#37: Champagne (Cory)
written for the hl50 challenge - cory raines.
(# 37 - champagne)
31 January 1940 - London, England:
The blackout curtains are tightly closed, and the candle-light doesn't quite penetrate the shadows in the corners of the room. There are twenty minutes left in the year, and Amanda has precious little hope that next one will be any better. She's never seen anything like the war that is currently tearing the world apart; not in all of her thousand years has she seen the globe spin so quickly into night.
Outside, the air raid siren is shrieking its last few warning notes into the night, and the first few bombs have begun to fall. She ought to be in the shelters. The death currently falling from the sky could be hers with as much ease as it could if she were mortal. Bombs do not discriminate, and she should be more careful with her life, with her quickening -- but it's New Year's Eve.
It's New Year's Eve, and she can remember a thousand parties from years past: a thousand celebrations of peace, of gratitude, of victory. There are even parties going on tonight - the invitations are on her dresser - though the celebrants are now most likely crowded into the shelters with the rest of London. It's New Year's Eve, and something in Amanda rejects any thought of hiding in a hole in the ground. In centuries past, the entire twelve-night would have been a blaze of light, of defiance bright against the darkness. Amanda lights another candle, and settles back into her chair as a nearby explosion rattles the windows.
Half a second later, she is rising to her feet as someone's presence tingles along her spine. There is a general truce between the Immortals still in London - between all the Immortals on the Allied side, reportedly - but that doesn't mean she'll sit foolishly and wait to be decapitated. Her front door opens, then closes softly.
"Who's there?" she calls, cursing internally at the semi-darkness forced upon her by the blackout restrictions. Her sword is across the room, and she's nearly reached it when she hears a man's voice from the hall.
"Dollface?"
"Cory?!" she exclaims incredulously, all thoughts of swords and challenges evaporating. "Cory? What are you doing here?"
"I came to see you," Cory says, stepping into the candle-light. He's tuxedo-clad beneath his coat and deliciously rumpled, his bow-tie hanging undone around his neck, his easy grin a reminder of better days and nights. Green eyes sparkle at her, and even another close-falling bomb doesn't shake the delight from his face. He's got one hand behind his back, but Amanda isn't worried. Cory is unpredictable in only the best of ways. "I was going to check the nearest shelter, but I felt you when I passed the house."
"How long have you been in London?" she demands. "Why are you in London? And how did you know I was here, anyway?"
"DeValicourt told me," Cory says, answering the most important question first. "As for the rest, not long. I'm getting ready to go to France." His smile widens, becomes pure, joyful mischief. "The Resistance could use someone with my skills, and I'd love to put one over on the Germans." The look he gives her from under his eyelashes is as tempting as he means it to be. "You could come with me, you know."
"Cory-"
"Later," he says. "Decide later." He crosses the distance to her, still holding one hand behind his back. Wrapping his free arm around her waist, he pulls her close for a lingering kiss hello. Twenty years have made little difference in the way their bodies meet, and she relaxes briefly into his embrace before another bomb explodes nearby, making the house rock beneath their feet.
"Whoa," Cory says. "That was a close one. I'm glad it didn't break your gift," and he brings his other hand into view. The foil on the top of the champagne bottle gleams gold in the candle-light, and when he steps back to dig two glasses out of his jacket pocket, Amanda feels the prickle of tears beneath her eyelids at the sudden, unexpected normalcy of it.
"Hold these," Cory says, handing her the glasses, and begins peeling back the foil to get at the cork.
"Where did you get champagne?" she asks. Cory looks up from the bottle in his hands and winks at her before glancing at his watch.
"One minute left," he says, and kisses her again, careful not to knock the bottle against the glasses in her hands. "Ten seconds," he says breathlessly. He lets go of her and turns his attention to the cork, counting down as he does so.
At 'five', Amanda joins in. When they reach 'one', the cork pops free of the bottle, and the closest bomb of the night sends champagne slopping over the edges of both glasses as Cory tries to pour. He fills them anyway, and takes one from her with another grin.
"Happy New Year," he says, toasting her. Their glasses clink together, loud in the silence after the explosion.
The champagne tastes like sunlight on Amanda's tongue: tastes as bright as hope; as bright as Cory's smile.
"So," he says, and kisses her: "France?"
(# 37 - champagne)
31 January 1940 - London, England:
The blackout curtains are tightly closed, and the candle-light doesn't quite penetrate the shadows in the corners of the room. There are twenty minutes left in the year, and Amanda has precious little hope that next one will be any better. She's never seen anything like the war that is currently tearing the world apart; not in all of her thousand years has she seen the globe spin so quickly into night.
Outside, the air raid siren is shrieking its last few warning notes into the night, and the first few bombs have begun to fall. She ought to be in the shelters. The death currently falling from the sky could be hers with as much ease as it could if she were mortal. Bombs do not discriminate, and she should be more careful with her life, with her quickening -- but it's New Year's Eve.
It's New Year's Eve, and she can remember a thousand parties from years past: a thousand celebrations of peace, of gratitude, of victory. There are even parties going on tonight - the invitations are on her dresser - though the celebrants are now most likely crowded into the shelters with the rest of London. It's New Year's Eve, and something in Amanda rejects any thought of hiding in a hole in the ground. In centuries past, the entire twelve-night would have been a blaze of light, of defiance bright against the darkness. Amanda lights another candle, and settles back into her chair as a nearby explosion rattles the windows.
Half a second later, she is rising to her feet as someone's presence tingles along her spine. There is a general truce between the Immortals still in London - between all the Immortals on the Allied side, reportedly - but that doesn't mean she'll sit foolishly and wait to be decapitated. Her front door opens, then closes softly.
"Who's there?" she calls, cursing internally at the semi-darkness forced upon her by the blackout restrictions. Her sword is across the room, and she's nearly reached it when she hears a man's voice from the hall.
"Dollface?"
"Cory?!" she exclaims incredulously, all thoughts of swords and challenges evaporating. "Cory? What are you doing here?"
"I came to see you," Cory says, stepping into the candle-light. He's tuxedo-clad beneath his coat and deliciously rumpled, his bow-tie hanging undone around his neck, his easy grin a reminder of better days and nights. Green eyes sparkle at her, and even another close-falling bomb doesn't shake the delight from his face. He's got one hand behind his back, but Amanda isn't worried. Cory is unpredictable in only the best of ways. "I was going to check the nearest shelter, but I felt you when I passed the house."
"How long have you been in London?" she demands. "Why are you in London? And how did you know I was here, anyway?"
"DeValicourt told me," Cory says, answering the most important question first. "As for the rest, not long. I'm getting ready to go to France." His smile widens, becomes pure, joyful mischief. "The Resistance could use someone with my skills, and I'd love to put one over on the Germans." The look he gives her from under his eyelashes is as tempting as he means it to be. "You could come with me, you know."
"Cory-"
"Later," he says. "Decide later." He crosses the distance to her, still holding one hand behind his back. Wrapping his free arm around her waist, he pulls her close for a lingering kiss hello. Twenty years have made little difference in the way their bodies meet, and she relaxes briefly into his embrace before another bomb explodes nearby, making the house rock beneath their feet.
"Whoa," Cory says. "That was a close one. I'm glad it didn't break your gift," and he brings his other hand into view. The foil on the top of the champagne bottle gleams gold in the candle-light, and when he steps back to dig two glasses out of his jacket pocket, Amanda feels the prickle of tears beneath her eyelids at the sudden, unexpected normalcy of it.
"Hold these," Cory says, handing her the glasses, and begins peeling back the foil to get at the cork.
"Where did you get champagne?" she asks. Cory looks up from the bottle in his hands and winks at her before glancing at his watch.
"One minute left," he says, and kisses her again, careful not to knock the bottle against the glasses in her hands. "Ten seconds," he says breathlessly. He lets go of her and turns his attention to the cork, counting down as he does so.
At 'five', Amanda joins in. When they reach 'one', the cork pops free of the bottle, and the closest bomb of the night sends champagne slopping over the edges of both glasses as Cory tries to pour. He fills them anyway, and takes one from her with another grin.
"Happy New Year," he says, toasting her. Their glasses clink together, loud in the silence after the explosion.
The champagne tastes like sunlight on Amanda's tongue: tastes as bright as hope; as bright as Cory's smile.
"So," he says, and kisses her: "France?"