Breakfast
By: Jess

~~

Angel has done this countless times, scrambled eggs in Cordelia’s kitchen after a night fighting the forces of evil, and it’s easy for him to imagine that six months haven’t passed when he turns to get the plates. It’s a familiar movement and it carries an easy kind of grace, one that vanishes when his hand closes around a glass in the cupboard. It’s where the plates should be, he thinks, and he’s startled -- then he remembers. There was a film of dust on the pans before, it’s April (not November), and things are different.

He catches a hint of perfume and knows Cordelia is standing in the doorway. "Hey," he says, his voice awkwardly casual, and moves back to the stove.

"Hey," she says back, and then pads across the tiled floor to stand at his elbow. He’s only been this near to her a few times since he fired her, and easy closeness is still unfamiliar. His hand is jerky as it scrambles the eggs.

"You’re good at this," she declares after the silence grows long.

The compliment throws him and he turns to meet her eyes. "At eggs?"

"Yeah," she says, looking at the pan. "How does that work, exactly? What with the being dead and the non-consumption of food?"

He shrugs and adjusts the burner. "I’m not sure. I think it might be the, uh, enhanced sense of smell."

"Ah," she says, nodding. "So that’s how you tell they’re done? They smell a certain way?"

"Well – not really." He’d almost forgotten this, her tendency to ask simple questions he can never quite answer. He fiddles with the spatula and shrugs again. "I don’t know, you can just tell. They’re done when they’re done."

"That’s no help." There’s bluntness to the edge in her voice and the comment isn’t cutting. "See, mine always come out runny and gross. And Gunn doesn’t have the patience and Wesley always gets distracted by a book or something and burns them."

She turns and leans on the counter, her head cocked to one side when she asks, "You know that’s why we decided to let you come back, right?"

He tilts his head. "Because you guys can’t cook?"

"Because you can," she answers. "I mean, Wesley’s got the bookish stuff covered, Gunn’s got the community connections, and right here," she says, pointing to her head, "personal connection to the PTB. What more does a primo demon fighting organization need? Okay, so you’ve got the whole brute force thing going on, but bottom line?" She points to the pan.

"Breakfast," he says.

"Yup," she answers and turns to reach into the cupboard. "Breakfast. I mean, I may be perfect, but you saw Wesley out there. He’s gotten far too Calista. And Gunn wouldn’t know a well balanced meal if it came up and bit him in the ass. So, keep making with the eggy goodness, don’t forget what you’re here to do," she says, backing through the kitchen doorway, glasses under one arm, "and I think you’ll do fine."

The silence that follows feels empty -- he’d kind of forgotten that too, how she fills a room when she’s in it and leaves it bare with her departure. In the quiet, he considers the mission he’s been given and remembers the time when he was the hero, not a fool.

He jumps when she breezes through the doorway again. "Forgot the juice."

She’s on her way out when he finds his voice. "I’ll do it," he says, and she turns around, her eyes questioning as he stumbles over words. "Breakfast. I’ll do breakfast," he explains, his voice trailing off. "I’ll take care of you, Cordelia."

She doesn’t answer, at least not at first, just holds his gaze, measuring the words, and he’d forgotten this too, how most of the time she’s a hard shell with toughness inside. For a long time she hadn't been that way with him, but he's given her a reason to again.  He remembers how he shook the bookcase behind her, saw the fear in her eyes and didn't care.  Now he’s standing in her kitchen gripping a spatula tightly, on the verge of re-molding the handle, and he knows his eyes are pleading. Desperate.  Hers are unreadable.

"Well, we’ll see about that, won’t we," she finally says with false brightness, then turns and strides out of the kitchen, and he’s the one left this time. Alone, watching the door swing shut behind her.

~end~

As always, thanks to the fabulous Kaelie.

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