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thecarlysutraA few things: First, I've started a bunch of these, and I'm trying hard to get the holiday ones done first while people still care about winter/Christmas-y things, but . . . this one wanted to be finished. Secondly, this did not turn out at all the way I imagined it; it became this whole weird other thing. Third, when I imagined it originally, it was nasty, but I seem to be having great difficulty writing sex scenes lately, so it ended up PG-13. Hope you like it anyway.
TITLE: Sugar Spun
AUTHOR: Lamia Archer
RATING: PG-13
FANDOM: BtVS/AtS
PAIRING: Buffy/Cordelia, with mentions of Buffy/Angel and Cordelia/Angel
WORD COUNT: 4,356
SUMMARY: Time, love, and grief do a lot of fucked up things to people.
SPOILERS: Post-“NFA,” assuming Cordelia came back in “You’re Welcome” and didn’t ever leave.
PROMPT: AU future, spun sugar
DEDICATION: For
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marenficWhat are little girls made of?
Sugar and spice,
And everything nice;
That’s what little girls are made of.
- Nursery Rhyme
You spin me right round, baby
Right round like a record, baby
Right round round round
I want your love.
- Dead or Alive, “You Spin Me Round”
It was cruel, but not beyond the PTB’s sense of humor, that Angel survived the battle Wolfram and Hart sent for him, earned his shanshu after signing it away, and then died less than six months later in a routine scuffle with a group of vamps not even old enough to understand that this kill was worth celebrating. Cordelia buried him alone, sorrow and anger for once making a silent woman of her. She laid a slender bouquet of white acacias over the dark, sanctified earth, and then snapped a Polaroid of the grave. Then she turned smartly on her witchcraft black Jimmy Choos, the thought of looking back never even crossing her mind; she had an errand to run, and no time to let sentimentality get in the way.
Sugar and spice,
And everything nice;
That’s what little girls are made of.
- Nursery Rhyme
You spin me right round, baby
Right round like a record, baby
Right round round round
I want your love.
- Dead or Alive, “You Spin Me Round”
It was cruel, but not beyond the PTB’s sense of humor, that Angel survived the battle Wolfram and Hart sent for him, earned his shanshu after signing it away, and then died less than six months later in a routine scuffle with a group of vamps not even old enough to understand that this kill was worth celebrating. Cordelia buried him alone, sorrow and anger for once making a silent woman of her. She laid a slender bouquet of white acacias over the dark, sanctified earth, and then snapped a Polaroid of the grave. Then she turned smartly on her witchcraft black Jimmy Choos, the thought of looking back never even crossing her mind; she had an errand to run, and no time to let sentimentality get in the way.
***
Buffy swore that if you closed your eyes when you drank a Rossini, you could see your heartbeat swelling red in your head. Mmm, red in your head . . . that rhymed. Hee. The Italians knew how to mix a drink; so sticky sweet, and tiny silver bubbles tickling her nose and making her heart beat in her head, making the pound of the club’s bass throb at her pressure points. She was an instrument, a vessel . . . she may have been a little drunk. It didn’t matter. She was off duty, and the music was good, and this drink was very good, and . . . well, everything was good.
***
Buffy wasn’t difficult to spot in any room. Her golden effervescence sucked the light in, even the scarce light available in this dark cave of a second-rate discothèque. Cordelia had no problem finding her. She watched the Slayer dance, slinking her way through the crush of bodies on the dimly illuminated dance floor. She was obviously drunk, but her movements managed to be languorous rather than clumsy.
Rage burned at Cordelia, enough to tunnel her vision. Around her, the driving beat of the club’s stereo faded to nothing. Men – and a few women – gawked openly at her, and a few even tried to get her to dance or offered her drinks in Italian or broken English, but nothing made it into her realm of consciousness.
“You’re being kind of an idiot. You should just call her. Any woman would love to get a call from you, especially if they’re this huge epic love of yours and they’ve been waiting for you to show up human on their doorstep since they were wearing training bras—”
Angel smiled sadly. “I just . . . I want it to be right.” He lowered his eyes. “Cordelia . . . it’s—this is my last chance, okay? What if I show up like this, and she doesn’t want me? Being human’s the last thing I have to offer. If she rejects me now, it’s over.”
Cordelia had always told herself that private eye stuff was beneath her, only a keep-from-starving gig until her inevitable stardom kicked in, but truth be told, she would have made a swell detective. Anything nature or high school hadn’t taught her, working at Angel Investigations had, and she had no problem delivering her message to Buffy without being seen.
Rage burned at Cordelia, enough to tunnel her vision. Around her, the driving beat of the club’s stereo faded to nothing. Men – and a few women – gawked openly at her, and a few even tried to get her to dance or offered her drinks in Italian or broken English, but nothing made it into her realm of consciousness.
“You’re being kind of an idiot. You should just call her. Any woman would love to get a call from you, especially if they’re this huge epic love of yours and they’ve been waiting for you to show up human on their doorstep since they were wearing training bras—”
Angel smiled sadly. “I just . . . I want it to be right.” He lowered his eyes. “Cordelia . . . it’s—this is my last chance, okay? What if I show up like this, and she doesn’t want me? Being human’s the last thing I have to offer. If she rejects me now, it’s over.”
Cordelia had always told herself that private eye stuff was beneath her, only a keep-from-starving gig until her inevitable stardom kicked in, but truth be told, she would have made a swell detective. Anything nature or high school hadn’t taught her, working at Angel Investigations had, and she had no problem delivering her message to Buffy without being seen.
***
After dancing to exhaustion, Buffy clambered to the bar to down the last sticky drops of her cocktail. She found her glass had mysteriously regenerated itself – Weird, she thought, too inebriated to be smart about this kind of situation – and downed the scarlet drink quickly, eager to calm the heat ravaging her body.
As she set her glass down, Buffy frowned. There was something wrong with her coaster; it was different than everyone else’s. All the other places were set with little round matte coasters with the name of the club on them, and hers was square and glossy and it had a picture on it. . . . Frowning, Buffy set her flute on the bar’s bare counter and picked up the faux coaster.
And immediately dropped it again, her body rioting so violently that for a moment, she swore she would be ill.
What had served as a coaster was, in fact, a Polaroid. The picture was of a headstone.
Below the harsh gloss, harsh reality, of the image, crossing the white slash of frame, was the name of a hotel and a room number – but no name, no explanation – written in black pen.
As she set her glass down, Buffy frowned. There was something wrong with her coaster; it was different than everyone else’s. All the other places were set with little round matte coasters with the name of the club on them, and hers was square and glossy and it had a picture on it. . . . Frowning, Buffy set her flute on the bar’s bare counter and picked up the faux coaster.
And immediately dropped it again, her body rioting so violently that for a moment, she swore she would be ill.
What had served as a coaster was, in fact, a Polaroid. The picture was of a headstone.
Below the harsh gloss, harsh reality, of the image, crossing the white slash of frame, was the name of a hotel and a room number – but no name, no explanation – written in black pen.
***
Buffy took a cab to the hotel only because she didn’t know where it was, and to let someone else drive her would be faster than running blindly through the streets. The driver chatted idly with her in Italian – which she hardly understood, and ignored completely. She couldn’t look away from the Polaroid.
Angel’s dead? she thought. Was it a joke? Vampires didn’t get buried in cemeteries, didn’t get gravestones like everyone else. But Angel wasn’t a normal vampire . . .
But maybe it wasn’t a joke; maybe it was more serious. Maybe it was a trap. Who had bought her a new drink? Maybe it was drugged; she’d been stupid drinking it, stupider still just running off after the bait left for her. She hadn’t even thought to ask anyone who had left the picture. Stupid.
But maybe it wasn’t a joke, and it was . . . well, the worst. She studied the image, her brow wrinkling. There was a perspiration ring along one corner from where her glass had sat. Buffy rubbed at it with her thumb; it didn’t budge. Was that it: Angel was dead and all she had of him was this photograph with a water mark on it?
The cab stopped. Buffy hurriedly got out and handed the driver the wrong amount of Euros.
Inside the hotel, Buffy tried to ask the front desk who was staying in the room number on the Polaroid, so she wouldn’t be surprised, but the clerk just looked at her askance and told her they didn’t give out that kind of information. Neither would they let her up to any of the rooms, so she had to leave the posh lobby and take the dirty service entrance in back to get in.
Buffy found the room on the Polaroid no problem – if you ignored all her initial problems – but then she wasn’t sure if she wanted to take the next step. What if it was a trap? And what if it wasn’t; what if Angel was really dead? Did she really want to face that? And who had come to tell her in this cryptic, Angel-y way? She hadn’t heard from Angel in almost two years; she had no idea what was going on in his life, or who his people were. For all she knew, it could be a wife coming to tell her the bad news.
Oh, God, she was pretty sure that would end in another body in the ground.
No. No, she was just going to go. It was all a trick, somebody playing a horrible, tasteless joke on her . . .
But what if it wasn’t? If Angel was dead, or even if it was a trap, she needed to know, to deal with it.
God, it sucked being an adult.
Buffy steeled herself and knocked quietly on the veneered door front.
Ten seconds, she thought. I’ll give them ten seconds, and if they don’t show, I’ll go. It’s like fate telling me that I’m not supposed to be here—
Apparently, fate had other plans, because the door opened almost immediately.
Buffy’s stomach churned as the figure registered.
“Cordelia,” she managed.
Which, in some languages, translated to, Angel’s dead. He’s really dead.
Or, Couldn’t you have just phoned me like a normal person, you bitch?
The brunette stood draped across the doorway in a slinky pose that would have been practiced if it had been anyone else. She looked older than Buffy remembered her – but that made sense; Buffy hadn’t seen her in almost seven years, when they were just graduated from high school – but she was still beautiful, maybe more beautiful. She looked like a woman. She looked mature, a little curvier, maybe, than Buffy’s mental image of her, but the promise of sophistication that had allowed the sharp-tongued predator of Buffy’s youth to rule Sunnydale High unchallenged had ripened to the real thing. Buffy felt small standing in front of her; she herself was still wearing plastic heels and eye shadow with glitter in it, and she was thinner than she’d been in high school. If someone had told her, the last time they’d traveled in the same company, that seven years later Cordelia Chase would have matured into a woman and Buffy would be a club kid, Buffy would have laughed.
She wasn’t laughing now.
“Are you just going to stand out there?” Cordelia said, raising a perfectly manicured brow.
And Buffy wanted to say something clever or foul back, but nothing clever came, and when a barb rose to her tongue, she suddenly remembered that she was there because Angel was dead, and she let it die.
“You haven’t invited me in,” she said instead.
“You wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t gotten my invitation,” Cordelia said, and stood aside to let the Slayer by.
Angel’s dead? she thought. Was it a joke? Vampires didn’t get buried in cemeteries, didn’t get gravestones like everyone else. But Angel wasn’t a normal vampire . . .
But maybe it wasn’t a joke; maybe it was more serious. Maybe it was a trap. Who had bought her a new drink? Maybe it was drugged; she’d been stupid drinking it, stupider still just running off after the bait left for her. She hadn’t even thought to ask anyone who had left the picture. Stupid.
But maybe it wasn’t a joke, and it was . . . well, the worst. She studied the image, her brow wrinkling. There was a perspiration ring along one corner from where her glass had sat. Buffy rubbed at it with her thumb; it didn’t budge. Was that it: Angel was dead and all she had of him was this photograph with a water mark on it?
The cab stopped. Buffy hurriedly got out and handed the driver the wrong amount of Euros.
Inside the hotel, Buffy tried to ask the front desk who was staying in the room number on the Polaroid, so she wouldn’t be surprised, but the clerk just looked at her askance and told her they didn’t give out that kind of information. Neither would they let her up to any of the rooms, so she had to leave the posh lobby and take the dirty service entrance in back to get in.
Buffy found the room on the Polaroid no problem – if you ignored all her initial problems – but then she wasn’t sure if she wanted to take the next step. What if it was a trap? And what if it wasn’t; what if Angel was really dead? Did she really want to face that? And who had come to tell her in this cryptic, Angel-y way? She hadn’t heard from Angel in almost two years; she had no idea what was going on in his life, or who his people were. For all she knew, it could be a wife coming to tell her the bad news.
Oh, God, she was pretty sure that would end in another body in the ground.
No. No, she was just going to go. It was all a trick, somebody playing a horrible, tasteless joke on her . . .
But what if it wasn’t? If Angel was dead, or even if it was a trap, she needed to know, to deal with it.
God, it sucked being an adult.
Buffy steeled herself and knocked quietly on the veneered door front.
Ten seconds, she thought. I’ll give them ten seconds, and if they don’t show, I’ll go. It’s like fate telling me that I’m not supposed to be here—
Apparently, fate had other plans, because the door opened almost immediately.
Buffy’s stomach churned as the figure registered.
“Cordelia,” she managed.
Which, in some languages, translated to, Angel’s dead. He’s really dead.
Or, Couldn’t you have just phoned me like a normal person, you bitch?
The brunette stood draped across the doorway in a slinky pose that would have been practiced if it had been anyone else. She looked older than Buffy remembered her – but that made sense; Buffy hadn’t seen her in almost seven years, when they were just graduated from high school – but she was still beautiful, maybe more beautiful. She looked like a woman. She looked mature, a little curvier, maybe, than Buffy’s mental image of her, but the promise of sophistication that had allowed the sharp-tongued predator of Buffy’s youth to rule Sunnydale High unchallenged had ripened to the real thing. Buffy felt small standing in front of her; she herself was still wearing plastic heels and eye shadow with glitter in it, and she was thinner than she’d been in high school. If someone had told her, the last time they’d traveled in the same company, that seven years later Cordelia Chase would have matured into a woman and Buffy would be a club kid, Buffy would have laughed.
She wasn’t laughing now.
“Are you just going to stand out there?” Cordelia said, raising a perfectly manicured brow.
And Buffy wanted to say something clever or foul back, but nothing clever came, and when a barb rose to her tongue, she suddenly remembered that she was there because Angel was dead, and she let it die.
“You haven’t invited me in,” she said instead.
“You wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t gotten my invitation,” Cordelia said, and stood aside to let the Slayer by.
***
“That was a crappy thing to do,” Buffy said.
She was trying not to stare at the Polaroid, but her eyes kept going back to it. She’d set it on the coffee table and accepted a drink she really didn’t need just so she’d have every reason in the world not to be holding the picture, but she couldn’t seem to keep from looking at it.
“You could have just told me like an adult,” she added. “Instead of . . .”
“And you could have been there when he died,” Cordelia said seamlessly, turning up her flute. She closed her eyes as the last of the champagne bubbled down her throat.
Buffy pursed her lips. “That’s not really fair. We haven’t been in each other’s lives for a long time, and he—he wouldn’t have wanted me babysitting him—”
An ugly look crossed Cordelia’s lovely features. “You have no idea what he wanted.”
Buffy shut her mouth. She didn’t know what she was walking into.
“He didn’t ask for you,” Cordelia said abruptly. “And he didn’t leave any last words for you, either.”
She looked down into the crystal abyss of her empty glass for a long time without speaking, her face clouding. Finally, she snapped to attention, looking up for the champagne bottle. Her face fell when, seizing it by the neck and finding it rather lighter than she would have hoped, she realized that she was low in spirits in more than one regard.
“I’m going to get another one,” she announced as though publicizing a consensus, and phoned room service.
Buffy sat at the edge of the couch studying her half-full glass, watching the bubbles rise to the top and fizzle. Anything to distract herself from the Polaroid, from what Cordelia had just said.
Not the thing about room service. The other thing.
Cordelia came and sat back without an overabundance of grace – Buffy would put her money on the rest of that bottle of champagne; if she only had the one glass, that would leave a lot of drinking to grieving Cordelia – and heaved a put upon sigh. That was the Cordelia Chase she remembered. Like this was an errand to her, a chore she needed to get out of the way.
She was bored.
“Did he suffer?” Buffy asked. Not to be cruel; she really wanted to know.
Okay. Maybe a little to be cruel.
Cordelia stiffened.
“Of course he did. It’s not like he died in his sleep in bed with his doting wife. He died in battle, you idiot. He got stabbed in the gut and then bled out.” Cordelia studied her manicure, but not vainly. Hiding her eyes. Buffy was surprised. “But he did most of his suffering before that, waiting for you.”
Buffy opened her mouth to speak, but she was interrupted by a knock on the door. Room service.
She was trying not to stare at the Polaroid, but her eyes kept going back to it. She’d set it on the coffee table and accepted a drink she really didn’t need just so she’d have every reason in the world not to be holding the picture, but she couldn’t seem to keep from looking at it.
“You could have just told me like an adult,” she added. “Instead of . . .”
“And you could have been there when he died,” Cordelia said seamlessly, turning up her flute. She closed her eyes as the last of the champagne bubbled down her throat.
Buffy pursed her lips. “That’s not really fair. We haven’t been in each other’s lives for a long time, and he—he wouldn’t have wanted me babysitting him—”
An ugly look crossed Cordelia’s lovely features. “You have no idea what he wanted.”
Buffy shut her mouth. She didn’t know what she was walking into.
“He didn’t ask for you,” Cordelia said abruptly. “And he didn’t leave any last words for you, either.”
She looked down into the crystal abyss of her empty glass for a long time without speaking, her face clouding. Finally, she snapped to attention, looking up for the champagne bottle. Her face fell when, seizing it by the neck and finding it rather lighter than she would have hoped, she realized that she was low in spirits in more than one regard.
“I’m going to get another one,” she announced as though publicizing a consensus, and phoned room service.
Buffy sat at the edge of the couch studying her half-full glass, watching the bubbles rise to the top and fizzle. Anything to distract herself from the Polaroid, from what Cordelia had just said.
Not the thing about room service. The other thing.
Cordelia came and sat back without an overabundance of grace – Buffy would put her money on the rest of that bottle of champagne; if she only had the one glass, that would leave a lot of drinking to grieving Cordelia – and heaved a put upon sigh. That was the Cordelia Chase she remembered. Like this was an errand to her, a chore she needed to get out of the way.
She was bored.
“Did he suffer?” Buffy asked. Not to be cruel; she really wanted to know.
Okay. Maybe a little to be cruel.
Cordelia stiffened.
“Of course he did. It’s not like he died in his sleep in bed with his doting wife. He died in battle, you idiot. He got stabbed in the gut and then bled out.” Cordelia studied her manicure, but not vainly. Hiding her eyes. Buffy was surprised. “But he did most of his suffering before that, waiting for you.”
Buffy opened her mouth to speak, but she was interrupted by a knock on the door. Room service.
***
“You should definitely keep knocking those back,” Buffy cracked dully as Cordelia popped open the new bottle of champagne and poured herself a fresh glass.
“At least I’m drinking for a reason,” Cordelia said smoothly, her voice dark and deadly. “From what I’ve seen of the Buffy 2005 model, it’s your major hobby. Is your team in the finals or something?”
Buffy glared at her.
“I’m sure Angel would just love to see what a treat you’ve become,” Cordelia continued smoothly, coming to her feet, a flush beginning to highlight her cheeks. “Slinking around tacky clubs like a cat in heat, dressed like a hooker and half drunk, just begging to become a date rape statistic—!”
“Shut up, Cordelia,” Buffy said quietly. She knew that, to really control Cordelia’s attention, she should look her in the eye, but she was having trouble looking away from Angel’s grave.
“—God, he always talked about how brave you were, and how smart; wouldn’t he be shocked to see how stupid you are out here, letting yourself go as demon bait—”
“Shut up, Cordelia.”
“—it’s a wonder you haven’t been killed already! Gee, maybe if he’d seen you, the real you, instead of that sugar and spice and everything nice poppet he had cooked up in his head, he would have stopped pining away for you and actually lived with the few short months of human life that he earned for all the good he did, instead of squandering it away—!”
“I said shut up,” Buffy growled, and rocketed off of the couch and into Cordelia with such force that both women went crashing to the floor.
The breath was knocked violently from Cordelia when she hit the ground, and she coughed and then gasped, trying to get her breath back, and then pushed violently against Buffy. Buffy pushed back, and then slapped the brunette. Screw it. She was a highly-skilled, highly-trained warrior, but this wasn’t that kind of fight. Cordelia knew it, too; she ignored her years of training under Angel’s tutelage and dug the nails of one hand into Buffy’s arm while striking wildly at her with the other. Buffy used one hand to hold Cordelia down and the other to try and force the woman’s claws out of her flesh, but the girl had a death grip.
Then something struck her.
“Wait a minute,” she said, slightly breathless. “Did you say, ‘human?’”
Cordelia just glared silently, and a powerful nausea roiled through Buffy’s stomach. Angel had been human. And no one had told her.
“He was human?” Buffy squeaked. “Cordelia, why didn’t he tell me? Why didn’t you tell me? How long was he human? What—I . . . tell me everything.”
“No,” Cordelia grunted, and released her painful grip on Buffy’s arm only to ball that hand into a fist and sock the Slayer in the face.
Buffy, caught of guard, flinched enough to let Cordelia escape her pin. But she only flinched for a moment, and she had her wits again in time enough to grab the brunette by the waist and drag her back down to the carpet. The Seer whined; Buffy’s rough treatment left harsh rug burns on both knees.
“Cordelia,” Buffy pleaded, her Slayer-strong hands gripping vices around Cordelia’s wrists. “Why didn’t Angel tell me he was human?”
Cordelia looked like she would rather eat glass than tell her, but Buffy squeezed hard around the delicate bones in Cordelia’s wrists until she passed the pain threshold, and Cordelia finally talked.
“You should have checked in more often. If I had a man that loved me like that, I wouldn’t leave him alone for years without saying hey.”
Buffy frowned. “That’s not an answer.”
Cordelia’s face turned sour. “He thought it wouldn’t be enough. That you wouldn’t take him back just because he was human. And if that wasn’t enough . . . what else could he do? He was scared.”
Buffy thought she felt a part of her die. Inside of her, a part just broke and withered away to dust and memories.
“Happy with your truth?” Cordelia asked.
Abruptly, Buffy started to cry. The tears just erupted from her all at once, like a dam bursting. Thoughtlessly, she brought her hands to her face, to hide her crying or to try and force the tears back in.
Cordelia blinked. Okay, Buffy was a crybaby, but she hadn’t expected that.
“He must have . . . hated me . . .” Buffy sobbed.
Cordelia sighed. “Nope. Stupid in love with you to his dying breath.”
Buffy sniffled. “You said he didn’t—he didn’t have any . . . last words for me . . .”
“He didn’t,” Cordelia said. “But that includes not damning your name with his dying breath or any of that histrionic crap. Listen, weepy. I knew him better than anyone, and I know that he never stopped loving you, even though he should have.”
Buffy stopped crying. Cordelia’s voice was even, unsympathetic. Cordelia didn’t do sympathy. She wasn’t saying these things to pacify Buffy; she was saying them because they were true.
“Thanks, Cordelia,” she said anyway, wiping her face with the back of her hands.
“That wasn’t for you,” Cordelia said stiffly, her eyes focused glassily on the wall in front of her. “That was for him. Because he’d want you to know the truth.”
Buffy wanted to say something to redeem herself, because she knew that Cordelia was holding her tongue – she was different; since when did Cordelia Chase hold her tongue? – on, “and I’m telling you because he was my friend, even though you weren’t good enough for him.” Buffy wanted to do something to prove to Cordelia that she wasn’t all bad, she wasn’t always like this. There were reasons Angel had loved her.
Buffy wiped at her cheeks again, hoping to get the rest of the tears and whatever smudged makeup there was. She looked downheartedly down at her little hands: they were smudged with dark eyeliner, heavy mascara, and glitter. Dammit; her face probably looked a mess. She used to be good at this. She wiped the makeup off on her skirt and hoped her face wasn’t that bad.
“Cordelia,” she said gently, lying her hand on the woman’s shoulder.
Cordelia stiffened. “Don’t.”
“Cordelia, look, I know that we’ve never been friends—”
Cordelia snorted.
“—but we have something in common now, so maybe we could . . . we could just try to not hate each other and . . .”
“Bond?” Cordelia filled in acidly. “No, thank you.” She slid her eyes over to Buffy, her expression harsh and mistrusting. “You’re a mean girl, Buffy. You don’t want to think you are, but you are. You wanna know the difference between you and me, besides fashion sense? You don’t want anyone to see how mean you are, so you put on this candy sweet front.” Her expression softened to sorrow. “But it gets hard, and sometimes you end up just tired, trying to shut out the noise, right? Well, I don’t need you as a friend, Buffy, because girls like you, they’re not friends. They’re weights. Now I did right by Angel: I told you that he was dead, and I told you that he loved you. There are a few things that he wanted you to have, and I’ve packed them up for you; I’ll give those to you, and you can go on your way. But we will not be friends.”
Buffy felt an intense cold engulf her body, sudden hypothermia.
Cordelia, ignoring her, rose from the carpet and left her plane of vision for a moment. She returned with a small carton; presumably, the things Angel had wanted her to have. She laid it unceremoniously at Buffy’s side.
“You’re a mean girl, too,” Buffy said finally, not managing to urge her voice much above a whisper.
She stared at the carton. Just stared at it, the dull brown of the cardboard, the careful knot of the twine. Cordelia must have packed it; Angel wouldn’t have packed a parcel for her before he died, would he? That didn’t make sense.
“I know it,” Cordelia said readily.
Tears welled in Buffy’s eyes. What had Angel left her? Letters? Papers? Maybe his Claddagh ring? Or had he not specified; maybe Cordelia had decided what her inheritance was.
“You lied,” Buffy said, and felt the tears start spilling out over her cheeks again. Her voice started wavering like a child’s, wavering and growing louder, and then almost stupidly loud . . . but she couldn’t control it. “You said that you don’t hide from anyone, that you let everyone see how mean you are . . . but that’s not true. You didn’t want Angel to see. You wanted him to think you were better than you are.”
She grabbed the carton and stood shakily, openly sobbing now.
For a moment, Cordelia’s face was priceless. Buffy had seen Cordelia Chase many things: haughty, bitchy, angry, frightened, desolate. But never raw. And for a brief second, Cordelia’s face might as well have been open to her soul.
And then, just as quickly, Cordelia was composed and the portal was closed.
“A lot of good it did me,” Cordelia said, her voice just as self-possessed as her face now was. “He didn’t want me.”
“Maybe he would have, if you—”
“Get out.”
Buffy tripped over her heels finding the door. Cordelia watched her, her posture the same composed elegance as when the Slayer had arrived, but her face a wound.
Buffy was still crying when she hit the street, and she almost forgot about the parcel until she went to open the door of her apartment and found that she had to juggle something to find her keys. That was definitely out of the ordinary.
The apartment was dark and still – Andrew had long since moved into the flat of a nice Italian girl, (the Immortal, too), and Dawn must be in bed. Buffy set the box down on the kitchen table and started untying Cordelia’s precise knot when she realized she had left the Polaroid at Cordelia’s hotel room, and that she had neglected to ask where Angel had been buried.
She couldn’t go back.
“At least I’m drinking for a reason,” Cordelia said smoothly, her voice dark and deadly. “From what I’ve seen of the Buffy 2005 model, it’s your major hobby. Is your team in the finals or something?”
Buffy glared at her.
“I’m sure Angel would just love to see what a treat you’ve become,” Cordelia continued smoothly, coming to her feet, a flush beginning to highlight her cheeks. “Slinking around tacky clubs like a cat in heat, dressed like a hooker and half drunk, just begging to become a date rape statistic—!”
“Shut up, Cordelia,” Buffy said quietly. She knew that, to really control Cordelia’s attention, she should look her in the eye, but she was having trouble looking away from Angel’s grave.
“—God, he always talked about how brave you were, and how smart; wouldn’t he be shocked to see how stupid you are out here, letting yourself go as demon bait—”
“Shut up, Cordelia.”
“—it’s a wonder you haven’t been killed already! Gee, maybe if he’d seen you, the real you, instead of that sugar and spice and everything nice poppet he had cooked up in his head, he would have stopped pining away for you and actually lived with the few short months of human life that he earned for all the good he did, instead of squandering it away—!”
“I said shut up,” Buffy growled, and rocketed off of the couch and into Cordelia with such force that both women went crashing to the floor.
The breath was knocked violently from Cordelia when she hit the ground, and she coughed and then gasped, trying to get her breath back, and then pushed violently against Buffy. Buffy pushed back, and then slapped the brunette. Screw it. She was a highly-skilled, highly-trained warrior, but this wasn’t that kind of fight. Cordelia knew it, too; she ignored her years of training under Angel’s tutelage and dug the nails of one hand into Buffy’s arm while striking wildly at her with the other. Buffy used one hand to hold Cordelia down and the other to try and force the woman’s claws out of her flesh, but the girl had a death grip.
Then something struck her.
“Wait a minute,” she said, slightly breathless. “Did you say, ‘human?’”
Cordelia just glared silently, and a powerful nausea roiled through Buffy’s stomach. Angel had been human. And no one had told her.
“He was human?” Buffy squeaked. “Cordelia, why didn’t he tell me? Why didn’t you tell me? How long was he human? What—I . . . tell me everything.”
“No,” Cordelia grunted, and released her painful grip on Buffy’s arm only to ball that hand into a fist and sock the Slayer in the face.
Buffy, caught of guard, flinched enough to let Cordelia escape her pin. But she only flinched for a moment, and she had her wits again in time enough to grab the brunette by the waist and drag her back down to the carpet. The Seer whined; Buffy’s rough treatment left harsh rug burns on both knees.
“Cordelia,” Buffy pleaded, her Slayer-strong hands gripping vices around Cordelia’s wrists. “Why didn’t Angel tell me he was human?”
Cordelia looked like she would rather eat glass than tell her, but Buffy squeezed hard around the delicate bones in Cordelia’s wrists until she passed the pain threshold, and Cordelia finally talked.
“You should have checked in more often. If I had a man that loved me like that, I wouldn’t leave him alone for years without saying hey.”
Buffy frowned. “That’s not an answer.”
Cordelia’s face turned sour. “He thought it wouldn’t be enough. That you wouldn’t take him back just because he was human. And if that wasn’t enough . . . what else could he do? He was scared.”
Buffy thought she felt a part of her die. Inside of her, a part just broke and withered away to dust and memories.
“Happy with your truth?” Cordelia asked.
Abruptly, Buffy started to cry. The tears just erupted from her all at once, like a dam bursting. Thoughtlessly, she brought her hands to her face, to hide her crying or to try and force the tears back in.
Cordelia blinked. Okay, Buffy was a crybaby, but she hadn’t expected that.
“He must have . . . hated me . . .” Buffy sobbed.
Cordelia sighed. “Nope. Stupid in love with you to his dying breath.”
Buffy sniffled. “You said he didn’t—he didn’t have any . . . last words for me . . .”
“He didn’t,” Cordelia said. “But that includes not damning your name with his dying breath or any of that histrionic crap. Listen, weepy. I knew him better than anyone, and I know that he never stopped loving you, even though he should have.”
Buffy stopped crying. Cordelia’s voice was even, unsympathetic. Cordelia didn’t do sympathy. She wasn’t saying these things to pacify Buffy; she was saying them because they were true.
“Thanks, Cordelia,” she said anyway, wiping her face with the back of her hands.
“That wasn’t for you,” Cordelia said stiffly, her eyes focused glassily on the wall in front of her. “That was for him. Because he’d want you to know the truth.”
Buffy wanted to say something to redeem herself, because she knew that Cordelia was holding her tongue – she was different; since when did Cordelia Chase hold her tongue? – on, “and I’m telling you because he was my friend, even though you weren’t good enough for him.” Buffy wanted to do something to prove to Cordelia that she wasn’t all bad, she wasn’t always like this. There were reasons Angel had loved her.
Buffy wiped at her cheeks again, hoping to get the rest of the tears and whatever smudged makeup there was. She looked downheartedly down at her little hands: they were smudged with dark eyeliner, heavy mascara, and glitter. Dammit; her face probably looked a mess. She used to be good at this. She wiped the makeup off on her skirt and hoped her face wasn’t that bad.
“Cordelia,” she said gently, lying her hand on the woman’s shoulder.
Cordelia stiffened. “Don’t.”
“Cordelia, look, I know that we’ve never been friends—”
Cordelia snorted.
“—but we have something in common now, so maybe we could . . . we could just try to not hate each other and . . .”
“Bond?” Cordelia filled in acidly. “No, thank you.” She slid her eyes over to Buffy, her expression harsh and mistrusting. “You’re a mean girl, Buffy. You don’t want to think you are, but you are. You wanna know the difference between you and me, besides fashion sense? You don’t want anyone to see how mean you are, so you put on this candy sweet front.” Her expression softened to sorrow. “But it gets hard, and sometimes you end up just tired, trying to shut out the noise, right? Well, I don’t need you as a friend, Buffy, because girls like you, they’re not friends. They’re weights. Now I did right by Angel: I told you that he was dead, and I told you that he loved you. There are a few things that he wanted you to have, and I’ve packed them up for you; I’ll give those to you, and you can go on your way. But we will not be friends.”
Buffy felt an intense cold engulf her body, sudden hypothermia.
Cordelia, ignoring her, rose from the carpet and left her plane of vision for a moment. She returned with a small carton; presumably, the things Angel had wanted her to have. She laid it unceremoniously at Buffy’s side.
“You’re a mean girl, too,” Buffy said finally, not managing to urge her voice much above a whisper.
She stared at the carton. Just stared at it, the dull brown of the cardboard, the careful knot of the twine. Cordelia must have packed it; Angel wouldn’t have packed a parcel for her before he died, would he? That didn’t make sense.
“I know it,” Cordelia said readily.
Tears welled in Buffy’s eyes. What had Angel left her? Letters? Papers? Maybe his Claddagh ring? Or had he not specified; maybe Cordelia had decided what her inheritance was.
“You lied,” Buffy said, and felt the tears start spilling out over her cheeks again. Her voice started wavering like a child’s, wavering and growing louder, and then almost stupidly loud . . . but she couldn’t control it. “You said that you don’t hide from anyone, that you let everyone see how mean you are . . . but that’s not true. You didn’t want Angel to see. You wanted him to think you were better than you are.”
She grabbed the carton and stood shakily, openly sobbing now.
For a moment, Cordelia’s face was priceless. Buffy had seen Cordelia Chase many things: haughty, bitchy, angry, frightened, desolate. But never raw. And for a brief second, Cordelia’s face might as well have been open to her soul.
And then, just as quickly, Cordelia was composed and the portal was closed.
“A lot of good it did me,” Cordelia said, her voice just as self-possessed as her face now was. “He didn’t want me.”
“Maybe he would have, if you—”
“Get out.”
Buffy tripped over her heels finding the door. Cordelia watched her, her posture the same composed elegance as when the Slayer had arrived, but her face a wound.
Buffy was still crying when she hit the street, and she almost forgot about the parcel until she went to open the door of her apartment and found that she had to juggle something to find her keys. That was definitely out of the ordinary.
The apartment was dark and still – Andrew had long since moved into the flat of a nice Italian girl, (the Immortal, too), and Dawn must be in bed. Buffy set the box down on the kitchen table and started untying Cordelia’s precise knot when she realized she had left the Polaroid at Cordelia’s hotel room, and that she had neglected to ask where Angel had been buried.
She couldn’t go back.
***
Cordelia realized that if she didn’t cut the sauce, she’d end up in some really unglamorous program, so she decided to just try and forget this trip had ever happened and get some alcohol-aided sleep.
The knock on the door was not appreciated.
Especially when the knocker turned out to be Buffy.
“Do you have a learning disability?” Cordelia asked dully.
Buffy knew the brunette wouldn’t be happy to see her, and she had been prepared for that. She hadn’t been prepared for Cordelia in pajamas and no makeup. Now, the woman looked . . . well, kind of soft and vulnerable. Sad. It was hard to be defensive when she’d woken her up and she looked like that.
“I just . . . I forgot the Polaroid,” Buffy said softly.
Cordelia sighed and motioned vaguely for her to come in. Buffy sidled carefully by her and hurried to the coffee table to pick up the picture. She found herself hugging it to her heart once it was back in her possession; was that stupid? No. It was a part of Angel. Aside from that box, it was all she had left.
Buffy stowed the Polaroid in her jacket pocket and turned back to Cordelia.
“I’m sorry I woke you—”
“Me, too. Are we done?”
“I, um—no. I wanted to ask you . . . uh, where is he . . . I mean, where did you . . . where was this taken?”
Cordelia went and sat on her bed.
“We moved to San Francisco. We have a lot of ghosts in LA, and his son goes to Stanford, which is less than an hour drive, so . . .” She smiled. “He really liked it. It’s pretty there, and not as busy as LA, and of course he could go in the sun, and eat, and . . . we were happy. I mean, not perfectly happy, although we—he could have been, but . . .”
Buffy came and sat beside Cordelia on the bed.
“I’m sorry, Cordelia,” she said, and she was. For Cordelia, and for Angel. She wished that he’d gotten to be happy, even if it wasn’t with her.
“Me, too.”
Buffy laid her hand on Cordelia’s. Cordelia didn’t pull away, so then Buffy kissed Cordelia, full on the mouth. This was stupid, because kissing a person doesn’t make them happy, and it doesn’t say, “I’m sorry.” But Cordelia didn’t pull away then, either, so Buffy took her other hand, the one not resting on Cordelia’s, and slid it through Cordelia’s hair, slid it to the back of her head and used it to control the kiss. Cordelia slid her hand out from under Buffy’s and pushed Buffy’s coat from off her shoulders, and Buffy decided to take advantage of her free hand by ridding Cordelia of her pajama top. Halfway down the buttons, though, she stopped, a harsh wave of panic running through her.
What am I doing? I can’t have sex with Cordelia Chase. First, she’s a girl and secondly, she’s Cordelia! Oh my God.
She stopped kissing Cordelia and pulled away enough to look the Seer in the face.
“I’m not him,” she said instead of any of the things that had just screamed through her mind.
Cordelia shot her a look. “Duh.”
This time, Cordelia kissed her. She tasted like champagne and sugar.
The knock on the door was not appreciated.
Especially when the knocker turned out to be Buffy.
“Do you have a learning disability?” Cordelia asked dully.
Buffy knew the brunette wouldn’t be happy to see her, and she had been prepared for that. She hadn’t been prepared for Cordelia in pajamas and no makeup. Now, the woman looked . . . well, kind of soft and vulnerable. Sad. It was hard to be defensive when she’d woken her up and she looked like that.
“I just . . . I forgot the Polaroid,” Buffy said softly.
Cordelia sighed and motioned vaguely for her to come in. Buffy sidled carefully by her and hurried to the coffee table to pick up the picture. She found herself hugging it to her heart once it was back in her possession; was that stupid? No. It was a part of Angel. Aside from that box, it was all she had left.
Buffy stowed the Polaroid in her jacket pocket and turned back to Cordelia.
“I’m sorry I woke you—”
“Me, too. Are we done?”
“I, um—no. I wanted to ask you . . . uh, where is he . . . I mean, where did you . . . where was this taken?”
Cordelia went and sat on her bed.
“We moved to San Francisco. We have a lot of ghosts in LA, and his son goes to Stanford, which is less than an hour drive, so . . .” She smiled. “He really liked it. It’s pretty there, and not as busy as LA, and of course he could go in the sun, and eat, and . . . we were happy. I mean, not perfectly happy, although we—he could have been, but . . .”
Buffy came and sat beside Cordelia on the bed.
“I’m sorry, Cordelia,” she said, and she was. For Cordelia, and for Angel. She wished that he’d gotten to be happy, even if it wasn’t with her.
“Me, too.”
Buffy laid her hand on Cordelia’s. Cordelia didn’t pull away, so then Buffy kissed Cordelia, full on the mouth. This was stupid, because kissing a person doesn’t make them happy, and it doesn’t say, “I’m sorry.” But Cordelia didn’t pull away then, either, so Buffy took her other hand, the one not resting on Cordelia’s, and slid it through Cordelia’s hair, slid it to the back of her head and used it to control the kiss. Cordelia slid her hand out from under Buffy’s and pushed Buffy’s coat from off her shoulders, and Buffy decided to take advantage of her free hand by ridding Cordelia of her pajama top. Halfway down the buttons, though, she stopped, a harsh wave of panic running through her.
What am I doing? I can’t have sex with Cordelia Chase. First, she’s a girl and secondly, she’s Cordelia! Oh my God.
She stopped kissing Cordelia and pulled away enough to look the Seer in the face.
“I’m not him,” she said instead of any of the things that had just screamed through her mind.
Cordelia shot her a look. “Duh.”
This time, Cordelia kissed her. She tasted like champagne and sugar.
