Summary: There’s nothing like dancing with Cordelia
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Notes: Just something I wrote off the top of my head.
Dancing with Cordelia is like nothing he’s ever done before.
Not like dancing with Darla through the devastation of a night’s entertainment.
Not like dancing Drusilla away from Spike, listening to the music of his unspoken, helpless fury.
Not like dancing with Buffy at her prom, when the bittersweet rose up to choke off his words, his regrets, his sorrow.
It’s the press of her hips against his thighs.
It’s the thump-thump beat of her heart against his chest.
The feel of her hand in his, softly there, and reassuring.
The scent of her hair as he dips his head low.
Her stifled giggle as she bites her lower lip.
The peek of her hazel eyes beneath her curling lashes.
The sound her stockings make as her legs brush against her dress, like a whisper and a promise for him alone.
It’s the darkness of Caritas, and the music that holds them in a bubble where nothing else exists – not her visions, not his hopeless redemption, not the reality of a curse.
It’s the sound of her sigh when he lowers his head and takes in the damp heat of her kiss.
When the dirt hits the coffin, the music stops.
He opens his eyes, and the lights go on.
He looks down, and his arms are empty.
He never got to dance with her.
In other news, I had a mild fangirl squeeing incident today. While on the phone with a customer, I made a mild reference to our choice of hold music (show tunes), which lead to her telling me she liked Phantom of the Opera and I replied I loved Phantom and then she replied she adored Phantom, which led to me letting my inner fangirl peek out, and before you know it, we were squeeing back and forth over the play, the movie and how Eric was just a big ole' woobie who got put in a cage and no wonder he was mad at the world.
Really cushioned the blow of having to tell her one of her jobs didn't ship on time.