Oh Look. My Peach. @ratchedspeach - Tumblr Blog

An Ever Fixed-Mark | READ ON AO3

a quick little character study about everyone’s favorite problematic duo. CW for alcohol and tobacco use. Other than that, angst abound, and not much else. Enjoy!

“I don’t feel like myself anymore.”

“How can you not feel like yourself when you don’t even know who you are?”

It’s a rare, unexpected omission - one which Cordelia Goode had not been prepared for, but her mother, apparently, had. Cordelia doesn’t look at Fiona, her eyes stay trained on a spot on the cement wall. Still, she can feel the smoke spiraling off her cigarette, and the satisfied smirk playing her mother’s features. Cordelia’s thumb worries against an ash leaf, tracing the veins and soft flesh of the plant all the way to its stem.

“I could have done without your opinion, mother.”

Fiona grunts. “Then might I suggest not saying it out loud?” She says, smoke steaming between her teeth like a serpent.

Cordelia’s thumb stops. Ash: strength, power, protector of youth, she thinks. The sapling dies - shrivels and rots in a matter of seconds. Fiona tuts, brushing past her daughter and taking the pot in her hands.

“Oh Delia,” she simpers, “always so dramatic.”

The plant hits the wastebasket with a dull thud. Cordelia thinks it should make her flinch, thinks she should feel anger, or contempt, or goddamnit something, but she doesn’t. She doesn’t, and she knows that should scare her, but it doesn’t, either.

It scares Fiona, though.

Not that she’d ever admit to it - fear is too weak, too fragile an imbalance. No, Fiona will not bend to it. She straightens her back, lips curling into something akin to a snarl as she presses the stub of her cigarette into the soft soil of another pot. Even this offense against her daughter’s most prized possessions does not faze Cordelia; and so it is that Fiona’s hand is forced.

“I need a drink; smells like shit down here.” Fiona mutters, spinning on her heels, before calling over her shoulder. “I’m not gonna drink alone.”

Fiona has never waited for an invitation to open (or finish, for that matter) a bottle of liquor, nor can Cordelia recall a time when she has been invited to join in on her nightly escapade. Were Cordelia more at home in herself, the statement would strike her as uncharacteristic. But she isn’t, and she doesn’t, so instead she merely follows her mother up the stairs into the great hall of the Academy. It’s still bright out: light pools through windows and between the crevices of the front door. Dust speckles and shimmers like snow in the air, but all Cordelia can fathom is that she should add vacuuming to the chore list. Fiona is in the study pulling the cork out of a particularly old bottle of rye; one which Cordelia is certain she’s never seen before.

“Well, are you joining me, or are you just gonna watch?” Fiona snaps as she pours the dark liquid into the second crystal glass.

Cordelia surges into motion, practically sending the whiskey sloshing onto the carpet in the fervency with which she picks it up. She stares at her mother, who stares at her own glass, and bristles under the intentness of her daughter’s pooling eyes. When Fiona finally meets her gaze, she thinks Cordelia looks like a child searching for permission. It’s not an uncommon thought for her to have about her daughter, but it strikes something in her which Fiona doesn’t expect - a sort of warmth that trickles into her stomach and burns. And so they are forced into a stalemate of sorts; each woman uncertain and protecting a secret of their own, each completely dependent on the other for their next move. It will be Fiona who acts first (as it often is), bringing the glass to her lips and swallowing the double shot in a single, unceremonious gulp. Cordelia looks at her own whiskey and licks her lips before following suit. She does not finish it, a fact which she is certain Fiona adds to the ongoing tally of reasons the woman simply could not be her own daughter.

“It’s good.” Cordelia rasps against the burning in her throat.

It isn’t a lie, though. The alcohol, though practically strong enough to make her breath fire, holds a distinct sweetness which she hadn’t expected - a smooth, buttery aftertaste that lingers on the insides of her mouth and coats her throat. She doesn’t hate it, and, well, that’s something.

Fiona pours herself another glass before gliding over to the couch and sitting. “Kentucky Whiskey. Been in this Coven since … Christ, at least since I was a kid.”

“I’ve never seen it before.” Cordelia mumbles, chancing another sip.

“Anna Leigh caught me in the liquor cabinet - yelled at me until the little gargoyle was practically blue in the face; something about finishing a three thousand bottle of tequila.” Cordelia can’t help but giggle. “She charmed the more expensive bottles in the coven’s possession after that. Only the Supreme can access them now.”

“Sounds about right.” Cordelia snorts, bringing the glass level with her eyes and studying its contents.

The whiskey is amber in color: like honey or browned butter. There’s a thickness to it, a richness even in appearance that the younger woman cannot help but marvel at.

“So,” Cordelia smiles, “how many bottles are back there, anyway?”

“Seven, I think. A couple whiskey’s, tequila that’s older than me, cognac, vodka, and a few bottles of wine.”

“Does tequila get better with age?” Cordelia’s brow furrows.

Fiona shrugs, finger tracing the rim of her glass. “Don’t know. We can try that next.”

It’s then that Cordelia realizes she is still standing, and what’s more, that were she to continue, she might topple over from the sheer volume of liquor she was about to consume. She doesn’t dare sit on the couch, Fiona having already claimed that her domain. Instead, she opts for a chair opposite her mother, and perches on the edge.

“You gonna finish that?” Fiona’s eyebrows quirk towards the liquid still sloshing between her daughter’s fingers.

“Hm? Oh, yes, I —“ Cordelia stutters, bringing the whiskey to her lips and swallowing in one fell swoop.

She tries to stifle the cough as the liquor hits her throat. Fiona, on the other hand, does not stifle her laugh. Were it not for the rare quality time that she found herself sharing with Fiona, she might have commented on the crudeness of it. Cordelia’s cheeks redden, and she holds her tongue.

“We should really go to a bar.” Cordelia scolds, mostly at herself. “I don’t know that it’s right for the headmistress to be drinking on school grounds … especially with Madison -“

“Oh Christ, Delia, you don’t really still believe she’s sober, do you? I raised you better than that”

“I … what?”

Fiona rolls her eyes, pulling a pack of half-empty cigarettes out of the inside pocket of her leather jacket. She taps the carton in the palm of her hand. “That girl is about as sober as I am.”

Cordelia’s shoulder’s tense. “How would you know? Mother, you’re never here.”

“I’m the Supreme, Delia.” You’re a drunk, is what you are. “I don’t need to be here to know that this place is falling apart at the seams.”

Cordelia catches her lower lip between her teeth in order to bite back the vitriol threatening to spill off of her tongue. Fiona takes the opportunity to light her cigarette. When she inhales, the stuttering burn of tobacco seems to mock Cordelia. Foolish girl, blind, stupid child.

“Madison Montgomery has been sober for one —“

“Day? Hour?” Fiona teases.

“One month, two weeks, and twenty-four days.” Cordelia finishes with atypical confidence.

Fiona glares at her daughter for a moment, cigarette perched between her fingers. “Alright, Cordelia. Whatever you say.”

Cordelia huffs, leaning back in her chair like a petulant child. “And to think, we were starting to have a nice time, too.”

“Speak for yourself.” Fiona dabs the cigarette on the mahogany coffee table, before huffing a sigh. “Fine, if you’re so keen on getting out of here, I’ll drive —“

“No. Jesus, no. You win. We can stay.”

Fiona smirks. “Thought so.” She pours them both another drink.

Typical Delia, she thinks, always so focused on the rules. Sometimes, Fiona wonders if her daughter understands the definition of the word ‘witch’. If she does, Cordelia does little in the way of using such a gift to her advantage. I’m not drunk anyhow. And even if she was, Fiona could think of at least four ways to remedy the situation that would take little more than a flick of her tongue, or an inhale to the right part of her ribcage.

“Why are you here, Fiona?”

She isn’t shocked by the question. Christ, if anything, she’s confused why it took so long for Cordelia to ask. Still, Fiona ponders it, if for nothing else then dramatic effect. It’s true, she had shown up at Miss Robichaux’s Academy that morning unannounced. But she was the Supreme, goddamnit, who said she needed a reason to show up to her own coven?

“Why are you, Delia?” Fiona counters.

Cordelia, for her part, sets her jaw. Her cheeks tinge red, as do the rims of her practically black eyes. She pinches the skin of her left palm. She blames herself for even considering that she could get a straight answer out of her mother.

“Because you aren’t.”

Fiona rolls her eyes. “I am now.”

Cordelia shakes her head, frustration rising like bile in her throat. “But you won’t be. Not forever. This is just a blip.” And an unwelcome one, at that.

“Christ’s sake, Delia, what do you want from me?”

“I want an answer. An honest one. Why are you here?”

Fiona gives her daughter a knowing look - the kind Cordelia has seen so many times before - the kind she’s come to expect and loath. Whatever comes out of her mouth next, Cordelia knows it won’t be the truth. Not entirely at least.

“To see you.”

And oh Cordelia doesn’t mean to laugh, but she can’t help herself. It’s just too … too potently underhanded. So she does: she laughs, and hard, at that. So hard that she has to put her glass down. So hard that she thinks she might pass out. So hard that she doesn’t even realize when she starts to cry.

But cry isn’t really the right word for it.

She’s sobbing — sobbing in earnest, and she can’t stop herself. So she buckles at the waist instead, and rests her forehead on her knees, and lets herself get lost. She’s not sure why she’s crying, but Cordelia can’t help but feel a little relieved, because at least she’s not numb anymore.

Fiona pours herself one more double shot, then puts the rye back in the cabinet. She doesn’t touch Cordelia - doesn’t dare give any omission that she know she’s done this to her daughter. Yes, she has, she’s done this, and it's not the first time. Probably not the last, either. Instead she just waits for Cordelia’s wails to reduce to low whimpers, and for her back to straighter, and her hands to wipe a trail of mascara across her cheekbones.

Then, and only then, does Fiona speak: “Some headmistress.”

“You’re lying to me.”

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t play dumb.” Cordelia snarls amidst the bile rising in her throat. “You’re lying.”

Fiona scoffs: “Honestly, Delia, you’re so paranoid.”

“You aren’t here to see me. Torment me, maybe, but not see me.”

And, well, Fiona can’t argue with that. She’s not here to see her daughter. If she’s being honest with herself, she’s not sure why she’s here. To run away, maybe. To ignore her imminent death (which she still has not mentioned to Cordelia). To remind herself of where she came from — of who and what made her; and part of that puzzle is Cordelia.

It always comes back to Cordelia, doesn’t it?

“Fuck it, I’m going to bed.” Cordelia staggers on her feet.

She hadn’t realized she was drunk; the alcohol must’ve been waiting for her to exhale fully before it took effect. She has to use the banister to ascend the first flight of stairs. Her vision wobbles, her tongue is dry against her teeth. When she gets to the first landing, she stops. And there, silhouetted by the moon, Fiona sees the angel of death in her daughter.

“Do you remember the sonnet you used to read to me?”

Maybe it’s the slur in Cordelia’s voice, the promise of alcohol keeping this part of her daughter’s memory locked away, but Fiona nods. She thinks she might even smile a little.

“Let me not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments. Sonnet 116.”

Cordelia’s tongue darts across her upper lip, and she mumbles something under her breath, before adding: “Your room is made up if you plan on staying the night.”

“It is?”

There’s a pause — a deafening silence. Cordelia glares at her mother in somber resignation. “It always is.”

She ascends with her back straight and a sobriety that Fiona had not expected. Maybe she really was her daughter, after all.

“Love is not love …” Fiona says to herself, eyes trained on the fading outline of her daughter.

Her palms shake. She reaches for another cigarette.