Chapter Text
Cordelia can already tell that the blond woman who walked into April Fools was her next client. Jimmy Choos and a red sheath dress and a vintage Hermes scarf? Money. Cordelia glided up to her, her business card hidden in her palm, gold print on thick eggshell cardstock.
The woman, rolling her eyes at the spring collection, eyed Cordelia with the haughty disdain of any queen bitch. Cordelia would know.
She made the bright salesgirl small talk while sliding the card into the women’s hand, emphasizing to please let her know if she needed any help.
The wide smile of the women was almost predatory. Had Cordelia not spent the last five years dealing with Sunnydale weirdness, she may have felt cowed.
Of course, the woman called, requesting a consultation the following Wednesday at 8 pm sharp.
Which meant a trip to Restfield after her shift. Just because Buffy and the rest were disgusted by Spike doesn’t mean she was. The stalker stuff was gross; someone as old as him really should act like an adult and not some lovesick high school loser sniffing the cheerleader’s shorts after practice.
But he wasn’t acting all evil anymore, and women without superpowers working nights in Sunnydale needed some protection. Plus, he had a vintage car that, washed and waxed, made her look elegant and rich, getting out of with her client’s purchase over her arms. She paid him 15% of her profits, and he kept the bite-happy residents of Sunnydale from snacking on her neck.
And if he recommended a woman or two that were not exactly human, well, demon gold was still money.
He drove her one-handed to Glory’s penthouse in Sunnydale Park, the neighborhood she used to live in. They were on the opposite end of the neighborhood where her old house was, but it still ached that this was no longer her home.
“One day, I’m going to live here again. In a penthouse with a panoramic view of the city and a closet full of designer clothing.”
“Why wait? Could always wait for one of them to get eaten and move right in. ” Spike was drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. Her third rule for him was no smoking on the job, and it made him spaz harder than usual.
“Gross Spike. I’m not squatting in a dead person’s home. I want it legal and above board.” Watching the IRS take her entire life had taught her that besides the demon gold, which she could exchange for cash at the liquor store near the docks, everything about her business was legit.
“Where is the fun in that, Cheerleader?” He smirked at her as if he could get a rise out of her.
She ignored him, watching the elegant houses with perfect manicure landscapes and expensive cars in the driveway pass by. They idled at the corner of Wilkin’s Drive and Wistera, next to the Grecian-style mansion where Abby Michaels had invited all the popular girls in middle school for sleepovers before her parents wised up and moved to LA.
“I’m tired of being poor.”
He made a grunt of disbelief. “Got a place of your own and this nice little gig. Could be worse.”
“You’re right. I could be living in a dank dark crypt pining after my mortal enemy.” Spike turned to glare at her, but he was as scary as a wet kitten. What did he expect? Cordelia was the one who listened to Harmony cry over him on three different occasions. He deserved her sharp tongue.
He knew it too; his cheek muscle twitched as he clenched his jaw.
Turning back to the street, she directed him to park behind the Halesworth. The building was one of her father’s deals, built when she was 12. It was different from the other surrounding condos, the architect out of New York and inspired by the modern tradition. She slung the garment bag over one arm and walked up the sidewalk to the front door, Spike trailing behind her.
In the elevator, she smoothed down her skirt and checked her makeup in the reflection of the elevator doors.
“Ms. King’s new to town, and I don’t know how much she knows about all the Hellmouth stuff. Could you wait in the hallway?”
“Can’t help you if I don’t have an invitation,” he grumbled, fiddling with a button of the black blazer she also insisted he wore. Like the car, Spike cleaned up nice, even if his hair was atrocious.
“Neither of us gets paid if she sees that my assistant has no reflection,” she said.
“Better a lesson from me than some blighter tryin’ to kill her,” A cheery look crossed his face, and she hit him in the side with her clutch.
“No! Do not say whatever weird vampire-y thing you were about to say, or I might hurl on your boots.” Not that she would, it would take more than one of Spike’s stories about eating people around the world with his weirdo ex to make her sick. She had, once upon a time, kissed Xander Harris.
--
Spike stared at her while she flirted with Ben the med student who, for some reason, was shirtless and nervous. He all but shoved her and Spike out the door. He probably needed to go to the hospital to like, save kids with cancer or something.
In the reflection of the elevator doors, she checked her hair, still perfect. Maybe he’d ask Glory for her number. Turning back to Spike, she paused at his focused look, the familiar intensity of a vampire dusting off his five brain cells.
“What? Just because you can’t keep a date doesn’t mean all of us can’t.”
“Like I care, Pet. Ben is Glory. They’re sharing one body.”
“I know they’re sharing the apartment, I think he’s her brother or something.” None of her other clients had hot brothers who were hopefully single.
Spike dragged her out of the elevator. “Are you fucking stoned? Glory just turned into Ben right in front of your eyes.”
“He’s very easy on the eyes. I hope Glory reschedules so I have time to get her alterations in. She has some big event in May.”
Spike grabbed her shoulders and shoved her against the passenger door, not hard enough to hurt either of them, just to get her attention. He’s stared into her eyes, and yeah, he does have very pretty eyes and those killer cheekbones. Totally understandable why Harmany would keep taking him back even when he was a total jerk to her.
“You really didn’t see it?” He said softly.
“Her leave? No, have you seen that apartment? Pretty sure you could murder someone in the master bedroom and not hear a thing in the living room.” Spike kept staring at her, taking unnecessary deep breaths.
“What’s your deal? Is it like a full moon?”
“Not a werewolf, Cheerleader,” he said, but let her go. He was freakishly silent on the drive back to her shitty apartment. She was on the sidewalk with her keys in hand when Spike called her name. Not Cheerleader or Veronica or Pet or any of his weird nicknames.
“Cordelia.”
She fully turned around to face Spike. He had both hands on the wheel, staring down the empty street.
“Don’t go back without me. I don’t care what she needs or how much she offers. Don't go alone to her.”
Not until Cordelia was in her apartment, sitting in the too-shallow bathtub, that she let Spike’s words sink in. They were business partners and maybe even sometimes friends. She trusted his instincts. She’d seen him angry, drunk, depressed, annoyed, half-starved, gloating, happy, and because of Willow’s stupid spell, sickeningly in love.
But not afraid, not like this.
---
She had other clients of course, and she still helped with the ongoing weirdness that was Sunnydale. With Harmony in LA, she invited Anya to her pedicure and romcom nights. It was fun in a different way, with Anya commenting on how she would punish all the terrible men in great detail. But Anya also brought over excellent demon wine and a candidness Cordelia appreciated. Being friends with your ex’s girlfriend felt very romcom, but in like a progressive way. Especially since Willow, her only rah feminism sort-of friend, hated Anya.
But Glory King had money to burn and an appetite for clothing that rivaled her own. In the low moments, when Cordelia was helping some 16-year-old buy an ugly dress as much as her rent, she thought that maybe they could be friends. But, if something about Ms. King spooked Spike, she was gonna listen.
Looking back, she still wasn’t sure what happened. One moment, she was holding up a black chain-and-flower-pattered Versace dress for Glory to examine, and the next moment cute nurse Ben was at her feet with a broken neck. A lot of gross scabby demons were attacking Spike, who was passed out on the floor with blood pouring from his ears and eyes and nose. Then her instincts kicked in, and she grabbed a nearby gold candlestick and hit as many of the scabby demons as she could. They were weak as chess club nerds, waling and pummeling Spike like a bunch of angry kids ganging up on their bully.
She dragged Spike by the shoulders of his blazer to the elevator and jammed the emergency stop. She hit the alarm too, the emergency phone jammed against her ear as she willed anyone at the Magic Box to pick up the damn phone.
She hadn’t felt this out-of-control freaked since Angel lost his soul. Spike wasn't moving, his pupils blown wide like he was on the PCP everyone said was rampant in Sunnydale. She can't even remember what she’d said to Anya when she’d picked up, and the half an hour it took for Buffy and Giles to arrive was a blur of swearing at Spike and begging him to wake up.
--
Turns out, Glory had brought her condo, and with a little work from Willow, Cordelia was now the sole owner of said condo and the beneficiary of Glory King’s extensive bank account and designer wardrobe. No more April Fools for her.
“So you're going to live here,” Buffy said, sitting on Cordelia’s new grey velvet sofa.
“Sure am. This is the perfect place to bring clients, and the bathtub is excellent. I’m already booked two months out for clients.” Cordy left the now-organized walk-in closet to grab Buffy a bottle of water.
“How’s Spike?”
“Better,” Buffy said, looking at the seams of the couch and not at her. Cordelia's gossip radar went off, and she really looked at Buffy, shoulders drawn up, avoiding her eyes and the biggest tip-off: a cowl neck sweater that went to Buffy’s chin on a day where a sleeveless top would make more sense.
“Oh my god, you had sex with Spike.”
“What! No! Well--not really.”
“What’s not really? Under the shirt but over the bra? We’re not in middle school, Buffy.”
Buffy crushed the plastic bottle in her hands, spilling Evian all over the rug. Rude much? The next time she was getting tap.
“His brain was still kinda fried, and I got to talk to the part of him before he was turned. He was kinda Giles-y.”
Cordelia had always wondered about her and Giles, and she could admit that Giles had his moments of attractiveness if dweeb was your type. “Buffy, please tell me you did not reenact your daddy issues on a brain-damaged vampire.”
Buffy went on as if she didn’t hear her. “He recited poetry to me. Like poetry that he had written. It was bad, like open mike night at the Espresso Pump bad, but it was still Spike, you know. Just, I don’t know, softer.”
Cordy rolled her eyes. “So you jumped his bones?”
“No! I gave him some of my blood.” Cordy arched one eyebrow. She’d listened to the stories Harmony and Spike told her; there was a difference between biting someone for a meal and biting someone you liked. Buffy didn’t see her expression, looking at the damp spot on the new rug, and kept going.
“Nothing cures sick vamps like Slayer's blood. But it didn’t feel like the other time. It didn’t hurt. It felt-” Buffy stopped then, but her entire face was red.
“Good? Incredible? Orgasmic?” Both Spike and Harmony told Cordelia those stories too, as much as she didn’t want to hear about freaky vampire sexcapades of people she knew. “ How can you have kinky vampire sex but not even say the words? Dawn is braver than you, and I bet she’s never even kissed a boy.”
Buffy glared at her then. “Spike’s back, all healed up thanks to a few sips of Slayer-Aid. But I can’t stop thinking about it.”
If Cordelia closed her eyes, she could be back in high school, doling advice in the second-floor girls’ bathroom. The only thing that was missing was the smell of stale cigarette smoke and cherry lip gloss.
Spike owed her big for this.
“Well duh Buffy, 'cause you never took my advice and brought a vibrator. I don’t pretend to know why you’re hung up on the ‘grrr arrr’ part when you’ve already dated a vampire. Spike seems like the type to know how to get women off and if you’re acting like this because he bit you, just think of what he could do with half a chance.”
Buffy had a sort of hazy dreamy look on her face. Why did no one she knew ever follow their own feelings except Anya and Harmony? Cordelia really needed better friends.
“Just don’t break him with your freakishly strong muscles, he’s supposed to work Tuesday.”
--
Spike came into her penthouse Tuesday evening, literally whistling, and gave her a weird uncle hug, picking her up and swinging her around in a circle.
“I could kiss you right now,” he said when he put her down, still hugging her. It felt nice, and she hadn’t let herself give into the fear that he wasn’t coming back. Guess they were actually friends now. Did that mean she should give him a raise? Also, she was so not the type to let her friends kiss her.
“Yeah, don’t. Who knows where that mouth’s been.” Spike started to speak, to say something truly disgusting about whatever he and Buffy were doing which she totally did not need in her brain.
“Do. Not. Tell. Me. Not now and ideally, not ever. If you end up marrying Buffy, tell her to get her wedding dress and bridesmaids' gowns from me. I’ll even create an employee discount for you.” She said, half joking.
Spike laughed, and she could admit ecstatic was a good look on him. She smiled back though, happy that her friend was happy. Here she was, thinking that people’s eyes sparkled with joy only in romcoms.
“Don’t get soft on me, Veronica. Don’t want everyone to know you got a heart under that ruthless shell, Eh?” Spike had both hands on her shoulders, giving her a mock-serious look.
Cordelia stepped back and flipped her hair in a well-practiced move. “Whatever Spike, like anyone would believe you. Now, let's get to work.”