He hates her. He hates her with all the fiery passion of the Hellmouth behind him. He is the treasurer of the We-Hate-Cordelia club.
There are no words for his hate. Except, well, hate. Hate times a million, he thinks irritably, kicking his locker as he slams it shut. His well-worn trainers don't do much to shield the blow, and his eyes tear up with the sudden pain in his big toe. He limps away with as much dignity as possible. Stupid locker. Stupid school. Stupid Cordelia.
He glances sullenly at her out of the corner of his eye as she passes. Now that he thinks of it, the words painful lust also spring to mind. But he does not, will not, cannot think about that. Just one of many items on the big list of things-on-which-Xander-must-never-muse. And usually he manages not to. He's gotten almost worryingly good at pushing unbidden or unwanted thoughts to some neglected, dusty, entropying corner of his mind. It is the corner of God Cordelia's teeth are beautiful. It is the corner of The way she looked at me just then...that was not hate. It is the corner--
He cringes. Hits himself square on the forehead with his history textbook. It's the corner we are banishing for all time for a reason, he reminds himself, leaning against the wall to wait for the stars to clear from his eyes.
---
"I hate you!"
His pulse is pounding in his ears. He is telling her everything he has always wanted to, telling her off for the years of torment, the years of embarrassment she has caused him. He hopes she will go up there, he hopes that disgusting worm guy is still waiting, heprays she is utterly doomed. "I hate you!"
She is silent for a moment, dark eyes blazing, fuming. The sound of her breathing is suddenly louder than his own heartbeat. They are going to die. They are going to die and he is going to die with Cordelia and she hates him and he hates her and her cheeks are flushed pink with anger and her lips are so beautiful, her hair smells so good--
She yanks away from him. When had they started kissing? It was amazing, bliss, fireworks...He shakes his head slightly, to clear it. "We so need to get out of here."
---
He already knows she will never forgive him. Even as he signs the apology note and hands it to the florist, tells her to make sure they're delivered fresh, to make sure that every rose is perfect, he knows.
He knows what she gave up to be with him in the first place.
And he can feel, almost physically, her pain. He touches his stomach, imagines her lying, still, impaled, small and fragile and broken. He squeezes his eyes shut. The florist hands him his change.
"Make sure they're perfect," he tells her as he walks out the door.
But he already knows it's over.
end
[note: the title comes from the Tal Bachman song: She's So High. Very Xander and Cordy..