt, crumpled blue dress shirt, and a pair of incongruous grey sweat pants. The previously pale face of the Englishman gradually reddened.

'Excuse me, but may I remind you that I also had no choice!' he retaliated hotly.

'Oh please. I've seen your wardrobe. You make Xander Harris look fashionable!'

 She swept past her companions, and tossed a small overnight bag on the couch. Wesley reached up to push his non-existent glasses onto the bridge of his nose.

'You know, I really don't have to be here, insulting your delicate fashion sense with my clothing choice. As I said in the car, I'm quite capable of managing at my flat.'

This was obviously a topic that had been debated at length, judging by Cordelia's overacted sigh.'

'You heard the doc, Wesley. Dressings get changed every day.' She smiled proudly at the superiority of her argument. ' I'd like to see you try that one-handed.' She indicated his bandaged forearms.

'It isn't as if they have to be changed in the middle of the night.' He responded. ' You could do them before I leave in the evening.'

'And who's going to look after you there?' She snapped, emphasising her point with a reasonably hard smack to his shoulder.

'Admittedly, I don't have anyone to abuse my taste in clothes and slap me around, but I'm thinking I could probably do without that kind of help.'

'Oh, come on, that didn't hurt!' To prove it, she slapped him again, a little harder.

'Ow! Cordelia!' His voice rose, threatening to become a whine.

The vampire had been leaning against the wall, watching them bicker with a strangely tolerant smile.

'Children, children. We all know where this is going to end. With someone being sent to their room without supper.' There was a hint of a chuckle in his voice.

They both stopped; turned to face him, wearing matching looks of astonishment. Then the Englishman folded his arms across his chest and shot Angel a rather defiant look.

'If it would mean being sent home to my own flat, then, by all means, feel free!'

Cordelia's foot hovered above the floor, ready to complete her tantrum with an emphatic foot stamp. Then, suddenly, unexpectedly, amazingly, she grinned; a thousand-watt beam that dazzled them all.

'God, guys, it's great to be home!'

 *~*~*~*                                                        

The door opened.

Cordelia came out of the bathroom and padded across the bedroom to her dressing table. She surveyed the bewildering array of creams and lotions necessary for the upkeep of a high maintenance girl wishing to cast her spell on this jaded town. Some of them did seem almost magical; tiny glittering pots that contained heady, aromatic potions. They had exotic, enchanted names: "Celestial", "Dream Cream" and the disturbingly titled "Angels on Bare Skin".

She chose a pot, seemingly at random, and dipped a carefully filed nail into it. Gently massaged the cream into her shower-reddened skin. The ritual was familiar, but she enjoyed it, this putting on of a skin, a protective layer against the harshness of the world outside.

She completed her toilet, and shrugged her newly pampered body into an extremely well cut plum velvet dress. She wiggled her hips and it clung in all the right places. Turned her attention to her hair. Practised fingers gathered the auburn curls into a loose chignon, allowing a few carefully placed tendrils to trail onto her bared shoulders.

She applied her make-up quickly and expertly; glittering shadow to highlight her chocolate eyes; delicate rose blush to heighten her colour; a deep lustrous plum gloss to emphasize full lips.

She stood up, slid her feet into shoes that owed their existence only to a few sparkling beads held together by three web-like stands of silk.

She was perfect.

In the living area, the two men were spending their Saturday evening in relaxation. Wesley, who had been permitted to return home to collect some personal effects, was seated at the dining table, intently studying a large, rather dusty book. He looked utterly content. The vampire was more comfortably situated on the couch; his choice of book certainly smaller and less ancient than the Englishman's, though no less interesting to him.

They both looked up as Cordelia exited her room, carrying a functionally useless evening purse. She floated gracefully into the centre of the room, the frill along the bias seam of her frock bouncing delicately as she moved.

'Cordy, you look – wow. Wes, doesn't she look…?'

The younger man removed his nose from the book he had been peering at and nodded

'Yes. Very nice, I should say.' He rubbed at his burn-reddened cheek absently. 'Where did you say you were going again?'

A tiny sigh of frustration escaped her lips.

'A date. A nice normal dinner date, with a nice normal non-demonic guy. Unlike you two losers, I actually have a life.'

Angel looked at her with a rather paternal air.

'Where did you meet this guy, Cordy?'

'I told you already; he was in that commercial I got the call back for.'

The vampire nodded slowly. 'That's a pretty dress. Won't you be cold, though, with your shoulders so bare?'

'Jeez, Dad, overprotect much? It's L.A., it's summer, I don't think I'll freeze!'

Wesley stopped reading again, looked at Cordelia as if something had just occurred to him.

'You've got your cell phone, yes?'

'You are so not going to call me tonight, guys. I mean it!'

'In case of visions, Cordelia' He explained, sounding a little tetchy.

'Oh. Well, the same goes for you guys, then,' she said, wagging her finger heavenwards. 'I am having a night off, understand?'

Angel and Wesley exchanged a look.

'I don't think it works that way.' Angel pointed out.

'Well, it had better.' There was a threatening quality to her statement, though it was unclear at whom it was directed. 'Oh, and by the way, Angel, I'm going to need a raise.'

'What?' This total non sequitur caused Wesley to splutter.

She feigned innocent surprise. 'You don't think a look like this comes cheap, do you? The shoes alone cost two hundred dollars on ebay.'

Both men's eyes dropped to the thin wisps of beading that arched just beyond her shell pink toenails.

'My God. That's about fifty dollars a bead!' Wesley gasped.

'Man - o - lo - Blah - nik. 'She pronounced each syllable slowly, as if explaining a simple syllogism to very dense pupils. 'Anyway, it's not like you're paying rent anymore, is it? Vocah saw to that.'  That was Cordelia, tactful as ever.

Angel gave that same, small complaisant smile. 'I'll see what I can do, Cordy.'

Wesley huffed his disapproval.

'Oh, give it a rest, Scrooge!' She poked a pink tongue through perfect pouting lips and opened the apartment door. 'Try not to have too much fun, boys!'

And she was gone.

The vampire returned to his novel, seeming completely unconcerned. It was obvious the young Englishman wanted to reproach him, but was having difficulty finding the appropriate words.

'Angel… ah… do you really think you should indulge her so readily?' His voice was quiet, betraying his apprehension. The book was closed again, placed on the lamp table next to the couch.

'The thing about Cordelia is…' Angel began, and then appeared to change his mind. 'You have to learn to pick your battles. Never the clothes, Wes. I just keep my mouth shut, and my wallet open.'

He spoke with humour, but there was something else underneath, a wistful contentment, as if all was right with the world.  The younger man seemed to sense it too, and settled back to his research thoughtfully.

*~*~*~*

The door opened. Cordelia set the glass of water on the dressing table; fetched two painkillers from the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. She had already changed out of the chic evening dress and shoes, opting for the less elegant, but infinitely more comfortable plaid robe and white fluffy slippers. She sat down in front of the mirror, and gave her reflection a stern gaze.

'There is to be no feeling sorry for yourself. It's your job. It's what you do.' She chivvied herself, swallowing the tablets with a mouthful of water.

She unscrewed the lid of her makeup remover and squeezed a little onto a cotton wool pad. Wiped carefully at the trails of mascara that had run down her cheeks as she had sobbed at the intensity of her vision. Revealed dark black smudges under her eyes, a residue from her traumatic vision overload.

She lowered her head carefully onto her folded arms and wept.

*~*~*~*

The door opened.

The vampire entered first, supporting his companion around the waist, all the while maintaining a monologue, a lecture that had apparently begun some time ago.

'I said you weren't ready, Wesley, but would you listen? You're not strong enough yet. Hell, Wes, you could have been killed.'

He deposited his charge gently on the couch, and went into the kitchen in search of the first aid kit.

'But I wasn't.' The Englishman pointed out, wincing as he tried to remove his jacket. 'I hit the bloody thing between the eyes!'

Angel returned to the injured man, helped him to ease his arm free. 'Not before it took a chunk out of your back.' Wesley did not seem to be as chastened as the vampire had hoped.

'If I hadn't distracted it, we'd both probably be dead.'

'As opposed to just me being dead when Cordy finds out what happened.'

"What happened?'

She was standing in the hallway, surveying the scene with overt displeasure.

'We killed it.' Wes had been aiming for casually triumphant, but had missed by a mile. Had managed to hit nervously conciliatory instead.

'Well, duh! That's not what I asked. Why is Mr. 'I'll make sure Wes stays home' big with the Florence Nightingale routine?' Ice Queen voice.

It was a race to see which of them would crack first.

'I insisted that I should go along…'

'He made me take him…'

Their excuses tailed off under her arctic glare, and they sat beside each other on the sofa, contrite schoolboys awaiting judgment.

She sighed in exaggerated irritation. 'Give it here!' She extended her hand, and the vampire relinquished the first aid kit without argument. She pulled a dining chair out from the table and swung it round.

'You. Idiot.' Wesley looked up. 'Well, at least you know you are, that's something. Sit!'

There was no defying her when she was in this mood. The Englishman obeyed as quickly as his wounds allowed him, and straddled the back-to-front chair. She unbuttoned his shirt, wrinkling her nose at the already crusted bloodstains on his white t-shirt. She lifted the hem, then dropped it, and began to thread his arms out of his sleeves.

'Wha… Cordy! Surely you can clean the wound without resorting to undressing me!' His voice rose in pitch.

'Oh, please. I think I can resist the allure of your manly torso.'

'But…really… it's fine. I can hardly feel it.'

She continued to disrobe him, finally pulling the shirt over his head.

There was a silence. A hush so intense it seemed loud.

The demon's claw had indeed removed a considerable portion of skin from his back, along with a small amount of actual flesh. But not the worst injury he had ever received. Not by a long way.

The man's back was a mass of scars. Some were very recent; a three-inch crescent shaped burn on his upper spine had only just darkened. Others maybe months old; wicked looking knife cuts traced across his thin shoulder blades like some demented dot-to-dot pattern. And others, much, much older, thin white lines that spider-webbed across his lower back, disappearing below the waistband of his trousers. His back a map, telling the story of who he was, where he had been.

Cordelia let a little sigh escape her lips.

'Wes.' Her voice incredibly soft. 'Oh, Wesley…'

The Englishman stiffened, the muscles in his back tensing.

You gotta get yourself a safety word!'

His sudden burst of laughter was infectious, and soon all three were giggling helplessly. Finally, Wes wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and leaned forward, resting his chin on his hands, while Cordelia cleaned and bandaged his latest wound.

*~*~*~*

The door opened.

Angel was carrying takeout bags, which Cordelia grabbed from him and placed on the table.

'Did you get Kung Pao chicken?' She demanded, examining the brown paper bag officiously. 'Ew! Gross!'

'What? Angel, you didn't spill blood over the takeout again?' Wesley demanded in a crotchety tone.

'No!' It was Cordelia who answered, removing a grease-stained paper bag from the selection. 'What the hell are these?'

Wes leaned over and peered at the contents, then inhaled deeply. 'Oh my God. Chips. Real chips.' He couldn't help the grin that spread across his face.

'Uh –uh. Those are not chips. They're not even French Fries. They're slugs. Greasy slugs.' Cordelia's nose crinkled in disgust.

'How can you say that, after I tasted that dip you bought yesterday?'

'What dip?'

'The hummus in the fridge. I really don't know how you stomach the stuff, Cordy. It tastes perfectly foul.'

She swiped his shoulder hard.

'Doofus! That was my facemask! Thirteen dollars a tub and you ate it!'

He looked so forlorn that she began to laugh.

'Oh, Wes, you are such a dork!'

The Englishman's cheeks grew pink, but he was still overjoyed at the thought of real chips. 'Where did you get them, Angel?'

The vampire smiled. 'Went to that pub you like so much – Robin Hood's – they told me about a proper fish and chip shop nearby.' He seemed suddenly shy. 'Knew how much you were missing them.'

The younger man smiled back, shyly. 'Thank you, Angel.'

Cordelia returned from the kitchen, plonked a bottle triumphantly on the coffee table. 'See, Brood Boy's not the only one who's big with the gestures. The wonders of the web, Wes.'

Wesley lifted the bottle of brown sauce in wonderment. 'HP sauce. Cordelia…' He reached again for his missing glasses, in danger of tearing up.

'Now, no allergies tonight, Wes. It's movie time.'

Angel settled himself in the armchair, his mug resting on the arm. ' What are we watching tonight?'

Cordelia slid the tape into the video recorder, and flicked to the correct channel. '"The Sixth Sense" - Dennis' favourite movie.' She unfocused her eyes rather disconcertingly. 'I see dead people.' She returned to normal.' You know…Bruce Willis and the little kid.' At their blank looks she sighed grimly. 'And the award goes to Cordelia Chase, in recognition of her dedicated charity work among the culturally subnormal. Guys, just watch.'

They obeyed. The movie played. Angel interrupted. Cordelia shushed. Wesley rubbed the bridge of his nose when it came to the part where the mean kids at the party trick the child and lock him in the closet.

'I'm just going to have another crack at the scroll of Aberjian…' He stood up and moved over to the dining table where his books had set up permanent residence.

Yeah, whatever,' Cordelia was too engrossed in the film to pay any heed. Angel looked over at the younger man briefly, then turned his attention back to the film.

On screen, the little boy sobbed bitterly, and Wesley's hand shook as he wrote.

*~*~*~*

The door opened.

Wesley crept out, a man used to moving quietly. They had said their goodnights an hour after the movie had finished; when Angel had gone out patrolling and Cordelia had insisted he put away the research for the night and go to bed.

Wesley didn't sleep, at least not intentionally. He preferred to work until his eyelids drooped; his head dropped onto his books, ensuring his sleep was sound and dreamless. He slid surreptitiously into his chair, and clicked on the reading lamp. He opened a text and picked up his notepad and pencil.

An hour had passed when he heard a door open.

'Jeez, Dennis! Did you see the last utilities bill?' Cordelia emerged from her room, bleary –eyed from sleep, her unadorned features strangely soft, like a charcoal drawn version of herself.

'Oh. Um… Wes. Didn't know you were up. I thought it was Dennis, messing with the lights again.'

He looked rather bewildered, so she explained.

'He gets kind of – nervous sometimes.' She whispered and looked around conspiratorially. 'I think he's a bit scared of the dark, you know, 'cos of the whole being walled up alive by his psycho mom forty years ago.'

'Ah. Yes, I imagine that would do it.'

'I don't really mind, though, about the light thing. It's just – well, he's a ghost, for goodness sake. What sort of ghost is afraid of the dark?'

Wesley wasn't sure how to answer her question, ran his fingers along the spine of the notebook absently.

What are you doing up, anyway? Didn't we send you to bed?' Her tone was accusatory.

The Englishman coloured up, and he stumbled slightly over his excuse. 'I had … an idea…c-concerning the prophecy. Wanted to look it up while it was fresh in my m-mind.'

'And this couldn't have waited till morning? Honestly, Wes, you're impossible. You're here so we can look after you, and here you are, sneaking around in the middle of the night with your dumb old books.' Somewhere in that speech, she had expressed her concern, and Wesley blushed deeper.

She rolled her eyes heavenward, as if drawing strength from a higher being. 'Now, if you don't want me to call Angel and tell him what you've been up to, you'll go straight to bed this minute.'

He nodded mutely, subdued by her angry tenderness. Closed the text he was working on and followed her down the hallway to the spare room. At the door, she paused briefly, her perfect manicured nails resting on the architrave, tapping out a thoughtful rhythm.

'Dennis, you know I was kidding about the utilities bill, right?'

Wesley looked confused again and she gave a soft smile.

'It's okay to leave the light on if you want.' She added, addressing the space above her head; watching Wesley out of the corner of her eye.

'I – I'm sure Dennis will find that a comfort.' He murmured, almost to himself. 'Goodnight, Cordelia.'

'Goodnight, Wesley.'

*~*~*~*~

The door opened.

Cordelia peered into the recesses of the refrigerator, then sighed in satisfaction as she found what she had been looking for. Wes sat up straighter in his chair, and removed his newly acquired glasses. He rolled his shoulders carefully, exhaling sharply as he tried to work out the knots in his tense muscles.

'You okay, Wes?' She leaned round the kitchen arch, a bottle of sparkling wine in her hand.

'Mm. My back's a bit stiff. Time to call it a night, I think.' He replaced his glasses.

There was a quiet click, as Angel closed the apartment door and slipped off his duster, dropping it casually over the couch. He set his bags down on the kitchen counter, then noticed the bottle in her hand.

'Oh.' He began to unpack one of the bags, placing a bottle of Moet and Chandon in her other hand. 'Snap.'

'Trumph, more like it!' But she was grinning broadly.

'Well, you said break out the champagne. And I thought…' he gestured wordlessly to the more expensive bottle.

'Great minds, Pinocchio! Hang on a second.'

She went to the cupboard and fetched three glasses. Angel broke the seal on the bottle and uncorked it carefully.

'Wes, enough with the research! Come and sit down over here.' She patted the cushion beside her impatiently.

The watcher put down his book, joined the cheerleader and the vampire on the couch.

They touched their glasses together, the crystal tinkling delicately.

'To us!' Cordelia said it quickly, determined to be the first to toast.

'To live and die in L.A.' Wesley spoke softly, and the smile on the vampire's face grew broad.

'How long did it take to think that one up, Pinky!'

'Pinky – what is that supposed to mean?'

'God, you are so culturally deficient. Have you ever actually seen a cartoon?'

'I'm not five years old, you know!'

'Could have fooled me.' She retorted.

'Well, that wouldn't exactly be much of a challenge,' He replied, sounding rather pleased with himself.

'Children.' Angel's voice was quiet, a gentle reprimand in his tone.

'To family.'

They echoed his toast softly and sipped from their glasses together. Suddenly Cordelia jumped up and raced off towards her bedroom. She returned moments later with a Polaroid instamatic camera.

'I'm having a Kodak moment!'

She set the camera on the table opposite, then repositioned herself between the two men, and presented a set of perfectly brilliant teeth as the flash went off.

'Um – I didn't manage to get champagne,' Wes murmured softly. 'But I did think we ought to celebrate Angel's good news. I've made a booking for dinner tonight…'

'Please God not 'Ye Oldie Worldie Tavernie' again ' Cordy rolled her eyes.

'Fine. I'll just go and phone the Monte Cito and tell them to cancel our reservation.'

Her squeal shut him up.

It was amazing how little time it took her to get ready, both men agreed, when she was properly motivated. They stood at the door of her apartment, as she grabbed her purse from the lamp table. She opened it and checked her wallet quickly.

'You're paying, right, Ebenezer?'

'Well, if you're going to insult me…'

She was already in the hallway. 'Yeah, yeah, tell it to somebody who gives a crap…'

Her two companions exchanged looks of contented exasperation. This is the way it was, and always would be.

They headed out of the door together.

Their voices could be heard faintly as they reached the stairs, and then the apartment was silent, suddenly seeming less real.

He switched on a reading lamp in the corner of the room. She was almost right.

For most people, fear of the dark is more properly a fear of things invisible, of the unknown terrors that may lurk in the shadows. An inbuilt, subconscious reaction, which harked back to a time when the dark of a cave could mean mortal danger.

He knew better.

His fear of the dark was borne of simple experience, of the knowledge that within the darkness there was nothing. A suffocating blackness, a total lack of existence. He had lived a lifetime in limbo, until she had freed him. The whole apartment was now lit by their presence; he felt them in every room, their joy, their sorrow, their pain, radiating light.

Cordelia, his saviour, keeping the 'Queen C' bubble afloat, masking her concern for her family with caustic putdowns. And they accepted it, even enjoyed it a little, glad to have the old version back after her descent into the darkness of madness and despair.

Angel, the titular boss of their little trio, striving for redemption, trying to find a way to atone for the sins of the past. With them, he had found warmth, acceptance, forgiveness, a candle to shine in his darkness.

Wesley. A man with so much hidden. His dark places perhaps most mirroring his own. A man who was all too well acquainted with those monsters that lurk in the darkness, real or imagined. A man whose shy demeanour hid a quiet courage and unswerving loyalty to his friends.

Three haunted people. One by the awful things she had seen. One by the awful things he had done. And one by the awful things that had been done to him. He wondered if they even realized how much each of them mattered to the others. How much they mattered to him.

For forty years he had been haunted by darkness.

And now, here he was, haunted by light.

He closed the door.