Splinter
by Yahtzee & Rheanna

Summary: "listen; there's a hell / of a good universe next door; let's go" - e. e. cummings
Rating: R
Timeline: Second season; spoilers up to "There's no place like Plrtz Glrb"
Completed: 2001/08
Length: 66,500 words
Notes: Gen; co-written with Yahtzee

Chapter 1

"Farewell, oh home of my youth," Lorne said, looking out over the Pylean countryside as Angel revved up the car's motor. Lorne was Pylean, Fred was sure of that; he had better manners than most of the ones she'd met, and better clothes, but Pylean all the same. Yet he was going with them too. "I may never see you again. Let's hope not, anyway."

"I gotta say, I never thought I'd be homesick for smog," said Gunn -- did they really say Gunn? Or was it Glen? Black guy, no hair, listen for his name, she reminded herself. And what happened to his hair? Don't ask. Might be a bad story. "But all this time in the fresh air has been driving me crazy. The oxygen makes you lightheaded or something."

"Can't wait to see L.A., myself," Wesley said. His name was easy; he looked exactly like somebody who would be called Wesley. "Most particularly, I can't wait to see my bed, which happens to be located there."

"I am going to take a long, hot bath that lasts for five days," declared Cordelia, adjusting the top half of her bikini in a way that made all the men suddenly display a marked interest in the car's seats and dashboard. She bore little resemblance, physically or emotionally, to the frightened, dirty girl Fred had first seen in the stables.

Was it the same person? Fred was pretty sure it would be tactless to ask, but she couldn't help wondering. There could be twins, maybe. Duplicates. Shadows or reflections of the real person -- maybe the real Cordelia was still trapped somewhere, or still a princess. Shouldn't they check to make sure Cordelia was real?

Angel craned his neck over to smile at Fred. "Almost home," he said.

Fred smiled back at him unevenly and forced herself to pay attention to what, for lack of a better term, she was presently considering "reality." Angel had saved her from the monsters, saved her from Pylea. And now he was taking her home.

Home, she thought. That word ought to mean everything to her. But she knew it could mean absolutely anything --

No point in thinking about that right now. Instead she said to Angel, "Are you happy to go home, too?" He did not seem to hear her. But even as Wesley began reading the incantation Fred had given him, she saw Angel take one hand from the steering wheel and hold it in a flickering beam of sunlight --

Then the world was made of light as the portal exploded, expanded and swallowed them whole. Energy washed over Fred, washed through her, with an electric sensation that was at once bizarre and terrifyingly familiar --

The car crashed out of the portal and off -- a stage? They were all thrown forward; Fred blinked her eyes as she tried to adjust to the sudden darkness. When she could see again, she looked around and found she was in a place that resembled -- she frowned to herself. What were those places called that her friends had always told her she'd like but she never did? She struggled, and after a moment a long disused word floated to the top of her consciousness.

They had arrived in a nightclub.

Nobody else seemed to think this was weird. Or, at least, weirder than usual. "Sorry 'bout your place, man," said Glen-or-Gunn.

"Always meant to redecorate," Lorne said easily, swinging the door open to get out. Then he froze, half in the car, half out. "But it looks like somebody beat me to it."

Fred could see well enough now to make out the details of their surroundings -- turquoise paint, beige carpeting, lamps that looked like cacti and fixtures on the walls that were -- hopefully fake -- cattle skulls. A dark scrawl on the wall would, when lit up, be a neon sign that proclaimed this place to be "The Longhorn." "Is this your nightclub?" Fred asked.

"Well, right now, it looks like Dolly Parton's hairdresser's nightclub," Lorne said, hands on his hips. "But yes, it belongs to me, a fact that my staff apparently decided to ignore in my absence."

"They redecorated?" Wesley said, squinting at the tables, which all appeared to be topped with maps of Texas.

"Unwisely, and not well," Cordelia said, shimmying over the back of the car to explore the place herself. "Oh, my God. This place looks like a Taco Bell, only less subtle and classy."

Taco Bell. The name conjured up all sorts of delightful memories -- late nights at the library, or long afternoons studying, just Fred and her books and a great big bagful of -- "Can we get some tacos?"

"Don't you worry," Glen-or-Gunn said with a smile. "We're gonna set you up with a little run for the border real soon."

"They changed the NAME?" Lorne said, staring at the neon sign. "Oh, when I find out who did this, heads are gonna roll. And in this dimension, that means something."

"This can't be right," Angel said. He was the only one of them who hadn't moved; he remained in the driver's seat of the car, hands on the wheel. "Lorne, your employees wouldn't have done something like that without your permission. And they couldn't have done it this quickly."

"So true," Cordelia said. "We called the repair guys about the Hyperion's sauna back in October. And have they given us a remodeling date yet? No."

"You were going to fix the sauna?" Angel said.

Cordelia looked slightly abashed. "Well, you know, steam is so good for the pores -- and -- and anyway, we're the bosses now, so, let it go."

Angel leaned back in his seat; his expression in the darkness seemed closed off, withdrawn. Although she hadn't known him for very long, anytime something had been wrong, Angel had told her. Even if he was shaking on the ground, even if he had to scream it, he had told her. So why wasn't he telling them now? And why no one else think it was strange that he wasn't telling them? The mood in the room seemed to have changed really fast, for some reason.

"We must have found another hot spot," Wesley said. "This club has the same layout as Caritas, perhaps. But we must have actually landed someplace else."

"No, this is my bar," Lorne insisted. "That dent in the wall? That's from the fracas that broke out when somebody interrupted Mordar the Bentback's Barry White medley. See the tusk marks?"

"How long were you all in Pylea?" Fred asked.

It was a simple enough question, but it froze everyone in their tracks. "Oh, no," Gunn said. "We didn't."

Wesley looked pale. "Cordelia's experience in Pylea before we found her passed only in real time -- I mean, Earth time -- our time --"

"Let's just check to be sure," Angel said. He got out of the car and began searching the room. Everyone else followed suit, and Fred began looking around too, though she wasn't at all certain what they were supposed to be looking for.

After a few moments, Angel opened up a side door that led to an alleyway. "Trash can," he said. Fred felt sure the words should mean something to her, but somehow they had become separated from their definition, so that when she tried to call up a mental picture that went with them, she couldn't. But the others must have known what Angel was talking about, as they all began pushing their way out the door. Fred stayed where she was at first, until the cow skulls on the wall stared back at her. Then she turned and ran after the others.

Angel was fishing about in a large metal box with a hinged lid. Aha, she thought as he tossed various cans and boxes out onto the asphalt: trash can. Finally he grabbed up a newspaper and read the date. "May 23, 2001. That's, what? Six days from when we left?"

"There's a little difference," Wesley said. "But nothing of consequence."

The alleyway was dark; it was nighttime. Not a single sun to be seen, Fred thought as she looked up. Not any stars, either. I could have sworn Earth had stars in the sky --

"Well, the fact that my bar now looks like a discarded set from 'Urban Cowboy' is of consequence," Lorne said.

Fred kept staring upwards.

Wesley began, "So how do we explain --"

Cordelia screamed. The others stared at her, then followed her gaze -- and Fred's -- up into the night. A giant creature, scaly and gray with wings perhaps 100 feet across, swooped menacingly across the sky. It breathed a long arc of fire, then soared toward the horizon.

"Los Angeles has dragons?" Fred said. "Now, see, I didn't remember that."

The others were all staring after the dragon, slack-jawed. "Guys?" Fred said.

Glen was the first to speak. "English," he said slowly, "when you said this incantation thing you and Fred worked out was going to get us home, were you telling me God's own truth? Because right now I am not wanting to hear that you fudged the details."

"Of course not!" Wesley said. "We had all the formulae -- expressed verbally -- Fred said that we -- this was supposed to --"

"Fred?" Cordelia said, her voice a question and a warning all at once.

"Cordelia," Angel said, in much the same tone.

Fred shrugged. "This is home. At least, this is one version of it."

"Beg to differ with you," Lorne said. "Tinseltown's got its share of the bizarre, of which I gladly constitute a small percentage, but Puff over there is NOT part of the scene. Not unless Spielberg's found some truly new applications for CGI."

"What do you mean, one version?" Angel said. His voice was steady, though she could tell he was fighting to keep it that way. "Are we home or aren't we?"

"Yes," Fred said.

The others stared at her for a long time, as though she'd said something very odd. At last, Cordelia said, through teeth clenched in a poor imitation of a smile, "You said your little formula-chanty-thingy was going to open up the portal and take us back. Did that promise come with a money-back guarantee?"

"Cordelia, please," Angel said. "Getting mad isn't going to help."

"Letting Drusilla Lite drive doesn't seem to have helped a lot either."

Angel's eyes flashed at that -- was that anger? Pain? Fred opened her mouth to ask who or what a Drusilla was when Wesley broke in. "Fred, if I pronounced the incantation incorrectly --"

"You didn't," Fred said. "You were really very good." She hesitated, then gave him a little punch on the arm, as she had seen Gunn-or-Glen do. Wasn't that supposed to be encouraging? Wesley looked less encouraged than vaguely ill. She pulled her fist back and hugged it to her chest. "It's just that the portals between dimensions -- they can be unstable, sometimes. If somebody else was traveling through them at the same time, or, or maybe trying to create portals where there weren't any before -- well, the equations would get all muddled up, and you'd have to model some truly horrible sine fluctuations to calculate the iterative resonance feedback and -- " Vaguely aware that she'd lost her audience, she concluded, "Things could get freaky. If you know what I mean."

Wesley nodded slowly. "But who or what would have the power to break down the walls between dimensions?"
"
Glory," Angel said. This meant nothing to Fred; she was slightly relieved to see that the others were all looking at him with the same confusion on their faces. "When I went to see Buffy after her mother's funeral, she told me about an enemy she's been facing in Sunnydale. Glory -- a god from another dimension. Maybe she was trying to return there."

"Buffy versus God," Cordelia said. "Now there's a match-up for Pay-Per-View."

"You know, there's nothing I love more than chatting about lost loves," Lorne said. "But I'd like to hurry up and get to the part of the story that involves me. You think this Glory tried to get back to where she once belonged and kept us from doing the same?"

Fred's mind was reeling from all the new names and information -- Buffy, Glory, Sunnydale. And did somebody say something about Angel's lost love? She tried to do what she used to do best: focus. "If something really powerful were influencing the dimensions at the exact same time we were trying to get home, it could have sent us on a little detour."

"A 'little detour' would not take us to Dragon Land," Cordelia said. Her arms were crossed in front of her body, and her tiara was now off-kilter in a way that would have been very funny if she hadn't looked so angry.

"He probably got lost just like we did," Fred said, looking up sadly at the dragon, which was drifting through some whirling spotlights near Grauman's Chinese. "Poor dragon."

Angel stepped closer to her, drawing her attention back to Earth. He put one hand on her shoulder as he asked, "Can we get back again?"
"Depends on what went wrong, and why," Fred said. "I can figure it out. But I need a little while. And I can do the calculations with paper and pencil, but one of those -- things -- would be nice - "

"Things?" asked Cordelia.

This time Fred had the mental picture, but not the word that went with it. She gestured with her hands. "A box that beeps and glows and makes things easier." It was frustrating, because she was sure there had been a time when she'd known what the right word was. When she'd first arrived in Pylea, hadn't she spent weeks and weeks scratching away on the wall of her cave, wishing she had a --

"A computer," said Angel, smiling slightly.

That was the word she'd lost. Fred smiled gratefully back at Angel, and stuck a mental Post-It that read 'computer' on the picture in her head. She leaned closer to him and whispered, "And also -- I need a bath."

"Home base, coming up," said Gunn.

Or Glen.

Something wasn't right about the Hyperion.

Angel was sure of it almost as soon as he brought the packed Plymouth to a halt just shy of the hotel's back gates. Although, judging by the almost palpable sense of relief in the car, he was the only one to have noticed anything amiss.

After the dragon sighting outside Caritas -- or the Longhorn, as he supposed he'd have to think of it while they were here -- the drive across the city had been tense. Little had been said, as five of the car's six passengers watched carefully for more evidence of divergences between this Los Angeles and home. Fred had spent the journey playing with the dashboard cigarette lighter.

However, they'd witnessed nothing more unusual than a bar brawl spilling on to the sidewalk as they passed through Westlake and a couple making out in a store doorway around Echo Park. Aside from one itinerant dragon, L.A. was still L.A.

And wasn't the Hyperion the same as well? Angel looked the building up and down, trying to pinpoint the source of his discomfort. It looked just the way it had when he'd left it a week ago: two wings flanking a six-floor central block, constructed in a mishmash of styles that could only be a permanent monument to a bet lost by a misguided architect whose name was now mercifully long forgotten. In the courtyard, the weeds Cordelia had been nagging him to do something about since the day he'd moved in still grew high. The ornamental fountain was still clogged with dirt and dry as dust. It looked ruined, broken-down, desolate.

And yet, he thought, not abandoned.

"I never thought I'd say this, but I missed this place," declared Cordelia as she hopped out of the car. "Okay, everyone out. Children and women in serious need of a bath and an escape from sequined underwire first."

"Wait," said Angel.

Cordelia was tapping her foot impatiently on the sidewalk. "I hope you've got a real good reason for coming between me and my loofah."

"I'm not sure about this. I think someone's in there."

Wesley frowned. "How can you be sure?"

Angel shrugged helplessly. "I can't. But we should check it out."

Cordelia looked back at the dark mass of the building. "Oh, come on. Look at the lobby windows!"

"They're filthy," Wesley said.

"Exactly. And, though I may possibly have been known to complain about it a time or two --" Cordelia did not even pause as Gunn snorted, "-- I do take the time and energy to keep those bottom windows clean. So nobody's there." Her expression changed slightly as she realized. "We're not there."

Gunn got out of the car and stood beside her. "That's gotta be a good, right?"

Wesley joined him. "Gunn?"

Gunn shrugged. "Think about it, English. Another version of L.A. means maybe other versions of us. But if we don't have twins here -- or they're off doing their own thing some place else -- that's gonna save some real awkward introductions. And it leaves the hotel vacant, so we've got a place to crash 'til we figure this thing out."

Wesley nodded slowly. Then his face clouded. "But if we never moved in -- "

Angel completed the thought. "The Thesulac demon never moved out. It's probably still there."

Cordelia sighed. "Terrific. Freaky here-be-dragons universe outside, paranoia-inducing demon inside. Hello, rock, allow me to introduce you to hard place."

Fred was frowning. "This is like the dragon thing, isn't it? Because I don't remember there being dragons here, before, but there are -- and I don't remember there being demons before either. But there are, here. So there shouldn't be demons." She looked up and smiled hopefully at Angel, apparently pleased with her ability to apply logic consistently. "That's right, isn't it?"

Before he could reply, Cordelia said briskly, "No, there were always demons. You just didn't notice them."

Fred's face fell. "Oh."

"We got rid of it before," said Angel: "We'll get rid of it again."

Wesley nodded. "Although we should make sure it's in there, first. No point in wasting time tonight trying to hunt down another orb of Ramjarin to raise it with if we're wrong." He thought for a moment, then appeared to reach a decision. "Angel, Lorne -- you'd better make a quick sweep of the building."

Lorne sat up and shook his head so fast his horns were a blur. "Thanks, but no thanks. In this movie, I am very clearly cast in the role of plucky comic relief, not action hero."

Patiently, Wesley said, "Thesulacs interfere with rational thought processes. Other demons aren't immune, but they're more likely to be able to shrug it off. You two are the logical choices to go in there."

"Think I'll come along too," said Gunn. "Could do with stretching my legs."

Wesley looked at him doubtfully. "I'm not sure. If the Thesulac's in there, it could very quickly have you thinking -- anything."

Gunn grinned widely, easy and reassuring. "Relax, Wes. Three people makes this go faster than two. Sooner we sort this, sooner we have a base, sooner we get answers and go home."

"Amen to that," said Cordelia.

Wesley considered this, then nodded. "Very well." His mouth quirked in an unwilling smile. "It's not as though you have many rational thought processes to be interfered with."

"I knew I shouldn'ta let you get to know me," Gunn said, his grin even broader.

Something rattled down the street, and they all tensed -- but when Angel wheeled about quickly, he saw only a soda can rolling down the gutter. Wesley squared his shoulders, again intent on the matter at hand. "We'll stay with the car and wait for you. Just in case there are any more nasty surprises lurking out here for us."

But as Angel moved toward the hotel's dark and silent facade, he was struck by the sudden and inexplicable conviction that it wasn't nasty surprises outside they needed to worry about.

"How long have they been gone?" Cordelia asked, her face creased in a frown.

"Only five minutes," Wesley said, holding up his watch so she could see it. Cordelia's brow furrowed even further, and he felt some extra reassurance was required. Making an effort to strike a tone which was more upbeat than he felt, he said, "I shouldn't worry. They've barely had long enough to get inside."

"I guess," Cordelia said, but she sounded unconvinced. Fred had shifted her attention from the cigarette lighter to the car's radio and was tuning it to each station in turn. Oddly, the only kind of music being broadcast on any frequency was Beethoven, with the exception of one rogue station where 'Copacabana' was on looped repeat. Whatever version of reality they'd landed in, thought Wesley gloomily, it was one of the stranger ones.

Cordelia sagged back in the car's passenger seat and, taking off her tiara, smoothed down her hair tiredly. "I want to go home, Wes. Dimension-hopping -- well, let's just say the novelty's wearing off real fast."

"I'll second that motion," Wesley agreed.

Suddenly, Fred gave a cry.

Instantly, Wesley was out of the car and scanning the street for the source of the danger; Cordelia was looking around herself frantically as well. He craned his neck and looked upwards, checking the smoggy sky for swooping mythical beasts and, with deep relief, finding none. But Fred was still screaming and pointing across the empty road at the Taco Bell directly opposite the Hyperion.

She stopped abruptly, and Wesley realized it hadn't been a scream, but a whoop of joy. "Tacos!" she announced, grinning with delight. "Nachos!"

"Nachos to you too," Cordelia said, scowling. "Jeez, Fred, are you trying to give us heart attacks?"

Wesley blinked, and frowned. He walked along this street three or four times a day, going to or coming from the hotel. From where he stood, he could see the twenty-four hour dry-cleaner's whose professional expertise he often challenged with clothing stained by the by-products of demon-slaying, and the bakery where the female staff cooed over his accent every time he stopped to buy breakfast on the way home. But he didn't recall there ever being a Mexican fast food place between them.

"Cordelia," he said slowly, "Should that be there? I mean, is there a Taco Bell there in our universe?"

She shook her head uncertainly. "I don't think so. New Taco Bell, the Longhorn -- maybe this whole dimension is done in tacky Tex-Mex. Scary thought."

"Burritos," Fred said dreamily, and she began to cross the street.

"Fred, wait." Wesley dug into his pocket and took out his wallet. "You'll need money."

She accepted the ten dollar bill he handed her, but stared at it curiously for some time, as if trying to remember exactly what it was for. Then her expression cleared and, smiling widely, she bounded away.

"We're gonna have our work cut out with her," Cordelia commented, watching her go. She glanced at the Taco Bell and shook her head. "I guess we've gotta expect stuff to be different here. And, as surprises go, I'll take extra fast-food joints over big, scary dragons in the sky any time."

"Yes, but..." Wesley began. He stopped.

She was looking at him. "What's the big?"

Uncomfortable thoughts were forming in Wesley's mind. Thoughts he wasn't entirely sure it would helpful to share, just now. For instance, his conviction that the Taco Bell not only hadn't been there in their reality -- but that it hadn't been there ten minutes before.

He was almost certain of it. Almost.

But, then again, it had been a long and strange few days, and he was exhausted, and he'd been on the lookout for a number of things far more important than fast-food restaurants.

Wesley shook his head slowly and got back into the car. "Nothing. It's nothing."

Angel stood outside what had been the Hyperion's staff entrance and now functioned as the building's back door. "Gunn, you check the ground floor and the one above it. I'll take the top floors. Lorne -- you've got the basement."

"I don't think so. I've seen enough Stephen King adaptations to know what happens to the guy who goes down to the basement, and it's never good."

"I'll take the basement," Gunn offered. "Ain't nothin' down there except the washer-dryer and a LOT of black sweaters." Pointing at Angel, he continued, "This is not a guy who has to separate his colors, if you know what I'm sayin'."

"We can talk about my wardrobe some other time. Everyone clear on what they're doing?" Angel asked. They nodded. "Good."

With one firm shove, he pushed open the door and slipped inside the dark building. After a second, he heard the others follow.

The lobby was just as he remembered finding it in another reality and months earlier: musty-smelling sheets thrown carelessly over battered furniture. "No paying guests for a while," Lorne remarked.

Angel shook his head. It was difficult to tell through the thick haze of dust in the air, but there was a scent, something fresh and tantalizingly familiar... "No. Someone's been here recently."

Gunn had moved behind the reception desk. "Probably squatters," he said. "Look." Reaching down, he lifted a plastic tub marked with the logo of a take-out Chinese restaurant, and prized open the lid. He sniffed cautiously, and made a face. "Urgh. Coupla weeks there, at least. Hey!"

He jumped back as a scrawny gray cat shot out from under the reception desk and ran past him. A second later, it had vanished into the dark recesses of the hotel's ground floor.

"If people have been here recently, the Thesulac must have chased them off," Angel said. "Or tricked them into killing each other."

Lorne pursed his lips. "At least he gave them time to have their last meal delivered."

"Let's just do this fast." Angel moved to the stairs and started to climb them. After a second Lorne followed; he could hear Gunn opening the door to the basement. He breathed in, took in the scent of the rancid take-out food again. Squatters. It made sense -- and yet, somehow, it didn't. He inhaled once more, concentrated. He could smell sickness in the air, something decaying, something he recognized but couldn't place. Something very, very wrong.

With Lorne close behind him, he ascended to the second floor. The smell of decay was stronger up here, and Angel was growing more concerned. Quietly, he said, "Why don't you check out the other end of the hall?"

"Oh, great idea. It's always been my fondest wish to die alone," Lorne said. But he did as Angel suggested.

Angel continued on his way, checking behind each door, listening carefully. After a heavy pause, he opened the door to 207 -- but sighed in relief when there was no sign of Judy, either alive or dead. If she weren't there, and squatters hadn't set up house, then the likelihood was high that the Thesulac demon had long since moved on, in search of fresh prey.

Perhaps, Angel thought, his perceptions were deceiving him after all. Maybe the cartons they'd found were evidence only of some teenagers who'd found the place, hung out one night and moved on.

As he stepped out of Judy's room, he looked up, stopped. There was a full length mirror at the end of the corridor, and in it he could see a sight that he had only just learned to recognize. The tall man staring back at him was powerfully built, with short, spiky dark hair. Strange, he thought, a reflection here too --

The reflection moved.

Angel didn't.

For a second they faced off in silence, and Angel quickly realized that the other's expression held more confusion than he felt. That made sense -- this other Angel probably hadn't seen himself recently.

Confusion slowly became recognition. "What--?"

Angel raised his hands in an automatic, placatory gesture. Where to start? He opened his mouth to attempt some kind of explanation, but got no further than the first word before he heard footsteps draw near behind him. He glanced back to see Lorne.

"The other end of the hall has nothing more terrifying than some truly lousy fake Louis XIV chairs, so it seems like Mr. Tentacles has moved on to -- HELLO."

Lorne drew up short, several paces behind Angel. When he turned around again, the door behind his double was opening as someone else came into the corridor, drawn by the noise.

Darla.

She was wearing a red silk nightdress that shifted and clung to her, tracing the curve of her breasts and hips exactly as she padded barefoot across the hallway and slipped her arm around the other Angel with casual intimacy. Her hair was tangled, and as she moved the thick smell of sex wafted to Angel on the suddenly frigid air. He felt cold as she looked at him with lazy, half-interested bemusement. Then she stood on tiptoe and delicately nipped at the ear and throat of her lover. "Angelus? What do we have this time?"

"Not dream girl again," Lorne said, and took a step forward.

"Stay behind me," Angel said sharply.

"Stay behind me," Angelus said at the same time, pushing Darla away from himself.

The coincidence was enough to unnerve both of them further. Unwilling but unable to prevent himself, Angel sought out the other's gaze, locked and held it.

Everything was wrong here -- everything --

Angel looked away first. And so he missed the moment when Gunn came bounding around the corner.

"Basement and first floor are clear, and -- and -- what the hell?" Gunn hesitated for only a moment, looking quickly back and forth between the two doubles. Almost instantly, he turned toward Angelus and Darla; his hand went, lightning-fast, to the stake he carried in his belt at all times.

"No!" Angel yelled, but too late; in a flash Angelus lunged, slamming Gunn against the wall. One of his hands was clenched around Gunn's left wrist, clamped down hard enough to make the hand shake until the stake tumbled to the floor. The other arm was across Gunn's face, pinning his head to the wall, leaving his throat exposed --

Angel jumped forward, instinctively moving to protect Gunn against a threat. He grabbed Angelus' arm, pulling it away from Gunn's face --
He touched Angelus' skin. Cold, dead -- his own. Revulsion lanced through him, so strong and primal that he physically shook.

Angelus pulled his arm back at the precise moment that Angel also jerked his hand away. The two backed away from each other slowly. Gunn was shaking against the wall, but he collected himself quickly and got behind Angel. Darla, for her part, was looking more and more confused and unhappy. "Angelus?"

Angel took another step backwards without turning around and said, "We're leaving." He wasn't sure whether he intended the words as a warning, a statement of intent, an instruction to Gunn and Lorne, or something else again. Whatever it was, Angelus understood, because as Angel backed away from him and toward the stairs he made no move to follow. Instead he watched silently, Darla at his side, holding his expression in a rigidly impassive mask which Angel instinctively knew meant he was equally shaken.

They descended the stairs at speed and in silence, down two floors, through the lobby and back out into the night. At the car, Wesley and Cordelia looked up at their approach, as Fred contentedly helped herself to another nacho chip from the paper tray she was holding.

"Did you find anything?" Cordelia asked. She took in Angel's expression. "You found something."

He got into the car without looking at her. "We've got to get away from here."

Wesley shook his head. "It's unlikely the Thesulac will follow outside."

"It's worse than that," Gunn said.

Cordelia looked at them in turn. "Define 'worse.'"

"Nacho?" Fred offered, holding the tray under Angel's nose.

"Define 'worse,'" Cordelia repeated more insistently.

Lorne said, "'Worse' as in, let's move before we all die violent, painful deaths."

"Him," Gunn clarified tersely, nodding in Angel's direction. "The name Angelus ringing any bells for you? Because Darla was using it a whole lot while she was hanging all over him."

Cordelia said, quietly, "Oh, fuck."

"That's how it looked from where we were standing," agreed Lorne. He looked back at the hotel's dark entrance. "Here's a suggestion: what say we leave now, panic later?"

"Who's Darla?" Fred asked.

Angel pushed Fred's arm away and started the car's engine. He could feel the gazes of the others settling on him, hostile, angry. Amid his own confusion and terror, he could also feel a deep resignation; in the midst of all this improbability, there was an element of inevitability. The truth will out, he thought.

Blood will tell.

Chapter 2

"I still don't understand," Fred said. "What are we running away from?"

Angel took the next corner too fast; he could hear all the passengers groan as they banged hard into the sides of the vehicle and each other. Fred was thrown against him so roughly that she gasped to collect her breath. The realization that he could hurt them badly -- that he had already hurt them -- achieved something that all Fred's pleading, Wesley's questioning and Cordelia's outrage had not. It made him put his foot on the brake. As the car slowed and pulled over into a parking lot, Cordelia said, "Thank God."

"I'm not sure He's in this zip code," Lorne said. "But it's worth a shot, sweetie. Keep at it." He turned to Angel with a nonchalance that only barely seemed forced. "So that's your darker half. May I just take this moment to thank you for all that neurotic energy you expend keeping him bottled up? Because bottled up is exactly what that guy needs to be."

"Where the hell were you driving to, anyway?" Gunn demanded.

"Anywhere," Angel said. "Just -- away." He looked back over his shoulder at the carful of people with him. Fred was utterly confused -- poor Fred -- and the others were a mixture of angry, frightened and thoughtful. The "thoughtful" element consisted chiefly of Wesley; he had steepled his fingers in front of his face and his expression was distant. Gunn kept rubbing his shoulder, which had been injured during their encounter at the hotel; he was staring back at Angel with a mixture of displeasure and shock. In the back seat, Cordelia fumed, and even as she opened her mouth, Angel braced himself for her words --

"What the hell is he doing here?"

After staring at her for a moment, Angel said, hesitantly, "You mean Angelus?"

"No, I meant Ed McMahon. Yes, Angelus. What is he doing here?"

All her anger, all her fury -- it was directed at Angelus. As though he were someone else entirely --

"We have a number of different possibilities before us," Wesley said. "It's possible that, in this reality, Angel was never cursed with his soul at all --"

"No," Angel said. "I don't see why I would ever have ended up in the Hyperion if I'd never been cursed with a soul."

"So you did get cursed, but you never came back after your shag-nanigans with Buffy," Cordelia said.

"No," Angel said again. "Darla was in there. I killed her long before -- before Buffy and I --"

"I don't know all these names," Fred said. Where the others were on edge, she was simply curious. "Am I supposed to?"

"You're gonna know more than you want to know fast enough," Gunn said. "So Wolfram & Hart still brought babe-in-a-box back to haunt you --"

The car became suddenly very quiet. After a pause, Wesley said, "And in this universe, their plan worked."

"How?" Cordelia said. "How could it work? I mean, Angel got all antisocial and freaksome, but he never lost his soul. He never slept with Darla."

Lorne pursed his lips and looked up at the sky.

"Yes, I did," Angel said.

For a long few moments, there was no sound in the car at all. Traffic whooshed by in the night, sirens sounded in the far distance, and a faulty old air-conditioning unit in a nearby building wheezed incessantly. Angel wanted to meet their eyes, wanted to face up to it all, but there were so many eyes to face. Wesley's disbelief, Cordelia's outrage, Gunn's disgust -- even Fred looked wounded, God knew why --

"You had sex with Darla," Cordelia said. "You lied to me."

Quietly, Angel confirmed, "Just before I came back to all of you, there was a night when I hit bottom."

"So to speak," Lorne said.

"How could you?" Wesley said. "How could you do such a thing, knowing what the consequences might be?"

"I didn't!" Angel said. "I mean -- there were no consequences. I couldn't have been farther away from perfect happiness --"

"So you were practicing safe sex?" Cordelia snapped. "Well, guess what? Turns out it wasn't that safe at all. You lost your soul here, and Angelus is back out to play. Just so you could get your rocks off."

"Way to go," Gunn muttered.

"Everyone, wait," Wesley said. His voice sounded calmer, more measured; the tide of bad feeling in the car suddenly seemed to ebb and fade. "This isn't the time to go handing out blame. I think we have more important matters on our hands."

"Like what?" Cordelia said.

"Finding a safe base of operations," Wesley said. "And finding out what's become of us all."

Angel didn't want to know the answer to that question. But he didn't think he was going to be spared finding out.

In Silverlake, Cordelia's apartment was eerily silent, its windows uniformly dark. As it was 3 o'clock in the morning, that shouldn't have been surprising, but the events of the night so far had set Wesley's nerves on edge. Instead of getting out of the car immediately, he kept watching the apartment.

As he looked, he began to notice the absence of familiar features. The wind chimes Cordelia had hung outside the door -- the ones he always knocked his head on as he went inside -- were missing. The fern by the front door drooped sideways in its pot, withered and dead. "The place looks empty," he commented.

"Hyperion looked empty, too," Gunn said, shooting a sideways glance in Angel's direction.

Wesley had to concede the point, but they needed to find a base -- somewhere he could just stop long enough to think -- and they needed to find it soon. "I'll take a look. Just to be on the safe side." Turning around to face Cordelia in the back seat, he asked, "Do you have your keys?"

She raised her eyebrows, then waved her hands down the front of her body: "Wesley, I look like I'm auditioning for an 'I Dream of Jeannie' remake. Do you see any pockets in this ?"

He felt himself blush. "Oh. Right. Sorry."

"Since you ask, my apartment keys are in the pocket of the pants of my best denim pantsuit, which is currently in another universe. Which I guess is a better excuse than leaving them in the dryer." She shrugged. "But there's a spare set on the ledge above the door. Or there ought to be."

Wesley nodded, got out of the car and made his way quickly across the lawn at the front of the building and along the covered deck to Cordelia's apartment. Once there, he reached up and ran his hand along the top of the doorway. There was a metallic clink as the spare key fell to the ground, and he smiled as he retrieved it. At least something in this warped version of the world was the way it was supposed to be. Oddly, the key was speckled with rust, but with an effort he made it turn in the lock.

He opened the door cautiously, unsure what to expect. But the apartment was as quiet inside as it appeared to be from outside, and when he breathed in he found the air had a stale edge. Wesley stepped outside again to wave to the others, then waited while they joined him.

"Home sweet home," announced Cordelia, walking past him and into the apartment. The others followed, Angel last, and when he was inside Wesley shut the door firmly. "Even if it's some other me's home sweet home, right now I'll take what I can get. "

As soon as she spoke, the lights flicked on, flooding the living room with welcoming brightness. A blanket that had been draped over the back of a chair flew through the air, wrapping itself around Cordelia's shoulders and pulling her towards the sofa. As she collapsed onto it, cushions snuggled into place under her arms and behind her head. Wesley could almost sense the glow of intense delight permeating the space.

"Dennis, cut it out!" Cordelia was laughing as she freed her arms from the blanket hugging around her in a fierce embrace. "What, is this a hint about the Princess Leia costume? Cut it OUT, I said, that tickles -- Oh, I missed you too -- I know I haven't been here for a while --" Wesley saw her look around the bright living room properly for the first time. As she took in her surroundings, her laughter stopped abruptly. "Jeez. I guess I really haven't been here for a while."

The apartment was a mess. Packing crates were stacked carelessly on top of one another, and a slew of belongings -- books, plates, clothing, a model of the Starship Enterprise -- lay scattered randomly around them. Much of the furniture had been pushed up against the walls and half-covered with old sheets. The place looked as if someone had got halfway through moving in, had an abrupt change of heart, then simply walked out and never returned again.

Cordelia stretched across the sofa and lifted a dog-eared copy of Playboy between her thumb and forefinger. With distaste and dawning realization she said, "This isn't my stuff."

"You probably decided to skip town when he took up homicide as a recreational activity," Gunn said, taking a seat beside her and referring to Angel as if he were invisible. While the others were making themselves comfortable in the living room, Angel had not moved far from the door: he was standing outside the group. The expression on his face, noted Wesley, clearly said that invisible was exactly what he currently wished he were.

"Yeah, that makes sense," Cordelia said, but there was doubt in her voice. She smiled a falsely cheery smile: "And Dennis has been making sure I'd have somewhere to come back to. You're the best roomie a girl could have."

Fred, apparently oblivious to the exclusion zone in force around Angel, moved closer to him. "Should I be able to see Dennis?" she whispered. "Or is he maybe Cordelia's make-believe friend? I had a make-believe friend for a while. His name was Schrodinger. He was a cat. Then one day he got in his box and when I looked inside he wasn't there." She saddened at the memory. "I think his quantum wave collapsed. Or maybe he just went to chase a mouse."

Lorne reached into a pocket and took out a handkerchief, which he used to dust the top of a packing crate before sitting on it. "Judging from the psychic energy sloshing around in here like ice cubes in an alcoholic's G&T, I'm guessing Dennis is a ghost."

Cordelia held up a hand, cutting him off before he could say any more. "In my house, we try to avoid the 'g' word. Sensitive subject." This established, she looked up and addressed herself to the room at large: "Dennis, meet Lorne and Fred. Lorne's from another dimension." She frowned. "Well, actually we're all from another dimension."

"And we need to start working out how we're going to get back there. Especially now that it's clear this universe is somewhat more dangerous than it initially appeared to be," Wesley said. "Dennis, is the phone still connected?" In reply, the telephone took off from its cradle and deposited itself in his waiting hand. "Thank you, Dennis."

"Who are you calling?" Gunn asked.

"Someone who might be able to help, I hope," Wesley said, feigning confidence. But he looked at the phone he held for a long moment before dialing. He doubted anyone in the room -- including Gunn and Cordelia -- seriously believed this dimension's Cordelia was soaking up the sun on a beach in Hawaii, or that this version of Gunn had won the lottery and dwelled in Beverly Hills. But with no easy way to find out what had happened to them all, it was left to Wesley to ask the uncomfortable questions.

No point in delaying the inevitable.

He keyed in the number quickly, then held the phone to his ear as the connection was made. He felt an unexpected surge of optimism when it was answered almost immediately. "Hello?" a male voice said.

"Wesley Wyndham-Pryce?" Wesley asked.

"Never heard of him," the man said, in a nasal East-coast accent. "You've got the wrong number, pal."

"Wait," Wesley said quickly. "This is his home number. I mean -- I'm sure I'm not mistaken."

There was a brief silence on the other end of the line, as the man apparently considered the choice between becoming more deeply involved in the conversation, and just putting the phone down. To Wesley's relief, he chose the former option. "Uh, hang on. This isn't my place, it's my girlfriend's. I'll ask her. Hey, Kim!"

Another pause, during which Wesley strained to make out the details of a muffled conversation taking place somewhere distant from the phone. "This guy you're looking for," the male voice asked when it finally returned, "is he English?"

"Yes."

"Kim says the guy who lived here before her was English. She thinks he had some weird, long name."

"Did he happen to leave a forwarding address?"

"Not unless you can pick up mail in the afterlife."

Wesley swallowed. Around him, the five people who couldn't hear the other side of the conversation were looking at him hopefully. "So he's dead," he said, and watched five faces register varying degrees of disquiet.

"Yeah. I don't know what happened, but it was pretty sudden. Kim was almost ready to give up on finding a place. Good luck for her, real bad luck for him." The man stopped, as if something had just struck him for the first time. "Hey, uh, I'm sorry -- did you know him well?"

"I knew him very well indeed," Wesley said, and broke the connection.

He stared at the phone for a very long time before he felt able to look up and meet the gazes of the others again. When he finally could, he said with false joviality: "Well, I for one won't have to worry about the correct etiquette to observe when meeting one's double from an alternate reality."

"Wesley --" began Cordelia.

"Call Sunnydale," Angel said. His voice sounded uneven, and it cracked over the last word.

Wesley clenched his jaw -- for some reason, just the sound of Angel's voice threatened to push his temper past the breaking point. "I believe we're perfectly capable of handling this situation ourselves, thank you."

"Glory," Angel said. "We should find out what she was doing, exactly. That could help us. And I want to know if --"

Angel said no more, but Wesley could fill in the rest. Of course, of course. Angel's suggestion was only sensible. He ought to have realized that himself. After a moment of searching his memory, he came up with the right numbers, dialed quickly.

As Giles' phone rang and rang, Wesley watched Angel's expression grow progressively darker. He couldn't have, Wesley thought, he couldn't have killed them all --

"Who's that?"

The voice was rougher than Wesley remembered it, and the pronunciation was uncharacteristically indistinct, but it was still Giles. "This is going to sound a little odd," Wesley began.

"Who's there? What d'you want from me this time?"

Wesley blinked. If he hadn't known better, he would have sworn Giles was -- drunk. "This is Wesley Wyndham-Pryce, Mr. Giles."

"Oh, God," Giles said.

This was not going well at all. "I realize this is something of a shock, but there is an explanation --"

"You again," Giles said. Beneath the sloppiness, the weariness, he sounded intensely irritated. "I wish you people -- you dead people -- would stop phoning me up at all hours. Call bloody directory inquiries if you want to talk to the living." Suddenly the anger drained from his tone, replaced by something like dread. "Is Buffy there? Tell her -- I can't bring her back. So stop asking me --" The line went dead.

Slowly, Wesley lowered the phone.

"Is something up with Giles?" Cordelia asked.

He hesitated before replying. "Mr. Giles is... rather indisposed just now. And in no condition to tell us about this Glory being. But I did glean some useful information. I'm afraid it's bad news."

In a voice that was barely more than a low whisper Angel said, "It's Buffy."

Wesley nodded, and Angel turned away, his whole body slumping as if something solid inside had turned to liquid and drained out of him. But of course, thought Wesley. In this universe, he was certainly dead and Cordelia very probably was -- but it still took the Slayer's name to get a reaction from Angel. It was an uncharitable thought, he knew, but he couldn't entirely suppress it.

"You don't have to be Columbo to work out how things went down here," Gunn said grimly.

"And we're not going to get any help from Sunnydale," Cordelia added.

"Then we'll find our own way out of this," Wesley said with determination. "It'll be dawn in a few hours; we'll be safe here until tomorrow morning." Then he looked at Angel, standing inside the apartment doorway, and realized the absurdity of that statement.

Cordelia was evidently thinking the same thing. "Want to bet? If Angel can walk in here, so can Angelus," she said, standing up and going to a chest of drawers which had been pushed roughly into a corner. "We have to do a dis-invite. I always kept some rosemary and thyme about, just in case --"

Kneeling down, she opened the bottom drawer and began to root around in it. "What is this junk? Deep Space 9 trading cards? Damn it, it isn't here --"

"Cordelia..." began Angel.

She ignored him and kept sifting maniacally through the drawer. "I hid it right at the back --"

Wesley rubbed his eyes. He was exhausted. Bone-weary. More than anything, he wanted to put his head down somewhere safe and soft and go to sleep. Attempting to soothe Cordelia's agitation, he said, "It's all right. It doesn't matter. We probably couldn't do a dis-invite, anyway. It doesn't work if the original occupant is d--"

He snapped his eyes open and bit off the word just before it slipped out. It was still too late. Cordelia straightened up slowly and turned around. When she looked at him, he saw her eyes were shining. She blinked -- once, twice -- and stood up. Then, as self-possessed as she had been frantic a moment earlier, she went back to the sofa and sat down again.

"We're safe tonight," Angel said. "He won't come looking for us before dawn."

Gunn frowned. "How come you're so sure 'bout that?"

Steadily, Angel said, "Because I couldn't face him again right now. So he isn't going to be able to face me."

"Nevertheless," Wesley said, "someone should keep watch until morning."

Angel took the hint and nodded. As he left, he said, "I'll be right outside."

Fred kept looking at the door after he had gone. "Angel's going to keep us safe, isn't he?"

Cordelia made a face. "Yeah, because Angel's safety-first man."

Lorne stood up, giving a theatrical yawn as he did so. "I vote we make this a slumber party. I need at least four hours, or my complexion turns from verdant lawn to old avocado."

"That's an excellent idea," agreed Wesley. "We could all use some sleep."

"Den's through there," said Cordelia, pointing for Lorne's benefit. "Make yourself at home. There's a sofa bed. It's a little lumpy, but --"

Lorne bowed graciously and, taking her hand, kissed it with a flourish. "Your ex-majesty, I assure you tonight there is no finer accommodation in all the palaces of Pylea than the sofa bed in the den of apartment 212, Embury Street, Los Angeles."

Wesley smiled. After a second, so did Cordelia. Getting up, she put her arm around Fred and led her away from the door. "C'mon. Allow me to re-introduce you to the concept of hot running water." A moment later, Lorne was gone too.

"You know," Wesley remarked to Gunn, "I wouldn't have thought a clairvoyant singing demon would have been the ideal companion for inter-dimensional travel, but I'm glad he's here."

Gunn swung his feet up on to the sofa and attempted to stretch his tall frame out on its inadequate length. "Yeah. We need someone on morale duty, that's for sure."

Wesley began arranging cushions on the floor to create a makeshift mattress. "We're going to get through this," he said. "There are plenty of hotspots out there. There must be another portal home."

"Oh, I don't doubt that," said Gunn. He closed his eyes. "What I'm wondering is, are we gonna survive 'round here long enough to find it?"

Outside Cordelia's apartment building, the night was quiet, and every window on the block was dark. The only noises were the faint hum of night insects and the occasional car passing on the street. But Angel wasn't paying attention to his surroundings. He walked blindly, aware of nothing except the litany of guilt echoing inside his head.

I gave up, he thought. I gave up, and I destroyed everything. Cordelia, and Wesley, and oh God not Buffy --

Cordelia and Wesley had been on their guard. They'd have known to be careful. They would have fought him.

So they would have died quickly. Angel hated having to be grateful for that bleak fact, but he was.

Buffy, though -- she wouldn't have known. Her mother had just died; he remembered her sorrow on the night after the funeral, and how fragile she had been. Was that how he'd found her in this universe? Her vulnerability would have opened a whole new range of opportunities to him -- and he had always craved novelty --

He could imagine the possibilities too easily and too vividly. Within seconds, they threatened to drown him in their horror.

He stopped walking, forced himself to concentrate. This isn't our reality, he reminded himself. Wesley and Cordelia and Buffy are all very much alive and well. And you have to hold yourself together to make sure Wes and Cordy stay that way.

Being trapped inside his own frustrations was what had created this situation in the first place. He couldn't afford to let it happen again. If he had any chance of preserving the fragile truce between himself and his friends, he had to be stronger this time. Smarter.

And getting lost in thought while Angelus came to kill them all wouldn't fit into either of those categories.

Angel inhaled deeply, mostly as a means of focusing on his surroundings. His undirected footsteps had taken him to the swimming pool which served Cordelia's apartment complex. Here, the air was thick with the chemical tang of chlorine, mixed with scent from the white flowers blooming on the trees that edged the courtyard and clung to life in tiny clay pots. And beneath all that was another scent -- something familiar --

He heard rustling and half-turned to see Fred standing behind him. Her hair was tugged back into a ponytail; she looked younger with it pulled away from her face. She was now wearing sweatpants almost comically too large for her and a T-shirt with the face of a black man who, for some reason, had a woman's hair barrette across his eyes. "What are you doing out?" Angel said slowly.

"I got the first shower. And -- Cordy let me take first pick from the clothes the last guy left behind." There was a slight hesitation before Cordelia's name, as if she wasn't completely certain it was all right to copy the others and shorten it. When Angel didn't object, Fred finished, "I don't think she was very excited about any of them, though."

Angel knew he should say something reassuring about making do or joke about Cordelia's sartorial misfortunes. But he was too weary -- in body, in soul -- to muster up anything of the kind. "It's not safe out here," he said. "You should go in."

"I feel safe if you're here," she said, so guilelessly that something inside him snapped.

He stepped close to her, held a finger of warning in her face. "I don't know how much you understood of what we were discussing back there. But Angelus? The murderer they're all talking about? He's me. He's what I was -- what I can be again. And apparently not even I understand what it is that changes me. You think you're safe?"

Fred didn't even seem to register his anger. "Is he worse than the beast? You didn't hurt me then."

"I could hurt you now. I mean, he could," Angel said. He'd learned, through hard practice, to think of Angelus entirely as a force within himself. That habit could prove dangerous now; best to break it, embrace the third person, recognize that Angelus was also another entity here, physically distinct and capable of acting -- and striking -- on his own. There would be time, later, to explain to Fred that he carried all of Angelus' evil within him, every moment. Assuming the others didn't explain it for him. "You're going to have to be careful."

"Okay." Her young face was naked of makeup, of any kind of artifice. She was meeting his gaze with the unblinking courage of a child. "So what do I do to be careful?"

Don't trust me, Angel wanted to say. But instead he began with the basics. "You've heard stories about vampires, right?"

"Like Count Dracula," she said easily. She sat down by the edge of the pool; he realized, for the first time, that she'd wandered out barefoot. Never even considering if there might be glass on the ground, or sharp stones that could cut her feet. Fred dunked her feet in the pool, and her face lit up in a bright smile. "Oooh, nice. I never saw a pool painted this color green before. Usually they're blue." Then she frowned. "Aren't they?"

"Vampires are not exactly like Count Dracula," Angel said, reminding himself to think about the fictional creature Fred was referring to, not the Eurotrash he remembered from Prague. "They're real. I am one. Do you understand that?"

"Uh-huh. They're the mean cows. But you're not mean," she said. "Want to dunk your feet too?"

"This isn't the --" Angel paused as he realized what she'd said. He sat by her side. "What did you say about mean cows?"

"Sometimes cows -- I mean, people -- would show up in Pylea who weren't what you'd call normal. Not that anybody's normal after a little while there," she said, and something in her expression made him realize, for the first time, that Fred was painfully aware of how awkward her conversation and habits were to the others. "I think they came for the sunlight. But when the Pyleans tried to make them slaves, they'd get really mad, and turn into beasts, like you did."

Angel nodded. It made sense, now; others in L.A.'s supernatural underworld had to know about the portals, and all vampires would crave the taste of the sunlight denied them.

Fred reached out and began taking off Angel's shoes; he was too distracted by her words to protest. "But you turned back into a person. They didn't. They were animals, but worse than animals. The only way to get them off of somebody was to offer them blood. Pure blood. That was what they were after. That's why I kind of figured they were vampires -- or that they started as vampires, anyway. I still don't know what that other thing was, that thing they turned into."

"That's how you knew how to pull me away from Wesley and Gunn."

"Uh-huh." She stripped off his socks and pushed his now-bare feet into the pool. "Isn't that nice?"

The water was icy against his legs. If you were alive, he thought, the sensation was probably delightful -- the contrast of warm flesh against cool liquid. To Angel, it was just cold.

He stared down at the surface of the water. Fred's face was reflected there, wavery and alone on the pool's rippling surface. She saw it too. "You don't have a reflection any more. That's like Count Dracula too, right?"

"Right," Angel said, though it was hard to imagine Dracula, in any incarnation, dunking his feet in a swimming pool. He began going through the information that might keep Fred safe. "We can't go out in the sunlight, and we're burned by holy water and crosses. Crosses can also ward us off -- garlic too, though not for very long, so don't rely on it."

"So eating -- that food -- wouldn't work." Her eyes closed tightly, and Angel could almost see her straining to remember. "That food that's like a whole lot of string."

"Spaghetti?"

"Yes!" She beamed up at him. "I like Italian food too. That is Italian, right?"

"I think so," he said. "I'm not really that good with food. But concentrate, okay? You can tell a vampire by his lack of reflection, lack of pulse, cold body temperature or avoidance of sunlight. You can kill a vampire by staking him, with wood, through the heart." He pointed to his own chest, then to his neck. "Beheading works too, but I don't think you should try it. In fact, the best thing for you to do, always, is to run away and call for me or the others."

Fred actually seemed to be paying attention now. "That other woman you were talking about -- Darla -- is she a vampire too?"

Oh, God. How did he even start explaining Darla? Keep it simple, he decided. "Yes. She's the one who made me this way. She's dangerous."

"She turns into a beast, too," Fred concluded.

"Not exactly," Angel said. "It doesn't happen like that, here. But we do change before we feed." He hesitated, then looked her steadily in the eye. "I'm going to change now, so you can see what it looks like, all right?"

She squared her shoulders. "All right."

Angel breathed in again, let himself react to the warm smell of Fred's blood, so close, pounding beneath her pale, fragile skin --
His control, almost automatic at this point, relaxed; the demon surfaced. Fred stared at him, and he prepared for her shock and dismay.
Instead she said, "Well, that's not nearly as bad as before." Fred poked his forehead curiously with one finger. "Those ridges are really hard. Is that bone? How can you grow bone that fast?"

"I don't know -- I never --"

"Rate of deposition of osteoid must be phenomenal," Fred said, mostly to herself. "And then there's the mineralization -- maybe it stays pliable --" Then her expression changed abruptly, and she looked concerned. "I hope it doesn't -- Does it hurt when you do that?"

"I -- no. No, it doesn't hurt." Angel was completely at a loss. He felt foolish, now, for expecting a different reaction. For a woman who associated vampires with the wild, demonic animals she'd seen in Pylea -- who had been surrounded by demons of all kinds for years -- the face he wore now would scarcely look unusual. "You need to remember what this looks like, Fred. If you see anyone with a face like this, you have to get away from them as fast as you can."

"Except you."

"Including me, unless I've already told you what's about to happen," Angel said.

"Because there's a bad man here who looks just like you."

"Who is me," Angel corrected her. "And even after we get home, Fred -- even then, if you see me looking like that, and I'm acting even a little strangely -- you have to get away. Trust your instincts. Don't -- don't trust me --"

His throat closed off, and he stared back down at the lawn-green waters of the pool. Did Buffy have any warning at all? Or had she trusted him until it was too late, reached out to him for support and received instead a kiss that concealed teeth, or an embrace that crushed?
He would have seen the light fade from her eyes and relished it.

"Angel? What's the matter? Your face changed all of a sudden." Fred's voice suddenly sounded more focused than it had before. "Is this about the dead woman they were talking about inside?"

"Yes," he said dully. "Buffy. I killed her."

"You mean -- back home, too, or just the other you, here?" Fred paused as she reviewed her own sentence, and then she straightened up to look at him again, apparently satisfied.

"Just here. Back home, she's alive. Buffy's alive," he repeated. "If I didn't know that, I couldn't even --" His throat betrayed him again, and he looked up at the blank, starless sky.

"She's your girlfriend," Fred said, as though trying to commit it solidly to her memory.

"Not any more."

"But you still love her." It wasn't a question, but Angel nodded anyway. "And she still loves you."

"I don't know," Angel said. "I think -- it doesn't matter what I think. Or what she feels. We're not together, and we're not going to be. Because of what I am."

"Did she mind? You being a vampire?"

"No. But she should have." They were both silent for a long time after that. Angel watched the shimmering reflections on the surface of the water -- uneven lines of light crossing and weaving together like a rippling, ethereal fabric.

"Like the surface of a portal," Fred said, and he believed she had followed his gaze, read his thoughts. "It can swallow you up, take you under. But you can come back to the surface again."

Angel hesitated, then said, "I thought you were talking about the pool, but you're not, are you?"

"I know what it's like to get all wrapped up in ideas that aren't real. To let everything get so jumbled together that you don't know what you can trust." Fred held one hand in front of her, parallel to the surface of the water, then balled it into a fist. "I still don't know what's real and what's not. So I just deal with what's in front of me."

"Is that enough?"

"It kept me alive," Fred said. "It brought me to you."

By the time Cordelia had taken the longest, hottest shower the building's elderly plumbing was capable of producing, the apartment's other occupants were asleep. She wrapped a towel around herself and crept out of the bathroom and into her bedroom, noting with amusement as she tiptoed past the den that Lorne even managed to snore in key.

Once the bedroom door was firmly shut behind her, she snapped on the lights and dried herself off. Her Pylean royal bikini was lying on the bed where she had gratefully stripped it off at the first opportunity: eyeing it now, she knew she'd scream if she had to endure one more second of being scoured by semi-precious stones like cheese on a grater every time she crossed her legs. Rolling the bra and panties up inside the cape, she put the bundle to one side and began to cast around for an alternative.

Unfortunately, the choice was somewhat limited. Fred had been more than happy to swap her Pylean peasant chic for the first clean clothes they'd found that didn't swamp her small frame completely. In fact, she'd seemed positively enthusiastic about her Geordi LaForge XX-large T-shirt. Cordelia sucked in her breath and shook her head at the memory. Maybe it was a science-nerd thing. Picard, she could understand. But Geordi? He didn't even have a catchphrase.

Opening cupboards and drawers, she continued her search of the bedroom, determined to find something -- anything -- that didn't scream 'merchandising'. The room, like the rest of the apartment, was a wreck, and although clothes and books and knickknacks were strewn all over the place, Cordelia saw not even one thing she recognized.

Well, that wasn't strictly true. She recognized the guy in the poster above the bed -- that was Captain Picard, celestial starlight reflecting off his bald head, as the Starship Enterprise streaked through the night sky behind him. At the bottom, blue type proudly proclaimed "Boldly Going Where No One Has Gone Before!" Nice poster, if you went for that kind of thing, but it sure as hell wasn't hers.
Nothing here was hers.

Her makeup and jewelry were gone. Her clothes were gone. The menagerie of crystal animals she'd been collecting since she was fourteen but now thought were tacky, yet somehow couldn't bring herself to throw away -- they were gone too. Cordelia Chase had been wiped out of existence, and the world had just flowed into the hole and filled it like she'd never been there.

All because of Angel --

Cordelia pushed that thought out of her mind. It would be so easy to let herself get angry, to blow up at Angel over this stupid choice he'd made, this lie he'd told her, the danger he'd put them all in. So easy to let the terror that had haunted her this winter take over again -- the terror that Angel could snap, at any time, and she had seen what happened the last time Angel really snapped.

But it wasn't worth it. Angel was back in her life now, and she liked it better that way, and he could only stay in her life if they didn't look too closely at what might have been.

She blinked and saw she was holding a plain gray sweatshirt with a small Star Trek logo embroidered just below the collar. It was almost subtle. Lying beneath it, she found a pair of drawstring pants she might get to stay on her, if she wrapped the cord around her waist twice.
Out loud, she said, "I swear to God, when I get home I'm taking Angel's credit cards to Macy's and I'm not coming back until I've brought retail therapy to a whole new place."

The thought made her feel better as she dressed; after all, this was the second time she'd lost a whole wardrobe thanks to --

She froze, the sweatshirt half on and half off.

The poster above the bed had changed.

A long, cylindrical space-station hung in the foreground. Behind, some actor who was neither bald nor Patrick Stewart gazed nobly into the middle distance. The slogan now read, 'Our Last Best Hope For Peace.'

Cordelia finished pulling on the sweatshirt and exhaled slowly. She was tired, she reminded herself. She was stressed. She'd recently abdicated leadership of a demon dimension, and now she was stuck in another universe where her vampire ex-boss's evil double was undoubtedly planning how to kill her for the second time.

In short, she'd had the kind of week that messed with your head.

And, despite having dated Xander Harris for more than a year and absorbed a disturbingly high dosage of geekiness by osmosis, she wasn't exactly an expert on sci-fi television. So -- she'd been wrong about the poster. Yeah, that had to be it. After all, space ship, space station -- where was the difference, really?

Satisfied with this explanation, Cordelia lay down on the bed. Wesley was right: they all needed to get some rest. She reached out to turn off the bedside lamp and swore under her breath when her hand brushed a pile of envelopes, knocking them to the floor. She leaned down to retrieve them--

--and stopped when she saw, amid bundles of junk mail destined for RESIDENT, her own name printed in black and white. Above it, someone had scrawled in messy capitals, ADDRESSEE UNKNOWN.

"Am too known," she muttered, and tore open the envelope, grateful for even the slightest proof that she hadn't disappeared entirely from this world.

She glanced quickly at the pages inside. Then, her heart speeding up, she read them again, slowly, in case she'd made a mistake. She got up and ran out of the bedroom to where Wesley and Gunn were sleeping in the living room.

"Wesley, wake up," she hissed, shaking his arm.

"--Uhh?" He opened his eyes and sat up so quickly they almost bumped heads. "Is Angelus--"

"No, no." She waved the paper in his face. "I'm not dead!"

"I can see that," he said mildly.

"No, I mean, I'm not dead here, in this universe. This is my May bank statement. There's movement on my checking account."

"Let me see that."

She gave him the pages, and waited while he put on his glasses and squinted at it in the gloom. On the sofa, Gunn snored softly, undisturbed. "Not much movement," Wesley said after a moment. "A large deposit on the sixth of the month... Who are Mutual Dependable?"

"I have health insurance with them."

Wesley looked up at her, pleased and slightly surprised. "I had no idea you were so -- prudent."

She shrugged. "You grow up in Sunnydale, you learn the importance of comprehensive medical coverage. Insurance company execs put their kids through college on Sunnydale premiums."

"There's a payment made for the same amount a few days later, to --" he peered closer, "-- Huntercombe Hospital."

Unable to keep from grinning at him, Cordelia said, "You see? Angelus didn't get everyone. I'm alive somewhere and getting better. Maybe I can even help us."

Wesley didn't look as convinced as she felt, but he gave her a small smile. "Well, we should certainly follow this up. We'll find out where this hospital is and drop by tomorrow. Now, Cordelia -- please do try to get some sleep."

Feeling more content than she had since they'd fled from the Hyperion, Cordelia returned to the bedroom. She was about to flop down on the bed again when she heard the faint murmur of voices drift in through the open window.

The bedroom was at the back of the building, and the window looked out over the complex swimming pool. Cordelia peered down and, after a second, recognized the remote figures of Angel and Fred below her.

They were sitting close to the edge of the pool -- so close, they had to be dangling their feet in the water. How adorable, thought Cordelia sourly. We're in the wrong dimension and in mortal danger. Just the time to go paddling.

As she watched, Fred raised her hand and touched Angel's face. He made no move to pull away. There was something about the action -- an assumption of intimacy -- that set all kinds of warning bells ringing in Cordelia's head.

Fred was smart: maybe she'd work out by herself that Angel was strictly look, don't touch. Then again, Fred hadn't dated in five years and her ability to interpret the nuances of human interaction was rusty, to say the least.

Trouble brewing, Cordelia thought --

A sudden noise made her start. A car which had been parked on the street beyond the apartment complex roared into life, performing a fast and sloppy U-turn in the empty road. As it swung around, its headlights momentarily blasted the side of the building head-on with light, flooding the bedroom with an intensity of illumination that made Cordelia's eyes water. Then it was gone.

Her heart was thumping and her mouth dry as she got into the bed. C'mon, Cor, she told herself sternly. It's just a car. Angel said Angelus wouldn't come looking for us tonight, and Angel should know. There's no one out there. No one's watching us.

But, as exhausted as she was, she didn't sleep for a long time.

Chapter 3

Fred was trying very, very hard to be very, very quiet.

This was something she was used to, something she was good at. At the library, she had made it a habit; in Pylea, she had made it an art form. Breathe in through the nose, slow and even, and don't move a muscle, or the monsters will get you --

Outside the kitchen, in the lounge, she could hear Cordelia talking to Gunn in a tone of voice that left little room for dispute. "You have to change. You smell of funk. Not even good old regular funk, either. Pylea funk."

"Which bears no resemblance to Sly and the Family Stone, I'm sorry to say," Lorne said. His voice, like Cordelia's, carried into the kitchen where Fred stood alone, hands clasped together so hard her fingers hurt.

"I don't care," Gunn said. "I like Xena as much as the next leather-bikini-loving man out there. But that does not mean I am ready to wear her face on my chest."

"Wesley's wearing his Sliders shirt!"

"Yeah, well, Wesley actually liked Sliders, so that tells you about the man's taste right there."

"I beg your pardon," Wesley said. "I consider this shirt a sort of ironic joke about our predicament. It's postmodern."

Fred could hear the smile in his voice as he said that. He acted like there was nothing wrong. But then, he was the one who had gone out for groceries in the first place -- he was the one who had brought it into the house -- and now it was sitting on the counter, waiting for her to show weakness, getting ready to pounce --

"You're not nagging Lorne to change."

"Lorne doesn't smell."

"Well, thank you for that vote of olfactory confidence," Lorne said.

Cordelia persisted. "You just don't care, do you?"

"You just want to have the rest of us looking even tackier than you. Thanks but no thanks on the shirt. We'll swing by the store and pick up some Old Spice or something."

"And that'd be an improvement in what sense, exactly?"

"Me, I find the ladies go mad for Brut," Lorne called back at Gunn as he stepped into the kitchen. Fred gestured desperately at him to be still and quiet, but he just stared at her. "What's the matter, pumpkin?"

Fred screamed and tackled him, knocking them both out of the kitchen and out of danger. As they landed together in an undignified tangle of limbs on the carpet, Cordelia, Wesley and Gunn rushed toward them. "What is it? What's happened?" Wesley said.

Angel threw open the door of the bathroom. "Fred? Are you okay?"

She was shaking so hard now she could barely choke out the words, but she managed to say, "In there -- in the kitchen --"

"What? He's not --" Angel began, but Lorne quickly shook his head.

Cordelia put her head cautiously around the edge of the door. "Lemme see. We've got milk, bread, cereal, those bran things Wesley likes, some ham and chee--"

"Don't say it!" yelled Fred.

Cordelia turned around, looking oddly at Fred. "Okaaay. So you're vegan?"

Lorne, however, was nodding understandingly. He gave Fred a sympathetic pat on the arm. "Let me hazard a guess. While on her grand tour of my dimension, I think our young friend here had a nasty encounter with some Pylean attack cheese."

There was a long silence.

"...Pylean attack cheese?" Gunn repeated disbelievingly.

Lorne nodded. "They mature it for five years in total darkness. That stuff is vicious."

Cordelia looked at him. "Your dimension is a strange and disturbing place."

"No argument there."

"You had some nachos last night," Wesley said to Fred, his tone one of reasonable persuasion. "The cheese was safe then."

"Well, sure, once it's melted!" Fred protested, gulping back a sob. "But now it's just sitting there on the counter, waiting to catch us off guard --"

The others looked as though they might laugh. For a second, Fred saw herself as they must see her: a wild-eyed girl getting hysterical about dairy products. But she couldn't make them understand -- it wasn't about the cheese. It was about spending your whole life learning how the world worked and then one day falling down a rabbit hole into another place where none of the rules held true any more. When you couldn't trust the world, the only way to keep alive was to stay scared and paranoid. Fred had found that running away from cheese helped, too.

But Angel smiled reassuringly, and she remembered that he, at least, understood what it was like to feel frightened when the rules you'd always lived by got twisted and warped. "I'll go melt it, okay? And then we'll get you some breakfast. Something completely cheese-free."

He began to move away, but Fred tugged at his arm. "Angel -- don't show fear."

"I promise," Angel said as he went into the kitchen.

"So, what's our game plan for today?" Lorne said quickly. "Now, weren't you saying that you needed some quality computer time to work out some equations and get us back under the rainbow?"

The computer. Fred relaxed slightly as she remembered the mental picture that went with that word. "Yes. Yes, that's right. I need to run some equations on the -- computer. I mean, I could write on the wall instead, like I did in the cave --"

The wall thumped several times in quick succession. "I think Dennis might have issues with that," Cordelia said hurriedly.

"So where can we get you some computer time?" Lorne continued.

"The library," Fred said. She could never forget that word, not ever -- how often had she dreamed, these past five years, of getting even one more wonderful hour in a real library? Then she hesitated. "Libraries are real, aren't they?"

"Absolutely," Wesley said. He was trying to smile at her, like Angel had, but he couldn't. He was tense now, upset. So were the others, now that she thought about it. The laughter and good humor from a few moments before were gone as though they had never been. They'd gotten all quiet right when Angel came out --

Oh. Of course. They'd found out about the cheese. No wonder.

"So, we pack a certain someone off to the library with Fred," Cordelia said. "They get some quality research done, come back with all that yummy math. Meanwhile, we take off to Huntercombe Hospital and track me down --"

"As the great philosopher and sage Samuel Goldwyn once said, include me out," Lorne replied. "I don't think I could walk into a hospital without being admitted for an emergency case of -- well, something."

"You can get us the ingredients we'll need for the disinvitation spell," Wesley said. "Since this universe's Cordelia is alive, it may be the most effective means we have of defending our base."

Lorne looked happy at the prospect. "Shopping. My kind of morning. And while I'm out there, I can find out a little bit more about this dimension in general. They may not have attack cheese here --"

"You can never be sure!" Fred said.

"-- but this is still a little on the strange side. Just my morning perusal of the local news tells me that much. I mean, wouldn't you think a dragon in the skies would rate a mention?"

"Good point," Wesley said. "And Angel and Fred can go with you to the library, Cordelia."

"I want to go with you guys," Cordelia objected. "I was gonna bring me a Get Well card."

Wesley paused before answering. Gunn beat him to it. "Cordy, we don't know what we're gonna find at this hospital."

He didn't say anything else, but apparently he didn't have to. Cordelia bit her lip and looked down at the floor. Wesley reached out to touch her shoulder, but stopped himself. Even Lorne seemed unusually grave.

Angel stuck his head out of the kitchen and showed Fred a skillet full of orange goo. "See? All taken care of."

Fred breathed a deep sigh of relief. She wondered why none of the others did the same.

Huntercombe Hospital was a small, private clinic in Burbank which had formerly been the residence of some forgotten Hollywood star with more money than taste. At least, that was the only explanation Wesley could think of for some of the building's more bizarre features: the grandiose Corinthian columns flanking the main entrance, or the stained glass windows above them depicting scenes from classic movies.
But the grounds were well kept, and as he and Gunn walked up the gravel path they passed a number of staff who gave them friendly smiles before hurrying on their way. Wesley felt reassured that this universe's Cordelia appeared to be receiving the best care possible.

The hospital reception was situated in what must once have been the main entrance hall. The window above the reception desk showed Judy Garland as Dorothy, linking arms with the Scarecrow and the Tin Man as they skipped along the yellow brick road -- all in a glorious stained glass version of Technicolor.

An attractive Asian woman sat behind the desk, laughing as she chatted with the man who was leaning against it, holding a file. She broke off as Wesley and Gunn approached.

"Hi there. Can I help you?"

"I hope so," Wesley said. "I believe a friend of ours is being treated here -- Cordelia Chase?"

The woman frowned. "I'll have to check the register for you. I know most of our patients' names, but I don't think --"

The man interrupted her. "It's okay, Ling. Cordelia's one of my patients." He set down the file and shook hands with Wesley, then Gunn. "Doctor Simon Davies."

"Wesley Wyndham-Pryce," Wesley said. "This is Charles Gunn."

"Pleased," Gunn said easily.

Davies led them away from the desk and through the extravagant double doors at the far end of the entrance hall. "Ling's usually great with patients' names," he said when they were out of earshot, "but she's more likely to remember the ones who get a lot of visitors. Cordelia -- well, I think you're the first people who've come to see her since she was admitted."

The thought of this universe's Cordelia in pain and alone for several months caused Wesley an irrational stab of guilt. "We would have come sooner if we could."

"Sure," Davies said, nodding in what was an all-too-strained effort to be understanding. "It's difficult, I know. A lot of people find just being in places like this too disturbing. But, still, kind of strange, a girl this young having nobody to look in on her. Her records says she was brought in one night by a distraught man who left without giving his name. Apparently he never came back --"

"He's here now," Wesley said under his breath.

"Pardon?"

"Nothing," Wesley said. "Please continue."

"Actually, please don't," Gunn said. Wesley looked over in surprise at Gunn, who suddenly seemed a whole lot taller -- and more hostile -- than Wesley had seen him in a long while. "We didn't ditch Cordy because we didn't care. We didn't come because we couldn't. End of our story. Now, let's talk about her."

Davies raised his eyebrows, but kept his tone polite. "Cordelia's in the Intensive Care Unit. I'll take you there."

The doctor moved ahead of them, allowing Gunn the opportunity to turn to Wesley and mouth the words, intensive care unit? Wesley shook his head. Davies would think it more than a little odd if self-proclaimed close friends of Cordelia Chase came to visit her without knowing the basic facts about what had happened to her. If they were to avoid arousing suspicions, they would have to choose their questions with care.

"Tell me," he asked, "what kind of progress is she making?"

Davies exhaled. "To be honest -- not as much as I hoped she would. But she is stable."

"That's good," Gunn said, looking at Wesley. But his expression was less certain than his voice.

Davies turned right, and Wesley and Gunn followed him. Every hall they had passed along so far, Wesley noted, had been carpeted and decorated with movie posters, mounted on soft foam backings. But while the clinic's staffers went about their appointed tasks with speed and efficiency, he had yet to see a patient, much less an open door.

What kind of hospital was this, anyway?

They walked past a external window whose top panel appeared to be an artistic interpretation of Humphrey Bogart entreating Lauren Bacall not to get on the plane in "Casablanca." He frowned. Hadn't Ingrid Bergman been in that movie? "This is certainly an unusual building."

The doctor frowned. "In what way?"

Wesley was at something of a loss for a reply at first. Finally he said, "You don't find the art a bit -- strange -- for a medical facility?"

Davies looked up at the window they were passing, which showed Elizabeth Taylor as Cleopatra. "I never really thought about it. But now that you mention it, some of the patients with more profound psychoses do get upset about the David Lynch windows."

Psychoses, Wesley thought. He and Gunn glanced quickly at each other, and he could see his own horror reflected in Gunn's eyes. The locked unit, the lack of patients in the hallways -- suddenly it all made sense. Huntercombe was a psychiatric institution.

They had come to a set of sealed double doors. Davies opened them using a swipe card, then ushered them through. There was a second set of locked doors beyond the first, and Davies waited until they were sealed in the no-man's-land between the two before swiping his card through the reader to open the next set. "Patients with mild to moderate psychiatric disorders are treated in the part of the clinic we've just come through," he explained. "The ICU is a locked unit, for our severely disturbed residents."

Severely disturbed. Suddenly, Wesley didn't want to go any further. He wanted to turn around, walk out of the building and back down the drive. They could lie; tell the others they hadn't found her, and he'd never have to know what Angelus had done --

The main corridor in the ICU was empty. Davies stopped outside a closed, plain white door. "Of course, you know what happened," he said.
Wesley's mouth was too dry; he couldn't speak. He heard Gunn say, "Yeah," and was glad one of them was still capable of maintaining the deception.

Davies' expression was grave. "I won't lie. It looks bad. Just remember, she's on the best drugs available. The pain is minimal at this point."

As if from a great distance, Wesley heard himself say, "That's good to know. Thank you, doctor."

Davies opened the door.

The room beyond it -- was just a room.

Wesley realized he'd stupidly been expecting a padded cell -- something from a nineteenth century novel, with bars on the windows and shackles on the wall. Cordelia's room, like the rest of the clinic, was attractively if sparsely decorated, and might almost have been a hotel bedroom in one of the better chains. The only clues to its true nature were the furnishings, which were bolted securely to the floor, and the metal rails edging the sides of the bed.

And in the bed --

Her hair had been chopped to a length almost as short as his own, and she was thin rather than slender, but she was still recognizably Cordelia. He couldn't see her face; she was lying turned toward the window, where faint daylight glowed behind tightly drawn blinds.

Wesley entered the room, Gunn behind him. She reacted to the noise, her hands twitching as if she was trying to bring them to her face. She couldn't, and now that he was closer, Wesley saw why -- her wrists were held securely in padded restraints. So, they weren't so far from the nineteenth century after all.

Evidently Davies could read the dismay in his face. "The restraints are necessary. She suffers periodic psychotic episodes. As unpleasant as they are, they'd be worse if she hurt herself again in the process."

Wesley took another step toward the bed. Cordelia's chest rose and fell more rapidly under the blankets, and he heard her make a tiny whimpering sound. "It's all right," he said gently. "It's me. I'm here, Cordelia --"

At the sound of her name, she turned her head to look at him. But she couldn't.

"Oh, God," Gunn whispered.

Cordelia couldn't see Wesley because her eyes were gone.

Her face was a mess of scar tissue and ugly welts of damaged flesh. Glistening flaps of skin swirled like twin whirlpools around the pits where her eyes should have been. This had been no clean surgical extraction; her eyeballs had been torn out of her head, violently and by someone with no consideration for the pain involved or what the aftereffects would look like.

Cordelia made another tiny, wordless noise and twisted her head on the pillow. As she did so, moisture crept down from the mangled corner of one eye socket. For a moment, Wesley thought she was crying. Then he realized the fluid wasn't tears.

"There's still some infection," Davies said. "We're using strong antibiotics, but her injuries have been very slow to respond."

Wesley half-choked, tasted bile in his mouth. He made himself go closer to the bed, so he was standing over her. Taking her hand, he squeezed it. It remained limp. Not just antibiotics. "My God, what kinds of drugs are you pumping into her?"

"Only what we have to," Davies said.

Gunn looked at him. "But if she wasn't sedated, she'd be able to talk to us, right? She'd know us?"

Davies hesitated. "It's unlikely."

"We're not strangers," Wesley snapped. "We're her friends."

Davies tone was gentle as he said, "I understand. But every time we've cut back on Cordelia's medication, she's become violent. And she's invariably incoherent. She hasn't shown any awareness of her environment." He paused. "I'm sorry. She's obviously not the girl you remember."

Girl, thought Wesley. Not even a woman, really. A girl.

Cordelia arched her back and pulled against her restraints, muscles stretching like cords on her stick-like arms. Pushing her head back against the pillow, she uttered a keening wail of misery and fear.

Something inside Wesley twisted, and sorrow became cold, hard rage.

Periodic psychotic episodes, the doctor had said. So she still had the visions. But now, instead of helping others, they only added to the torment she already endured.

She still received messages for Angel, but Angelus wasn't listening.

Of course he had taken her eyes, Wesley thought bitterly. A blinded seer -- the irony must have been too delicious to resist. He would love this scene, the girl he had broken blind to the real world but still able to see the full spectrum of human suffering. And he hadn't simply taken her sight; he'd stripped her of her mind in the process and left her this shell, this mockery of the person she'd been. "He should see this."

"I'm sorry?" Davies asked. "Who should?"

Wesley hadn't realized he'd spoken the thought out loud. "Nobody. Nobody at all."

There was a small wall around the edge of the visitors' parking lot. Wesley sat on it, looking back across the wide, freshly mown lawn and carefully tended flower beds at the institution's main building. Institution -- that was the right word. He couldn't think of Huntercombe as a hospital anymore. People got better in hospitals, then left them. Seeing this universe's Cordelia had shaken Wesley to the core, but left him certain of one thing: it wouldn't be easy for her to come back from whatever dark place she had fled to inside her skull. Left alone like this, she wasn't going to get better. She wasn't ever going to leave.

After a while, he became aware that he was no longer alone. Gunn was sitting beside him, selecting stones from the gravel under their feet and throwing them, one at a time, at an empty soda can lying some yards away on the grass.

"I used to know a girl," Wesley said finally.

Gunn stopped throwing the pebbles.

"I'd never met anyone quite like her. She was still in high school; very pretty -- somewhat vain -- but smart, too, although she went to pains to hide it. She was frivolous. Irrepressible. Unexpectedly practical. Occasionally shallow; always optimistic. Undeniably courageous. This girl, she --" he forced himself to smile, "-- she had a crush on me."

"Get outta here." Gunn smiled too. "No accounting for tastes, huh?"

"No," Wesley agreed. It hurt his mouth to keep smiling, so he stopped. "Anyway. I was going through a bit of a bad patch. Questioning a lot of things. Questioning myself. I was doing the only thing I wanted to do, and finding out I couldn't do it very well at all. When I looked in the mirror, I didn't like what I saw anymore. But this girl -- when she looked at me -- her eyes lit up --" His voice threatened to break. "Her eyes --"

Her face, disfigured and weeping fluid, flashed through his thoughts again. He wished there was some way he could erase the sight of the pathetic creature strapped to the bed, wipe it away before it bled into his better memories of Cordelia and corrupted them with its brutality. What he was feeling, he realized, was only a fraction of what she had endured. What she still endured, and would continue to endure, over and over and over --

He felt a hand rest lightly on his shoulder. "Remember, it ain't her," Gunn said. "This place -- it's a world gone wrong."

Wesley said, "No. This is the world the way it should be. All thanks to Angel." Gunn was looking at him, so he explained, "Angel is as responsible for what happened to Cordelia here as Angelus is. The only difference between the woman in there and our Cordy is that we come from a place where Angel's actions didn't have the consequences they ought to have had."

Gunn paused. Then he said, "Ain't a lot of 'ought to' with consequences, at least in my experience. You do your best, you make your mistakes, and in the end, there's still no telling what's gonna happen."

Wesley stared at Gunn in disbelief. "Are you -- making excuses for him?"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa." Gunn held his hands up in front of him. "I'm not making excuses for anyone or anything that had something to do with what happened to the Cordelia we just saw. I just mean -- Angel's not the same guy who did this any more than that's our Cordy in there. This whole thing's one bad head trip. Only way we're gonna get through it is keeping what's real and what's not straight."

Wesley clenched his hands into fists at his side, then tried to relax them. "I know that. But I also know the chance Angel took -- the risk that this would happen to our Cordelia too -- that's real, isn't it?"

Gunn had no reply.

"I think I'll go crazy," Cordelia said.

She found a table in a shady corner of Los Angeles Central Library's science section and took off the backpack she'd been carrying. As she unloaded the paper and pens they'd stopped to buy on the way, she saw Angel looking at her uncomprehendingly.

Cordelia sighed and gestured at the stacks of books behind them, where Fred was standing perfectly still, her eyes closed and her expression one of pure, blissful contentment.

"I used to have a regular life. I dated. I was a cheerleader. And now my typical morning consists of reading physics textbooks in the company of a vampire with multiple personality disorder and a woman who's clearly achieving some kind of high on library-smell. Since the world's clearly gone 100 percent nutso, I might as well just join in."

Angel's confused expression disappeared, and instead he looked wounded. For a moment, Cordelia regretted the multiple-personality remark, until he said, "Fred just needs a minute to herself. This is a big deal to her."

Fred could spend as much time in the stratosphere as she wanted, Cordelia thought as she switched on the public terminal sitting at one end of the table, as long as she came down from reality's upper atmosphere for long enough to find them a way home. "Hey, Fred. If you're done savoring that mildewed-paper aroma, come and take a look at this."

Fred opened her eyes and lifted her arms. She twirled toward them between the stacks, wearing a smile so wide her face could hardly hold it. "There are books!" she said as she joined them. "All in order!"

"How about that? What will they think of next." The PC monitor hummed, and Cordelia put her hands on Fred's shoulders, placing her in the seat in front of it. "Okay, here's one of those boxes that beeps and makes things easier --"

"Computer," Fred said proudly, looking at Angel.

"Right. Windows has moved on a couple of versions since the last time you used one of these, but you'll pick it up."

Fred lifted the mouse hesitantly. "Pick it up?"

"Put it down," Cordelia said.

Fred put the mouse down again. She looked at it, then at the glowi