Landslide by Misty Flores
Summary: "I liked it a lot better when I thought I was a spy. At least that almost made sense."
Spoilers: Supersymmetry, Season Four.
Notes: Special Dedication to Ness for the beta read.
I
took my love and I took it down
Climbed a mountain and
I turned around
And I saw my
reflection in a snow covered hill
Well the landslide
brought me down
--
I don't think I liked
to have my nails chipped.
It's taken me about
ten minutes to really decide that. A lot of staring, standing
naked while the hot, scalding water drips over me, dripping around my
face, down my cheeks. Droplets sting my eyes, but I'm still staring.
I was a demon hunter,
that's what Connor says. And the sidekicks, they said I was a
princess, and that green demon guy who freaked said something about having
a little demon blood (can I say `eww') in me too.
Funny. I don't feel
any of that. I should, right? Feel it? I mean, feel princess-y and
demon-y and maybe even a little demon fighter-y?
I liked it a lot
better when I thought I was a spy. At least that almost made sense. I
mean, I don't get it. I don't understand how I can be a demon fighter
and be a demon and how I can beat the crap out of hideous bumpy faced
guys and have issues with a chipped nail.
But I do. Have major
issues. With my nails. I mean, I have really nice hands. Sure, you
wouldn't see it right away if you weren't looking but I've
looked for about ten minutes, and they're seriously nice. No noticeable
callouses anywhere. The skin's soft. No hangnails to speak off. I mean,
wherever I was, I obviously had access to a manicurist. Perfectly
rounded nails, beautifully kept nails, except for the left hand,
third finger. It's chipped. It's glaring at me with its uneven
grotesque dent and I am having serious issues with it.
Still, obsessing over
it, almost tempted enough to bite at it with my teeth (and yes, I
don't think I liked to do that either) won't do much either, and
instead of trying to find a nice rub place to rub at my finger (I just know
I'll make it uneven and then just start hacking at the other
ones and ruin them all), I just lean my head back and close my
eyes.
"My name is
Cordelia Chase," I mumble softly, mulling the words, humidity of the shower
damp on my skin, "I'm a demon fighter, with really cute hands. I
like doughnuts, and shoes… and I have a chip on my nail that I
hate."
The water turns cold
and I shiver, eyes opening and glaring at the screwy faucet. I don't
think I like ghetto showers, either. Call that a given. Even now I'm
imagining a huge bathtub, porcelain maybe, with those clawed feet –
do they have clawed feet?
Yes, Cordy. That's it.
Concentrate on the IMPORTANT stuff like BATHTUBS when you
can't even remember WHO THE HELL YOU ARE.
God. I must be a
moron.
And I'm living in an
Oedipal nightmare. Don't even ASK me how I remember Oedipus when
I don't remember – other stuff, but considering the fact that I've
almost crossed lips with a father and son within the space of two days
–
I'm either a slut, a
freak – or I can blame the Greeks.
Fragile ego and
non-freakiness aside, I'm sticking with the Greeks.
The water's getting
cold. I'm starting to shiver. Hands nearly slip on the metal as I shut
off the current, grimacing slightly as I step gingerly away.
Connor's plain outta luck if he wants to shower again today.
And again with the
deep knot that twists like a knife. This is just peachy. I'm just…
PEACHY KEEN.
"Good one,
Cordelia," I mumble, still getting used to the words as they slide off my
tongue. Cordelia. Wasn't Cordelia some chick in a Shakespearean play
that like, DIED or something?
Or am I getting my
tragedies all mixed up?
"Crap," I
mutter, and at least that comes out natural. I think I must have said `crap' a
lot, because it comes out and I feel the urge to say it again.
"Crap. Crap. Crap."
Crap, because I can't
remember squat. Crap, because I'm still so scared I think I'm
going crazy. Crap, because I almost kissed a guy and then I kissed his
son and CRAP because I never meant to let anything get that far.
God. I don't need
this. Connor's towels are scratchy on my skin, and for once I like it, as
I scrub at my legs, and I scrub at my arms until they're red and
raw and I don't remember that I'm supposed to be drying not
scrubbing-
But who cares? Not
like I remember ANYTHING.
Connor's got a small
mirror in the bathroom. Nothing big, but… I suddenly find myself
wishing for the full length mirror in my room- okay, correction- NOT
my room – at Angel's big dump. I'm naked, and I don't know what I look
like naked.
I'm a woman and I've
never seen myself naked, and I have absolutely no CLUE why it's this
important but it IS. Connor's mirror is just so damned small and round
and so much is MISSING FROM IT-
I can't see a damned
thing. I can't see it and I can't see ME, and it's just Connor's
stupid small mirror that's the reason-
God. Oh, God. One
breath, two. And the mirror goes back on its hook on the peeling paint,
fingers shaking and palms careful not to break it.
Hazel eyes stare back
at me. I think that's what they are. I thought they might have been
brown, then blue, and finally I had to settle for hazel. Tired eyes,
and black roots and blonde hair, and it's wet and stringy because I
haven't blow-dried.
Wow. That's how I
would do it, then. Blow-dried. Right? Maybe?
I can't tell… the
mirror is so small, and I've got no instinct to go on. I'm living with a
boy who's a man, and I kissed him, and his father…
"Angel."
Girly name. Definitely not a girlie man. And I think I have a sense of humor,
because a smirk slides across my lips and I smile at myself. "I bet
HE saw me naked."
And then I remember I
kissed his kid and it's not so funny anymore.
I look away from the
mirror and I get dressed. Quickly.
He's out, and for the
first time since I've pushed myself into Connor's world, I feel
a sigh of relief slip through me at the realization.
This isn't safe
anymore. And I don't trust him anymore. Oh, crap. Maybe I just don't
trust myself.
And who the hell am I
anyway? Maybe I'm not even trust worthy! I'm just some girl who
gave someone flamethrowers and was a princess and kissed a kid who
kissed back-
And Angel is his
father.
He hates Angel.
And Angel and me…
I'm getting a
headache.
There's clothes still
in a big pile on the floor. The clothes Connor brought? Kinda musty.
They must have been sitting in the dusty bunny pile for a while. Not
that I don't mind washing them. I mean, hey- I can't believe that
`peasant grunge chic' was actually a STYLE, but you know – maybe it
was the princess thing.
They're waiting to be
folded, and they're going to wait a little longer, because I know
Connor brought a blow drier back with him.
My hands skim through
my wet hair as I cross the loft, taking in the bed, the table cloths,
the clothes, all so different in just a couple days. Connor was happy
with the change. I saw it, I think. Smiles and grins, and it was so
different from the scowl on his face when Angel was here.
Because he hates his
father.
Does Angel hate
Connor? I don't think so, I mean, the look he gave me when I handed him that
picture of Connor as a baby…
The pictures. None of
Angel, but I can remember HIM. The face, growly and not so growly.
Kinda goofy. Kinda broody.
It's getting chilly in
here. My shirt is clinging to me, and I have to cross my arms to
try to rub out the goosebumps on my skin as I cross the room,
suddenly staring at those pictures. I'm in some, others are just
strangers that are supposed to mean something to me.
I tacked them up with
names, and once again I repeat them, like sounding out those
syllables will help like it hasn't for the last thirty times I've done
it.
"Gunn… and
Fred…" I blink. "Who the hell named these guys? Thugs?" Shrugging, I move on
to a guy I don't know, with a kind face and a grin on him and his
glasses. Bookish. "Wesley." No one will really tell me what happened
to him, only that he's still around but not in a working capacity. We
seem close though, and I make a note to ask Angel next time I see
him…
Huh.
My eyes narrow and I
lean closer. The picture looks cropped, like someone was in it and
I or … whoever cut that out.
My parents. I linger
on that. My parents, who according to Angel, are in jail for tax
evasion. We're not close, he told me. Gently, like a band-aid.
But how do I know
that?
Well, the fact that
they didn't wonder where the hell I went for three months would
probably be a likely indication.
I bite my lip in
morose contemplation. "Score one for Bumpy Face," I whisper. "Got one
thing right."
And right here- a
little down and a little to the left, is a baby with `Connor' on it. A
baby. And I'm holding him. That's me all right. With scruffy
brown hair, I look like a reject from Annie, but I'm there, smiling a
full on Kool-Aid grin with this arm full of baby with a big forehead
and happy eyes.
How is that POSSIBLE?!
Moving forward, I yank
the picture from the wall, smoothing a finger over the edge and
turning it over. February 22th, 2002.
The math isn't that
hard to figure out. There was a calendar I found stuffed underneath
some books, and Angel told me what the date was, and that meant-
Eight months. Eight
months ago I was holding baby Connor in my arms and smiling at the
person taking this picture, and now Connor's BIG and he's definitely
not thinking of me as the girl who held him like THAT-
I'm shaking, because
the picture's starting to cloud and my eyes are starting to water, and
it falls.
I don't know who I am.
I mean… I really
don't know. I don't know anything, and I'm trying to think of it as hard as
I can and NOTHING IS COMING-
Oh, God.
I'm Cordelia Chase. I
used to work at a place called Angel Investigations, and I knew people with names like
Gunn and Fred, and there was once a baby called Connor who was
Angel's son, and Angel and I-
Was I with Angel? I…
He LOOKS at me like there was something…
Then again Connor's
looking at me like there's something…
I don't know who the
hell I am. I don't know how to deal with this. I don't know how I WOULD
deal with this and-
My hand stops at my
hair. It's damp and getting coarse and I haven't even run a comb
through it.
Yeah. I really need to
blow dry.
--
Okay, when I get my
memories back, I'm going to seriously question myself on my choice of
peasant blouses.
I look pregnant in
this.
It takes a while for
me to get that I should probably move from the small mirror set up in
the corner next to the bed. Instead, I only stare at myself, in my
long shirt, my tan skin, my dirty blonde bangs.
I don't look
twenty-two. I don't feel twenty-two. And there's a picture next to the
dresser where Connor's a baby and I'm holding him and I just…
That's ANGEL's baby.
And I get the distinct perception in the way he looks at me and the
way that everyone else LETS him, that he must have seriously had an
idea of what I look like naked.
WAS I a nun? I mean, I
wasn't a spy, but maybe I had taken some sort of crazy ass vow in
that `higher being' kick that I apparently got on. How full of myself
was I, anyway? HIGHER BEING?
My lips quirked,
expression comical in the foggy scratches of the mirror. Maybe I should
try to turn the Gunn guy into a rat. You know. Just for fun.
Then again, Angel
wouldn't probably like that.
Angel…
It's a funny thing
with amnesia, with not knowing who the hell you are and trying to
figure it out and reaching to the guy who looks like all he wants to
do is let you. You want to reach for the familiar. You look for
things and I'm not sure if they're there or not, but… I felt
something.
Enough to want to kiss
him, enough to want to try. To want to trust him, and believe him
when he said I was comfortable, happy there.
Happy. God. The last
time I felt pure happiness was the moment I had staked that damned
vampire. Stake in my hand, I was suddenly Cordelia Fucking Chase, Vampire
Slayer, and my world lit up and it all became so clear- maybe THIS
IS who I am.
And then of course I
screwed it up and the world tilted and I ended up with Connor's
kisses on my lips and my heart lurching to my stomach, and I don't
know anymore.
I don't know any more
than I did two days ago, and I'm scared. God, I'm so… damned…
SCARED.
Enough to believe that
maybe even the truth can't save me from what's coming.
I ran to protect
myself from Angel. From all the lies and all the deception, and I'm
starting to realize that the truth, radiating in Connor's dark, intense
stare, is not any more comforting. Not in the way he smiles, aching
and sweet. Not in his smoldering glances, and little boy grin.
There's a tight knot in my stomach now, a pull that's uncomfortable
and almost painful. It hasn't really left, from the moment I woke up
in a hotel with three strangers telling me who I was and what I meant
to them-
What I meant to him.
"I'm not a
spy," I whispered, pushing away from the mirror and looking at the
clothes, strewn in an untidy pile on the bed. "I'm not a demon, not a
warrior, or a princess, or a lover, or a higher being. I'm a woman who's been
seriously screwed with, and if I ever find out who did this to
me…"
My hands bury
themselves into the clothes, more questions than answers flooding
through me, and in this place, in this haven, there are no answers. The
questions just keep flooding, with new complications, and it's just…
"Suffocating…"
With a hard swallow, I glance at the bed, suddenly too small. I glance at the
room, with no curtains and no decency, and I stare once again at
the picture of the baby and me.
Something strikes
me… a thought that makes me pause. I had left a picture of Angel. With
his child. With me. And Connor had left it behind. He must have
seen it. If he had managed to grab the bras, under five boxes and
in the back, he had to have seen the picture.
But according to
Connor, there weren't any.
It's disturbing. It's
lies and disturbing, and I'm just…
I don't know who I am.
I don't know anything. I'm not getting answers here.
In my two days of
reality, my world of memories that are hazy at best, I remember what
it feels like to have your heart skip twice, what it feels like to
suck in your breath in a hasty quest to stave off the panic, and a
wrench in your throat that makes you realize nothing will be how it
was…
And you want it so
badly. I want it so badly. I want to smile like I did in those pictures,
and I want to …
"Not
exactly," he had answered. Not exactly.
There's something that
no one's telling me, and suddenly I'm just so fucking TIRED of being
protected, of being lied to. Twisted and pulled and too tired
and scared to care because it doesn't matter- something WORSE is
coming and I DON'T KNOW WHAT IT IS.
But I'm folding. I'm
okay, because I'm folding.
Maybe, I can just push
this back, you know? Maybe I can give myself a rest, and I can
just… fold these clothes like I probably did every day of my life and not
THINK about anything except this spiffy looking wannabe
dresser in the set of a couple of slabs of wood. Take a deep breath and
focus on pleats, on memorizing patterns and colors and trying to decide
what can go with what-
Until the touch of
warmth, the slide of thin arms and strong hands creeps around me and
there's hard, lean flesh pressing into me from behind.
It makes me freeze for
a second, a shiver of… I don't know… anxiety, maybe? Coursing
through me before I do that thing where I pretend to push it away. `Cause,
hey! I'm folding!
There's a whisper of
breath on my throat, an almost caress as he pulls me tighter
against him, a lover's embrace, and with a voice that's just… Connor,
he breathes against me, "How about some more training? "
There's an instant,
just an instant, where I don't want to believe it. Believe that I can
get away with not dealing with it. It's gone just as quickly, as
his fingers gently begin to massage into my stomach, and he
pressed into me-
"Then tomorrow we
can-"
Sighing or gasping, or
… something, I finally stop folding. The clothes drop, and my
hands push, and my heart thumps as I chuckle grimly, his name
tapered at the end of my sigh. "Connor…" His hands stay tangled in mine,
and when I step away, I see something in the way he looks at me.
It's more than lust. Shit. "We need to talk."
It's absolutely
amazing how this little man, who dreams of killing and murdering, can
look so young. "Okay," he answers, and it's so agreeable, hand
clutched in mine, almost smiling-
Crap.
"Okay," I
answer back, unsteady, and unsure why.
I think I've done this
a lot of times. Psuedo-break-ups or easy let downs or whatever
they're called. I had to have, because my hands are steady and firm, and
when I lead him to the bed, it's almost instinctive the way I smile gently, crookedly.
"Sit down."
And he sits, so
obediently. Connor… Damn. Two days, and a kiss and the kid would roll
over and play dead if I asked him to. This much power in so little
time. What does it say about him? What does it say about me?
Sinking down next to
him is almost surreal. It's uncomfortable, and I don't want to be doing
it. Stiff, and unnatural, I feel like I'm at a damned interview.
What the hell do I
say? Connor, about before- don't ever do it again?
It takes a deep,
unsteady breath, and I can't look at Mr. Earnest.
"About what
happened earlier…" I look, and he's not getting it. There's still the
`blank but trying to listen' face. "The…" Okay… NOT kissing because…
you're Angel's son, and to say I kissed you would make it sexual, and
even if it WAS for about a second that would just be weird, and I don't
want to say it- "Non-CPR mouth-to-mouth-"
"When you kissed
me."
Oh-kay. Great. You
caught that, didn't you?
"Right."
Okay, then. We'll just skip around the skipping around. "I shouldn't have."
And now, his face
changes. The confident, happy smile drops in an instant, and all
that's left is confusion. Things are so black and white to him. How can
that be if his father is a vampire?
"But-"
"Connor."
Honesty is a big thing with me. I kinda… figured that out. I'm guessing I'm not
the only one who needs it, and God help me, I like Connor. I like
him a lot, and the last thing I want to do is hurt this little man.
But… "I don't know who I am," I finally manage. I'm firm, and I'm
steady, and it's true. "Much less where I belong, or who with." My
eyes flicker once again to the blue, blue eyes of Connor, familiar from
when he was a baby, a child that even now I think I knew… really
well. "And there's a picture there, when you're a baby. It's only
eight months old. There's a lot I need to figure out." Not so much
a `I'm dumping you', as an `It's not you, it's me'. And it's
uncomfortable, because I can see his face. He's hearing `I'm dumping you'.
"I'm sorry," I finally whisper, gentle as I squeeze his hand, letting go just
as quickly.
It's quiet, and he's
silent, turmoil settling into a maelstrom that suddenly seems just a
little too much for me to handle.
"So, I'm gonna-"
He's up in a flash,
and eyes sparkle with unshed tears, body tense with fierce anger.
It's a Connor I've never seen, and for a moment, it scares me.
"You're going
back to HIM, aren't you?"
Him. Words mouthed in
disgust and accusation. Anger and hate, and it's just… ugly.
Poor Connor.
Strangely, its
resignation that courses through me as I finally stand, tired, and
hollow and empty. Yes, I'm going to him, I guess. Because I need to be
filled, and I think that maybe… just maybe… it's a good place to find a
piece of me that just might put another chink in my puzzle.
It's what poor Connor
can't give me, as much as he tries, and I finally don't have the
heart to tell him so. I lie to him, to protect him.
"I just need some
time to think, okay?"
As I leave, move past
him, and walk toward the door, telling myself not to look back, I
leave behind a hard and angry young man, seething and bitter, and
hurting.
I don't think I've
ever truly understood why Angel did what he did until this moment.
When the flesh pounds
into the wood, I jump slightly, pause once, close my eyes for a
second and keep walking.
I lied, to protect
him. But the lies don't make it easier.
--
Finding the Hyperion
again, walking through unfamiliar streets, and past people I don't
know, through a city that I guess is home, and strangely enough,
that's the easy part.
My steps slow, and I
stare up at that big hotel and I realize that actually finding the
courage to push inside… it's harder.
I'm tense, and there's
something inside me that feels like nervous anticipation, a
reaction that has started getting me suspicious as I linger on thoughts of
who's inside, why I'm feeling the way I do… and I need to know. I need
to know, because maybe that will fill in one chink, put me in a
place where I can come home to Connor and Angel and define one from
the other. Push them both away from me long enough to not be
scared and figure out what's coming-
What it has to do with
me.
And I want to know. I
want to understand what makes this complicated, why my hands sweat,
and why we were a `not exactly' if I wasn't a nun, and why Connor
won't bring me pictures of him.
I came in through the
garden, and the air is alive with beautiful scent of iris and
hortencias and roses. I remember the names as my fingers brush past the
petals of one hortencia, the big, beautiful flower made up of
hundreds of little ones. Like a puzzle. Each little flower, each petal
etched together certain ways to make up the whole, beautiful flower.
Little flowers that
complete the big ones.
And I know its name. I
recognize the feel, the soft velvet touch, and I love the smell as it
seeps through me. I think I loved it out here.
There's no activity in
the Hyperion. I don't have the courage to go in, not yet, and I
like it here. There's a stone bench in the center, and even though it's
cold, I sink into the seat, glancing at the garden, over grown,
and wild, and uncared for. I wonder, if I took care of it. Did I cut
the flowers? Someone had to, and it was obvious here that no one
really had.
There's a breeze in
the courtyard, and a slow, soft smile slips onto my face as I suddenly
imagine conversations that I don't remember having, laughter that
maybe slipped into this courtyard, sweetness in a family that I never
knew.
This courtyard, I
figure, this had to have been mine, with it's beautiful flowers, and
stone bench, soft and secluded and MINE.
I'm once again staring
at the hortencia when a door is pushed open, and I hear a voice
seeping from inside the big, empty lobby. There's a skip in my heart,
and an unsteady intake of breath.
It's different from
before as I walk up the steps, slowly and carefully. I notice
it. I'm not scared, but I'm anxious. I'm nervous, but I'm hopeful, and
when I push open the hotel doors to find Angel standing, almost like
a lost little boy staring up at the stairs, I can't help but smile.
The door slams behind
me, and he swivels, processes me, and suddenly, it's there. A grin
that's just wide and beautiful, and it must not be one he does often,
because this man tries to catch it, seems embarrassed, and yet,
he still smiles.
It makes my breath
catch, and I feel a little like a dork.
"Hi." `Cause
you know… that's what ALL the smart people say when they want to start a very
important conversation.
"Cordelia."
And it's weird, with
me looking down at him, and him standing in the middle of the lobby. I
remember the serenity of my garden, and I gesture behind me.
"Can we?"
There's dark softness,
where Connor must get it from, in his orbs as he stares at me for a
moment, just a moment. When I step back, he takes the step with
me, and it strikes me, how… tired he looks. His body seems weighted,
and it seems like there's actual effort when he reaches the stairs.
But I need my garden,
so I'm already moving, into it's heady scent of flowers and weeds.
The stone bench is
right where I left it, and when I settle down, he sinks down with me,
uttering this tired, long sigh that tells me… he's in pain.
It strikes me a little
harder than I want to admit, because I don't know Angel, and yet…
there's this gash on the side of his face.
My fingers slide
toward it involuntarily, instinct removing methodical
conversation from me when I try to assess the damage. "You should have someone
look at that."
When he nearly
flinches, I pause, pulling back when he offers me an uncomfortable smile
and the weirdest explanation I ever heard. "It'll be okay. Run-in with a
Voinok demon." Oh… so … a bad demon. "Turns out they have nine
lives."
There's a chuckle at
the end of his voice, and lost in my weird reaction, I can only
chuckle back, just as irrationally, sitting side by side. "Like a
cat?" I joke.
"Only less
stand-off-ish," he quips.
My hands fold into my
lap as I offer a quick smile, and the small talk descends into
silence. It's not uncomfortable… not what I felt with Connor this
afternoon but more… anticipation…
It's a little scary,
what I'm starting to want to think to be true.
I need the truth, and
so I decide, enough with the small talk. It takes a drawn-in
breath, but I find the words I almost memorized coming from me. It's a
speech, almost, but that's okay, because I need the answer.
"We were friends." He glances at me, a searching gaze. For one second
our eyes lock, and he gives me that look, the one that makes me
think that `friends' isn't what he wants to hear. As if he's holding
back words that he so badly wants to tell me, but keeps them bitten in
his mouth. Hidden from me. "I know that. Not just from the
pictures, but…" I can't finish the sentence… I don't know how. Because I
feel something? Because of how he looks at me? It's just too…
complicated. But it's there, and he knows, because he gives me that look
again, and doesn't say a word. Laconic. How am I not surprised. And I
had a point. "And I know that's why you lied before. To protect
me." Like I lied to Connor. Little Connor who tried to help me find
out who I was, and the memory brings a smile, a swell of pride.
"Well, I – I staked a vamp today."
"Connor took
you-"
NOT the point, Angel-
It takes a light smack on his arm to shut him up as I jumpstart my
sentence, cutting him off. "And what I realized is whoever I was
before, I'm still her. She didn't need protecting. And neither do
I." There's a conviction there, now. A belief that I didn't have before,
that I do now. And I'm at the precipice of a landslide, teetering
and unsure. I know what I'm going to say now. I know what I'll mean,
and I know that what he answers, it might change everything. It already
has, because I need to believe it. And whatever he answers…
My gaze is steady, my tone firm as I spell it out for him. "So
no more lies. "
He's definitely
learning. The look he gives me is almost sad, gentle, and he repeats my
words back to me, confirming them in a promise of his own. "No more
lies."
There's a small bit of
relief in me, and I think I smile just a little as I stare at
him. "Good," and suddenly I can't look at him. My peasant `make me
look pregnant' blouse is suddenly infinitely fascinating, as I
sound out my next sentence. "Because there's something I need to
know."
My name is Cordelia
Chase, and I'm at the edge of a precipice. In his eyes is my reflection,
and how he sees me, what he sees, is something I so desperately need
to believe in. I don't know what I see when I see me. I only know
that I am who he thought I was. I'm still that Cordelia. That
Cordelia, who trusted him, and cared for him and his child.
And that Cordelia
needs to know. THIS Cordelia needs to trust.
So I take a breath,
stare at him evenly, and state the words that will spark the
landslide and bury me in its wake.
"Were we in
love?"
-- So, take this love and
take it down. And if you climb a mountain and you turn around And if you see my
reflection in the snow covered hills Well the landslide brought me down.
End.
Contact
Misty Flores