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Then let not winter's ragged hand deface
In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill'd:
Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place
With beauty's treasure, ere it be self-kill'd.
Any idiot can see the newest member of Team Angel is still traumatized from spending the past few years as a cow, and under normal circumstances, Cordelia would ignore the awkward and simply bulldoze right through those walls. Except things haven't been normal since Sunnydale. At this point in her life, she's had enough demonic experiences to wonder if some wounds can ever truly heal. But really, what else is there to do? Angel's off somewhere working through Buffy death grief, and Wesley and Gunn have decided to "give Fred all the space she needs", which means engaging in male bonding rituals. And the last time she had another woman around was Harmony.
With that comforting thought in mind, she goes searching. Most of Fred's waking moments appear to be spent covering the walls of her room with treatises on life, the universe and everything. Any time she goes missing from that location, odds are she's snuck down to the kitchen, and this is no exception.
"Hi." Cordy doesn't say hey, or even look over at the frozen stick figure silhouette in front of the half-open fridge. Just waltzes in and up to the cupboards, pulls them open and stares inside in deep contemplation.
"H-hi."
An actual response. Cordy moves to quell the nascent internal crow of success. One step at a time.
"You ever notice how the more you try to fit in, the more you stand out?"
"Huh." Fred sounds less like a cat under a rocking chair. "Guess I never fit in anywhere."
Color me shocked, Cordy thinks. "Why's that?"
"Oh, you know. Too geeky for the cool kids, too smart for the stoners..." A delicate cough. "Not that I, um...but I do kinda have the munchies."
"It's from running that brain of yours non-stop," Cordelia declares. "You need to give it a rest. And I mean that literally."
Fred appears dubious. "It kept me alive."
"Overanalyzing can make you better off dead. And I say that as a former vegetable who discovered the positive power of thinking. But enough about me." Cordelia turns, hands on her hips, regarding the other woman in a new light. "Hey, here's a thought."
"Huh?" Fred's cuteness factor is naturally amplified by confusion.
"Let's make you queen for a day."
"What? Oh no, I couldn't --"
"Sure, why not? It's your turn." Cordy raises a suggestive eyebrow. "When the boys are away..."
"I -- I really don't --"
"Methinks the lady doth protest too much." Cordelia lowers herself to one knee, arms outstretched, head bowed. "What are your orders, my queen?"
She just makes it through the swinging doors, both arms loaded down with bags, before Fred pops up from behind the front desk, still clutching the crossbow Cordy left her just in case.
"Did you find everything?"
"Cool your jets, princess." Cordelia reins in her snark at the last. "This is L.A. You're just lucky the boys left the car. And that Prince Moneybags didn't put a freeze on the expense account before going walkabout."
"Lactose," Fred mumbles as they pore through the bags, setting eveything out on the counter. "Disaccharide. Splits into galactose. Contains galaxies..."
A pattern is emerging for Cordelia. Clearly, all the people she has ever loved have been complete dorks. What's more interesting to note is that this is not dependent on gender.
"Careful with that." Fred pushes her glasses back up her nose, pulls back a strand of hair. "Need rubbers --"
"I said everything, didn't I?" Cordy hands over a pair of heavy elbow-length black rubber gloves before donning her own. "You're sure we don't need goggles?"
"Just don't splash." Fred looks up with a shy grin, glasses askew. "But the goggles would look way cooler."
"You know, I think Wesley has a pair in his desk."
They look at each other and burst into giggles, which continue as they tiptoe into the back office, emerging triumphant from their rummaging. Cordy offers the goggles with a bow, and Fred accepts them with equal grace before strapping them on, stepping back and raising one arm in an imperial order.
"Pour!"
Cordy pours, and Fred stirs. Steam billows from the bowl and shrieks of laughter fill the air, until the lobby of Angel Investigations flows thick with fog. Then they throw open the veranda doors and carry their creation out to the patio, the smell of jasmine heavy in the air.
"More?"
"Yesh pleashe." Cordy shakes her head, catching a drip with her spoon. "I admit I was hoping for chocolate, but you were right. Sometimes different is better."
"Lemon ginger is always better," Fred pronounces with authority, resting her head on Cordy's shoulder as they gaze up at the stars. "As long as it's made with liquid nitrogen."
Illyria does not sleep. But on occasion, her tongue traces over her lips, remembering lemons and love.