Harshing the Melon
AtS season 1, post-"Parting Gifts"
Followup to Christmas 1999
Disclaimer: Joss would NEVER condone such behavior. "Don't harsh my melon" is an Alexis-ism from the commentary to "Spin the Bottle"
Description: Wes/Cordy-ish, fits in canon
Rating: PG-13; implied drug use
Cordelia came back into the living room, rubbing her hands together in an efficient, Mary Poppins-ish manner. "Angel is nestled, all snug in my bed." She looked down at where Wesley sprawled over her sofa. "I guess you and me get the couch and the floor."
Wesley started to push himself to his feet. "No no, I can get myself home." He immediately sunk down again. "Oh, nice couch." He rolled his shoulders back into the upholstery and closed his eyes. "Pretty couch. It turns out, I'm quite happy here." He squinted up at her. "Angel seemed happy. Not i too /i happy?"
She shook her head and sank into the cushion beside him. "He's just right. Exactly enough paranoia to counteract the buzz. Now if somebody ever gave him some ecstasy." When Wesley looked up at her, hopeful, she said. "No, I don't have any, and you are setting. . ." She tapped her fingers lightly on the side of his face to emphasize each word. ". . . a very bad example for the little slayerlings." She bent down to examine his cheek. "Do you have dimples? Why did you never tell me you had dimples?"
"They're new," he said solemnly. "I got them just for you. I heard you liked them." They both dissolved into giggles.
Then her mouth lowered just a little, and his rose, and neither could say exactly who started it, but their lips were meeting again, and this time it was soft and warm, teasing and ticklish, and they were both a little sorry when Cordelia's head rose and his sank, and she said, "Didn't we both decide -- mutually decide with the mutuality -- not to take things in this direction?"
"Right," he said softly. "You're absolutely right." She raised her head, then slouched back on the cushion. Wesley sat up, rolled his shoulders around, pressed a hand to his temples, and then sunk down into the sofa beside her, leaving a tasteful space between their shoulders. Then he took a long look at her, pressed his lips together, and said, "Remind me, why was that again?"
"Well, remember," she said, "How you're really old, and a bad kisser?"
"Hold on!" Wesley yelped. "I'm sure it had a little to do with your charming personality, as well."
Cordelia held his gaze for a moment, then started laughing again.
"Oh, that was meant to be a joke?" He glared at her, then pronounced, "Hilarious." Then they both laughed softly, until Cordelia put a hand over his.
"You've done this before," she asked him, "Right?"
"Oh yes," he said. "I mean, sort of. Once. There was a girl in Oxford and. . .well, honestly, I'm not sure exactly what it was we did, but that's a night I'll never forget."
"Hey! Eww! TMI!" Cordy held up a hand. "I was talking about drugs."
"I was too." Wes frowned and looked at her. "What did you think I meant?"
Cordy shook her head and said, hastily. "Never mind. I have thought about this a lot. And the two of us definitely make more sense as friends."
"Right," he nodded, "Friends," then suddenly turned a serious eye on her. "Do you really," he began timidly, then stammered, "Do you really think we're friends?" Then he looked away, slammed his head back onto the cushion and said to the ceiling, "No, of course, that's just the thing women say to men they don't care to kiss." He groaned. "This conversation is totally harshing my melon."
"Hey!" Cordy punched his shoulder so that he had to look at her. "First thing, buck up. I'm sure you have a lot of friends."
"You mean the ones who wouldn't fly me back to England, or the ones who wouldn't have me for Christmas?" He shook his head. "It's so easy for you. Miss Popularity. You wouldn't understand."
"Yes," she said, "I'm spending Christmas with a vampire and fired watcher, and crank calling my exes and their slutty girlfriends, because I'm busting out with the popular kids wanting to hang with me." She leveled her gaze and pointed at him. "So don't try to tell me who my friends are. You are one, buddy, whether you like it or not. You've always been nice to me, you've actually listened to my opinions about stuff. You're practically the only person in Sunnydale who paid more attention to me than to Buffy. Of course," she mused. "It was part of your job to pay attention to Buffy, so maybe that has something to do with you getting fired? If you look at it that way, it's almost like you sacrificed your sacred duty for the sake of our friendship."
"Right --" said Wesley. "If you look at it in a certain light. And you squint. And you're slightly insane." He smiled and patted her shoulder. "All right then, for the sake of your friendship? I'll take it. Really, knowing that you think of that way is much better than just kissing you."
Cordelia nodded. "Uh-huh." Then she scowled. "Better than --? Wait a minute." She grabbed his chin, leaned in, and planted a hard kiss on his mouth. Their lips touched and their tongues pushed against each other, and Cordy thought it was like kissing her brother if she'd had one and Wesley thought it was a little like sucking on a really slimy vacuum tube. They both pulled out of it at once. "This still isn't working," she said.
He shook his head, and admitted, "Me neither. And this at a moment --" He pointed at her stereo, which had been playing the song i Satellite /i on repeat for the past forty minutes. "When I'm altered enough to think the Dave Matthews Band might have been a good idea."
"Maybe it's a sense of smell thing? You know, like with dogs?" Wesley started to sniff his shirt collar and she said, "Not that you smell bad. Actually, kind of a . . ." she sniffed, "Mincemeat and cannabis thing going. It ought to be up my alley, but," she shrugged, "It's the way it goes sometimes."
"I think you're very pretty," he sighed.
"Oh, yeah," she said, "Me, you too. Just. . ." She frowned. "What's wrong with the Dave Matthews Band?"
"Other than everything?"
"Excuse me, Mr. 'Do you have any Cat Stevens.'?"
"The man was a genius. A real poet. Not that I would expect an American to understand." Now he frowned. "Did you just call me pretty?"
"It's the dimples," she answered. Pinching his cheek, whispered in his ear, "Do you realize you accused me of harshing your melon?"
"What? When?"
"Just now."
"I did not."
"Whatever. Reminds me though. I have some canteloupe in the fridge."
"Oh," he said, "For some reason, that sounds really good right now. Also chocolate."
"Pickles."
"Kippers."
"What?"
"Sardines?"
"What???"
"Let's just raid the fridge, then," he suggested.
"Right," she said, "Any minute. Let us never speak of this night again."
"Any minute," he said. But within that minute, they settled against each other on Cordelia's sofa, breathing slowly and contented in sleep.
And they never spoke of it again.