Bargaining Tools

Disclaimer: I just own the fanfiction. The characters all belong to Spelling and Co. This is set shortly after The Seven Year Witch episode. Cole is given another shot at life, and he must try and deal with the implications of that. Please know that aside from The Seven Year Witch, I haven't watched this show since Centennial Charmed (i.e. Cole's demise). Keeping this in mind, I did some research pertaining to Phoebe's development as a character, and I trust I have written her to the best of my knowledge. The "texture" I used to create the art is from this site.

A cosmic void. Life and death. Love...

And the truth? Well, if there was a truth, it was that he constantly chose to blame himself for any kind of misfortune that had come his way, embedding itself seamlessly into his existence, forcing its wandering, curious fingers into every shred of happiness that contained the potential and originality to become possible.

The end was always the same. A classic storybook cliché that had such a promising beginning but lost its uncanny predictability to an abrupt and tragic end.

His dismal blue eyes searched the vivid pool of blackness that encompassed him, the wind gently tousling his dark hair, his beautifully sculpted visage unshaven and plagued with loneliness he could no longer hide from, despite his vast array of manipulation. His hands were comfortably seated inside the long black coat he wore on his tall, lean frame, quietly fighting off the soft chill that crept into his bones.

He leaned further over the edge of the large bridge, the water calm and content below him.

San Francisco surrounded him from all sides, clothed in bright, inviting lights, vacant laughter, and an all too dangerous allure, often driving those who frequented it to blind temptation.

"I'm cursed to live in eternity without love for what I've done, and I accept that. But I don't want Phoebe to be cursed, too. She needs love." He sighed, carefully unbuttoning the top button of the white cotton dress shirt he wore, a white t-shirt revealing itself underneath.

He assured himself time and again that he had come to terms with his fate, accepted it as it was, and wanted to be done with it.

Fate was a funny thing, though. So funny, that he hadn't anticipated it giving him a second chance for what he could only assume was good behavior.

He hadn't wanted her to give up on love, and in that respect he'd succeeded. But alas, all things considered, there was still a price to pay. He hadn't forgotten, and he didn't resist. He knew his renewed sense of purpose doomed him to begin a vagrancy that didn't deserve or include her affections. He could watch her if he wanted, but he couldn't touch. It was just that simple.

And so it ultimately came back to death. He'd contemplated the prospect for hours, searching the most profound crevices of his mind for an answer, struggling to come to grip with a destiny that would likely suit him much better than the one they'd bestowed upon him. Rules were rules, but it didn't mean he couldn't embrace them without room for revision. He wasn't invincible anymore.

"No sooner met but they looked; no sooner looked but they loved; no sooner loved but they sighed..." His voice was very nearly a whisper, his words fading instantly into the confines of the faint breeze, vanishing just as quickly as they'd come to him.

He continually reminded himself that he was without love before he'd met her. More importantly, he'd been without a conscience. And yet- he'd miraculously managed to survive, relying solely on his more primal instincts to move him along, claiming unsuspecting innocents in his wake. It had all been part of some master plan that had vastly relinquished itself and died as soon as her lips had touched his. The memory alone was enough to stagger him beyond all belief. But it was a memory that would remain solidified in the past, as he was almost certain it would not be wise to take it with him into whatever future he was to make for himself.

He watched a few cars pass by, their headlights a beacon of hope in the bleak air, beckoning them to their destinations. He smiled almost painfully, his hands finally settling upon the worn railing, his body slowly leaning into it, as he fondly crossed his feet at his ankles. It was late. Those who weren't out driving, were safely tucked away in the privacy of their own homes, relishing the peacefulness the night brought them, longing to cuddle up on a sofa or a nice warm bed, their worries dwindling down to a mere nothingness, and their thoughts entirely free. He could never afford that luxury- not now, not ever. He envied those who possessed it, and rightfully so.

"You have to believe me, Phoebe. I forgot what it was like to be human, to feel, to care. Then I met you."

He shut his lids, oblivious to the single tear that rolled down his cheek.

"...let me prove it to you. Vanquish me."

If it was anything he could take credit for, it was that he had tried to prove himself to her in countless situations, thus allowing her to see the man who had previously found shelter behind a vicious demonic half, hiding from what he was capable of becoming. Not long after that, he'd seen his world fall apart as he knew it, struggling with and acquiring a void that filled itself with the Source's essence. It had relentlessly caused him to act out and harm that which he had just made right, longing to spend the remainder of his life with her, tucked away safely in her arms.

On the other hand, he refused to recall the alternate plane where her other self had resumed control of his desperate scheme to win her back, making sure he never went near her or her sisters again.

And yet he felt so utterly compelled to help her find the endurance she needed to persevere- to feel the emotions she'd remained so highly guarded against, deathly afraid of falling and losing herself in the moment again. Maybe it was because he, too, had been there once. Of course, his actions alone were aptly judged for limbo, and he had expected to find an eternity for his condemnation, no questions asked.

He was so immersed with the memories, the little he had left, that he barely noticed the silhouette that approached hesitantly in the distance, the small footsteps reserved, though hardly without purpose.

It occurred to him that he could now be spotted just as easily as the next person, and some overly concerned individual must have conveniently called the police on their cell, worriedly alerting them to the strange and all too capricious man positioned so very close to stumbling off the Golden Gate bridge. He almost chuckled in spite of the circumstances, as he mostly certainly didn't desire the company, much less command it in terms of his conduct.

But when the figure came into full view, her features illuminating the obscurity, it both frightened and amazed him, and he was almost sure he'd lapsed into a surprisingly vivid dream, unable to wake up and discover any kind of a way out. He wasn't entirely sure he wanted to. She wasn't real, she couldn't be. His mind had begun playing tricks on him, in all his glorified self-pity, causing him to see a reflection that was literally impossible. It was like a mirage on the verge of disappearing.

In that instant, he realized the catch. The one small detail he hadn't stopped to factor into the equation. Yes, fate was funny, and it always seemed to come with a price tag attached. He would meet it in a much different way.

He took a single, cautious step back, his heart beating just a little louder in his chest, his body immediately bracing itself for the impact he was positive would come.

"Well, this is new, isn't it?" he debated. "I guess they must be running out of ways to kill me."

"I really wouldn't know," she told him, her tone slow and oddly seductive, but the voice itself was clearly unmistakable. "They just tell me how and where they want me. I'm supposed to escort the guest of honor to his welcome home party." Smiling, she took another step toward him, pointing a slim index finger in his direction. "Surprise, sweetheart, that's you."

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "A messenger."

She giggled, performing a quick twirl, her slender body extending itself in a low curtsy, as she happily clapped her hands together. "Given the circumstances, maybe you wouldn't mind if I was more."

He only raised a dark brow. "Not likely."

"Not likely or not interested?" she taunted.

"Both."

"Oh, c'mon, it's no fun if you don't wanna play. I did just what they told me to and you don't wanna play."

He merely shrugged. "Show yourself, and maybe I'll reconsider it."

She gave him a small pout for her troubles, but the warm brown eyes began to slowly shift to a vibrant sea colored green and the soft, long brown hair carefully altered its simple hue to a bright, flaming red, flowing behind her shoulders with quiet little curls. Her petite frame melted into a short, revealing red dress, complete with a matching set of sharp, red heels. "Better?"

"Shapeshifter," he mused, nodding. "Clever."

"Glad you appro-"

"But you're not her," he abruptly cut her off. "You'll never be her."

She almost laughed at that, very nearly tossing his harsh clarification aside. The alarmingly fierce glare he threw her suggested otherwise, and she only crossed her arms over her chest, professing a deep sigh. "You don't really think the little witch would go to the trouble to seek you out now, do you?"

"Leave," he simply whispered, easily drawing up a hand as if to brush her away, averting his attention, his lips set in a firm, unflagging line. "I don't have time for this."

"They want to make you a deal," she said sharply, ending the pleasantries almost as soon as she'd begun them, her fingers clasping themselves behind her back. "A nice one."

"You're really not my type."

"I just assumed you were having a bad night," she murmured.

"Oh, it's about to get much worse. Leave," he said again.

"Well, aren't you the tortured little pile of Heathcliff, mourning for his Catherine. I know how that one ended, and it wasn't pretty." She paused, studying him a moment. "But it's not me, silly. It's something much, much bigger. Trust me, you'll want to hear it."

"And if I don't?"

"Shame on you," she scolded, wagging a finger at him, as she continued to tease, her heels clicking loudly on the pavement while she advanced even closer to him, ridiculously grinning from ear to ear. "The truth of it is, they need you."

"Demons lie."

"They give power," she emphasized. "They could give it to you."

"I don't want it. Not anymore."

"I find that hard to believe," she tried, brushing her fingers rather briefly along the arm of his black coat, her profile glowing with a steady amount of hopefulness. "You were cast aside like a wounded puppy, and nothing you said or did was ever going to get you back into their good graces again. Your return means nothing to them now. They will hunt you down and try to kill you."

"So be it."

"You're mortal, honey, which makes you more susceptible to harm. Would you risk that, knowing what you had, what you were, if only to let them win?"

He smiled softly in the bitter dark. "I've risked even more for a lot less. You're telling me nothing I haven't heard before."

"Something big is coming. Forces are aligning that could have your naughty little deeds as Belthazor pale in comparison to the war they'll wage."

"Yes, it's called All Hallows Eve. When the veil between worlds grows thin," he recited faintly and rather tiredly from memory, quoting what a grimlock or two had confided in him once upon a time, dimly recalling just how terribly he'd failed on that very day a fair number of years back. Perhaps he'd meant to all along.

"Otherwise known as Halloween," she murmured. "You were no angel then, and you're certainly not one now." She simply pursed her lips. "It would be smart to pick a side, Cole. The right side."

"I've repented for the wickedness of my ways. Your offer won't be the first, and it won't be the last. Now go."

"You're making a mistake."

"I'm making a life for myself," he briskly corrected.

"A life you'll spend all secluded and brooding," she reminded him. "Tsk, tsk."

"It's strange, isn't it?" he carefully mused. "You don't go around asking for trouble, yet it still manages to admirably find you at every turn. If they still think I'm that easily tempted, they really don't know me at all."

"Hey, if it wasn't me, they'd be sending somebody else. Maybe they still will."

"It's long past," he muttered, waving her away again.

"Suit yourself," she finished. "All things considered, I'd still advise you to go home and envision the possibilities. There might be danger lurking in every corner, but you'll feel better once you know you've caused it."

"My hat's off to you," he whispered. "It's just too bad I've got nothing up my sleeve to show for it."

"You might be surprised at what you find."

"I doubt that. But you can send my regards just the same." He was already walking away, his long coat quietly shuffling behind him in the cool breeze, his hands once again finding the comfort of the pockets embedded within it, preparing to shield himself from desires that bled much deeper than the constant evil that had so often plagued his heart.

The old, worn sign creaked and swayed eerily from the agile wind, as the rain shattered heavily upon the darkened pavement of the deserted street, lending itself to shallow puddles of grief and tearful longing. It was unmarked in words but not in appearance, as specks of rust withered away the tattered edges with time forever banished. The light blue paint that had probably been as vibrant and clear as the sky during a hot, cheerful summer's day, had shrouded itself in a decaying mist, void of possessing any of the previous qualities that originally allowed it to shine.

Phoebe Halliwell calmly edged her car to the side of the road, watching the wiper blades cut rapidly through the vicious cloud of despair that lay ahead of her. Squinting her eyes, she reached over to roll down the window, desperately trying to get a solid lead on her surroundings. She heaved out a breath, her hands mindlessly drumming themselves upon the cold steering wheel. It occurred to her that she was either entirely lost or the victim of some spell gone dreadfully haywire.

The clattery sign was serenely plastered directly in front of what seemed at first glance to be a house that was both abandoned and in the same devastating shape as its nameless and mysterious accomplice. It was a dull gray hue with countless weeds sprouting up out of the ground below it, the screen door barely hanging on for dear life, as it threatened to tumble right off its hinges. One of the windows was cracked on the lower right side, likely the result of some wild and crazy teenagers who'd viewed it as some strange sort of initiation ritual that rose their status to undeniable bravery. The roof was missing a couple of shingles, the red brick chimney tall and menacing- albeit slightly askance, and boldly stretching itself as far as it would go. She contemplated the odds, half wondering if she should try and find shelter in it until the storm blew over, or risk running into some one-eyed madman who occupied the rundown establishment and wanted to invite her in as his unwilling victim in a deadly came of hide and seek. If her premonitions were any indication, nothing dangerous had currently surfaced to ward her off, and for everything it was worth, she thought that was a good thing.

Swallowing hard, she reached for the latch to her glove compartment, gently pulling it back, and cautiously freeing its contents. An unopened pack of gum and a stack of papers nearly tumbled out to greet her, before she once again chose to slam it shut. It didn't exactly help matters any that she had absolutely nothing to defend herself with, save for her sly wit. It was honestly kind of pathetic, she concluded miserably. As odd as the situation was already becoming, she hadn't even recalled taking a single wrong turn on her way home. Her long, brown hair was loosely tossed in a bun atop her head, and a few strands of it had fallen clumsily on either side of her face, pleasantly choosing to frame it. But her brown eyes carried a prolonged interest in gaining shelter from the difficult weather, and she once again stole a quick glance across the street.

"Here goes nothing," she muttered, tightly gathering and holding the hood of her thin coat to her head, as she blindly raced across the wet blacktop in the dim shades of night, her black heels repeatedly pounding the earth. She shook slightly from the damp chill that had claimed residence within her, her head whipping from side to side to make sure no one was in sight.

It was still entirely deserted, and she thanked everything for it. She couldn't fathom having to explain this to her sisters, despite the weirdness they'd dealt with as the infamous Charmed Ones. It would be the one little secret she intended to keep. But at the moment she was getting awfully desperate, and this was a one way ticket out of the doom and gloom that had conveniently spread its glossy blanket over the sights and sounds of the city.

She didn't bother calling out when one of her hands nervously tugged at the battered screen door she'd viewed from her car, noting that it was surprisingly worse than she'd initially surmised. A much thicker, wooden one separated her from peace, quiet, and a comfortable dryness that wouldn't be coating her little niche of the world anytime soon. The knob turned easily and in silence, and had her clumsily tumbling into a giant pool of obscurity, as the musty air cornered her on all sides, extending a bleak proposition.

She let her eyes adjust, and felt her heart catch in her throat as she focused in on the tall, slender figure seated in one of the tattered armchairs. She was drenched from head to foot, her shoes leaving fairly large puddles stranded near the doorway, as she bravely took one, short step forward. "Uh, sir? Sir, I'm sorry, I...I didn't think anyone actually- I thought your house was empty. It's raining pretty hard out there, and I, well, I think I'm probably already too far from where I'm supposed to be going. If I could just use your phone, I'll try and be on my way as soon as possible." She drew her arms closer to her chest, taking another step into the shaded living room. "Sir?" she called out again.

He slowly got up, his frame hesitantly walking toward her, folding itself into the sliver of light shed from windows that remained bare and unadorned by the presence of curtains. He studied her another good, long moment, searching for truth and acceptance, but found little to nothing in his brief quest, her face bestowing an unexpressive demeanor that left him fumbling with complete and utter puzzlement on his part. It wasn't something he'd gotten used to, as his time away had clearly done more harm than good in perfecting that art.

He tilted his head to the side, admiring the way the water began dripping off her shoulders and her hair, falling into the puddle that had been rapidly accumulating from the black pumps she wore upon her feet. Knowing her, the shoes were some incredibly expensive designer brand that she assumed would highlight her already glowing allure and make her a walking fashion plate. But she'd always been that beacon to him, gleaming just a tad bit brighter than the rest. She probably hadn't expected the rain to catch them so smoothly.

Then again, neither one of them had obviously expected this, either.

If he had, he would have gladly prayed to every higher power he knew for an energy ball to destroy his second chance well in advance. The encounter was just enough to have him beg for the ingredients to conjure one upon her mysterious arrival.

But she wasn't running, and he wasn't cowering in some corner with some intensely drawn fear that she'd reap him of the benefits of his new life, few as they were in the most present piece of here and now. It seemed to be just the opposite.

"I once thought distance made the heart grow fonder," he tried, keeping his tone low, and yet strangely observant, his lips almost twitching themselves into a full, gorgeous smile, "but the course of true love never did run smooth."

"Shakespeare," she whispered, staying where she was, her cheeks turning just the smallest shade of crimson.

"Hi," he managed then, inclining his head toward her in a gesture of greeting.

"Hi," she simply returned, her dark eyes never leaving his countenance. She found a vacant wooden chair and sat herself down, suddenly choosing to ignore the fact that she was in desperate need of a change of clothes. The dampness had mindfully masked itself in pure bewilderment.

Beyond the confines of the dilapidated shack, the rain had abruptly stopped production, and the sun beautifully emerged in the early hours of morning, peeking confidently through the clouds that eagerly lifted themselves to welcome the dawn of a new day.

For some, there was also a quiescent ember that had taken root in the promise of a new beginning.

The End