By Minim Calibre
For ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=3){kind=small}
seriousfic in Femslash 2008. Anya/Cordelia, PG, 1182 words. Originally posted here.
“Hey, I know you.” Cordelia narrows her eyes and purses her lips, pushing herself up on her elbows from where she’s been reclining on a poolside deck chair. The hair’s longer and blonder, the fashion sense looks like it took a sharp right turn towards demented, but she never forgets a face. “You’re that ex-demon Xander took to prom. The one who sent me to bizarro Sunnydale. God, they’ll let anyone in here these days.” She makes a show of snapping her fingers, like she’s just remembered the name. “Anya, right?”
There’s a startled jump and an outburst of, “Hey! No fair! You’re not supposed to remember that! It was all undone when Giles smashed my amulet!” Not even a ‘Hi, Cordelia, how’s your death treating you?’
It figures. The first familiar person she sees in five months here in sidekick heaven, or whatever this place is, would be someone like Anya. Although if she’s honest with herself, which, when isn’t she, barring demonic influences–which were so totally not her fault–it’s good to finally see a face that’s at least a little familiar.
“Hello? Dead now? Please. I remember all the freaky alternate universes I’ve visited. I mean, normally, I’m declared royalty or get showed with love and money and all sorts of acting awards like it should be. Getting eaten by Xander and Willow’s creepy vampire twosome was pretty memorably sub-standard. So what are you doing here, anyway? I thought this place was reserved for, you know, heroes?”
“I’ll have you know, I reformed. And I was here first.” Anya pushes off her fuzzy pink bath robe and settles into the empty deck chair next to Cordelia. Her bikini is metallic, sparks of sunlight reflecting off it.
“Oh yeah? Pull the other one, why don’t you? I’ve been here for five months now, and I’ve never seen you. And believe me, I’ve seen everyone who’s ever been anyone.” It’s too bad than anyone who’s ever been anyone who’s ever been here hasn’t ever been anyone Cordelia’s known. She’d expected to see Doyle at the very least.
Anya’s face folds into a perturbed frown. “I got lost near the Hall of Champions. Talk about your overused word.”
“Please. You got lost for five months?” Cordelia’s been to the Hall of Champions dozens of times. After all, there’s a huge gold statue of her right as you enter the place. They got her nose wrong, but at least her teeth don’t look totally enormous.
“Fine. I was on probation for a year. I just got here. I was only lost for five minutes.” The huffed admission sends one blonde strand up and over, landing in front of Anya’s left eye. She brushes it off, the motion just as huffy as the words. “They had to weigh my recent heroic demise with my only slightly less recent demonic past. I expect that they had to take their time and carefully go through the paperwork while they sorted out the whole human, demon, human, demon, human, dead thing. Not that I’m bitter that they left me in the waiting room.”
Cordelia arches a brow. “Human, human and demon, ascended to some even-more-boring heaven like place, incubator for a goddess who wanted to mindwipe the world with peace, love, and happiness while she ate everyone, coma, dead. Didn’t see me having to wait in line.” Unless the coma counts, but she’s pretty sure she got the instant, all-access poolside pass.
This time, the huff sends the hair over the right eye. “At least the waiting room had interesting reading materials. Money, The Wall Street Journal, The Financial Times. There’s nothing here but smiling dead people in white robes going about their day and being content with their lots. No commerce, no money. The waiting room lied to me.”
“No malls or manicurists, either.” Cordelia sighs, putting every acting lesson she ever took into it. “What’s the modern, heroic dead girl to do in the afterlife if she can’t shop?” She snaps her fingers once again, this time to summon a strawberry daiquiri. It appears like it always does, fresh and cool, no waiter required. “Other than drink and relax, that is.”
“Wait, you just snap your fingers, and a drink appears?” Anya frowns. “Any drink you want?”
“Sheesh, did you totally skip the orientation? Yeah, any drink you want.”
“I was in a hurry! I’d been in the waiting room for a year!” Two experimental snaps, and Anya’s holding a tall, frothy mug of beer. She takes a sip. “What else?”
“What do you mean, what else?”
“If I can snap and get beer, can I snap and get a massage?”
“You can snap and feel like you’ve had a massage. You can snap and change your nail color, or your outfit–which, entre nous? You should totally do, because silver is just not your color. You get the picture: your wish is this place’s command.” Cordelia waves her hand, and the Olympic-sized pool changes to a tropical beach, complete with white sands and salty breezes. “Kinda ironic, if you think about it.”
Anya waves them back to the pool, face alight with excitement. She’s kind of cute when she’s excited, even if a Spring like her should never wear silver. “What about people? Can I summon people?”
Ouch. Cordelia hates to burst her bubble, but. “That’s kinda the fly in the whole heavenly ointment. Believe me, I’ve tried, and nada. You’re stuck with the company that shows up.” She wiggles her fingers a little, changing Anya’s swimsuit to a nice coral. That’s better.
“Oh.” It’s a sad, forlorn syllable. Anya looks down, then right back up with a glower. “Hey! You changed my suit! It looks…” the glower fades, like Cordelia knew it would. “It looks good. I’m now pleasantly peach.”
Cordelia flashes a megawatt smile. “You like? Call it my heroic deed of the day. While I’m at it, can I change your hair?”
“What’s wrong with my hair?”
“Too pale. Washes you out. I was thinking a nice light golden brown with caramel highlights. Say yes. Please?”
“Fine. I give you permission to change my hair.”
“You’ll love it.”
“I believe you.”
Cordelia leans over, closing narrow the gap between the chairs. She runs her hands over Anya’s hair, watching it change color underneath her fingertips. Anya’s hair is soft, despite the obvious bleach job that Cordelia’s in the process of undoing. Five months of strawberry daiquiris and invisible massages, but no real touching until now. So maybe she’s missed it. Her fingers glide over the last strands of hair, but don’t stop when they reach skin.
Anya gives a startled squeak, lets out a fluttery breath. “Xander often fantasized about this.”
“What, me changing your hair color?” Her fingers drift down the small of Anya’s back.
“No,” says Anya, pulling Cordelia into a pretty darned talented kiss. “This.”
“Well, duh.” Cordelia’s hand rests just above the bikini bottom’s topmost edge. “Of course he did. Wanna try out some of the specifics?”
Heaven, she thinks, just got a lot more interesting.