Fiona staggers into the room, hours later. After hours of lying awake in the dark with only a dull ache, toned down from searing agony with potions and charms, around the ruin where her eyes used to be, Cordelia had finally drifted off into a restless sleep, only to be awoken by the familiar warm wave of power she had felt when her mother and Marie Laveau had returned from wherever they had been that afternoon. Or perhaps it was the front door swinging open and hitting the wall with a loud clang that had woken her. Either way, she had allowed herself to be lulled back to sleep by the low buzzing of women's voices downstairs, and had spent the last while in an opiate-induced haze.
Had Cordelia actually been asleep, she would have been jolted awake by the door to her bedroom creaking open, or by the gasp that escapes Fiona's lips when she catches sight of her. Cordelia supposes she's not a pretty sight, lying stiffly in the middle of her bed, with yards and yards of blood-soaked (she assumes - Auntie Myrtle changed her bandages before going to bed, but that was hours ago) bandages wrapped around her head. Though she can no longer see, Cordelia can picture her mother steadying herself with a hand on the doorjamb, almost knocking over the flower vase Myrtle placed on her bedside table earlier. Pink peonies, for their healing properties, and bellflowers, gratitude. Fiona swears under her breath - she's drunk, Cordelia realizes - and her anger washes over Cordelia in a scalding wave that's over as soon as it began. Fiona rummages through her purse, takes out her pack of cigarettes.
Cordelia tries to keep the hurt out of her voice - she had hoped her mother would come see her much sooner than several hours after she had maimed herself - when she asks "Can I have one of those?" Fiona almost jumps in surprise. "You're awake, Delia?" Cordelia nods. Fiona seems to think about it for a moment, then says, "Sure, anything you want." Cordelia follows the unsteady click-clack of her mother's heels as she walks towards the bed. There's another smell to her, on top of the usual perfume and the cigarettes. She smells like Champagne and lemons - French 75, Cordelia knows from mixing Fiona's celebratory drink of choice countless times - and something else. Blood.
"Do you want me to help you sit up," Fiona asks, and Cordelia shakes her head. Fumbling, Cordelia props pillows behind her against the headboard, reclines against the makeshift backrest once satisfied. She hears Fiona fishing through her bag again, can almost see her mother daintily sliding two cigarettes out of the silver case she carries them in. She hears the click of the lighter, which she supposes her mother only uses out of habit any more, and hears Fiona's sharp inhale. Warm hands reach for her clammy ones, and Fiona places the lit cigarette between Cordelia's fingers. Cordelia struggles not to shudder at the contact. She brings the cigarette to her lips. The filter feels moist between her lips, tastes of lipstick and alcohol.
Cordelia takes a shaky inhale, and blows out the smoke away from where Fiona is sitting, on the far edge of her bed. Fiona lights the second cigarette. They sit quietly for a beat. Cordelia moves her hand to her mouth to take another drag, is interrupted by Fiona's hand on her wrist. "One second, Delia", Fiona breaks the silence, and delicately grabs the cigarette out of Cordelia's hand, taps it lightly against the edge of the glass of water Cordelia keeps on her bedside table. Suddenly very warm, Cordelia almost winces when Fiona hands her the Turkish Royal back.
"Can I see?" Fiona asks after a beat. For half a second, Cordelia wants to play dumb, to ask "See what?'', to force Fiona to say what she means. As a child, Cordelia learned quickly not to ask inane questions; Fiona would either reply with something cutting, or, worse, glare at the girl and remain silent. "Okay," she says instead, sits back, waits. Fiona unwraps the bandages, slowly. Cordelia can feel her, much too close and much too far. "Oh, Delia," Fiona murmurs as she peels away the final layer. "Oh, Delia, what did you do?" It's not a question. Cordelia wrinkles her nose at the sharp scent of alcohol on her mother's breath. Fiona stares in silence. "Why?" she asks. This time it is a quesiton. "You know why," Cordelia says simply, trying to keep the quiver out of her voice. "Can I…" Fiona's voice trails off. Cordelia swallows, nods. Fiona's fingertips are gentle on the open wounds, but the pain that courses through her is searing. Worse than the pain, though, is the vision that rips through Cordelia's mind.
Cordelia is on her hands and knees, on the floor of the main sitting room. The floor is slick with blood, and other things. There are bodies - or, more accurately, body parts - surrounding her, and Cordelia tries in vain to wipe the carnage off the floor with a rag soaked in thick, sticky blood. The air smells like smoke, and blood, and shit. Like death, Cordelia thinks. She tries to identify who the pieces belong to, thinks she spots a hunk of blonde hair sticking out from under a pile of gore. She feels rapidly cooling blood on her arms, her chest, her face. A pair of heels steps into the puddle in front of her with soft, sticky splashes, and Cordelia looks up the legs to see Fiona standing over her, axe in hand, looking down at her daughter with disdain in her eyes.
In the hazy vision, Cordelia finds herself wondering why Fiona's face and clothing look so pristine and free of butchery. The axe drops with two wet thuds. Fiona reaches out and caresses Cordelia's face, draws her thumb over Cordelia's lips. Cordelia takes the thumb into her mouth, runs her tongue over it, recoils at the taste of blood. Fiona, hand now sticky from the blood on Cordelia's face, brushes over Cordelia's hair like a pet, and blonde strands cling and pull at her hand. Fiona brings her hand down Cordelia's face, tilts Cordelia's chin up to face her. "Well go on now, Delia," Fiona's voice is crisp, clear in the vision; it resonates and vibrates inside Cordelia's head. Fiona lights a cigarette. "If you clean up your mess, Mommy will give you a treat." Fiona exhales a cloud of white smoke. Cordelia picks up the rag again. "Good girl."
The vision dissolves away as quickly as it started. A small sound escapes the back of Cordelia's throat, and she prays in vain that Fiona didn't hear the pathetic little whine, though Cordelia knows perfectly well that she did. Fiona trails her fingers, delicately, over the crude cuts that the pruning shears tore into Cordelia's face. Her fingertips ghost down Cordelia's cheek, over her quivering lips. Cordelia swallows, hard. The touch is meant to be cool, calming, a soothing wave of Fiona's magic coaxing Cordelia to relax. Tears well up in Cordelia's eyes, and she wonders for a second if she can even cry any more before she feels the salt sting and burn its way down the open cuts. "Mommy," Cordelia murmurs, feeling herself drift off to sleep. Fiona presses her lips to Cordelia's forehead, lightly, and Cordelia pretends that she doesn't feel something low in her body clench at the contact.
Cordelia jolts awake, with no idea how long she was out. The smell of cigarette smoke has faded only slightly, and she can still smell her mother's perfume. In the darkness surrounding her, which seems thicker somehow now that she is alone. Feeling dry-mouthed, Cordelia fumbles blindly to her side, picks up the glass of water from her bedside table. She drinks and tastes ashes. Cordelia gags at the realization that she drank from Fiona's ashtray. Cordelia coughs, spits the foul liquid back into the glass. Nauseated, Cordelia sets the glass down. The sob that rushes up her throat is barely muffled by the hand Cordelia clamps over her mouth. Her upper body spasms, racked with harsh sobs. Nauseated, Cordelia picks up the glass again. Over the sound of her whimpering, she never hears Fiona tiptoeing out of the room, holding her shoes in her hands. Cordelia drinks again. Fiona shuts the door quietly.