{"id":4552,"date":"2015-07-09T11:16:27","date_gmt":"2015-07-09T10:16:27","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/goteamfiction.com\/?p=4552"},"modified":"2015-07-09T11:18:22","modified_gmt":"2015-07-09T10:18:22","slug":"washer-at-the-ford","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/goteamfiction.com\/index.php\/2015\/07\/09\/washer-at-the-ford\/","title":{"rendered":"Washer at the Ford."},"content":{"rendered":"

Title: Washer at the Ford<\/b>
\nAuthor: <\/b>LostAkasha
\nPosted: <\/b>
\nEmail<\/b><\/a>
\nRating: <\/b>
\nCategory: <\/b>Hard R
\nContent: <\/b>Cordy\/Angel
\nSummary: <\/b>“The broadsword\u2019s edge reflects the last sliver of daylight…”<\/i>
\nSpoilers: <\/b>S5
\nDisclaimer: <\/b>The characters in the Angelverse were created by Joss Whedon & David Greenwalt. No infringement is intended, no profit is made.
\nDistribution: <\/b>Just ask
\nNotes: <\/b>This ficlet takes place during You\u2019re Welcome.<\/i> It\u2019s been done many times, but I wanted to try my hand at filling in the gap from the night Cordy tells Angel \u201cThere are no people like us,\u201d to that next morning. What happened? What else did they say, or not? And what did they do? Here\u2019s my take on it all.
\nFeedback:<\/b>Pet me. I’m a whore.<\/p>\n

\n

Washer at the Ford<\/b><\/p>\n

“Maybe people like us aren’t meant to, you know, have that.”<\/p>\n

“Angel,” she insists softly, “there are no people like us.”<\/p>\n

Two hours later:<\/b><\/p>\n

A shimmering tide of raven-dark hair cascades over her back as she kneels on the grassy bank. It cloaks her as she leans over the water\u2019s edge, bent as if searching for treasure or the jewel of her reflection. Dusk begins its long, slow descent, casting vermillion shadows over her outstretched arms, turning the water the color of unshed blood.<\/i><\/p>\n

She kneels in starlight, reaches into the stream, and laughs.<\/em><\/p>\n

Light rapping on the door rouses Angel from his restless nap, and it takes him a long moment to realize that he is still seated on the pewter suede sofa, chin resting on his fist, face turned eastward, toward the Valley.<\/p>\n

Shaking off the stupor, he rises and finds that the meal Cordelia requested has arrived.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m dying for Italian\u201d she\u2019d said, rolling her eyes heavenward and reciting a litany of must-haves. \u201cRock shrimp risotto. Veal piccatta. Oh, and get some of those little meat roll things. Bracciole? Those. Don\u2019t forget the pasta. Angel hair, not fettuccine. You pick the wine. And surprise me with dessert. No boring tiramisu. You ravaged Italy, use your imagination.\u201d With that she\u2019d gone off to take a shower.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s all there, on a long cart swathed in brilliant white linen. China plates. Whisper-thin crystal goblets. Sterling chafing dishes heaped with food. Two silent W&H staffers glide in behind the wagon and follow Angel\u2019s pointed finger to the middle of the living area. When they glide out again, tables have been set, complete with low sprays of pale freesia and roses the color of a skinned knee.<\/p>\n

For the first time in years, Angel\u2019s stomach rumbles. After examining every menu item on the serving board without taking a bite, he pauses at the dessert plate, removes its ruby dome, and appraises the neat stack of miniature rum cakes it reveals. There\u2019s one on the bottom that won\u2019t disturb the symmetry of the pile, so he pops it in his mouth and lets it melt there.<\/p>\n

He knows what the ingredients are from a long-ago memory, but wonders if he is really tasting them. Egg yolks. Mascarpone. Almond. Pistachio.<\/p>\n

\u201cHoney. Definitely honey,\u201d he thinks.<\/p>\n

He realizes he can taste the rum, too, and swallows hard, drawing it from the cushion of sponge cake and custard on his tongue.<\/p>\n

\u201cWow.\u201d<\/p>\n

And she is there, in the alcove, threading her fingers through damp curls, watching him.<\/p>\n

\u201cThis is a first,\u201d she says, almost reverently. \u201cYou like pastry.\u201d<\/p>\n

Angel cannot speak. If he swallows again he will choke, or spew what\u2019s left of the silken treat all over both of them. He holds the remainder of the cake in his mouth and waits until the sight of her — in one of his black cashmere pullovers and nothing else — registers beyond his amygdala.<\/p>\n

It could take awhile.<\/p>\n

\u201cOoh, baby babas,\u201d she sighs, crossing to take a closer look at the sweets. \u201cKnew I could trust you.\u201d<\/p>\n

Three kinds<\/i>, he tries to say, but it sounds like \u201cFee kunks.\u201d<\/p>\n

Cordelia is scrutinizing a satin embossed place card. \u201cValentino. You\u2019re a lot looser with a buck now. Maybe that\u2019s something I should thank this\u2026this place for.\u201d She looks up, frowning. \u201cOr not.\u201d<\/p>\n

Angel points to one of the silver warming trays, astounded by his inability to string words to form sentences. In the fraction of a second before he speaks, he thinks, I\u2019m so tired<\/i>.<\/p>\n

\u201cThey didn\u2019t have rock shrimp tonight, so I ordered the saffron risotto instead.\u201d<\/p>\n

He doesn\u2019t pull away when Cordelia touches his outstretched palm. She laces her fingers in his, as if about to waltz. So he doesn\u2019t resist the impulse and takes her waist, lifts her slightly, leans in, and pulls her into a languid box turn.<\/p>\n

As he moves her the exhaustion vanishes. He hasn\u2019t slow danced in five years; hasn\u2019t waltzed in fifty, yet it comes back to him as though he\u2019s done it every night of his life. He lets the motion reveal one of the few sweet secrets he has left: he can dance, and dance well.<\/p>\n

She is awake and laughing in his arms. Eyes alight, smile brighter than moonlight, cheeks flushed with surprise and pleasure, and she is looking at him as though he\u2019s hung the Pleiades. In a moment of stunning clarity, Angel realizes that Cordelia is right.<\/p>\n

There are no people like them. They haven\u2019t missed the moment; they are in it.<\/p>\n

She\u2019s right, he thinks. I am a dumbass.<\/p>\n

He lifts her a little higher, locks his gaze to hers and lets himself drift in the darkness there.<\/p>\n

\u201cTa tu go halainn,\u201d he whispers, falling into his oldest habit. Forgetting he is anything other than 26, all beating heart and heated loins, forgetting that he ceased to be Liam centuries ago with death\u2019s needles sunk deep in his jugular and the unforgiving smack of cobblestones on his knees.<\/p>\n

Forgetting that there will be another moment in his brutal, endless life.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou go haul yourself,\u201d she gasps, delighted. \u201cWhat the hell is that supposed to mean? Go faster? Rent a U-Haul?\u201d<\/p>\n

It feels good to laugh, and Angel does, until Cordelia wraps her arms around his neck and kisses him, soft and honeyed and not unlike sweet dark rum. Maybe a hundred kisses follow, maybe a thousand.<\/p>\n

They don\u2019t stop to count, not even when they find themselves tangled as one on the pearl gray suede armchair, Cordelia\u2019s legs wrapped around his waist, her mouth on his neck.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat does that mean?\u201d she asks, breathless.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re beautiful,\u201d he says, and repeats the mantra again and again until he comes.<\/p>\n

They don\u2019t make love in Angel\u2019s bed until they have exhausted the other surfaces in the suite. (Out of deference to the overpriced catering they leave the dinner table undisturbed.)<\/p>\n

Once there, Angel drifts off, his cheek to her hipbone, cupping her sex with long fingers, claiming her even in sleep.<\/p>\n

The broadsword\u2019s edge reflects the last sliver of daylight, gleaming against the gathering clouds. The blade spins, then settles in the grassy bank, point buried in a thatch of silver-backed clover.<\/i><\/p>\n

Doyle kneels next to the weapon, runs a finger down the shaft, whistles through his teeth.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cSar alainn,\u201d he whispers to the washer woman, still bent over the darkening river. She raises a scrap of carnelian satin, then plunges it into the current. Doyle\u2019s eyes flash demon red as he looks at Angel, in the next instant they are quicksilver, cold.<\/em><\/p>\n

\u201cThe sexual imagery\u2019s kinda trite, with the sword and all,\u201d he confesses, reaching to touch her hair as she worries the fabric in and out of the water, against unseen rocks. \u201cBut she is magnificent. A real stiffener, like I said.\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

Angel sees the maiden from behind, sees the shadowed muscles in her back flex as she works, watches a gleaming rivulet of sweat creep down her bare back, leaving a shining trail that bisects the tattoo at the base of her spine, separating day from night.<\/em><\/p>\n

He feels himself swelling with desire, wants to surrender yet again, bury himself deep in her as she toils, wants to hold her breasts as she labors, wants to anoint his palms with the moisture that pools between them.<\/i><\/p>\n

Doyle runs the flat of his hand against the sword\u2019s blade and coats it in viscous black blood. \u201cWhy doesn\u2019t it surprise me that you\u2019d never settle for anything less than fucking the Morrigan?\u201d<\/em><\/p>\n

Angel isn\u2019t sure whose voice he hears as he escapes the dream\u2019s grip to find Cordelia settling herself down on his distended cock with a satisfied sigh. Slender fingers touch his mouth as she whispers for him to \u201cshush, baby.\u201d<\/p>\n

He obeys.<\/p>\n

\u201cToo good to waste,\u201d she moans, slipping her finger between his parted lips as he gasps, sure of nothing. \u201cToo good.\u201d
\n
\nThe washer pounds the garment against a pale granite mound. The sound it makes is like skin on skin, slapping and sighing. Angel recognizes the shirt. It was part of a too-extravagant gesture, the only way he knew to win her back. She called the clothes her \u201call-is-forgiven\u201d wardrobe.<\/i><\/p>\n

\u201cCordy,\u201d he whispers, reaching for the sodden blouse. The washer offers it to him and he realizes it drips not with water but with blood. Bile rises in his throat as he forces his eyes away from the bloodied rag to her face, ancient and terrifying. Fearsome Morrigan, come to choose the next soldier to fall.<\/em><\/p>\n

This time when he wakes, Angel is alone. Panic overwhelms every heightened preternatural sense; there is nothing he can feel but blind terror. He bounds out of the bed, senseless, and aims his sleep-weighted body toward a shaft of amber light seeping in from another room.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s not until he rounds the corner and sees his lover perched on the toilet that he realizes he is running, and he stops, gripping the rim of a marble and glass sink for balance.<\/p>\n

Cordy squints up at him from beneath tousled locks, then yawns. \u201cI need a minute,\u201d she tells him, voice echoing in the cavernous stone and glass bathroom.<\/p>\n

It occurs to Angel that he is no longer locked in a nightmare. Cordelia is very much alive, evidenced by the sound of water hitting the bowl beneath her. He scratches his head, straightens. Waits for the nausea to pass.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019m having the best pee of my life,\u201d she confesses. \u201cI love you, but I\u2019m not going to rush it.\u201d She waves a handful of toilet paper at him. \u201cTo hell with the cars and the Kandinsky, honey. They woulda had me with the super-quilted 4-ply. They probably sacrifice small virgin bunnies and spin the cotton out of their tails to make it, but\u2026\u201d<\/p>\n

Angel supports himself against the wall as the room blurs out of focus. He hears Cordy wash up, then feels her warmth as she presses against him, trailing kisses over the place where his heart once beat.<\/p>\n

\u201cBeen a long day,\u201d he says, his voice ragged.<\/p>\n

\u201cBeen a good day,\u201d she reminds him. \u201cMaybe the best.\u201d<\/p>\n

Angel\u2019s thoughts flash back to the washer at the ford, and he understands.<\/p>\n

He knows better not to promise her another day like this one. Instead, he kisses her brow and takes her to his bed, where he can watch her sleep in last the hour before dawn.<\/p>\n

~**~<\/b><\/p>\n

End note: For those who might be unfamiliar with the Celtic myths of the Morrigan, goddess of death \u2013 one of her guises is \u201cthe washer at the ford.\u201d As some legends have it, the Morrigan would appear to generals on the battlefield as a washerwoman, laundering the clothes of the next soldiers about to die in battle.<\/i><\/p>\n

LostAkasha<\/a><\/b><\/p>\n

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