The Wells of Silence

Author: JR

Rating: PG

Spoilers: Ats: "Heroes"

Disclaimer: Angel, Willow, et al, are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, and the WB. All characters are used without permission. This story is not intended to infringe upon any copyrights, nor is any profit being made from it.

Author's info: part of Scattered Thoughts series. Previous parts available at http://www.angelfire.com/de/theparlor/buffy.html

Be advised: "Heroes" is the last Angel episode that I was able to see (living overseas sucks sometimes). There may be some differences in characters & their behavior in subsequent episodes, so please file any errors under 'creative license'.

~~~

"Hello, darkness, my old friend.
I've come to talk with you again..."
-- The Sounds of Silence, Simon & Garfunkel

Tonight, I'm going through some of the worst sorrow I've ever known.

And I've seen more than my share.

Leaning back in my chair, I find myself staring sightlessly into the inky blackness of my empty office. Not for the first time, I find comfort in the darkness. Like a living thing, creeps up unexpectedly, perfectly willing to cloak or hide any multitude of sins. It permeates souls and extinguishes hope. It habours fear and anguish and is the harbinger of pain untold.

And it's something that I know intimately. For over two hundred years, I've lived in the realm of darkness. I am one of its creatures, a mere servant damned to be enslaved by it for the rest of my existence.

God, that was harsh, even for me.

I think I'm taking brooding to an all new level. But tonight, I figure I'm entitled to wax poetic on my own misery.

The cause of my despair is... was just one man -- or half-man, to be more accurate. He was half-demon, too, but you'd never know it to look at him... unless he just sneezed or was really pissed off. Then he looked like a pin-cushion. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Alan Francis Doyle.

He was always one for the track, the ladies or a stiff shot of single malt. Self-proclaimed as not much of a fighter, but he always came through in a pinch. Underneath that 'couldn't care less' attitude and cheeky grin rested a heart that was made of the purest gold.

He was a good man, one that I was honoured to know -- even when he occasionally brought his troubles to my door. After all, who says that every lost soul in need of help has to be a stranger, right? Every now and then, it can be a friend.

Doyle was my friend, and I was proud to consider him so.

And now he's dead.

Reaching out to my desk, I seek and finally find the bottle of my best single malt that I put there earlier. The bottle is almost empty, and I'm only now starting to feel the effects. Just another let-down of vampire physiology.

But I'm hell-bent and determined to get drunk tonight -- not just to numb my own pain, but to give a good man the kind of tribute I know he would have wanted. With that in mind, I pour myself another shot. Hefting the glass into the air, I shake it in angry defiance of the darkness that has taken another person I cared about from me.

"Here's to you, Doyle," I say softly and down the shot in one gulp. With the scotch burning my throat, I sit back and let the memories come with their hard, vivid intensity.

~~~

It had all happened so quickly -- the roomful of half-demons in hiding, running from another group of demons called the 'Scourge'. The latter were purists, hell-bent on 'cleansing' the half-breeds and humans off the face of the earth. Elitist, prejudicial bastards.

Seeing the hunted half-demons huddled in the basement of an abandon building brought back all kinds of images of the Jews hiding from the oppression of the Nazi's in World War II. Even the uniforms the Scourge chose to wear looked like something out of the Third Reich. Not that I had seen one firsthand. I stayed in America for the duration of the 'War to End All Wars'. By that point in time, I'd already been cursed with my soul, and I'd seen enough gore and violence to last me the rest of my unlife.

Yeah, right.

In all truth, I was a coward.

Not like Doyle.

Doyle, who cast aside his own fears to save the lives of others. Doyle, who stunned me with a single punch, judging that my existence was more important in the grand scheme of the Powers That Be than his own. Doyle, who once told me that he would 'chose pleasures of the flesh over honour and duty any day of the week'.

But he hadn't. When it mattered the most, Doyle had found the inner-strength he so vehemently denied having. He chose to sacrifice his own life; saving me, Cordelia, and thousands of others in the process.

Cordelia.

She had been my first priority after it happened. The half-demons that we... I mean Doyle... saved had ripped the purifying device that had killed my friend into little more than scrap metal. With plenty of thanks and a few tearful goodbyes, the ship where the fight happened cast off and sailed into the night, leaving Cordy and I to watch mournfully from the docks.

Not surprisingly, Cordelia was a complete and utter wreck. She and Doyle had been flirting with each other for months. But all his clumsy advances and all her cutting refusals were nothing more than window dressing. Despite all the barbs, the sidelong glances, and the banter that reminded me of an old episode of Moonlighting, something very real had been in the process of forming.

Put simply, they were falling in love.

I'd amused myself for months watching the two them dance around each other. Oh sure, there were plenty of days where their little squabbles infuriated me. After all, this is -- for all intents and purposes -- a detective agency, not a kindergarten. I'd get to the point where I would want to shout: 'Would you just admit it and get it over with?'

Maybe I should have. Maybe then they would have at least had the chance -- not just a single, hurried kiss and an eternity of regrets, of what might have been. Maybe, just maybe, Doyle would have had enough reason to be the selfish bastard he always claimed he was and let me be the one to make the ultimate sacrifice.

But he hadn't.

After it was over, I took Cordelia back to the office. I could tell she really didn't want to be alone right then, and to my surprise, I found I didn't want to be by myself, either. Somehow, I needed to be around her. She was the one, the only person who had any inkling of what I was going through, and it was the same in reverse for her.

So great was Cordy's need to be near me that she even sat on my bed as I took the shower she insisted I needed. For once, I didn't reproach her. The stink of salt-air and death covered me like a shroud, and the copious amounts of Bril-cream I'd used to slick back my hair left me feeling slimy and dirty.

I thought nothing of stripping down to my boxers in front of her. After all, Cordelia had seen me in them before -- like the time she invited herself to stay with me when she was driven out of her old apartment by the squalid conditions. Doyle had been so pissed off, coming in and making assumptions after spying us dressed in little more than bathrobes.

But that is an amusing memory. And if there was one thing I didn't want to be at that moment, it was amused.

I left the door open when I went to take my shower. For modesty's sake, I waited until I had pulled the opaque curtain closed before I removed my last layer of clothing. Throwing my boxers over the curtain rod, I turned on the faucets and let the flow of hot water wash my body clean.

Too bad it couldn't do the same thing to my soul.

Cordelia chatted the whole time, raising her voice to be heard over the sound of the running water. I think she was telling a long anecdote about one of Doyle's misadventures, but I'll never be sure. I wasn't really paying attention at the time.

I was too busy trying to stifle the pain-filled, sobs that wracked my body. Up to that point, I'd held them back, knowing that I needed to be strong for Cordelia's sake. Oh, I know that she likes to think of herself as immune to emotional trauma. The nicknames 'Queen C.' and 'Bitch of the Year' can attest to that. But I also know she wasn't half as invulnerable as she liked everyone to believe. She needs a rock to cling to, and given the situation, that stability had to come from me.

But even rocks weep from time to time. When the pressure becomes too great, the water trapped within is forced out until it begins to trickle down the face of the stone. Don't believe me? Look at a blasted-out mountain sometime. You'll see what I mean.

Cordelia must have either heard me or realized what was happening behind the plastic barrier that separated us. Before I knew it, a strong-yet-feminine arm reached into the shower stall. With my blurred-over vision, I caught sight of Cordy's hand as she fumbled to find the faucet for the cold water. Once she had it, she quickly turned it off without so much as peeking around the thin vinyl curtain. When she switched over to the other tap, I realized that the water, which should have been hot enough to scald my skin, was actually ice cold.

Just how long had I been in there? I wondered.

Cordelia said nothing, just pulled her hand back out of the stall. It returned a moment later holding one of my clean, folded terry towels. Grateful for her silence, I said nothing as I took the bath-sized cloth from her and started to slowly dry myself.

"I'll be upstairs in the office," Cordelia told me softly, giving me a few minutes to get dressed and collect myself.

I was relieved by the reprieve she had so graciously provided me. I took some extra time before I left the sanctuary of the shower. While I was physically cleaner, there was an ache in my heart that left me feeling still haggard and soiled.

Wetting a washcloth with cold water, I held the damp fabric over my eyes to hide some of the redness and swelling my tears had caused. I kept it there, making my way from the bathroom to my bedroom on memory and instinct rather than vision. Moving around the bed, I blindly reached into the closet and felt around until I found a shirt and a pair of pants.

Throwing the washcloth on one of the nightstands, I was not overly surprised to see that I had randomly chosen a black pullover and black pants. Dispensing with underwear, I dropped my towel and donned the two garments I'd picked out.

As I slid the knit top over my head, memories of Doyle again began to surface like flotsam rising after a shipwreck. How many times had I dressed with Doyle calling to me from the kitchen or living room? Whether it was a conversation about his latest effort with Cordelia, or some of that 'practical advice' he'd offer before I left to help somebody he'd seen in one of his visions; Doyle was always there.

My ally. My friend. Or, a Robin to my Batman, as Cordelia liked to tease.

Oh, how they loved to tease me. Ganging up on me was one of the few things that would get them to stop bickering with each other. Whether it was my silent nature or my tendency to brood -- hell, even my preference of wearing black was fodder for their sharp tongues.

But, to tell the truth, I never minded. Well, not really, anyway. In some strange way, being the target of their sarcasm made me feel like I belonged -- like I was just another human being, not the vampire that I am.

Finished dressing, I forced myself to move toward the freight elevator. I was so busy thinking back on past events, I barely noticed the sounds of the old machinery that moved me along. The world could have exploded at that point and I probably wouldn't have noticed.

It was only when I exited the elevator a moment later that I received the shock of my unlife. Coming from somewhere within the office, I heard something that I never thought I would be able to listen to again.

I heard the sound of Doyle's voice.

My feet were moving before I could completely process the noises I was hearing. The only thought in my head was a chant comprised of two little words that repeated themselves over and over. 'He's alive! He's alive!'

I crossed the main room of the office in less than a second, desperate to see the friend that I thought we had lost. With a hopeful expression plastered all over my face, I flew into my smaller private office ready to ask Doyle a thousand questions.

Instead of the reunion I was anticipating, I found Cordelia sitting alone on the couch, startled as hell by my abrupt entrance. By the way she turned and faced me with a look of surprise, I guessed that she was hoping that I would have some earth-shattering news -- a revelation that the events we had both borne witness to earlier that night were nothing more than a nightmare that would dissipate in the light of the morning.

If only it were true.

We stared at each other for a long moment as the stark reality of the situation sank in for both of us. Unable to cope with the sorrow pouring from her eyes, I broke the connection between us by turning to face the unnatural brightness of the television set.

I recognized the image almost immediately. It was the 'test' commercial that Cordy and Doyle had filmed -- God, was it only that morning? Cordelia was in my office only minutes after they finished the thing, doing her damnedest to convince me that we needed to advertise more. In all honesty, I think I can safely say that, if anything, watching this painful excuse of a potential commercial did little to change my vehement opposition to the concept as a whole.

"Our rats are low..." Doyle's Irish lilt echoed through the stillness of the room.

"I... just wanted..." Cordelia said softly before trailing off in hesitation.

"I understand," I answered as gently as I could. And I did.

My eyes never left the image on the screen as I blindly reached out to grab the chair from behind my desk. Spinning the upper part around, I leaned my knee into the seat, my hands grasping the back for balance.

"... am I done?" Doyle's image asked somebody out of the range of the camera.

The picture continued running for a few seconds after that before abruptly changing into the snowy blur of unrecorded videotape. To my surprise, the image suddenly began running backwards at a rapid pace. Looking over at the couch, I saw Cordelia with the remote to the machine in her hands. At the beginning point of the segment, she released the 'rewind' button, letting the tape play again from the beginning of the scene.

And when it was done, Cordy rewound it again...

... and again...

... and again.

I can't begin to guess how many times we ended up watching that scene. The only thing I can clearly remember is that my grip on the chair I was holding got a little tighter with each subsequent viewing.

As my anger and sense of helplessness over Doyle's death continued to grow, my demon immediately rushed to take advantage of my barely controlled emotions. I was a hare's breath from vamping out entirely when a new sound in the room caught my predatory attention.

It was a sob. Not a sniffle, not a choked 'woe is me'; but a downright, heartbreaking, spirit debilitating gut-wrenching cry of agony.

Cordelia.

My head snapped in her direction only to find her doubled-over as her despair finally broke through her considerable emotional defenses.

"Oh Cordy," I whispered, somehow managing to choke down the demon's glee over the teenager's despondency.

In the blink of an eye I was sitting down beside her. Unused to offering comfort of any kind to anyone, I hesitated for a moment before giving in and drawing the weeping girl into my arms. There was an awkward pause as I tried to figure out what to do with my hands. Finally, I gave in and settled them gently on to Cordelia's back. For her part, Cordy fairly dove into the embrace I offered.

"Shussh," I comforted softly, rubbing her back and hair in a way I prayed was soothing.

"W..why, A..angel?" Cordelia hiccuped through her tears.

"I don't know, Cordy," I whispered sadly. "I just don't know."

Neither one of us said anything else for long time after that. Eventually, Cordy cried herself into an uneasy sleep.

~~~

We stayed that way for almost hour. In all that time my only movements were to soothe Cordelia when she grew restless from her troubled dreams. In fact, it was a powerful body spasm from one such nightmare that sent her tumbling back to a wakeful state.

"It was just a dream, Cordy. You're okay," I reassured softly when I read the confusion on her face. Even in the darkness of the room, I could see the moment when her memories returned with a vengeance.

"No," Cordelia whispered. In less than a heartbeat her face crumpled in misery. Moisture gathered, then quickly overflowed as an unending waterfall of tears began to flow from her haunted eyes. "It's never going to be all right."

Maybe I should have done something -- offered her platitudes and adages that 'time would heal all wounds' and that 'things would be better in the morning'. But I, of all people, knew better. I knew that however well intentioned, those sentiments were just words. They would do nothing to comfort her in the face of such a grave loss.

I knew it because I felt the exact same way.

I said nothing as I pulled Cordelia even closer against me, holding on to her as tightly as I could without hurting her. Minutes ticked away unnoticed as we clung to each other, giving and taking the only comfort that made any kind of difference.

Finally, I felt Cordy's arms let go as she broke away. The impending loss of her warm presence washed over me with all the iciness of a wave of fear. Nevertheless, I understood.

Cordelia brought both of her hands to her face, using her fingers to rub at the tear-tracks that stained her cheeks. She was a sight in her rumpled clothing. I harbored little doubt that she would shriek the minute she saw her unmade-up face and tousled hair in the mirror. Sighing, she pivoted away from me, sliding her feet down to the floor as she returned to a normal seated position.

"Angel?" she asked softly.

"Yeah?"

"I want... I'm gonna... go home," Cordelia said as she stood up from the couch. Sleep and emotional upheaval left her almost swaying on her feet.

"You know you can stay here," I offered as a sudden sense of abandonment began to rise up within me. I was utterly surprised to realize that I didn't want her to go. She was the only person who comprehended what I was going through, and I didn't want to lose that.

"I... I just..." she looked down at her feet. Taking a deep breath, she managed to bring her eyes back up to meet mine. "I just need to be alone for a little while."

Although I recognized her desire to grieve for Doyle in private, it did nothing to help to ease my own need to keep her with me. Shunting aside my own emotions, I found myself rising up as well.

"All right," I answered with more calm than I was actually feeling. "But let me drive you."

"You don't--"

"Look, Cordelia, you're in no condition to drive," I insisted. "Let me do this."

Rather than arguing, Cordy's brown eyes bore deeply into my own. She must have found whatever it was that she was searching for, because a moment later she simply nodded her agreement. Grateful for her easy acceptance, I moved in the direction of the elevator.

"Just let me go get my keys," I told her as I reached the grate of the lift.

"I'm gonna go wash my face," she illustrated with one last rub of her fingers over her cheeks. I almost smiled as I caught her grimacing over the salt-covered condition of her skin.

After the abominably slow ride in the elevator, it took only seconds for me to locate my keys and jacket. Something occurred to me as I picked up the items. I hurried across the room, knowing that I didn't have much time before Cordelia came downstairs to look for me.

My finger raced through the familiar number as soon as I had the phone in hand. Three rings later, a voice I knew all too well began speaking when the answering machine at the other end of the phone line clicked on.

"Hi. This is Cordelia Chase..."

"Dennis, it's Angel," I whispered as loudly as I dared. I wasn't sure if Cordelia would be angry at me for contacting her ghostly roommate without telling her first. Cordy could get downright moody about the strangest things at the best of times. I shuddered to even think about what the next few weeks were going to be like around the office. 'You sure knew how to pick 'em, Doyle,' I thought ruefully to myself.

The telltale 'beep' let me know that Dennis had not only picked up the phone, but also disengaged the answering machine. The only sound from the other end of the line was the quiet background hissing, but then again, that was to be expected. While Dennis' corporeal dexterity had greatly improved in the weeks that had passed since Cordy freed him, he had yet to learn how to speak aloud.

"Dennis, I just thought I should tell you that..." Damn. The thought of saying it aloud for the first time made my throat tighten in misery. Still, I had to do this. Taking a deep breath, I forced myself to continue. "Doyle... Doyle... died tonight."

Suddenly, the lack of noise coming from the other end of line bothered me more than it ever had before. I would have given anything for Dennis to have been able to speak at that moment -- to whisper... to yell... to offer condolences -- anything but the unnatural silence. Nevertheless, I pressed onward.

"Cordelia's taking it pretty hard, understandably I guess. Anyway, I'm going to bringing her home in a few minutes. She says that she wants some time alone, but I thought you should know."

There was a long pause before I heard the electronic tone of number key being pressed on the phone at the other end. It was a signal that we had worked out with the ghost a while back, mostly so he could let either Doyle or myself know if Cordelia happened to run into trouble at her apartment. One tone meant 'yes'; two meant 'no'; three meant 'okay'; and the combination of '9-1-1' meant help or danger.

The first tone was followed a second later by a second, then a third a moment after that. The long pauses between the semi-musical notes were unusual. I guessed that maybe it was Dennis' way of showing his sorrow over the news.

"Thanks," I said, my voice choking over the word. Clearing my throat, I continued. "We're leaving now, so we'll see you in a few minutes. Oh, and you might want to erase the message before we get there."

The speed with which Dennis sent the single beep almost made me smile. As Cordelia's roommate, he probably knew better than I did just how mercurial her temper could be. Muttering a fast goodbye, I hung up the phone and hurried upstairs.

I didn't want to keep the Queen waiting.

~~~

The ride to Cordelia's ended up being a quiet one. For the first time, she didn't even complain about her hair being messed up by riding in the open convertible. Thinking back on Cordy's previous rides in my car automatically made me think of all the times Doyle had been with us, which in turn only served to sink me into a deep state of melancholy. I would have given anything to look over and see him sitting in the passenger seat, expounding on his latest 'sure thing' at the track or some other typical Doyle conversational topic.

But never again would he grace my car with his presence. Never again.

Cordelia's place was only a ten minute drive from the office, and yet the trip there seemed to go on for an eternity. I guess Cordy must have felt the same way because the minute I put the car into 'park', she was out of the door like a shot. Even with my longer legs, I found myself struggling to keep up with her ground-eating pace as I walked her to her apartment.

Recently, Dennis had taken to opening the door for Cordelia before she could even begin to dig her keys out of her purse. Sticking with his new habit, the door to Cordy's place was already ajar by the time we reached the end of the outer hallway. If Cordelia noticed Dennis' courtesy, she said nothing to indicate it.

We had barely crossed the threshold of her doorway when I felt a rush of cold air rapidly brush by me. Within seconds Cordy's elbows were pressed up against her sides as her feet left the floor. It took a minute for me to realize that Dennis had scooped her up into a ghostly, invisible embrace.

"Oh Dennis," she whispered as she began to cry again. The anguish in her quiet voice was enough to bring my own sorrow back in full force. I felt an ache in my chest -- like a giant hand had wrapped itself around my useless heart and began to squeeze.

If anything, the pain became worse when Cordelia started to move away in the direction of her bedroom, never once looking back in my direction. In all fairness, though, she would have had to have been a contortionist to do so. From the awkwardness of her gait, I could tell that she was leaning heavily against Dennis. Although he hadn't yet mastered the art of visibly manifesting himself, the ghost was already getting the hang of making himself substantial for short periods of time.

My thoughts of the retreating pair were rudely interrupted. Out of nowhere, a wave of intense claustrophobia crept over me. For some bizarre reason the walls of Cordelia's apartment felt like they were closing in, trapping me further and further with each passing second. I sucked in an unnecessary breath, but it was useless. Stupid. That calming trick had never worked for me back when I was actually human. What idiotic streak made me think that it would work after two-and-a-half centuries as a vampire?

Instinctively, I knew what I needed. I had to get out of there.

"Call me if you need anything," I mumbled hastily as I turned towards the door.

I'd almost made my escape when a shaky but determined voice stopped me in my tracks.

"Angel!"

I stood frozen in place, my hand on the doorknob as I waited for her to continue.

"Call me... if you... need anything," she said with more gentleness and compassion than I dreamed Cordelia capable. "Anything at all, okay?"

Not trusting myself to speak, I nodded my head twice before running out like the devil himself was after me.

~~~

For some inexplicable reason, the drive home seemed much shorter than the one over there. Maybe it was the uncomfortable silence Cordy and I had shared. Or perhaps it was the fact that I no longer felt the need to be strong for Cordy's sake. Regardless, the I made the trip without any sort of emotional breakdown. In fact, I felt calmer then than I had since the whole mess with the Scourge first began.

Why then, I wondered, did I still feel that same damned sense of panic that began back at Cordy's place?

~~~

The first thing I did when I got back to the office was to find the bottle of Scotch that we kept on hand for Doyle after one of his visions. The ache in my chest was still there and since it showed no signs of dissipating in the immediate future, I figured I could at least numb it somewhat by drinking. With that in mind, I settled down at my desk. I was about to drink myself into a stupor for the first time since I'd regained my soul.

~~~

That was almost a fifth ago. I've been alone in the darkness for over an hour now, reliving and remembering.

And that damned pain still hasn't gone away.

I'm in the process of pouring myself yet another shot -- the last of what began as an almost full-bottle when the anxiety starts.

Four-thirty in the morning, the hour or so before the dawn will come to end this wretched, eternal night. The streets are eeriely silent, much too quiet for a city that never sleeps. And the darkness...

... the darkness...

For someone who has lived in it for centuries, the darkness begins to feel oppressive. What once offered me protection has suddenly turned on me. Instead of comfort, the blackness is now smothering me.

Suddenly restless, I shoot out of my chair. I need another drink and the nearest bottle is downstairs in my apartment. I retrieve it hastily, returning upstairs as quickly as possible. Without windows to let in even the meager light from the distant streetlamps, the darkness downstairs is even worse than it is in the office.

After coming back upstairs, I deposit the bottle on the sofa and forget about it. The liquor is starting to take hold, but not in the way that I expected. Instead of that soft, mind-numbing blur that I remember from my youth, my vision, my hearing, hell, all my senses feel like they are intensifying. Everything seems to become sharper, more painful.

Including my emotions.

I spend the next fifteen minutes or so pacing around the office. Although I seem to lack a particular destination, my movements are perturbed, precise, like a tiger stalking back and forth in its cage. I am prowling through the darkness like a wild animal. What a good analogy. And yet, no matter how much I stalk, I can't seem to rein in my chaotic thoughts.

Everywhere I turn, I'm assaulted by memories of Doyle. The chair that he favoured, a pencil he'd been chewing on -- God, was it only this morning? -- his abandoned, half-filled cup of coffee. Images creep in and out of my head, bits of conversation -- both useful and meaningless -- come to mind. All uttered with the lilting accent of my native land.

A voice that I will never hear in person again.

My fault. It was all my fault. I should have seen it coming. I should have done more to protect him. I'm the warrior, right? Doyle was just the messenger. They aren't supposed to kill the messenger.

Goddamned Scourge!

Goddamn them to everlastin' hell!

Damn it, Doyle. How could you do it? Of all the bloody times to play the hero. I should have known.

I should have known.

As it happens, I'm right in front of the 'coffee area' when my anger hits. One vicious swipe of my hand sends everything flying. The sound of the mugs and the glass coffee pot shattering are like fuel on the fire burning within my soul. I can feel the ridges forming on my forehead as my rage continues. No object in my immediate vicinity is safe from my wrath.

Utensils, chairs, even the damned little refrigerator itself, are sent flying. And when I'm done there, I continue on through the office. Like a tornado, I tear through the modest space leaving a trail of destruction in my wake. With a berserker's strength, I flip my desk as if it were made of cardboard instead of two hundred pounds of hardwood. The stand with the television and VCR falls to the floor.

It's only when the TV smashes to the floor that a memory bubbles up through the murky haze of my rage -- a vision of Cordy and me watching Doyle on the screen only a few hours earlier. It's then that I think of the tape.

Oh shit! I sink to the floor. I hear the sound of glass crunching under me as I fall, and I know that my knees are probably cut to shreds, but I don't feel it. At this moment, I can't feel anything but the pain in my heart at the thought that I may have ruined the one recording I have of my friend.

Amazingly enough, the VCR is still caught in the stand. It's even plugged in, albeit rather precariously. In fact, the cord is stretched taut, holding the recording unit a few inches off the ground in the twisted mess I made.

Rising up, I use one hand to right the stand into it's proper position. My other hand is clenching the VCR in a death grip to prevent any possible further damage to it. When I finally get the stand back upright, I reach out and with a shaking finger press the 'eject' button.

I want to cry out in relief when the tape is smoothly released from the unit.

Realizing what I had almost done, my anger recedes just as quickly as it manifested. My strength suddenly abandons me, leaving me to stagger over to the couch. Once I'm there, I sag into the glass-covered sofa with the tape in my hands. There isn't a doubt in my mind that Cordy would dust me if anything happened to it.

And I probably would have let her.

But she's not here. No, she's safely ensconced with Dennis the Phantom Menace back at her place.

The more I think about Cordelia, the more that same, now-familiar ache increases. Although the alcohol is blurring my thoughts, I'm still cognizant enough to realize that there is something odd about that.

Earlier, I assumed that the hurt stemmed from the loss of Doyle. But when I think of Doyle, I seem to either get really pissed off or really melancholy. Yet, whenever Cordelia crosses my mind, the ache grows worse.

I don't understand it.

Images flit through my mind, surfacing and then quickly disappearing back into the fog that is starting to cover my brain. Only one seems to reappear more than the others -- that of Cordelia being led away by Dennis.

At least she has somebody.

The thought reverberates in my brain like the claxon wailing. Could that be it? Am I resentful of Cordelia because she has somebody, a friend, to comfort her?

Out of nowhere, I feel something roll up against my thigh. In the middle of my half-drunk, over-emotional revelation, the unexpected touch is enough to make me jump out of skin. Stumbling out of the couch, I bare my fangs, totally prepared to defend myself...

... against a half-filled bottle of whisky.

Ashamed at my foolish reaction, I swipe the thing off the sofa and twist off the cap. I bring the bottle to my lips and drink furiously, as if to punish it for scaring me half to death. It empties too quickly to assuage my need for revenge, so I throw the bottle against the wall with all the strength I can muster. The sound of breaking glass echoes throughout the office, disturbing the silence that had once again descended.

The silence.

That's it, I think slowly to myself. That's what? Somehow I know that the quiet is the key to the puzzle I'm contemplating, but I'm having trouble thinking clearly. The alcohol has definitely taken hold, dulling my mental capacities and my reaction times. But it is not enough to keep me from knowing the truth.

I'm alone. Utterly and completely alone.

And I know that I don't want to go through this alone.

Lumbering up off the couch, I stumble over in the direction of my overturned desk. Encumbered by my drunken condition, it takes me a few minutes to track down the phone. Once I find it though, my fingers automatically dial a familiar number.

"Leave a message..." the lilting voice on the answering machine asks.

I'm about to speak when it hits me that any message that I leave will never be heard. Acting solely on instinct, the first person I thought of calling was Doyle. I manage to drop the handset back into the receiver with surprising swiftness, horrified at what I had just done without thinking.

My shame lasts for only a few seconds, though, before my loneliness rears its ugly head again. I need to talk to someone. Names float around in my mind, but I'm quick to dismiss them. Cordelia? No, she needs some time and I'm still a little put out by her request, even if I sort of understand it. Buffy? No, we haven't been on the best of terms since her trip to L.A. a few weeks ago. Whistler? I'm not sure where he is at the moment. Giles? Not the best sort for sympathy.

Oh God.

I'm such a fool.

How could I have missed her, I wonder as I struggle to recall her new number. With my vision impaired by the alcohol, I'm forced to lift the phone off the floor in an attempt to catch some the dim light coming in from the window. My lack of co-ordination makes me misdial twice, but finally I punch in the correct series of numbers with the kind of exaggerated moves that only drunks and junkies can perform.

The flat ringing in my ear is a welcome sound. Anything that disturbs the silence of the darkness around me...

... anything but the sleep-encrusted voice that answers on the other end of the line.

"Heelllooo," it drawls.

Shocked into silence by the unexpected voice, I freeze in place as if any movement on my part could somehow make my identity known. Even as out of it as I am, I know that I don't want to talk to her, to answer the million and one questions she would have as to why I was calling.

"Hello?" she asks again, her voice only slightly more aware this time. "Look, since you've already disturbed my beauty sleep, you might as well say something."

She's pissed off, that much is obvious, but I still say nothing. All I know is that it's not her that I want to talk to, to be comforted by, just to hear the soothing sound of her voice.

"Who is it, Buffy?" I hear Willow's sleepy voice asking in the background.

And oddly, those four little words are enough.

I'm in no rush as I return the phone to its cradle, nor when I stagger my way over to the service elevator to my apartment. I do need to hurry though, as the sun is beginning to rise. At least it will take away the darkness for a while, anyway.

Just as the simple sound of Willow's voice was enough to banish the deafening silence of my unbeating heart.

For a while, anyway.

~~~

"'Fools,' said I, 'you do not know.
Silence like a cancer grows.
Hear my words that I might teach you.
Take my arms that I might reach you.'
But my words, like silent rain-drops fell,
And echoed in the wells of silence."

~~~

End.