Wes/Cordy, S-3 BtVS
Sorry to be spammy tonight, but hey, the imagination kettle's on so I have to whistle when I can!
For
semby! Thank you and happy birthday!
Title: On The Other Side of the Floor
Author: Lostakasha
Fandom: BtVS
Pairing: Cordelia/Wesley
Rating: PG
Word Count: 552
Forsemby…thank you for the Ben Lee! Hope you like this! BtVS Season 3.
On The Other Side of The Floor
Childhood living is easy to do
The things you wanted
I bought them for you…
Not one of her compacts had ever shown signs of wear. Never had the shiny surface of the pan holding the finely-milled pressed powder or blush shown through. Cordelia would never have tolerated such a baldly telling indicator of classlessness, laziness, or cheapness, and she isn’t about to start now.
Not even if it means checking her face in the closed stall of the freshman girls’ bathroom to conceal the condition of her mirrored prize; hidden like a thief in the lavatory a floor above and farthest from the gym and the revels of the Sunnydale High senior prom, and the least likely place to meet up with any of the other girls in the graduating class.
Smoothing the smoky amber sequins of Xander’s kindest and most annoying gesture with shaking hands, she takes a ragged swallow of air, places the compact in her evening bag, straightens herself to her full height, and glides out of the stall.
For the next three minutes she is the one and only Cordette, leaving an imaginary trail of swooning boys and slavering girls in a wake of Annick Goutal. She strides alone, accompanied only by the click of her heels through a deserted hallway where she ruled for so long, so long ago.
By the time she rounds the corner at the foot of the stairs and eases into the crowd of classmates, the pretense is real. Heads turn. Breath catches and eyes fix on her bronze limbs and chestnut hair. The pounding in her heart shifts from pure panic to something resembling pride and ownership as she sees the envy in the eyes of the girls and the pure want in the eyes of the boys.
The crowd seems to part as she moves through the swinging doors, past the crush of kids too excited or scared to dance, past chaperones and teachers, gliding toward the dance floor.
Her eyes settle on the curve of Angel’s head, the broad stretch of his shoulders, and she knows he’s holding Buffy before he moves the slayer into her sightlines, before she can form an opinion or feel anything other than being untouchable in the midst of all the pageantry.
“You are breathtaking.”
The words root her to the floor and she can’t quite turn into the cool fingers on her shoulder.
“You are a vision, Cordelia,” Wesley whispers, low and soft and serious, as if by his command she is just that.
When she looks into his eyes there are no cutting words she can think of to say, no rapid-fire validation, no of course I am, you fool. Nothing to say but the two of the words that have always come so bitterly to her mouth.
“Thank you.”
Without asking, Wesley pulls her into his embrace, sets a narrow, elegant hand at the small of her back, and something in her dies a little. He smells of powder and cologne and like England to her, like a dragon’s blood reed pressed between the pages of an ancient book, or violet water, or country grass.
He moves her to the center of the floor and the gap they’ve opened with their presence fills in around them like a healing cut.
Graceless lady you know who I am
You know I can’t let you slide through my hands…
For
semby! Thank you and happy birthday!Title: On The Other Side of the Floor
Author: Lostakasha
Fandom: BtVS
Pairing: Cordelia/Wesley
Rating: PG
Word Count: 552
For
semby…thank you for the Ben Lee! Hope you like this! BtVS Season 3.On The Other Side of The Floor
Childhood living is easy to do
The things you wanted
I bought them for you…
Not one of her compacts had ever shown signs of wear. Never had the shiny surface of the pan holding the finely-milled pressed powder or blush shown through. Cordelia would never have tolerated such a baldly telling indicator of classlessness, laziness, or cheapness, and she isn’t about to start now.
Not even if it means checking her face in the closed stall of the freshman girls’ bathroom to conceal the condition of her mirrored prize; hidden like a thief in the lavatory a floor above and farthest from the gym and the revels of the Sunnydale High senior prom, and the least likely place to meet up with any of the other girls in the graduating class.
Smoothing the smoky amber sequins of Xander’s kindest and most annoying gesture with shaking hands, she takes a ragged swallow of air, places the compact in her evening bag, straightens herself to her full height, and glides out of the stall.
For the next three minutes she is the one and only Cordette, leaving an imaginary trail of swooning boys and slavering girls in a wake of Annick Goutal. She strides alone, accompanied only by the click of her heels through a deserted hallway where she ruled for so long, so long ago.
By the time she rounds the corner at the foot of the stairs and eases into the crowd of classmates, the pretense is real. Heads turn. Breath catches and eyes fix on her bronze limbs and chestnut hair. The pounding in her heart shifts from pure panic to something resembling pride and ownership as she sees the envy in the eyes of the girls and the pure want in the eyes of the boys.
The crowd seems to part as she moves through the swinging doors, past the crush of kids too excited or scared to dance, past chaperones and teachers, gliding toward the dance floor.
Her eyes settle on the curve of Angel’s head, the broad stretch of his shoulders, and she knows he’s holding Buffy before he moves the slayer into her sightlines, before she can form an opinion or feel anything other than being untouchable in the midst of all the pageantry.
“You are breathtaking.”
The words root her to the floor and she can’t quite turn into the cool fingers on her shoulder.
“You are a vision, Cordelia,” Wesley whispers, low and soft and serious, as if by his command she is just that.
When she looks into his eyes there are no cutting words she can think of to say, no rapid-fire validation, no of course I am, you fool. Nothing to say but the two of the words that have always come so bitterly to her mouth.
“Thank you.”
Without asking, Wesley pulls her into his embrace, sets a narrow, elegant hand at the small of her back, and something in her dies a little. He smells of powder and cologne and like England to her, like a dragon’s blood reed pressed between the pages of an ancient book, or violet water, or country grass.
He moves her to the center of the floor and the gap they’ve opened with their presence fills in around them like a healing cut.
Graceless lady you know who I am
You know I can’t let you slide through my hands…