Funeral (Cordelia/Tara, PG)
Feb. 10th, 2006 07:29 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
carlyinromeTITLE: Funeral
RATING: PG.
FANDOM: BtVS/AtS
PAIRING: Cordelia/Tara
GENRE: Angst, light slash.
SUMMARY: Sometimes strength comes from unexpected places.
SPOILERS: After "The Gift."
NOTES: After a request by
glossing. Angel had literally been struck mute by the news of Buffy’s death. Cordelia was never struck mute by anything and had wanted to talk things out, had wanted to tease out the pain that she hadn’t expected to tear through her stomach, the pain that was written all over his face before Willow even told him how it had happened, but all he could do was make a defensive, helpless gesture and trudge up the stairs to his room. He locked himself inside, and Cordelia stayed for a long moment by the door, listening: she could hear him in there, but he wasn’t crying because Angel didn’t cry; he was breathing heavily, hyperventilating, so fast and so heavy that she could hear him outside the door . . . but he didn’t do that, either. Vampires didn’t breathe. She wanted to go in but she couldn’t break down the door, and when he finally started talking again – the next evening, lifetimes later – all he said was that he was leaving, leaving the country leaving, he didn’t know when he’d be back, and no, he wouldn’t go the funeral because it would be during the day. Nothing Cordelia could say could convince him otherwise, and he left silent and really looking like the death that he was, and Cordelia, feeling glass smooth and hollow after being burned out by all his shit, refused to let Gunn or Wesley or anyone go with her to Sunnydale.
It was an annoyingly sunny day for a funeral. Cordelia showed up without phoning anyone, even Willow, ten minutes after the service began – not making an entrance just late because she was heavier than usual, bogged down with Angel’s grief and her own raw, unexpected pain – wearing sunglasses and a black dress more opulent and silksmooth than opium. She stood away from the crowd of mourners she’d fought and bled beside, most of which she’d known for fifteen years or more, some of whom she’d seen cry or slept with, or seen under a spell. She wasn’t that girl anymore, and she couldn’t think of being near them.
She wanted to go back to Los Angeles as soon as the funeral was over, but then when the grave was covered and the crowd broke, she remembered Angel wasn’t there and the Hyperion would have a gnawing emptiness of He’s Gone Somewhere, and she wasn’t sure whether she’d be able to stand that, so she took Willow’s invitation to come back to the wake at Giles’s, even though she didn’t know these people anymore, even the ghost of the girl they were talking to when they were talking to her.
Everyone ended up talking in the living room and she ended up alone in the kitchen, hiding in her expensive black dress, not crying, because Cordelia Fucking Chase does not cry, just alone because her family was far away and she didn’t know these people, she wasn’t at home here, she raked her hands through her hair, tried to still the buzzing from her flesh, when
“Oh, I’m sorry, I-I didn’t—”
“It’s okay.” She composed instantly. She was nothing if not hard as nails, always flawless in the eyes of people who didn’t know her well. And she didn’t know this girl from Eve . . . Tessa, or something, Willow’s hey-guess-what-I-date-girls-now-friend?
The girl fidgeted a little. “It’s just . . . I don’t always fit in with them.”
She motioned helplessly to the living room, where the old Scooby Gang was still working well into their old groove.
Cordelia felt the hollows of her cheeks narrow, her face taking on a gaunt, wanting appearance.
“Yeah, I know the feeling.”
The girl’s eyes – so compassionate, Cordelia noticed, but hurt, too; she saw something of Angel there, and relaxed some, instant trust – crinkled a little at the corners. Concern.
“But I thought you knew them,” she said slowly. “From before.”
Cordelia’s mouth quirked a little. “I thought you knew them now.”
She answered slowly. “Some bonds are too deep to crack, I guess. Not . . . not that I’d want to, I just . . .”
“Sometimes you feel shut out.”
“Yeah. It’s just . . . well, they’re family, I guess.”
Cordelia felt the word settle in her stomach like a cool stone. Family. She was stranded here in Sunnydale in self-imposed exile and all her family was miles away, in LA or off drowning in guilt in God knows where . . .
Without thinking, she placed her hand over the girl’s, let her fingers lace through the other woman’s. She felt so warm, so reassuring, so real. . . . Before she knew what she was doing, like she was surrendering to gravity, Cordelia fell against the girl’s body, let her hand rest against the girl’s heart, her mouth fall against hers. The girl tasted sweet, fresh, but then Cordelia corrupted the pure sensation with tainting tears.
She tore away, suddenly, her hands flying to hide her tears, her running makeup. “I’m sorry.”
She wasn’t sure what she was apologizing for, the kiss or crying or . . .
The girl didn’t care, didn’t even bother to ask. She regarded Cordelia with the same tranquil understanding Angel could have when he wasn’t mad with grief, and wound her soft hands around Cordelia’s waist, took her into her embrace, cleaved to her.
She whispered against her mascara-stained face: “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”
It was an annoyingly sunny day for a funeral. Cordelia showed up without phoning anyone, even Willow, ten minutes after the service began – not making an entrance just late because she was heavier than usual, bogged down with Angel’s grief and her own raw, unexpected pain – wearing sunglasses and a black dress more opulent and silksmooth than opium. She stood away from the crowd of mourners she’d fought and bled beside, most of which she’d known for fifteen years or more, some of whom she’d seen cry or slept with, or seen under a spell. She wasn’t that girl anymore, and she couldn’t think of being near them.
She wanted to go back to Los Angeles as soon as the funeral was over, but then when the grave was covered and the crowd broke, she remembered Angel wasn’t there and the Hyperion would have a gnawing emptiness of He’s Gone Somewhere, and she wasn’t sure whether she’d be able to stand that, so she took Willow’s invitation to come back to the wake at Giles’s, even though she didn’t know these people anymore, even the ghost of the girl they were talking to when they were talking to her.
Everyone ended up talking in the living room and she ended up alone in the kitchen, hiding in her expensive black dress, not crying, because Cordelia Fucking Chase does not cry, just alone because her family was far away and she didn’t know these people, she wasn’t at home here, she raked her hands through her hair, tried to still the buzzing from her flesh, when
“Oh, I’m sorry, I-I didn’t—”
“It’s okay.” She composed instantly. She was nothing if not hard as nails, always flawless in the eyes of people who didn’t know her well. And she didn’t know this girl from Eve . . . Tessa, or something, Willow’s hey-guess-what-I-date-girls-now-friend?
The girl fidgeted a little. “It’s just . . . I don’t always fit in with them.”
She motioned helplessly to the living room, where the old Scooby Gang was still working well into their old groove.
Cordelia felt the hollows of her cheeks narrow, her face taking on a gaunt, wanting appearance.
“Yeah, I know the feeling.”
The girl’s eyes – so compassionate, Cordelia noticed, but hurt, too; she saw something of Angel there, and relaxed some, instant trust – crinkled a little at the corners. Concern.
“But I thought you knew them,” she said slowly. “From before.”
Cordelia’s mouth quirked a little. “I thought you knew them now.”
She answered slowly. “Some bonds are too deep to crack, I guess. Not . . . not that I’d want to, I just . . .”
“Sometimes you feel shut out.”
“Yeah. It’s just . . . well, they’re family, I guess.”
Cordelia felt the word settle in her stomach like a cool stone. Family. She was stranded here in Sunnydale in self-imposed exile and all her family was miles away, in LA or off drowning in guilt in God knows where . . .
Without thinking, she placed her hand over the girl’s, let her fingers lace through the other woman’s. She felt so warm, so reassuring, so real. . . . Before she knew what she was doing, like she was surrendering to gravity, Cordelia fell against the girl’s body, let her hand rest against the girl’s heart, her mouth fall against hers. The girl tasted sweet, fresh, but then Cordelia corrupted the pure sensation with tainting tears.
She tore away, suddenly, her hands flying to hide her tears, her running makeup. “I’m sorry.”
She wasn’t sure what she was apologizing for, the kiss or crying or . . .
The girl didn’t care, didn’t even bother to ask. She regarded Cordelia with the same tranquil understanding Angel could have when he wasn’t mad with grief, and wound her soft hands around Cordelia’s waist, took her into her embrace, cleaved to her.
She whispered against her mascara-stained face: “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”
