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:: Five Lovers Cordelia Chase Could Have Totally Had, If She'd Wanted Them ::

written by Starlet2367 { e-mail // livejournal }

Oz – Sunnydale, CA, October 1997

“I thought you liked Devon,” Oz said, trailing kisses up her throat.

“I wanted you to think that.” Cordelia twisted her fingers in hair and tugged, pulling his head back so she could see his face. “I was playing hard to get.”

The corners of his eyes crinkled. “I’m not all that big into games.” His lips were soft, brushing the tip of her nose, her hairline. “But, hey, it all worked out anyway.”

She smiled. Oz was *totally* cute. A pint-sized lick of salty goodness. Plus, the way he worked his own style? Didn’t hurt either.

After last night’s gig, she’d finally dropped the charade and followed him into the men’s room. He’d looked surprised, then not surprised at all. When she kissed him, he took her out back to his van and they drove to some canyon off of Highway 1.

They were still parked there, the sun was rising and the air coming through the slightly open passenger-door window smelled like damp eucalyptus. She shook her hair back, satisfied by the sight of her clothes scattered around the van. She was especially pleased by the way her green silk bra hung from the neck of his bass.

Oz reached down and pulled a beer out of the cooler.

Cordelia held out her hand. “Gimme one.” The buzz from her Kahlua and cream had worn off hours before, though she had to admit, the buzz Oz left was far better.

He popped the top and handed it to her. “Last one. Let’s share.” He wore a hemp choker adorned with a puka shell and his hair stood on end, green and spiky.

She eyeballed him. “You’re really into sharing, aren’t you?”

Oz shrugged. “I like sharing. It makes the good stuff better and the bad stuff easier.”

“Uh huh.” She swigged the beer. “Well, I think it just means less for me.”

The corners of his mouth turned up as he took the beer from her. Then he tilted the bottle and dribbled a stream down the valley between her breasts.


His warm tongue lapped the cold trail, following it to her belly button.

She laughed, arching against him. “I could totally change my mind about this sharing thing, you know.”

“I thought you probably could.”


Fox Mulder – Sunnydale, May 1998

If Mom said it once, she’d said it a thousand times: if someone asks, tell them you don’t type. It was the safest way to keep from becoming a secretary. Unless you wanted to play the whole secretary-bags-rich-older-man thing, which was the only reason Cordelia had learned to type at all. You never knew what the future would bring and should cover all eventualities. That was what Dad always said.

Cordelia looked over her shoulder to make sure she was alone then sat down at the computer farthest from the library’s circulation desk. While she waited for it to boot up, she pulled out an emery board and filed a rough nail. It was good cover in case Buffy or, God forbid, Willow came in. Plus, she’d nearly run her hose on it and since they were mom’s Wolfords, and since Mom didn’t know she was wearing them, that would be a major bad.

Finally the computer came on. She tipped her nail with clear polish while listening to the modem chirp. Typing one-handed she logged into AOL. She stopped blowing her nail dry when she heard, “You’ve got mail!”

“Yes!” She glanced around, making sure she was still alone and then opened her mailbox. “Please, please, please let it be him.” When she saw the name “Fox Mulder” she did a happy little squirm in her seat.

Cordelia leaned forward, drawn into the computer by his words. “Dear Cordelia,” said the email, picking up where they’d left off. “Vampires have always been with us, in ancient myths and stories passed down from early man. From the Babylonian Ekimu to the Chinese Kuang-Shi to Motetz Dam of the Hebrews, the Mormo of ancient Greece and Rome to the more familiar Nosferatu of Transylvania.”

God, he was so smart. She loved older men. She kept reading. “Still, that leaves us in something of a quandary because there are as many different kinds of vampires as there are cultures that fear them. Some don't even subsist on blood. The Bulgarian Ubour, for example, eats only manure.”

She wrinkled her nose. Manure! Oh, well, it was probably better than the corpses they had around here 24/7. “Of course,” the email continued, “the worst thing about dealing with any kind of supernatural entity is the dry cleaning bills. Ha!”

Cordelia’s eyes widened. Could he *be* any more perfect? She hit reply and started typing, a little thrill going through her as she typed “Agent.”

“Dear Agent Mulder, ever since I saw you on Jerry Springer I knew we’d have tons to talk about. No matter what they tell you, none of that rust and blood and grime comes out. I mean, you can dry clean till Judgement Day, but you are always going to live with those stains.”

She glanced at her watch, gasped at the time, and typed faster. “It’s the same old-same old here. For her 18th birthday? The Council tried to steal Buffy’s mojo. With Watchers like that, who needs enemies? And whatever happened to good old Tiffany? Oh, well, I have to get to class. Maybe sometime you could come do one of your X-thingies on Sunnydale. I could take you to The Bronze! It’s full of demons and stuff so you’d probably like it. Plus, we have great dry cleaners here, when they survive! Sincerely, Cordelia.”

She hit send then started gathering her books for sixth period. The doors to the library swung open and Giles and Buffy came in, talking about Angel. Again. God, they so needed to get a life. It was a good thing she had enough life for all of them. What would they do without her?


Doyle – Los Angeles, December 1999

“Oh, come on, Cordelia. Cheer up. All he did was barf on your shoes.” Harry kicked her feet back on the yellow bench seat at the In-n-Out burger and threw her napkin on what was left of her chicken sandwich.

“My Prada *flats*. Which can’t be *cleaned*.” She popped a fry in her mouth and considered the last three months with Doyle. “Why do I always pick the fixer-uppers?”

Harry laughed. “It’s a bitch, isn’t it?

“Totally.” The high dose of fat wasn’t curing the blues. Maybe the donut store next door would help.

Harry patted Cordelia’s hand. “He really is sorry, you know. I spent the entire night on the phone with him.”

“You did?” Her heart rate shot up. “What’d he say?”

“He’s as pathetic as I’ve ever seen him, which, considering I knew him when he wore Members Only jackets is saying something.”

“Harry, he’s a demon. Who gets visions, which then cause him to drink until he barfs and ruins my favorite shoes. I just don’t see that changing. Do you?”

Harry sighed. “When you put it that way….”

Cordy perked up. “I could send him to AA.”

“You could.” Harry nodded. “And for you? He’d probably go.”

“But a *demon*, Harry? What if we get back together, are engaged for a year-and-a-half, have a tasteful night wedding on the beach, and in two years decide to start a family? My babies would be *demons*!”

Harry shrugged. “Sue me, but I don’t think that’s such a bad thing.”

“You’re a demonologist.”

“I also am said demon’s ex-wife, and I think you should call him.”

Cordy thought about it. “Well, the thought of calling him does make me feel better.”

“Plus, I happen to know, he got you a really gorgeous apology present.”

“Really? Is it jewelry? Chocolates?”

Harry grinned.


She handed Cordy her cell phone. “Only one way to find out.”


Angel – Los Angeles, November 2001

“Touch her again and I’ll kill you,” Angel said. He stood like a wall between Cordy and Darla, his arms crossed over his chest.

Cordy was all too happy to stand behind him. After meeting the business end of Darla’s fangs just a few hours before, all compassion for her had disappeared. Baby or no baby, if she could have gotten close enough, she’d have staked Darla, herself.

Darla laughed. “Oh, how sweet. Angel’s protecting his little girlfriend.”

Angel’s shoulders went even more rigid. “Darla—“

Cordy put her hand on his arm. “It’s okay, Angel.” She tugged his arm. “Come on.”

Darla rolled her eyes. “You are so whipped. Oh, well, you always did have a thing for brunettes. Or…was that blonds?”

Cordy gritted her teeth and hustled him out of the room.

Angel looked miserable. “I’m so sorry.” He brushed his fingers over the bandage on her throat.

“It’s not your fault.”

“It is, though. Everything is my fault.”

She rolled her eyes. “Inflation is your fault? The wreck on the 5 that made me miss last night’s Friends was your fault? The fact that I can’t afford those Cavelli jeans is your fault?” She paused for dramatic effect. “Oh, wait, maybe the last one….”

He dropped his forehead to hers. “Cordy. God, what did I do to deserve you?” His gaze homed in on her mouth. He was so close. He was getting closer. Ohshit, Angel was….

When he pulled away, her lips were tingly. Her head spun. “Wow,” she said.

He ran his lips over her eyebrows, down her nose, and back to her lips. “Yeah. Wow. I should have done that sooner.”

“You totally should have.” Her brows rose. “Also? Getting Darla pregnant? You totally *shouldn’t* have done that.”

He winced. “I’m so sorry.”

She considered his apology. “Not good enough.”

He looked pained. “It’s not?”

Cordy shook her head. “Nope. Another kiss, though? Should be a good start.”


Giles – Bath, England, May 2002

Cordelia sat at the kitchen table, yawning into her coffee.

Giles shuffled in behind her and slid his arms over her shoulders.

“Hey,” she said. “How’d you sleep?”

He rubbed his hand across her stomach. “Fine. And you?”

She leaned into him, cheek to cheek. “Fine. The herb tea really helped.” Cordelia layered her hand over Giles’, watching his fingers curl protectively over the growing mound of her belly.

“That’s good.” Giles kissed the top of her head and went for his own coffee. “What’s on your agenda today?”

She rolled her eyes. “As if you didn’t know.” The checklist in her head was still a mile long. Angel and Wesley were flying in that evening. Not to mention the fact that her dress had had to be let out. Again.

He smiled, wistfully. “I wish Buffy could be here.” It had been a year since she died. Giles didn’t talk about her often, but Cordelia knew the guilt he’d felt over not stopping her death still lingered.

She sighed. “I know.” He wasn’t the only one who missed her. There would be a Buffy-shaped hole at the wedding, for sure. On the other hand, it was Buffy’s death that had, in a roundabout way, brought them together. “Hey, I’ve been thinking. Instead of having a bride’s side and a groom’s side, we could have the brooders and the non-brooders.” She grinned.

He took the bait. “Are you calling me a brooder?”

She put her mug down on the table and stood. “If the patent leather Armanis fit….” Grabbing his hand, she started tugging him down the hall.

His eyebrows rose. “Where are we going?”

“I have a checklist, you know.”

He nodded. “And which item are we ticking off now?”

“The one marked ‘shag Giles,’ I believe.” She nuzzled the crook of his neck, slid her hands between the buttons of his Brooks Brothers pajamas.

His mouth curved. “Really? And how many times do we have to check that one off between now and tomorrow?” He took the lead, pulling her down the hall and into the bedroom.

“Mmm…. As many as we can?” She laughed as he pushed her down on the bed. “After that, we’ll be married. So we’ll have to start over.”

He peeled her nightgown down her shoulders, his face lit with joy, every shadow of darkness, death and sadness gone. “Here’s to starting over.”

Enjoy, y'all! :-)