For One Night Only

TITLE: For One Night Only
AUTHOR: Rheanna
RATED: R for language
SPOILERS: Up to season 2, "Epiphany"
DISCLAIMER: : All characters are the property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy and are used without expectation of profit or intent of infringement.
NOTES: Huge thanks to Yahtzee for beta'ing beyond compare, a theme and the best joke in here by a long shot, and to all at the Yahoogroups ATS fic discussion list. Nope, this isn't in any way an original idea, but it was fun to do.

1: Delayed Reaction

The place they had found for the ceremony was perfect.

The warehouse was in a rough neighbourhood near the airport, and had been empty for years. The interior was cavernous and, apart from the faint flickering light thrown out by a dozen candles, almost completely dark. The voices of the thirteen cloaked figures echoed as they chanted, bouncing off the metal roof and walls with eerie hollowness.

Once voice led; the others repeated the incantation in his wake. The two women bound together by silver chains in the middle of the circle shivered fearfully. The air crackled with the raw power of dark forces.

Until suddenly a tinny, electronic rendition of Yankee Doodle Dandy destroyed the atmosphere completely.

Doug broke off mid-chant and pulled down the hood of his cloak. "Okay. Whose cell phone is that? Own up."

Twelve cloaked and hooded figures and the two subjects of the rite shuffled and coughed awkwardly for several long seconds. At last the acolyte four to Doug's left reached into a hidden pocket and pulled out his Nokia.

"Hi. Yeah. No. Okay. Uh, Marlene, I'm kinda tied up right now. Call you back? Yeah. Yeah. Fine. Bye."

Doug glared at him. "We're gonna have to start again now."

"Sorry. I forgot to say I'd be late home from work tonight."

Doug sighed and looked around the gathering. "Right. Everybody turn their phones off now."

The red-robed figure directly opposite Doug raised his hand tentatively. "Excuse me. I'm expecting a call from my stock broker—"

"Off!"

There was a moment's stillness, followed by several minutes' shuffling and hunting through folds of red velvet for the pockets of the street clothes beneath. One acolyte helpfully retrieved and switched off the phones of the two bound women, who smiled and nodded their thank-yous.

When at last the participants had settled again, Doug nodded and raised his arms above his head. Then, dramatically, he let them drop. It didn't mean a thing but, damn, you had to give people a show.

He cleared his throat and adopted his incantation voice, which was not unlike the voice he used for cold calling in his day-job, but deeper. More authoritative, Doug liked to think. He began the ritual again, from the start.

"Spirits of other places, we call on thee…"

Easy money.

What a difference a couple of weeks and a demon larva in your skull makes, thought Cordelia.

She looked up from the iBook and the celebrity gossip webzine she'd been reading and, because she had nothing better to do except work, started to list in her head everything that was new.

There was the office itself, for a start. It was new. Not new in the clean-and-shiny sense, or even in the basically-sanitary sense, but new to them if nothing else. There was Wesley reading an old dusty book—not new—but standing up and leaning on a cane instead of rolling around in the terminally unfashionable wheelchair the hospital had given him. That was a new sight, and a welcome one.

As she watched, Wesley put down the book and reached absently for a pen. It scooted out from under his fingers and rolled on to the floor; Gunn, who had been sharpening an axe, leaned down at once and retrieved it for him. He handed it over with a familiar and friendly grin which Cordelia decided definitely merited inclusion on the New Things list. And sitting in the other corner…

She pursed her lips. Was this New Angel or Old Angel?

Old Angel had driven her to auditions and cooked breakfast and understood what it meant when she'd said she'd stay with him as long as it took. And then, right when he'd made her start caring, he'd gone away and New Angel had arrived. New Angel didn't talk and he didn't listen, and pretty soon he'd stopped being there to catch her when the visions hit. Old Angel was "An-gel!", said with a little exasperation and a lot of affection; New Angel was "Boss," and then not even that.

Who was he now?

He was pretending to read—staring at a single page in that weird, intense way he had when he was just using an open book as an excuse not to have to talk to anyone. But she sensed something different in his attitude now; as if, rather than avoiding conversation, he was desperate to communicate but was no longer sure how to go about it.

Cordelia wasn't in a rush to make it easier for him.

There was no Old or New Angel. There was just this Angel, and Cordelia wasn't sure she liked him any more.

No convenient curse this time. No morning after 'it's okay, it wasn't really you' conversations. No avoiding the unpleasant truth: the Angel who had decided he was now very, very sorry was the same Angel who had systematically cut her out of his existence with the clinical precision of a surgeon removing a tumour. The same Angel who had at first ignored her, then scared her, then finally threatened her with violence. And—no doubt in her mind about this—he had been ready to hurt her.

Ready to hurt her? Huh. He already had hurt her.

A big part of her wished he'd never had his damn epiphany. Then it would still be just the three of them, getting on just fine by themselves, thank you very much—

"Cordy, are you okay?"

He'd noticed her staring at him. She straightened up and flipped her hair.

Hah. Don't think you're Cordy-ing your way out of this one. "Yes."

"Are you going to have a vision?"

"No."

"Pity," said Gunn, not looking up from his axe: "'Cause we could be doin' with one of those about now. It's a little slack round here."

"Oh yeah? Well, you know what else we could be doing with?" began Cordelia hotly.

"A client," interrupted Wesley, smiling rigidly in the direction of the doorway. "Ahem. Everyone, look. A client."

The girl hovering hesitantly in the office's entrance was young—certainly, Cordelia judged, no older than herself—and wore a pair of faded cargo pants and a crop top that showed off her flat, tanned stomach to perfection. And perfection was pretty much the descriptive word of choice for the rest of her: unblemished skin, clear blue eyes, hair golden and light right down to the roots, and a delicate bone structure with none of the telltale pinched sharpness that screamed surgery. Let Gunn have his weapons and Wesley his books: Cordelia's area of expertise was appearance, and she recognised one hundred per cent natural beauty when she saw it.

"Hello," said the girl. "Is this Angel Investigations?"

"That's us," said Wesley, with a slight but definite emphasis on the second word. He smiled. "What can we do for you, Miss…?"

"Trixie," supplied Gunn.

Cordelia looked at him, frowning. "Have you two met?"

Instead of replying, he nodded in the girl's direction. Cordelia looked her up and down again, and this time saw the word etched in blue ink in a graceful arc just above her navel. "Nice tattoo."

The girl made a small whimpering sound, and her hands flew to cover her exposed abdomen. "Oh God. I wanted to wear something else, but she doesn't have any real clothes. It's all straps and thongs…"

Sincerely, Gunn said, "Please don't apologise."

Oh God, thought Cordelia. Just how pathetic were guys? One pretty girl walked in off the street and suddenly the male contingent was rolling over and begging to have its ears scratched. But Trixie didn't look pleased, or coy, or flirtatious, or any of the reactions Cordelia might have expected. She seemed angry and upset.

"You're no different. I walked here and the whole time I could feel everyone looking at me. All the women jealous and all the men hungry and—it's horrible. I thought it would be heaven and it's not. It's awful." On the last word, her voice cracked and she started to cry.

Wesley hobbled forward, and patted her arm. "There, there, Miss… ah, Trixie."

"I'm not called Trixie," snapped the girl. More quietly, she finished, "It's Judith."

Dull, thought Cordelia, but in the 'take me seriously' stakes, a definite step in the right direction.

"Judith Forbes-Carson."

"Whoah," said Cordelia, "Time out. You're not old woman Four-Cars. I've met her. Wesley, so have you."

He nodded. "A… friend of mine introduced us at the country club she belongs to. She's a good deal older than you and, if I may so, not nearly so attractive. Trixie, I appreciate that you're feeling a little nervous, but if we're going to help you, you're going to have to be honest with us. About everything."

"I am being honest. You're the first people I've been honest with in weeks." Tears started to well up in her eyes again, and she made a visible effort not to break down. "I remember meeting you too: that's why I came here. You were with Virginia. You spilt red wine on my cream stole."

"How would you—?" began Wesley. Then he turned around, slowly, and met Cordelia's gaze. The improbable but unavoidable truth began to dawn.

"When I said 'Four Cars'," she said, "I want you to know that was in no way intended in a derogatory sense, Mrs Forbes-Carson."

Wesley faced the girl again. "Why don't you tell us just what happened."

"Any sign of them yet?"

Cordelia rolled down the window of Gunn's truck and peered into the night outside. Every street lamp was out within a hundred yards in both directions, and she could see only the vaguest outlines of the neighbourhood's empty stores and buildings. "No. Was she sure this was the place they took her?"

"It was about the only thing she was certain of," said Wesley.

Cordelia wrinkled her brow. "So, let's review the facts. Mrs F-C says she was out walking when a couple of weird demon-types bundled her into the back of a car. Next thing, she wakes up in an empty warehouse—this empty warehouse—perfectly fine apart from not being herself any more. What doesn't make sense about that story? Apart from, oh, everything?"

"It does appear that a motive is somewhat lacking," conceded Wesley. Then he cheered. "Still, that is very much the point of private investigation, isn't it? To investigate."

"There are people in there."

Cordelia jumped, almost knocking the top of her head on the cab's roof. Angel had appeared soundlessly beside her at the truck's open window. "Could you please not freak me like that?"

"What sort of people?" asked Wesley.

"Weird types in red cloaks," elaborated Gunn as he also rejoined them. "I counted about a dozen. Definitely people, though: no demons."

"They could be vampires," pointed out Wesley.

"No," said Angel. "I only smelled humans."

"And again, less with the freakiness, please."

Ignoring Cordelia, he went on, "There are a couple of entrances, and none of them are guarded or locked. They're either pretty naïve or not expecting company. We could get in without too much difficulty."

"So what's the plan?" asked Gunn, looking at Wesley.

"Reconnaissance only, tonight. Let's wait until we know exactly what's going on before we do anything rash."

"Man," said Gunn, sounding disappointed. "And I was really lookin' forward to staking something."

"Stick around, you might still get the opportunity," Cordelia told him, with a telling look in Angel's direction.

This time, he looked back at her, and Cordelia felt a kind of cold satisfaction at having finally elicited a reaction from him. "I'll take the west side," Angel said shortly, and walked off.

"I'll go east," said Gunn.

Within a few seconds, both Angel and Gunn were out of sight, and before much longer even the faint echoes of two sets of footsteps were no longer audible. When they were entirely alone, Wesley said quietly, "I couldn't help but notice that you're very… tense around Angel."

Cordelia blinked and glanced down at her hands, which were resting on her knees. She was surprised to see her fingers locked together so tightly that her knuckles were knobbly islands of pure white in a sea of red. Tense? She thought. Who's tense? Not me, no sirree.

When she didn't reply, he went on, "Cordelia, this isn't going to work unless we all try to make it work."

She unlaced her fingers, one at a time. Finally, and with difficulty, she said, "I'm not sure I want it to."

She didn't know exactly how she expected him to respond to that, although her best guess would have been some kind of stiff-upper-lip British pep talk, something about putting aside personal considerations for the good of everyone, probably with some kind of Winston Churchill reference thrown in towards the end for good measure.

Softly, Wesley said, "No. I'm not convinced this is for the best either." Cordelia looked at him, surprised, and he went on: "But I do think we must at least try. And this… constant sniping is not helping."

"It's not constant," she said defensively. "I've been taking five minute breaks every couple of hours."

"Cordelia…"

"Yeah, yeah. I know." She looked down, and saw that her fingers had already started to knot together again. "So Angel's ready to come back to us. Well, that's just peachy for him. But I'm not sure I'm ready to take him back."

Wesley opened his mouth to reply, but a noise on the street stopped him. Cordelia watched as a red sports car pull up on the other side of the road and the driver got out. "I think another one of them just arrived."

"You're sure he's involved?"

"Well, the cloak is a bit of a giveaway."

"Ahh. It is, isn't it?"

Cordelia made to open the door of the truck. "Wait here. I'm gonna do a little reconnaissance of my own."

"I'll come with you," said Wesley. He raised a hand to the door handle and almost immediately winced in pain. "Then again, I may just stay here and contemplate the many and varied forms of agony the human body is capable of experiencing."

"I'm only going across the street," she told him. "I'll be back in five."

"Nevertheless, be careful."

Cordelia treated him to her brightest smile. "Aren't I always?"

The Mercedes drove like a dream. Doug had known it would. Those Swedes knew how to make cars.

A couple of people at his day job had noticed the new car, and wondered aloud how a basic grade two telesales operative could afford it, but Doug was certain his 'unexpected legacy' story had been accepted. In one sense, it was the truth. If Uncle Ernie, the black sheep of the Kluggerman family, hadn't died unexpectedly, bequeathing to Doug the sum total of his worldly possessions in a cardboard box, none of this good fortune would have been possible. For the thousandth time since the dull Sunday afternoon when he had finally gotten around to sorting his uncle's belongings and had found the rolled parchment crushed between the June 1978 and August 1982 editions of Playboy, Doug thanked whatever benevolent spirit had seen fit to bless him with such good fortune.

And by the time tonight was over he'd be another twenty thousand dollars richer.

He locked the car door and turned to go into the warehouse, nearly colliding with the girl coming the other way as he did so. "Sorry," he said automatically.

"My bad," she said. "I was just walking along here and—that's a really impressive cloak you've got there."

Doug held his shoulders a little straighter. He'd made the cloak himself; he wasn't much with a sewing machine, but he thought the gold tassels along the hem had worked particularly well. "You think so?"

"Oh yeah. I saw that cloak, I thought, there's a guy who knows all about—cloaks."

The girl smiled at him, and what a smile. Her whole face seemed briefly to rearrange itself to accommodate the stellar wattage of that smile.

There was little light in the street, but even in the dimness he could tell that she was young and exceptionally attractive.

She was perfect.

"I'm Doug," he said, holding out his hand.

She took it. "Cordelia."

"Cordelia," said Doug, "how would you like to earn yourself a lot of money?"

"So, let me get this straight," said Cordelia. "If I agree, I get ten thousand dollars in cash."

Doug nodded. "In your hand. Used bills."

"And all I have to do in return is… sell you my body?"

"Well, it's more of a loan, really. And it's not to me: I'm just the middle-man. All I do is match donors with donees. I'm a professional service provider."

"Okaaay," said Cordelia, very slowly. "So, who exactly would be… hiring me?"

Doug shrugged. "Well, it depends. I keep a kind of register of interested folks. And then when someone comes along, like yourself, who I think might be suitable for someone in particular, I make them known to each other. Introduce them. Help things along." He smiled the warm, fake smile of a professional salesman. "I know that right now this sounds like the weirdest thing you've ever heard…"

Don't bet on it, thought Cordelia.

"…but really, it's no different to donating a pint of blood or a kidney."

"Except that it's all my blood, both kidneys, every other major organ and the fun skin-type wrapping on the package too."

Doug said, "I can see you're not comfortable with this concept." He put his hand on her shoulder and began to propel her towards the door.

Cordelia made a fast decision. She let him walk her another three or four steps, then deliberately slowed. With just the right amount of interest in her voice, she said: "Ten thousand dollars?"

He stopped and leaned towards her. In a low voice, he said: "Just between to two of us, someone as attractive as you could certainly get a lot more."

"Supposing—just hypothetically supposing," said Cordelia, "that I was interested, what would happen to me? I mean, how do I end up on the other side of this deal? A rich disembodied voice?"

Doug was shaking his head emphatically. "This is the beauty of the arrangement. My clients are people of means. They've worked hard to get where they are and maybe, on the way, they've missed out on a few of the fun things in life. So while they get to re-experience their youth, you get the kind of lifestyle it takes forty years to build."

"And the kind of body it takes forty years to get too?"

"All my clients are in excellent—well, reasonable—health," said Doug. "I promise you won't wake up with terminal melanoma."

"Good to know," said Cordelia. "You know, I heard this wild rumour—it sounds stupid even to say it…"

Doug smiled conspiratorially. "Go on."

"Judith Forbes-Carson?" asked Cordelia.

He nodded proudly. "That was one of my most successful exchanges."

If Doug considered Mrs Forbes-Carson aka Trixie a success story, Cordelia wondered how he defined failure. "Look, I don't wanna rush into anything here…"

"Perfectly understandable."

"Maybe if you told me a little more about how this thing actually works?"

Quietly, Doug said, "It's magic."

Cordelia allowed her eyes to widen. "Real magic?" she said, with just the right amount of breathless wonder. And, oh boy, those acting classes had been worth every last cent, because Doug was eating it up.

He nodded with almost infantile enthusiasm. "It's really very straightforward. We're doing one tonight. Would you like to sit in?"

"Well, if it's safe…"

"Come with me." Doug turned Cordelia around and led her through several storerooms and into the main warehouse, where a dozen men and women were robing and making small talk. Cordelia followed her host through the group to a chorus of 'Hi Doug's to the far wall, where a rotund businessman in late middle age and bronzed surfer-dude type were standing next to each other in awkward silence. They looked, thought Cordelia, like the last guests at a party where all the interesting people had already paired off.

"Mr Fernbaum. Brad," Doug greeted them warmly. "I'm just thrilled you've decided to take this step." To Cordelia, he said, "I've a got few things to take care of, but if you stand here you'll get a great view."

She smiled. "Thanks, Doug."

He smiled back at her then left, ushering his clients to where the acolytes were arranging themselves into a circle. Once he had positioned the two men in the centre of the ring, Doug stepped into the twelve o'clock position.

The gathering fell silent.

Doug raised his arms dramatically. Show off, thought Cordelia. Then, letting them drop, he reached into his robes and pulled out a frayed and yellowing scroll. He unfurled it ceremoniously and began to read. "Spirits of other places, we call on thee. Be present in this circle now…"

In the rafters of the warehouse, a shadow moved. Cordelia looked around the circle, but no one else appeared to have noticed.

She raised her hand. "Uhh, excuse me?"

Fifteen faces turned and looked at her.

"Hi. Sorry to interrupt. Would you mind answering a question?"

"It'd be a pleasure," said Doug, sounding as if it would be anything but.

"I was just wondering, what if this whole exchange thing doesn't work out?"

"It always works out."

"Well, yeah. But say it didn't. I mean, could you swap them back again?" She pointed at the two men in the middle of the circle.

"Well, of course," Doug told her. "It's just a matter of re-performing the magic."

"Have you ever done that?"

"I've never needed to. Everybody's always satisfied with the exchange."

"Always?"

"Always," said Doug firmly. "Now, do you think we could move on here?"

"Oh, yeah, sorry. Please, go right ahead. Don't mind me." Cordelia gave Doug a big, fake smile, but didn't move too far from the circle. She watched as the ritual began to build to a climax, not once taking her eyes off the paper in Doug's hands.

Maybe, she thought, she could dash in there and grab it. No points for subtlety, but if she could just get outside, back to Wesley and the truck…

"Let these spirits leap unfettered by this mortal flesh," read Doug. The acolytes echoed the chant. Mr Fernbaum and Brad held hands nervously in the middle of the circle.

No one was paying any attention to Cordelia.

She'd have to be ready to move fast, she thought, tensing. There would only be one chance to get this right.

She took a single step forward, and prepared to run.

And suddenly found herself flat on the floor.

Cordelia pushed herself up on to her hands and raised her head. The acolytes were scattering; she looked around for Doug, but all she saw were a dozen red-robed figures vanishing through various exits. After a second, she realised why.

Angel.

"Oh, God," said Cordelia, rolling her eyes.

He was in full scary-as-shit vamp mode, taking on the only two acolytes who had been foolish enough to engage in a fight. It was a matter of seconds before they were running as well. Angel pulled Cordelia roughly to her feet. "Come on."

"Wait," she said. "This is so not a good time—"

Angel wasn't listening. As he dragged Cordelia out of the warehouse, she looked back in time to catch a final glimpse of red satin vanishing into the storerooms, while Mr Fernbaum and Brad the surfer dude stood in the huge empty space, holding hands and looking faintly ridiculous.

"Well, I find this very unprofessional," said Mr Fernbaum. "I'll be demanding a full refund."

Cordelia didn't say anything until they got back to the office. Not one word.

She fumed silently in the back of the car, didn't open her mouth once. She felt like a firecracker. She should have a warning sticker, she thought. One that read, light fuse and retire to a safe distance.

Then, as soon as they were inside, she exploded.

"What the hell were you trying to do back there?" she demanded, taking off her jacket and firing it angrily over the back of the chair in the corner.

"I was … rescuing you?" said Angel. The sentence began as a statement, mutating into a question as the look Cordelia was directing at him finally began to register.

"And did it occur to you at all that I might not need rescuing?"

He looked at her in frank disbelief. "Well, seeing as you were entirely surrounded by people performing extremely dangerous magic—no."

"Cordelia," said Wesley, his tone pacifying: "I have to say I was concerned for your safety too, when you allowed that man to persuade you to accompany him inside."

"He didn't persuade me," said Cordelia. "I was playing him, Wesley. He looked at me and his eyes rolled like a one armed bandit and came up 'bimbo'. I just went along with it to see what he'd tell me. Which was pretty much everything." She pulled up her sleeve and began to dab at the graze she had sustained when Angel had knocked her to the ground. "Here's what I found out tonight. One, Mrs F-C is totally lying about being kidnapped: she paid that guy I met to swap her with Trixie, and now she's got a bad case of twenty-twenty hindsight. Two, my new best friend Doug is running a business which will be profitable as long as there are vain and stupid people in the world, so buy stock now. And three—" She glared at Angel: "Three, I was about to grab the spell right off him when Jean-Claude Van Damned here decided to butt in."

Gunn looked up from the magazine he had been flipping through, obviously impressed. "Whoah. Nice moves." He glanced at Angel: "Right up to the part where someone else went and messed it up on you."

"I'm sorry," said Angel. He sounded confused. "It was… an error of judgement."

"No shit," snapped Cordelia.

Wesley gave her disapproving look and said, "Well, it does appear that this evening was somewhat less successful than it might have been, but let's try to look on the bright side. No one was hurt."

"This time," said Cordelia pointedly. She folded her arms resolutely across her chest and turned around so she was facing Angel. "We let you come back on condition you stuck to our rules."

"I am."

"No, you're not," she told him. "You're acting like you know best and whatever you do, we'll just fall into step behind you. Well, that's not how it is any more. We've got our own way of doing things and you have to start fitting in around us."

Coldly, Angel said, "Perhaps if you'd told anybody what you were going to do before you did it, I might have had the chance to fit in. I thought you needed help."

The contrite quality had disappeared from his tone, replaced by something harder and more unpleasant. Some small part of Cordelia knew she was trying to provoke him and that she was succeeding, and was glad. This was the Angel she'd grown used to in recent months, the one it had become increasingly easy to be angry at. The one she could feel good about hating.

"Guess what, Angel? I don't want you to help me."

Wesley raised one hand. "It's been a disappointing evening. Let's not say things we'll regret later."

He was trying, realised Cordelia. Wesley was really trying. He was finding this whole set up as strange and confusing as she was but, because he was Wesley, he was being mature and sensible and trying to make it hold together. Something in her was sad that she was going to let him down by her failure do the same. But right now Cordelia was furious, and she couldn't stop the words tumbling bitterly out of her mouth.

"Gee, Wesley, what could I possibly say that I might regret later? What would be really hurtful and threatening and downright creepy? Oh, I know," she exclaimed, as if suddenly struck by a profound insight. She walked slowly across the office until she was toe-to-toe with Angel. She tipped her head back so she could look him in the eye and said quietly, "Don't make me move you."

Angel looked at her, his expression cold and unreadable. "If you want me to go, say so."

Cordelia decided she'd had enough.

"Yes, I want you to go. I want you to go away because every time my life finally starts to hit a groove, you're the one who knocks it off track again. You can't seem to decide who you are and I'm sick and tired of having to guess if you're gonna be good or evil today. I wish you'd never had your damn epiphany. I wish you'd never come back!"

The air crackled with something that felt like electricity, but wasn't.

Cordelia blinked as the room jumped around her, like an old and jerky piece of film. When her vision came back into focus, she was momentarily disoriented. The office was different. Wesley was in front of her, where he had been behind her seconds before. The chair Gunn sat in was to her left instead of her right. And facing her—

She was looking down at her own face, and the expression of surprise and shock on it was not hers.

She saw herself stagger several paces backwards, and reach out for the support of the desk.

"Cordelia?" said Wesley, a note of alarm in his voice. He reached for his cane, but Gunn was on his feet faster. Cordelia saw him cross the room and take her—or more accurately, take her body—by the arm.

She blinked, confused. He was holding her arm. Why couldn't she feel it?

"Cordy?" asked Gunn, with concern.

She saw her mouth open, heard her own voice say, "I'm not Cordelia."

Cordelia said, "I think I'm having an out of body experience." Then she gasped and put her hand to her mouth because when she spoke she sounded just like—

"Angel?" said Wesley.

Cordelia shook her head. With ghastly but irresistible fascination, she watched a mixture of emotions flit in rapid procession across her own face: confusion followed by anxiety followed by realisation and finally horror. She saw her own eyes dart about the room, searching for something, and when at last their gaze settled on herself, Cordelia recognised what she saw in them. And with a sinking, sick feeling she knew what the only explanation for her altered point of view was.

"Guys, it's me. Cordelia. And I'm—I'm in Angel."

Gunn looked down at Angel in Cordelia's body, then across the room at Cordelia in Angel's.

"Houston," he said: "We have a problem."