Fic: Mirror, Mirror (Sticky Extended Fairytale Remix) [BtVS/AtS; Cordelia; PG-13]
TITLE: Mirror, Mirror (Sticky Extended Fairytale Remix)
AUTHOR: Lamia Archer (carlyinrome)
SUMMARY: The answer was obvious. She didn’t need a prince or even a magic mirror to tell her.
RATING: PG-13
FANDOM: BtVS/Angel
SPOILERS: Through “You’re Welcome”
ORIGINAL STORY: Changing Perspective by sunnyd_lite
NOTES: Thank you so much hermionesviolin for a wonderful beta.
Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the fairest of them all?
As a child, Cordelia’s favorite movie had been “Snow White.” Like all American children of her generation, she’d been inundated with wide-eyed, perfectly svelte Disney princesses since leaving the cradle. And, like all apples-of-their-daddy’s-eye, she had been treated not only to the movies - in the theater, accompanied by overpriced boxes of sticky sweets, and on home video - but to all the marketing that came with them. Dolls, cartooned sheets and stationary, life-sized dresses and plastic tiaras.
But Queen C had never been a princess. Despite their beauty and connection to royalty, both of which Cordelia intrinsically knew she herself possessed, princesses were weak. They needed rescuing. Cordelia Chase did not need rescuing. She didn’t need anything from anybody, save their fear and adoration. And these were things she could craft herself, simple as spinning straw into gold.
Every day before she left her palatial home to the school she ruled, Cordelia would check her appearance in her friend, the mirror. Flawless, always. Stunning. With a wicked twist of her perfectly lined-and-lacquered lips, she would gaze into the smooth surface and whisper, “Mirror, mirror on the wall . . . who’s the fairest of them all?”
The answer was obvious. She didn’t need a prince or even a magic mirror to tell her. The magic was hers.
***
At the stroke of twelve, the spell will be broken, and everything will be as it was before.
At first, the visions just hurt. A bad migraine that a handful of aspirin would knock to oblivion. She had thought, in the first few months, that she’d grow used to them; she was tough, and she had a lifetime’s experience growing thick skin. But as the days dragged on, the pain only grew in severity. The visions literally knocked her from her feet, knocked the soundness from her flesh. It wasn’t just her head that hurt anymore: her entire body was ravaged, each vision a ten-second exorcism.
She kept her mouth tight against this secret. Angel had enough to worry about without worrying about CAT and PET scans, and . . . why did all these tests sound like animals? Whose idea was that?
Maybe she wasn’t Queen C anymore, and maybe she wore bargain basement underwear beneath her designer outfits - she had learned, in her first few weeks in Los Angeles, that not eating is not a smart thing to do - but nobody would ever see her as anything but flawless. Her manicure was always perfect, her hair and dress the latest cuts. The damn PTB were not going to shatter her façade.
It turned out the mirror was more than a tool to reaffirm her hotliness. Staring at her fragile flesh in the dimly lit glass, she scried for her strength, for the flawless beauty she knew she was. And, like magic, that girl would slowly take shape from the dark circles and limp mouth, and she could return to her friends without showing a moment of weakness. They needed her strong. Someone needed to make sure this place ran smoothly, and Angel couldn’t even balance a checkbook. Honestly. It’s just plus and minus, dumbass. In what way was he a champion?
***
The princess will not die; she will fall asleep for a hundred years, until she is awakened by the sweet kiss of a prince.
Everyone was always leaving her. This was a major stumbling block, something she couldn’t manage to spin. She was Cordelia Chase; people didn’t leave her. She left them.
Only it never quite worked like that. In high school, it had been a series of emotionless grope-fests, followed by boys flitting away to girls that would let them in somewhere other than their skirts, or . . . you know, turning into creepy cult-leaders. And Xander. Dammit. The one time she’d done the real boyfriend-girlfriend, open your heart thing, she’d gotten it stepped on. She’d never even seen it coming; she still had scars from that fall. Both kinds.
But Groo? She really hadn’t seen that coming. Groo was a champion, and . . . and she was his princess. He was puppy dog loyal to her; how could he leave her?
And oh my God, she so couldn’t be in love with Angel. Seriously. Angel. Goofy, repressed, cheap, couldn’t-work-his-voicemail Angel.
“It’s impossible,” she said.
“It’s ridiculous,” a familiar voice agreed.
“That’s right. It’s-” She looked up to the voice, and started. “Whoa.”
Sunnydale had taught her things. Some things were useful - how to be royalty, how to stake a vamp without getting ashes all over your clothes - others she'd thought she would never use again. Putting rosemary in your tea can make you invisible. Right. Who wants to be invisible? The best time for banishing is during a new moon. Who even knew the difference? The moon was never new; it was, like, really old.
Never place a mirror facing a doorway or a window; spirits like mirrors, doorways, and windows. Portals. Energy can get trapped there.
Maybe she should have listened to that one.
Cordelia stared up into her own face. Not a reflection, but . . . a Casper? Jiminy Cricket? What the hell was this, with the glowing and the being in her dining room?
“Maybe on some level I’ve always known it’s true,” the apparition offered.
“I have?” Cordy asked, misgivings instantly melting away once she realized the phantom was non-threatening, and of use to her. “It is?”
“I’m in love!”
Giddy nausea swirled in her stomach. “I am? I am . . . ! With Angel, right?”
“With Angel,” the apparition supplied happily.
“Just checking.”
Well. This was certainly better than sitting in the dark brooding over an old photograph for hours. This glowy Jiminy Cricket was pretty damn helpful. Nicely done, PTB.
“I’m scared,” the phantom Cordy continued. “But I know it’s right. I know somehow that it’s all gonna be all right.”
“It is? Really?”
The apparition vanished, leaving only the reflective surface of the window and Cordelia’s own true face staring back at her. She looked beautiful. Determined. Staring into the glass, a sense of calm seeped through her veins, cool as menthol.
“Thanks for the tip.”
***
Listen. I have my gift now.
“The Powers That Be owed me one, and I didn’t waste it. I got my guy back on track.”
She wished she could take it back. She knew this was borrowed time, that she was lucky to even have this much, but Angel looked so desolate that she wished, suddenly, that she could just go without him ever knowing.
But she couldn’t. One last gift to give.
“Cordy,” he managed finally. “There’s just-”
“We take what we can get, champ, and we do our best with it.” Her heart hurt. She didn’t think she’d be able to feel pain after . . . well, after everything, but there it was, flaring up dull and horrible in the center of her chest. Radiating everywhere. “I’ll be seeing you.”
She turned from him. She caught her reflection in the polished glass that made up the outer walls of Angel’s office. Deals with the devil. A part of her was kind of happy for him, though. He deserved a little something for once, something beyond slug-infested hotels that violated 100+ building codes, something besides tiny offices with bombs in them.
She lingered a moment on her reflection. She looked sad, but beautiful. Movie star beautiful, perfect for a spectacular exit.
It was all about the exit. She’d always known that.
“Oh, what the hell,” she said, turning and running to him. Not much time left. “One for the road?”
Kissing Angel was perfect. She was, suddenly, furious at herself for wasting all that time not doing this.
Hindsight was 20/20, though, and the topic was past moot.
The phone rang. The pain built up in her chest, snuffing out her breath, as she drew away from him. One last gift.
“You know, um . . . I don’t . . . I don’t need to get that . . .”
Angel had lost all his breath, too. A smile flickered across her face, even as her heart was breaking: she still had it. Pure magic.