liz_marcs (liz_marcs) wrote,
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Refugees on Sunset Boulevard (The Our Town/Twilight Zone Mash-Up Remix)

*ahem*

Just for the record, I totally called the author of my remix.

*sticks tongue out*

Go read The Ballad of Charles Whitman (Apocalypse Remix) and give nwhepcat some big love.

How sad is this? I've been taking breaks by obsessively checking to see if we've been unmasked for the Remix Redux IV. Yay! I checked just as the identities were let loose!

karabair, I'm glad you were pleased with mine.

Title: Refugees on Sunset Boulevard (The Our Town/Twilight Zone Mash-Up Remix)
Author: Lizbeth Marcs
Summary: She and Wes have come full circle and ended up on opposite sides. Whether Wes believes it or not, she's still support-o gal and she's still his friend.

Rating: PG
Fandom: Angel the Series
Pairing: None
Charcters: Cordelia, Wes (Main); Fred, Gunn (minor)

Warnings: Minor language. Character deaths.
Spoilers: All of Angel the Series; minor ones for Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Title, Author and URL of original story: Sun Worshippers by karabair



Cordelia feels the welcoming, warm embrace of the sun long before she sees it. With the instinct born of a true sun worshiper (of life, love, innocence -- things she let slip through her fingers because she failed to ask the right questions before agreeing to the half-demon downgrade), she swims for the promise using powerful strokes and desperate kicks to propel her out of the black.

When she breaks through to the air, her eyes are momentarily dazzled as her lungs burn with unaccustomed breath. She knows better than to will the dancing red-brown spots in front of her eyes to go away. They'll fade when she needs them to fade and no sooner than that. Instead she relaxes into the warmth and light that has been too long missed and enjoys the sensation of true daylight (the Powers' idea of light more resembles the cheap fluorescents in Angel's first office than actual blessed sunlight, but they're not about to switch to GE full-spectrum bulbs no matter how much she complains).

The spots fade (as they always do) and her lungs finally get with the program, which means her brain is ready to get to work. The first thing she does is survey the area as best she can because she doesn't have any control over the bodacious bod yet. What she manages to see leaves her puzzled and irritated.

Okay, Wes. What's the deal? Why here and why now? And when the hell are you going to get that you can't change a damn thing?

She's standing at the edge of the pool in the middle of Wes's Melrose Place of an apartment complex -- and really, what was he thinking when he decided to rent here because it's not even a good apartment complex. The roof is missing a few tiles, the stucco is starting to show through the paint, and the plants around the pool area are in desperate need of both water and TLC. It's three neighborhoods and one burst of the real-estate bubble away from becoming a rent-by-the-hour motel.

About the only thing the complex has going for it is the heated pool, which, she suspects, might've been the real attraction for raised-in-rainy-ol'-England Wes.

Even so she's not inclined to complain too loudly, not that she can complain at all. This captured moment more than makes up for the faded and degraded environs. Much as she appreciates a change from the normal emotional trauma, violence, and bloodshed that seems to be Wes's favorite oeuvre, she can't understand why Wes decided to stop here on his Magical Mystery Guilty Memory Tour.

There's nothing important here. There's no fateful decision, no tragic mistranslation, no wrong question asked, and no bone-headed move that results in ugly estrangement. It's simply a moment, one of those all-too-rare deep cleansing breaths they got to have between the usual nighttime dives into the suck and days of heartbreak that followed. Even with her now-perfect memory reviewing events as the bod carries on in word in deed just the way it's supposed to, she's simply at a loss.

She hates being at a loss, and she hates being on the outside looking in. Most of all she hates being trapped inside her own brain while the clueless chatter around her, ignorant of the shark in their midst. She got plenty of that experience, thank you very much, when Jasmine hijacked her body. The difference between then and now, she supposes, is that now she's hijacking herself.

Which makes it perfectly okay. At least she thinks it does.

She doesn't have a choice. No soldier is getting left behind. Not as long as she has anything to say about it. The Powers can kiss her aerobic-toned ass -- which will be an it's-about-time tanned aerobic-toned ass after this -- if they don't like it.

This latest stop on Wes's road to guilt -- especially because it's an innocent scene that seems so out of place -- is enough to make her want to slap Wes across the back of the head proclaim him the King of Idiots, a title she once reserved for a certain Xander Harris, formerly of Sunnydale, now Watcher-at-large in the middle of No-Place-In-Particular, Africa. Even with the tough competition in the race for the crown, Wes is starting to win. At least Harris knew when enough was enough and that it was time to let go. Wes has that irritating obsessive streak that translates into never letting go, even when letting go is the only thing to do.

Yeah, like she's the right-to-talk girl. Just who's been following Wes around for the past few hours (or days or months, or years -- hard to tell because the afterlife is hell on her sense of time)? Three guesses, and it doesn't involve Fred or Gunn, the other players in her own personal commercial for the shattered-dreams version of L.A.

So, if Wes is the King of Idiots, and she dated the runner-up in the competition, just what does that make her?

We don't do doubt, so stop with the doubt right there, Cordelia orders herself. She's going to win this because she is Cordelia Chase, period and amen. No one is getting left behind, most especially Wes.

She begins concentrating on her index finger and wills it to move in a counterclockwise circle. She learned pretty early on that gaining control over whichever body she found herself in at the time -- high school Cordelia in her Prada shoes or pregnant Cordelia with whatever demon spawn happened to be renting out space in her uterus -- meant that Wes had finally arrived and that it was time to get busy with the convincing.

Now this is bad. No finger movement yet. Okay, Wes. Where are you? You're late. You'll be late for your own funeral, which -- oh, wait! You are late for your own funeral! That's why I'm now your personal pest and wanna-be party planner!

She quickly squelches a sliver of doubt that whispers that maybe Wes has learned how to ditch her and has left her stranded in the middle of a pleasant memory that won't help her at all. In an effort to keep hope alive, she so fiercely doubles her concentration on moving her stubborn index finger -- c'mon, c'mon, just a little twitch -- that she almost misses what Fred is saying.

"It's so great to be out here with all of y'all. It's just a shame Angel can't come."

Cordelia doesn't pay attention to the words that come out of the bod's mouth. No doubt it's something devastatingly sarcastic and completely honest because that's her in a nutshell. Instead she's transfixed by the shoulder bag Fred's set next to her flip-flopped feet. It's the turquoise macramé number with the smiling starfish patch that is so entirely the Fred that got lost somewhere between here and Wolfram & Hart. The urge to reach out and stroke the bag's rough surface is nearly unbearable, even though she knows can't do it. Even if she could, it wouldn't do a bit of good.

This is nothing but a shadow of a memory, something that got set aside simply because Wes thought it was somehow important. Even if she could change the scene, it still wouldn't change what happened. Re-writing history is just a little bit beyond any almost-actress who didn't quite make it to the Oscars, even if she's now got a cushy job with the Powers-That-Be. If she can't do it, then Wes definitely can't.

Fred's not managing to avoid looking at the damp cement. "I just wish there was some way for Angel to--" she begins.

"Sunbathe?" Cordelia's mouth asks as the arms whip the shirt over her head, revealing the Asha Couture black-and-white polka dot bikini that was once the pride and joy of her closet. It's an honest-to-God original, not one of the many, many knock-offs and thrift-store rejects she'd been reduced to wearing. "I doubt he'd come if he could. Too much like fun. Meanwhile, us sun-worshippers--"

The Fred, Wes, and Gunn who used to be are shuffling uncomfortably and steadfastly refusing to get into the spirit of sun and splashing around in a pool.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding," the Cordelia-who-was remarks, and the Cordelia-who-is is in complete agreement. There's no excuse for not enjoying the moment for what it is. Even before this, all four of them knew that no one was handing out gifts of sunlight-filled days and a waiting pool. If they knew what Cordelia knows, there would be t-shirts flying, bare skin on parade, and four cannonballs into the pool before anyone had time to blink.

Instead, Gunn is touching his dark red Adidas t-shirt and complaining about the threat of sunburn. Fred is again staring at the ground stuttering over her reluctance to show the skin under her Frosted Lucky Charms t-shirt. Wes is hell-bent on stepping on her foot because the Cordelia-who-was isn't being subtle about criticizing Fred's boyish figure with a few silent and pointed looks.

Even standing here and now in the middle of a sunlight-bright memory, even knowing what she knows about everyone around her, Cordelia just doesn't get it any more than she did then. Wes's Fred-shaped obsession positively defies her comprehension, and not because she's at all green-eyed about the whole thing. All it took was one sloppy, chemistry-free kiss to tell her that she and Wes were not destined to become an item.

Fred is sweet. Fred is smart. Fred's got the aww-shucks, geeky girl thing down cold, and it's the real thing, unlike in the case of certain redheaded, boyfriend-stealing witches. Fred is a good friend who actually tries to be a good friend. Fred is brave, and no one can say otherwise because Fred survived slavery in the moo-cow dimension that is Pylea and is still willing to fight the good fight without asking for a whole lot in return.

Yet, for all that, Fred is...Freddishly Fred, for lack of a better explanation.

Well, the whole not-getting-it part isn't 100 percent true. She can understand wanting to change things so the ending is happy and the dead don't have to die, especially if the death involved is entirely pointless. She also knows that there's no asking for re-writes because everyone gets only one shot. Then it's the curtain call and time to move on to the next road show. If you're lucky, the next gig won't involve you playing to half-empty converted barns on the Iowa summer stock circuit.

If she has to be honest -- not that honesty has been helping her a whole lot lately -- what she doesn't get is Wes and Fred. She didn't even get Gunn and Fred when it played out in front of her non-Jasmine-possessed eyes. Maybe her problem is that she doesn't get Anyone and Fred. It could be that the Queen C High School Bitch Persona is blocking her view of the blindingly obvious, but she very much doubts it. Maybe she doesn't get it because there's really nothing to get beyond Wes's scary obsession.

Did I say scary? I meant terrifying. Angel in full 'grrrr' is a little less obsessive. She's pretty sure that it's not entirely healthy that she's comparing Wes to Angelus at his worst.

As for the Wes-who-was, he finally gives in to the prompting by Cordelia-who-was and pulls off the hideous lime-green crewneck, revealing his pale chest and stomach, a startling contrast against his dark hair. She's in complete agreement with the woman she used to be. He's still a little skinny for her tastes and the blue-and-green checked swim trunks don't do him any favors. It's her fault for not hiding the J. Crew catalog when she had the chance.

Fred's staring at the small bare triangle, all that remains of Wes's bullet wound, located right above the waist of the swim trunks.

"Battle scar." Wes then adds with forced irony, "It just adds to the rugged macho image I've got going."

Gunn's snort of derision is enough to prompt Wes to give him an irritated look. "Yes, it was painful, but I suppose I can breathe a sigh of relief that I didn't get sunburned."

Fred, as usual for her once upon a time, completely misses the sarcasm. "No, you didn't." She leans in to take a closer look at Wes's chest and adds in her best absent-minded-because-she's-curious voice, "Somehow, Angel actually has more of a tan than you do. Is that because you're English?"

The sight of Wes's brain snapping because he can't get past the clear evidence that Fred's scrutinizing his physique is enough to make Cordelia grin. Granted, no one can see it because she's very sure the bod's giving Wes the meaningful fish-eye, but the point is she knows she's grinning. It's enough to hold on to until Wes shows up and tries to change things.

Gunn breaks the moment by slapping Fed and Wes on their shoulders and declaring, "Last one in's a rotten egg."

When Gunn dashes for the pool to make his cannonball splash, Cordelia's inner grin grows. At least Gunn knows how to seize a moment. She's got to admire his effortless ability to know the when and how of doing it, despite the fact he can't see into the future and know just how much more rare a day at the pool is going to become.

"Rotten egg?" Wes echoes. He spots a few other pool patrons shooting him annoyed looks and he covers his face in embarrassment. "Oh, God. I'm going to be evicted."

The urge to smack Wes across the back of the head grows stronger, not that her arm or the flat of her hand is obeying the silent order issued in a fit of pique. Cordelia couldn't think up a better way to compare and contrast Gunn's and Wes's approach to life if she tried.

"It looks like fun," Fred says with an apologetic shrug.

That raises the eyebrows on both the bod's and Cordelia's face. Cordelia-who-was is surprised by this urge of Fred's to follow Gunn's lead. Cordelia-who-is finally realizes why Wes chose this memory to revisit.

It's official. Wes is the new King of Idiots.

Not that he's here yet for me to crown him. Typical. He's missing the Fred-boat again, not that he's ever actually going to catch it before he's supposed to, Cordelia impatiently thinks.

As Wes stutters about maybe joining Gunn in the pool with a showy splash, Fred's already running for the water and calling out, "Look out! I'm coming in!"

The look on Wes's face as Fred leaps in after Gunn is enough to make her feel almost bad for him.

As Fred splashes around in the pool and starts a giggling water fight with Gunn, the Cordelia-who-was, with enthusiastic cheering from the Cordelia-who-is, reaches out to touch Wes's shoulder.

Cordelia mentally roots, C'mon, c'mon. Lift the hand and introduce your palm to the back of Wes's thick head.

She's disappointed when it doesn't happen, partly because she wants to smack Wes so badly, and partly because it's proof that Wes hasn't shown yet.

Maybe he really did figure out how to ditch her. If that's the case, she's now got to figure out how to get out of here and find him.

"Sit here for a second, will ya? Help me rub oil all over my body," Cordelia-who-was says.

Wes's head snaps back to look at her like someone has just twisted his neck. His obedient 'okay' is enough to make her grin in body and soul as she stretches out on her stomach on the plastic chaise lounge. She may be dead, but she's still got it. Okay, it's actually the bod that's still got it, but she'll take what she can get.

The problem is that now that she's got Wes's undivided attention, she can't say the things she really needs to say.

As the body relaxes into Wes's expert massage with suntan oil-covered hands, Cordelia's eyes fall on her Fendi carry-all knock-off and she internally winces. Why she thought only an expert eye could tell it was a fake is beyond her. The stitching is wrong and the color scheme's off. It's so obviously and pathetically fake that it's a wonder no one ever called her on it, not that anyone who ever worked with Angel Investigations knew enough about real fashion to do it.

What makes it doubly sad is she used to laugh at the high-school poseurs, the ones who occupied the area three rungs down on the social strata when she ruled Sunnydale High, as they strutted into school, chins defiantly forward, and proudly proclaimed their fakes as the real deal.

After extensively critiquing the look, make, and lack-of-quality, Cordelia had ended her tirades the same way: If you can't get the real thing, why bother? It's fake, you know it's fake, and pretending it's real doesn't make it real, so just give it up. You're not fooling anyone if everyone knows mommy works the Doublemeat Palace drive-through on weekends and your wardrobe is straight out of Goodwill.

Good advice to live by that got tossed out the window when she and the reality of being broke collided with a bone-crunching crash.

Here she is staring at a fake Fendi and wearing an Asha that was payment-in-kind for services rendered by Angel and Wes, all the proof she needs that she stinks at taking her own advice. Instead of giving it up and going with what she had -- which wasn't at all lacking in any department -- she clutched at whatever she could based on some stupid idea that the clothes make the girl, instead of the other way around.

Maybe she can't help Wes because somewhere along the way he became a stranger and not just strange. Here is proof that she is now officially a stranger to herself because, in all honesty, she doesn't remember why designer names and the illusion of owning any of them was ever that important.

What's important is two friends splashing in the pool; another friend rubbing oil into your back with long, expert fingers that can balance out forceful and gentle touch; the sun on your ass; and an island of light surrounded by dark.

She really needs to stop with the contemplation, because soon she'll be hoping that Wes never shows so she can steal just a moment of happiness that's as fake as the Fendi. Besides, her bellybutton is her least attractive physical attribute and staring at it is the best way to start traveling the road to badness.

A sigh of contentment and regret is Wes's cue to stop with the hands.

"You really didn't need me to do this, did you?" Wes asks.

She opens her mouth to answer.

That's when Wes changes the script.

"Then perhaps I should dive into the pool and let you fry the youth out your skin, shall I?" Wes asks. "This isn't going to work if I'm here and she's there."

Cordelia gives in to the suppressed impulse and brings up her hand. She lands the blow across his ear, which is even better than the back of his head. She can almost imagine the hollow-coconut sound his skull makes on impact.

"Wes, let it go. It's over." Wow, as openings go, that really very much sucked. She thinks that it's the frustration talking.

Wes's eyes widen behind his glasses. "You're here already?"

Cordelia sits up and crosses her arms. "I'm getting better at following you. Don't be so shocked. It's not the first time I beat you, but I'd really like it to be the last time we race for one your memories." She's not worried about anyone noticing the two of them. They're surrounded by memory-shadows that see exactly what they're supposed to see: the luckiest guy in the complex giving a backrub to the hottest girl of their wettest dreams.

"There's a word for that. It's the definition of stalking," Wes angrily says.

"Try again. I'm saving you from yourself, Mr. Self-Destruct-o." Cordelia waves her hand around to take in the entire scene. "Do you have any idea how easy it is to get lost here? Especially when you don't have a body with an actual heartbeat to pull you back into the land of the living."

"I am perfectly capable of navigating the choppy waters of my subconscious without your help, thank you," Wes stiffly replies.

"Go progress!" Cordelia shouts with relief. "At least now you're getting it's not real and that this whole useless--"

"Don't you think I should be the one to decide what's useless and what's not?" Wes interrupts.

She swears that Wes is the stupidest smart guy she knows, which she supposes is better than being one of the plain old stupid guys that tend to move to L.A. like lemmings marching off a cliff on some vague promise of becoming rich and famous.

On second thought, maybe not. If Wes were just a little less smart and a little more stupid, she'd've put a stop to this long before now.

"So, what? This time you walk over to Fred and mention that very nice restaurant and/or sketchy taqueria you'd been dying to try, followed by a cruise to Catalina with the whole shebang of flowers, champagne, dancing, and moonlight," Cordelia says. "And then what? Do you even think she'll hear you? Do you really believe that? Because I've been following you for -- well, I forget how long. Has it worked even once?"

Wes's glare answers the question for her.

"We know how the story ends, Wes. We both got the hook, but hey! Lucky us! There's an encore," Cordelia says.

Wes's eyes track to the pool, just in time to see Fred climb out and make a shallow dive back in again. "But she's not there, is she?"

There's really no point in lying. Wes may want to believe, but he knows better than to believe. Instead, she reaches out to touch Wes's shoulder. "And how does this bring her back?"

Wes is still staring into the pool where Gunn and Fred are busy with the frolicsome thing. "It'll bring her back enough."

Cordelia raises the sunglasses to her forehead and shoots Wes her extra-special glare. "There's this thing I heard about not being completely sane. It's the thing where hope wins out over experience."

Wes glares back. "That's remarriage after divorce, Dr. Samuel Johnson."

"Whatever. You've tried this before, it never works, and off you go to greener pastures that happens to contain a Fred or at least the promise of a Fred." Cordelia lets the sunglasses drop back onto her nose. "She's not going to even hear you, Wes, let alone notice that you've changed into Romeo to her oblivious Juliet."

Wes's eyes are back to watching Fred in the pool. "She will."

"Even if she does, which she's not, it still doesn't change anything. She's still gone, you're still stuck, and I'm still going to annoy the hell out of you," Cordelia says. "Release the manpain, embrace the big wide open, and let's go home."

"This is home."

Cordelia is not about to give him the satisfaction of looking around. She'd like this to be home, with a sunny afternoon by the pool stretching out into infinity and the heartbreak ahead never getting any closer than right this moment. The only problem is that as long as the sun is out, one person would stay among the missing, and home wouldn't be complete without him.

Sort of like how the life after death isn't life with Wes refusing to come in from out of the rain.

"Okay, fine." Cordelia crosses her arms again. "Fine. You want to give it a shot, so give it a shot. But I'm not seeing success after failing the first few thousand times."

Suddenly Fred yells from the pool as if Cordelia has called out to her, "Yeah?"

Cordelia reaches into her fake Fendi carry-all and withdraws Vogue. Three subscription cards and perfume sampler flutter to the ground as she drags the thick magazine onto her lap. "Showtime," she announces.

She should be getting better at this whole thing with Wes, but she's really not. Somewhere along the way sympathy turned to pep-talk turned to wheeling-and-dealing turned to outright manipulating and straight on to where she is now: frustration with a side of hostile. Through it all, Wes remains the exactly the same: stubborn and fixated on snatching back the years he felt he lost through his own fault.

Fred pops out of the pool and pads her way over to them. She's dripping wet and her shy smile appears, disappears, and reappears in the uncertainty of the moment. "What is it?" she asks with a nervous quaver in her voice.

"Wesley just wanted to tell you--" Cordelia begins.

"That I think you are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen," Wes interrupts.

There's infatuation, there's love, and then there's insanity, Cordelia thinks with a snort.

"You are brave, and noble, and gentle, and have one of the finest minds I've ever seen. Your spirit is still with me, wherever I go. It kisses me at night before I go to sleep, and it kisses me again when I rise to greet a new day," Wes says.

"Nice," Cordelia remarks. "Except you don't sleep, which means you don't actually wake up either."

Predictably, Fred hears none of it. Instead she's watching Cordelia with a barely concealed quivering lower lip.

"As long as I'm here, you'll never be truly gone. You'll live on and on and you'll be as real as you ever were, not forgotten and not relegated to nothing." Wes steps closer as Fred looks away with the flush of embarrassment. "I'm right here. I'm right in front of you. I'll never give up hope again. Tell me that you believe me. Look at me, and tell me that you believe it's true."

Fred is now staring at the ground. "Oh. It's a joke? I just thought--" she stammers. "It's okay. The two of you -- I know you've known each other, like, forever. It doesn't bother me if you have jokes that are just the two of you. I'll just--" She nods back at the pool and Gunn, who is floating on his back with his eyes closed, seizing the moment of calm for what it is.

Cordelia shoots a glance at Wes. He looks even more stricken than the first time this scene played out. Only back then she pushed him to actually ask Fred to go out on a date, and back then his nerve kept failing. She and Wes have come full circle and ended up on opposite sides. Whether Wes believes it or not, she's still support-o gal and she's still his friend.

"Comparative analysis of naturally occurring mathematical patterns," Fred suddenly volunteers. Her smile is because she's said something that actually makes sense to her.

Cordelia hates the way Wes's shoulders slump in defeat. It's clear that whatever he's looking for, it's not here.

And there is Fred, giving the silent Wes a puzzled nod as she listens to words that faded away a long, long time ago. She's frozen in this moment, a picture of who she used to be without the shadow of what will be. She has not changed and never will change.

Fred suddenly squeals with excitement, "Of course! Prime numbers!" She bounces up on her toes and grabs Wes's bare arm. "Will you show me?" Before Wes can even open his mouth, she dashes to the edge of the pool and shouts, "Charles, Wes is gonna show me something, okay? We'll be right back."

Gunn lazily responds as Fred turns to walk to one of the pathetic plants ringing the pool.

"Wow," Cordelia remarks, "math and plants. Here I almost forgot that you two knew how to live the fast life in the crazy boring lane."

"Yes." Wes shoots her a glare. "And notice how she doesn't even think it's boring?"

"Not complaining," Cordelia says, even though she's doing exactly that. "Boring beats out a case of the love-sick puppies, complete with all the depression and moping. I still don't get what you're looking for."

"A moment," Wes says as his eyes are once again drawn to Fred.

"A moment of what? You had your moment. It was short and it was sad, but it's more than what a lot of other people get," Cordelia says. She drops the Vogue and the pretence and hauls herself out of the chaise lounge. "Wes, please," she quietly pleads, "this is helping no one, most of all you. Let's go home and get some rest. All this," she waves a hand to take in all of the apartment complex and the future beyond it, "has got to take care of itself. That's the way it's supposed to be."

Fred suddenly laughs. She reaches out to touch the air and she speaks to the Wes-that-isn't-there. "The scar. Does it hurt?"

"Every day, every hour, every minute, every second," Wes says, prompting Cordelia to look up at his shattered expression.

She wonders how many times Wes has played the scene over and over in his head, obsessively searching for the hopeful signs that if he moved just a little bit sooner, if he acted just a little bit bolder, he would've been the one sharing Fred's room at the Hyperion instead of Charles Gunn. She wonders how much Wes hates himself for waiting and waiting to make that next move while Fred fell for the guy who lived in reality instead of dreams, and knew how to appreciate a rare sunny day at the pool.

"Wes, I'm not leaving you behind," Cordelia says quietly. "I'm not leaving you to get lost."

She might as well be talking to herself, because as soon as the words leave her lips, the Wes-who-is is gone. The Wes-who-was is deep in conversation with Fred about plants and calculus instead of the things he really wants to talk about.

As for Cordelia Chase, she's back sitting in the chaise lounge and contemplating the scene. Cordelia, the one who used to be and the one who is, can't bear to look any longer. She closes her eyes and turns her face to the sun.

No one is getting left behind, Wes, Cordelia thinks, even if it means that I have to follow you through every memory you've got.

And in that last hour of sunlight, one of the Cordelias pauses for just a brief moment to enjoy the once-familiar sensation of the dying light gently kissing her eyelids.

Then she fades to black.


END
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