Title: In Pieces (1/1)
Author: Morgan R.
Email: Lshallot@juno.com
Rating: PG
Summary: The car ride home that we never got to see. Angel POV.
Spoilers: Waaaaay back- this is Some Assembly Required
Feedback: Does Cordelia deserve pampering?
Author's Note: Second installment in my Cordelia Retrospective. Can we all just give her a round of applause?
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"I don't wanna go alone. I'm still fragile." Her hand tightens on my arm, carefully manicured nails digging in through layers of clothing. "Can you take me?"
It isn't a question.
So yes, it looks like Buffy can be jealous too. She can't believe I'll do it, obviously.
Cordelia can, and she smiles. "Great! I'll drive?"
Her hand is like iron, dragging me with her, and sometimes I miss the old centuries, when the women were fragile. A chauvinistic thought, perhaps. Still, those nails are sharp.
I had counted on Cordelia's seemingly endless supply of empty chatter to keep this from getting too uncomfortable, but she is strangely silent, still holding onto my arm. It's when we walk outside that something is finally made clear to me- she isn't holding me, she's clutching, and her white lips are shaking.
"Cordelia?"
She almost jumps, looking up at me with startled eyes. "What?"
"Are you okay?"
She looks away without answering, but I have to grit my teeth. Maybe I should visit her salon, explain that fingernails don't need to be filed into dagger sharp points...
"Can you smell them on me?" Her voice is slightly higher than usual.
"Smell what?"
"The parts." She stops, closing her eyes. We're only a few steps away from her car, but she's frozen, and I wonder why I can never understand her. She should be easier to read, as shallow as people say.
"Can you smell death all over me?" It's odd to hear that question coming from her lips, that question that my eyes ask of Buffy every time she looks at me. That question that became the theme of my dreams from the first day of my curse. Can I walk by unnoticed by the rest of the world, or is the stench a permanent state of existence? I want to ask her. No, Cordelia, can you smell death all over me?
I finally remember that I'm supposed to be making sure she's okay, but she isn't looking at me in irritation like I half expected. She's looking at the dumpster, and the smell that rolls off of her isn't death, but fear.
I may be immortal, but I don't want to bleed tonight in a pile of crumpled steel. "Hey, Cordelia, do you want me to drive?"
She hasn't looked at me in over five minutes, because the shadow of the box she hid in is all that she can see.
****
Driving to her house, I start to get increasingly worried. I'm not sure what to do with this person sitting beside me. If she would smile her pageant smile then I could withdraw, and everything would be back to normal. Ditch the shallow girl as quickly as possible, get back to the complications that make up the one I love.
"Cordelia, are you-"
"They were cheerleaders."
As true as that is, I'm not quite sure what sort of response is in order. "Yeah?"
"I know you aren't really Mr. Pop Culture, being freakishly introverted and all, but are you aware of the role of cheerleaders in our society?"
"Popularity?" This much I have gleaned from Buffy's tendency to blame Cordelia for every part of high school she dislikes.
"Yeah. Sure. In an ideal world. But the way I see it? Fodder. Prey. Cheerleaders exist to be stalked and murdered and horribly mutilated by everyone who is enough of a loser to be jealous of a pleated skirt and some pom poms."
"I'm not sure I-"
"I mean, look at horror movies. They run screaming, and get eaten or mauled. The slightly unpopular quirky girl has pluck enough to stop the psychotic murdering fiends, but only after several cheerleaders have been viciously massacred. And what about horror stories? Urban legends? It's always the cheerleader, in the car with her boyfriend, hearing the scratch scratch of some deranged hook man. Poor stupid popular girl who barely has brains enough to spell out her school's mascot, and for that she must die. They scream for touchdowns scored, so they might as well keep on screaming, right? If they're so good at it, then put it to use, sure. One is the same as another, and there's an endless supply, so just cut them into pieces in every story told around a campfire."
Buffy, help. "Cordelia, those are just stories."
She whirls on me. "Right, Angel. Sure. And my mother told me that there were no such things as ghosts, or vampires, or witches. Don't you get it? Horror stories come true in Sunnydale. My third grade teacher disappeared and was never heard from again, and that shouldn't be real. That shouldn't be true. No offense, but neither should you. You shouldn't have fangs and you shouldn't drink blood, because if you were just Buffy's boyfriend, then maybe this wouldn't be a town where cheerleaders are dismembered and no one is surprised. This is my house."
I stop suddenly, because I wasn't aware we were there already. We're getting out, her face is on straight again, and I don't think any of them have ever really talked to this girl. This girl, not The Girl.
"Cordelia?"
She rolls her eyes. "Look, do me a favor, okay? Just- just tell Buffy that I simpered and flirted the whole time. Tell her I'm shallow and not your type. Have the same conversation you always have about me. I don't want to ruin the plot of the movie."
She runs into her huge house, locking the door behind her, and I think this was worth it. I think I'm glad I drove her home.
I know I'm wondering what her future holds.
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finis
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