Prompt 108 Fic: Reflection
Title: Reflection (riding shallow glass to an epiphany horizon)
Author: ubiquirk
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 1600
Character: Cordelia
Prompt: 108: Cordelia
AN: Set during “That Vision Thing.” Originally written for fall_for_cordy. Lots of thanks to firefly_124 for betaing. [I still love you, still_grrr, I just haven't been able to write anything lately.]
It takes pain, teeth-grinding pain worse than even the headaches have been, to make you truly look at your reflection for the first time in … well, a long time.
When did the mirror stop being your best friend?
~
You apply your MAC lipstick precisely with a small brush that costs way more than the Kmart dress on the girl beside you. You’d say something, but she’s such a nobody it’s not worth the effort - even smirking would mess up the line of your lips and take away from what you’re doing.
Aphrodisia bursts through the Bronze’s restroom door and beams at you in the mirror. The girl always gets excited at the scent of rumor blood. “Oh, my god, Cordelia! Is it true? Is the new girl really some freakazoid?”
Turning to the reject on your right, who’s still trying to do, well, something with her hair, you say, “Do you really think poking at it any longer is going to make it miraculously better? Trust me - it so isn’t.” A flick of your wrist shoos her away so that Aphrodisia can lean in beside you.
You keep applying lipstick, the dark currant spreading in small strokes to flawlessly compliment your complexion. Your eyes flicker sideways to where Aphrodisia’s hot-pink mouth puckers in the glass, and you wonder when to let her know that you consider switching to spring shades in January gauche. You decide to hold off for a few days - it’s more important to confront the Buffy issue with a fully united front.
Even so, you keep her hopping - literally, Aphrodisia bounces on her toes - while you put away the tube and brush to pull out a blotting sheet. No shudder-inducing toilet paper for you, this stuff came all the way from Tokyo. Your lips curl around it, and you pout into the glass as you pull the reddened slip away.
Perfect.
Only then do you look over in the mirror. Showtime. Your eyes widen for effect. “You would not believe it. Here I was, walking down the hall to the restroom, and Buffy comes running at me with this … this …”
You flutter your hands in the air, and your audience stands captivated, mouth slightly open, eyes following your every move.
“I don’t know - like a wooden knife or something!”
Aphrodisia’s gasp fills your ears as you smirk into the glass.
Oh, yeah. You know exactly how to play this one.
~
Purple bruises the flesh under your eyes - that new Benefit concealer In Style raved about not able to handle what you’re throwing at it these days. It didn’t register when you made yourself up this morning - but really, you’ve been able to put your face on without paying attention for years - and you wonder how long you’ve looked this … well, strung out might be the kindest phrase.
You remember eviscerating other women for less, tongue sharp and precise. You were rarely kind.
{evisceration a distinct possibility if the cuts on your stomach had been any deeper, if you hadn’t fallen back quite so quickly, though the pain seems to drag something bleeding from deep within you nonetheless}
~
When you get to the party, you quickly dive into the bathroom to take one last look in the mirror: dress - check, hair - check, make-up - check. Everything appears perfect.
You smile and tell your reflected self, “You’re a star, Cordelia Chase. And any day now, you’re going to be discovered!”
The wine-colored dress remains the only nice thing you own, and you hope the color and cut stays current for this season. It might work even if it technically goes a little out of style - after all, the straps are thin and the cleavage potential is high. You’re fairly certain after talking to a few producers that most of them don’t notice such things as much as the hopeful young women circling them.
Yet even your quick walk from the door showed that Suzie’s wearing an amazing dress tonight - a pale-green sheath straight from the collection Gucci debuted on the Paris catwalk just last week.
Although you noticed it hugs the redhead’s curves a little too tightly.
You cock an eyebrow in practiced disdain, but can’t maintain it. Truth be told, the only reason you got invited to this Hollywood party is because of Suzie, meaning you owe her. And something more than bitchiness.
So you practice your warmest smile in the cool glass and double-check everything yet again.
You’re still perfect.
Someone’s going to realize it soon.
~
The top’s cute, you think, plucking at the little bow that hits perfectly to show off your cleavage. But cute always functioned as a four-lettered word in your private vocabulary, a sly way to cut something down that the other person didn’t always realize, and if they didn’t, it only made it even funnier, even sweeter.
It’s kind of frizzy around the edges and exceedingly last season, even if you ignore the fact that it’s not only not designer but also not even a good designer knock-off. And since when are you trying for Juicy Couture instead of Prada?
~
Fred shifts awkwardly, feet turned in and a bit knock-kneed, in front of the store’s three-way mirror just outside the secondary dressing room you cajoled the clerk into opening for you. She tugs the baby-doll t-shirt down, yet it slides back up to show a faint half-inch of skin as soon as she releases it.
You walk up and stop the cycle of tug, slide up, tug, slide up by placing a hand on her arm just as she reaches for cloth again. “That’s how it’s supposed to look, jeans kinda low-rise and shirts a little short. You’ll get used to it.”
The glass reflects her quick little moue of distaste or disbelief - you’re not completely sure you know how to read Fred yet, or more accurately, that Fred’s facial expressions always correspond to the emotion you’d expect.
“Trust me,” you say, catching her reflected eye. “Guys are going to love it.”
“Really?” Her smile, though, could never be interpreted as anything but joy, transforming her face from pretty to dazzling with its intensity. She won’t need much makeup, you realize, only more reasons to smile.
“Really. I’m an expert.” You make your voice firm and cock an authoritative eyebrow even as you grin. “Now try these on.” You hand her the stack of things you’ve picked out - she’s not comfortable around the other shoppers in the American Eagle store - and give her a little push towards the dressing room.
Fred turns, pausing on the threshold. “What about you? I thought we were going shopping for both of us?”
“Oh.” You wave an airy hand. “I didn’t see anything I liked this time.”
Relief flashes across her face as she closes the door, and your conscience gives nary a twinge that you’ve just told a little white lie. There’s a tangerine sundress with thick halter straps you’re dying to get your hands on, but staying with Fred’s more important. The girl’s worn animal skins for five years, so she deserves some real clothes, and you figure a little handholding, and a five-taco incentive, on your part isn’t that much to give. Besides, it also means she’ll stop borrowing yours.
She comes out in the adorable little red blouse covered with small white flowers. Her hand runs over the front as she looks at herself in the mirror, and Fred’s shoulders unhunch as she stands a little straighter.
“That looks great!” You come up behind her and lift her thick hair, noting that the Aussie Miracle conditioner you gave her has made it soft and shiny, before looking up to see the effect in the mirror. It’s good, very good. “And if you wear your hair up with that scoop cut, it’ll really show off how nice and long your neck is.”
There’s that megawatt smile again.
When you two laugh, your voices echo off of glass, returning to fill your ears with delight.
~
And your hair. Your hair! An up-do is supposed to be elegant, not a cop-out to avoid styling. Raising a hand to brush back bangs stuck to the sweat of your cheek makes your shoulder flare, and you finally admit to yourself that the only reason you’re actually staring at your reflection so intently is because it’s better than finally looking at your back and admitting …
{skin sliced open in long gashes that bleed a red that drips from you in worry and pain, and you fight the uncontrollable giggles of hysteria trying to push from your throat at the thought that there is something worse than the headaches, even as you realize the red … the red is the brightest color you’ve worn in ages}
… that you now have things to focus on that have nothing to do with makeup and clothes and hair, that the migraines are horrible and you’re scared, that none of that is going to stop you.
The knocking and voices raised in concern are nice but so not helping your headache. After swallowing some aspirin, you shrug back into your top and placate Angel to buy a few more moments alone.
The ceramic of the sink presses cool against your palms as you lean your weight upon it, and you practice not wincing as wounds stretch and contract. You’ll need to keep your eyes from narrowing and your lips from pursing.
Straightening, you leave the bathroom to rejoin your friends in the search for the demon.
The mirror sits empty behind you, cold and shallow.
Author: ubiquirk
Rating: PG13
Word Count: 1600
Character: Cordelia
Prompt: 108: Cordelia
AN: Set during “That Vision Thing.” Originally written for fall_for_cordy. Lots of thanks to firefly_124 for betaing. [I still love you, still_grrr, I just haven't been able to write anything lately.]
It takes pain, teeth-grinding pain worse than even the headaches have been, to make you truly look at your reflection for the first time in … well, a long time.
When did the mirror stop being your best friend?
~
You apply your MAC lipstick precisely with a small brush that costs way more than the Kmart dress on the girl beside you. You’d say something, but she’s such a nobody it’s not worth the effort - even smirking would mess up the line of your lips and take away from what you’re doing.
Aphrodisia bursts through the Bronze’s restroom door and beams at you in the mirror. The girl always gets excited at the scent of rumor blood. “Oh, my god, Cordelia! Is it true? Is the new girl really some freakazoid?”
Turning to the reject on your right, who’s still trying to do, well, something with her hair, you say, “Do you really think poking at it any longer is going to make it miraculously better? Trust me - it so isn’t.” A flick of your wrist shoos her away so that Aphrodisia can lean in beside you.
You keep applying lipstick, the dark currant spreading in small strokes to flawlessly compliment your complexion. Your eyes flicker sideways to where Aphrodisia’s hot-pink mouth puckers in the glass, and you wonder when to let her know that you consider switching to spring shades in January gauche. You decide to hold off for a few days - it’s more important to confront the Buffy issue with a fully united front.
Even so, you keep her hopping - literally, Aphrodisia bounces on her toes - while you put away the tube and brush to pull out a blotting sheet. No shudder-inducing toilet paper for you, this stuff came all the way from Tokyo. Your lips curl around it, and you pout into the glass as you pull the reddened slip away.
Perfect.
Only then do you look over in the mirror. Showtime. Your eyes widen for effect. “You would not believe it. Here I was, walking down the hall to the restroom, and Buffy comes running at me with this … this …”
You flutter your hands in the air, and your audience stands captivated, mouth slightly open, eyes following your every move.
“I don’t know - like a wooden knife or something!”
Aphrodisia’s gasp fills your ears as you smirk into the glass.
Oh, yeah. You know exactly how to play this one.
~
Purple bruises the flesh under your eyes - that new Benefit concealer In Style raved about not able to handle what you’re throwing at it these days. It didn’t register when you made yourself up this morning - but really, you’ve been able to put your face on without paying attention for years - and you wonder how long you’ve looked this … well, strung out might be the kindest phrase.
You remember eviscerating other women for less, tongue sharp and precise. You were rarely kind.
{evisceration a distinct possibility if the cuts on your stomach had been any deeper, if you hadn’t fallen back quite so quickly, though the pain seems to drag something bleeding from deep within you nonetheless}
~
When you get to the party, you quickly dive into the bathroom to take one last look in the mirror: dress - check, hair - check, make-up - check. Everything appears perfect.
You smile and tell your reflected self, “You’re a star, Cordelia Chase. And any day now, you’re going to be discovered!”
The wine-colored dress remains the only nice thing you own, and you hope the color and cut stays current for this season. It might work even if it technically goes a little out of style - after all, the straps are thin and the cleavage potential is high. You’re fairly certain after talking to a few producers that most of them don’t notice such things as much as the hopeful young women circling them.
Yet even your quick walk from the door showed that Suzie’s wearing an amazing dress tonight - a pale-green sheath straight from the collection Gucci debuted on the Paris catwalk just last week.
Although you noticed it hugs the redhead’s curves a little too tightly.
You cock an eyebrow in practiced disdain, but can’t maintain it. Truth be told, the only reason you got invited to this Hollywood party is because of Suzie, meaning you owe her. And something more than bitchiness.
So you practice your warmest smile in the cool glass and double-check everything yet again.
You’re still perfect.
Someone’s going to realize it soon.
~
The top’s cute, you think, plucking at the little bow that hits perfectly to show off your cleavage. But cute always functioned as a four-lettered word in your private vocabulary, a sly way to cut something down that the other person didn’t always realize, and if they didn’t, it only made it even funnier, even sweeter.
It’s kind of frizzy around the edges and exceedingly last season, even if you ignore the fact that it’s not only not designer but also not even a good designer knock-off. And since when are you trying for Juicy Couture instead of Prada?
~
Fred shifts awkwardly, feet turned in and a bit knock-kneed, in front of the store’s three-way mirror just outside the secondary dressing room you cajoled the clerk into opening for you. She tugs the baby-doll t-shirt down, yet it slides back up to show a faint half-inch of skin as soon as she releases it.
You walk up and stop the cycle of tug, slide up, tug, slide up by placing a hand on her arm just as she reaches for cloth again. “That’s how it’s supposed to look, jeans kinda low-rise and shirts a little short. You’ll get used to it.”
The glass reflects her quick little moue of distaste or disbelief - you’re not completely sure you know how to read Fred yet, or more accurately, that Fred’s facial expressions always correspond to the emotion you’d expect.
“Trust me,” you say, catching her reflected eye. “Guys are going to love it.”
“Really?” Her smile, though, could never be interpreted as anything but joy, transforming her face from pretty to dazzling with its intensity. She won’t need much makeup, you realize, only more reasons to smile.
“Really. I’m an expert.” You make your voice firm and cock an authoritative eyebrow even as you grin. “Now try these on.” You hand her the stack of things you’ve picked out - she’s not comfortable around the other shoppers in the American Eagle store - and give her a little push towards the dressing room.
Fred turns, pausing on the threshold. “What about you? I thought we were going shopping for both of us?”
“Oh.” You wave an airy hand. “I didn’t see anything I liked this time.”
Relief flashes across her face as she closes the door, and your conscience gives nary a twinge that you’ve just told a little white lie. There’s a tangerine sundress with thick halter straps you’re dying to get your hands on, but staying with Fred’s more important. The girl’s worn animal skins for five years, so she deserves some real clothes, and you figure a little handholding, and a five-taco incentive, on your part isn’t that much to give. Besides, it also means she’ll stop borrowing yours.
She comes out in the adorable little red blouse covered with small white flowers. Her hand runs over the front as she looks at herself in the mirror, and Fred’s shoulders unhunch as she stands a little straighter.
“That looks great!” You come up behind her and lift her thick hair, noting that the Aussie Miracle conditioner you gave her has made it soft and shiny, before looking up to see the effect in the mirror. It’s good, very good. “And if you wear your hair up with that scoop cut, it’ll really show off how nice and long your neck is.”
There’s that megawatt smile again.
When you two laugh, your voices echo off of glass, returning to fill your ears with delight.
~
And your hair. Your hair! An up-do is supposed to be elegant, not a cop-out to avoid styling. Raising a hand to brush back bangs stuck to the sweat of your cheek makes your shoulder flare, and you finally admit to yourself that the only reason you’re actually staring at your reflection so intently is because it’s better than finally looking at your back and admitting …
{skin sliced open in long gashes that bleed a red that drips from you in worry and pain, and you fight the uncontrollable giggles of hysteria trying to push from your throat at the thought that there is something worse than the headaches, even as you realize the red … the red is the brightest color you’ve worn in ages}
… that you now have things to focus on that have nothing to do with makeup and clothes and hair, that the migraines are horrible and you’re scared, that none of that is going to stop you.
The knocking and voices raised in concern are nice but so not helping your headache. After swallowing some aspirin, you shrug back into your top and placate Angel to buy a few more moments alone.
The ceramic of the sink presses cool against your palms as you lean your weight upon it, and you practice not wincing as wounds stretch and contract. You’ll need to keep your eyes from narrowing and your lips from pursing.
Straightening, you leave the bathroom to rejoin your friends in the search for the demon.
The mirror sits empty behind you, cold and shallow.