Title: Blue on Black (1/1)
Author: Starla (fuzzylittlepackrat@hotmail.com)
Disclaimer: Joss. Blag. Those dudes with the anvils.
Pairings: It's got C/A, B/A, B/S, though no-one is happy. It's not happy
C/A.
Distribution: Whee. Addy me up.
Spoilers: Whatever. The Gift. Pltz Grb. s6/3.
Summary: Cordelia rambles. Completely out of character,
stream-of-consciousness. It's kinda angsty.
Rating: PG or R for swearing, implications of sex, blah, blah, blah.
Feedback: No Flames. Flames bad.
--
Flashes of gold-silver-gold, endless slide of blue on black, and there we
are again, here we are again, watch us go.
If I called out your name, would you even hear my voice?
Most days, I don't think you see me, in the morning, rolling over,
patting my stomach absently before getting out of bed and into the real
world, where you don't even pretend that you love me.
Why do I put up with this? I mean, surely, if you found it so easily ((I
know it was hard, like storms and ice-diamond all mixed together, but I
want to say it was easy, because otherwise it means she's stronger than I
thought, and I don't want to think that, because I want you here.)) I
could find love too?
Why do I put up with you?
Why do you even bother?
Most days, you pretend you're fine, with your graceful-glide around the
office, and your happy-Angel eyes, and your teeth, and your smile, and
they way you have friends and family and a life that doesn't centre around
her.
Most days, it's like she never existed.
I don't really understand what happened with you two; I know she died
((decomposing skin and moldy, rotten silk, listen to her scream, scream,
scream)) and I know you saw her, and I know you pretended that it didn't
matter when she came back, but you won't tell anyone, and you won't tell
me, and I've fucked you most nights for three years now, but I don't think
I've seen real emotion in your eyes ((It's Buffy)) in years.
According to Lorne, you knew when she died. First stage of grief, denial.
According to Lorne, the screaming-screaming rage inside of you was potent
and angry and waiting to storm free, but you kept it caged inside like the
wild beast it is, and I'm not even sure if you ever let it out.
I saw her, a year ago. I saw her ((dead eyes, brittle smile, vacant soul
and shallow breath)) for coffee, with Dawn at our side, sullen and angry and
clearly completely alone.
We sat for two hours, but your name didn't come up once.
She was fucking Spike, Willow told me, screaming and crying into a
heartless telephone. She fucked Spike, and the house crashed down around
them, and
she didn't tell any of them for months, because it was ((dirty vile angry
death)) wrong, and she was numb, and did it really mean anything at all??
Angel hasn't told anyone about us. Three years and counting, and he fucks
me, and I fuck him, and sometimes I hear the demon that was inflicted upon
me screaming in my head, but I don't stop, and I don't know why.
I feel like Buffy. I feel like Spike.
One day, your heart will start thumping again, and she'll hear it. Neither
of you will say anything, but you'll know.
And if you don't get it together then, then maybe you're not the heroes I
thought you were.
It's pointless if you can't even save yourselves.
You fight, every day, and every night, fast like hummingbird wing, fist
and fangs and fury, and with every demon you slay, your blood calls for her
more. With every rip-rip-slash-tear, you long for her, but you don't know
it.
I don't know how you miss it, really.
She screamed for you, Willow told me, just once, long after Spike and I
and endless nights of sweat and seed. She screamed for Joyce ((Mommy)) and
God, and you.
((All lines are disconnected; telegram has gone black))
She got no answer. I suppose she never does, anymore.
She screamed for you, through a fog of her own creation, through soul and
bone and that thing that's not-quite-human, and no-one could help her, and
no-one could fix her, and she's very close to just slipping away again.
I think I'd blame you.
And me. And her. And life. And hate, and love,
and((lustlifelovebloodhatethrill)) the hunt.
I wish I was better friends with her. I wish I was better friends with
you.
I used to be, didn't I? Before the sweat, and the bone? I used to be your
friend, because parts of me didn't hate you for using me, and parts of you
didn't hate me for not being her, and it was all okay, and I could deal with
it.
I can't deal with this.
I don't even know where to start.
Author: Starla (fuzzylittlepackrat@hotmail.com)
Disclaimer: Joss. Blag. Those dudes with the anvils.
Pairings: It's got C/A, B/A, B/S, though no-one is happy. It's not happy
C/A.
Distribution: Whee. Addy me up.
Spoilers: Whatever. The Gift. Pltz Grb. s6/3.
Summary: Cordelia rambles. Completely out of character,
stream-of-consciousness. It's kinda angsty.
Rating: PG or R for swearing, implications of sex, blah, blah, blah.
Feedback: No Flames. Flames bad.
--
Flashes of gold-silver-gold, endless slide of blue on black, and there we
are again, here we are again, watch us go.
If I called out your name, would you even hear my voice?
Most days, I don't think you see me, in the morning, rolling over,
patting my stomach absently before getting out of bed and into the real
world, where you don't even pretend that you love me.
Why do I put up with this? I mean, surely, if you found it so easily ((I
know it was hard, like storms and ice-diamond all mixed together, but I
want to say it was easy, because otherwise it means she's stronger than I
thought, and I don't want to think that, because I want you here.)) I
could find love too?
Why do I put up with you?
Why do you even bother?
Most days, you pretend you're fine, with your graceful-glide around the
office, and your happy-Angel eyes, and your teeth, and your smile, and
they way you have friends and family and a life that doesn't centre around
her.
Most days, it's like she never existed.
I don't really understand what happened with you two; I know she died
((decomposing skin and moldy, rotten silk, listen to her scream, scream,
scream)) and I know you saw her, and I know you pretended that it didn't
matter when she came back, but you won't tell anyone, and you won't tell
me, and I've fucked you most nights for three years now, but I don't think
I've seen real emotion in your eyes ((It's Buffy)) in years.
According to Lorne, you knew when she died. First stage of grief, denial.
According to Lorne, the screaming-screaming rage inside of you was potent
and angry and waiting to storm free, but you kept it caged inside like the
wild beast it is, and I'm not even sure if you ever let it out.
I saw her, a year ago. I saw her ((dead eyes, brittle smile, vacant soul
and shallow breath)) for coffee, with Dawn at our side, sullen and angry and
clearly completely alone.
We sat for two hours, but your name didn't come up once.
She was fucking Spike, Willow told me, screaming and crying into a
heartless telephone. She fucked Spike, and the house crashed down around
them, and
she didn't tell any of them for months, because it was ((dirty vile angry
death)) wrong, and she was numb, and did it really mean anything at all??
Angel hasn't told anyone about us. Three years and counting, and he fucks
me, and I fuck him, and sometimes I hear the demon that was inflicted upon
me screaming in my head, but I don't stop, and I don't know why.
I feel like Buffy. I feel like Spike.
One day, your heart will start thumping again, and she'll hear it. Neither
of you will say anything, but you'll know.
And if you don't get it together then, then maybe you're not the heroes I
thought you were.
It's pointless if you can't even save yourselves.
You fight, every day, and every night, fast like hummingbird wing, fist
and fangs and fury, and with every demon you slay, your blood calls for her
more. With every rip-rip-slash-tear, you long for her, but you don't know
it.
I don't know how you miss it, really.
She screamed for you, Willow told me, just once, long after Spike and I
and endless nights of sweat and seed. She screamed for Joyce ((Mommy)) and
God, and you.
((All lines are disconnected; telegram has gone black))
She got no answer. I suppose she never does, anymore.
She screamed for you, through a fog of her own creation, through soul and
bone and that thing that's not-quite-human, and no-one could help her, and
no-one could fix her, and she's very close to just slipping away again.
I think I'd blame you.
And me. And her. And life. And hate, and love,
and((lustlifelovebloodhatethrill)) the hunt.
I wish I was better friends with her. I wish I was better friends with
you.
I used to be, didn't I? Before the sweat, and the bone? I used to be your
friend, because parts of me didn't hate you for using me, and parts of you
didn't hate me for not being her, and it was all okay, and I could deal with
it.
I can't deal with this.
I don't even know where to start.