shanshuinla:

The relief he felt immediately washes away in the flood of uncertainty that takes its place. Cordelia seems distracted, hesitant in a way he’s never seen her, and he doesn’t - can’t possibly - know what to expect. He tries to convince himself she’s just nervous - the same as him, as fantastical as the suggestion sounds - but he knows her well enough to sense there’s something she isn’t telling him. Something more than an unspoken confession.

… And, yet - she’s stunning, draped in a flowing white gown, the specter of a divine being in the pale moonlight; as radiant as she’s ever been. Angel catches her gaze for the briefest of moments and swallows, looks away too quickly, his stomach fluttering.

He shuffles in place, acutely feeling the distance between himself and Cordelia: too far and too close at once; he takes another deep breath. Steeling himself, running a hand through his hair, he meets her eyes again. All he sees reflected in them is the same worry, the same vulnerability he’s sure his own must show, and that’s enough.

“… What did you want to talk to me about?” He asks hesitantly, hopefully - wanting the answer; unable to imagine it could ever be the one he needs.

She observes Angel as breaks eye contact, scuffs his feet, messes with his hair. They’re all nervous habits, she knows; over the years, she’s learned to recognize them all. She allows them to play their part– allows the familiarity carried by them to calm her nerves as well– and then all that’s left is to wait with bated breath until both of them are ready for this moment.

There’s a familiar ache in her chest as she once again locks eyes with Angel. It builds itself up, permeating tissue and muscle and blood until it encompasses her entire being; claws its way up the back of her throat until it’s pushing against her lips, trying, wanting, to spill out. And for a moment, she’s overcome with temptation to just let it.

But she can’t. Not yet. So she replaces it with something safer.

“About us.”

Us. This single, tiny word seems to linger in the space between them. For Cordelia it’s not a foreign concept, but it’s the first time she’s said it aloud, to Angel, and she’s petrified. It’s as if there’s a weight.holding it down, for its connotation is disproportionately heavy for what should be such a tiny, insignificant syllable.

She lets her words hang; she won’t say anything more, and just waits– once more, with bated breath– for his reaction.

(via shanshuinla)