In reality, although he's much better, Angel is still clinging a little too tightly to the baby, and will rarely let anyone even hold Connor. And when he does let someone pick the boy up, vampire boss stands there with his hands out like you're going to drop the kid.

So it is sort of a relief when Wesley says he has a contact in the underground who may be able to hook us up with some groups who actually *don't* want to see the kid dead. Angel packs Connor up, and he and Wesley drive off. Angel’s last instructions are for Fred to stay at Cordy's place in case any demons or lawyers, or other scum of the earth like that, haven't heard that their target has left town.

 Fred seems relieved, and I don't blame her. It's no big deal for her to sleep over; she's done it before when the Wolfram and Hart psychic assassin guy tried to make me the poster girl for Ebola. Plus, neither Angel nor I would leave anyone there with Holtz ready to play the 200-year-old revenge card.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"I've got $200 here. Ms Leery paid me to paint her second bedroom, wanted it to be freshly done for her grand niece who's going to be staying with her for awhile." It's a good, solid roll of bills. Feels good in her hand, an ass load of disposable cash like she hasn't seen in too many years.

"Oh yeah, Ms. Leery, from 2 C? I wonder why she's taking her in?" Fred has met the neighbor in question, helped her carry in some groceries the last time she stayed.

"I didn't want to go into the why's and the wherefores (Jesus, channel Wes much?) . She just muttered something about a juvenile record, and a car before she changed the subject. And you don't know how much I do not care about the details, in fact, I'm praying to remain blissfully ignorant."

 That was the truth; she'd kept her mouth shut, rolled the yellow paint on the walls, and pocketed the money.  She didn't have the heart to tell Ms. Leery that a 15-year-old girl was not going to embrace the sunny yellow color, and certainly not one who was looking at 10 years for Grand Theft Auto. She’d decided right then and there that part of it might have to go towards a new front door lock.

Of course $2oo, December 23rd...these two occurrences could only lead to one thing...Christmas presents this year. Of course with everyone scattered now, she'd have to buy them for herself, and maybe Fred. Cordy looks over to where Fred has taken apart the remote control, and is now blowing dust out of the inner workings. "How about a little shopping trip. It'll be good to get out of the house...soak up the holiday atmosphere."

Fred looks up, squinting suspiciously.

After three years of no money, Cordelia's nearly turned into Ebenezer Scrooge, launching into long rants about how she hates the holiday, how it's just a commercial bastardization of a long forgotten pagan ritual and why didn't they just do it right and torch somebody inside a big wicker cage. Last week, Fred had tried to explain that it wasn't the Yule celebration that that the Celts sacrificed men, but she'd stopped mid sentence when Cordelia had turned on her. Even Wesley and Gunn were starting to look a little paranoid lately, glancing over at her whenever reindeer showed up on the television screen. Like they expected her to be holding a match.

Fred had a very similar look on her face right now. "Well, if you really want to" she agrees nervously. "They'll be a lot of people out tonight though, it's getting close to the 25th."

Cordelia shrugs as she retrieves her coat from the closet. "Nothing like a little pre-Christmas rush to get the blood pumping. Makes you feel like you're really alive."

"As long as everybody stays that way," Fred mumbles as she stands. Cordy feels the corners of her mouth turn up despite herself as the girl continues, "I do have some money my parents sent me, I didn't think I'd get a chance to shop this year, what with Darla and the baby."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`

The cashier is tied up at another register, but Cordelia lays the box on the counter, peels a few of the bills from the wad of cash tucked in her hip pocket.

"A gift?"

"Huh?" She looks up and sees a 'male model' gorgeous guy looking down at the tool she's picked, and has one second's thought that leaving five minutes later would have meant makeup could have been an option. Too late to worry about that now. She glances down and reads the print on the box that's she's chosen as a gift for Fred. It's some kind of multipurpose drill, sander, jig saw combo thingy. Jig saw. Whatever the hell that is. The name gives her this disturbing picture of Fred down in the basement doing this weird ass dance to the whine of the motor. Cordelia thinks maybe Fred can use it when she's building one of those guillotine invention things she likes to make. Maybe it was a lame idea?

"Yeah," she admits blankly, then mentally kicks herself for the lack of suave. Is she this rusty in the whole flirting game? One time with the carrying demon spawn, and this is the mess she's turned into? Three years ago, she would have had this boy on his knees. When she notices the zebra striped car seat covers tucked under his arm, she amends that...in a ditch after she ran over his ass with her car. Faux animal skin car accessories deserve death.

"Man, it's really packed in here tonight, I guess everyone's put off their shopping until the last minute." Pretty boy leans against the counter, fiddles with his collar, then flashes her an artificially white smile that no doubt gets him pretty much anything he wants.” Listen, I've got a very important audition that I'm going to be late for if I don't get through this line fast. Would you mind if I went in front of you?"

Would he mind if she shoved this drill thing up his ass? "Uh, no." She stabs her hand at the box." I need to get this present and get the hell out of here myself."

"But I'm up for a commercial," he bristles, and all civility falls away.

"Yeah sweetie, this is LA. Chances are everyone in this line is too. Fred's waiting for me."

"Is that your man?" He's smug now, past the point where he'll use any charm to get his way.

 She's aware that the older woman in line behind them is listening in on the conversation, trying to give the impression that she isn't. Cordelia briefly turns to her, takes in the copper dyed, Teflon waves of her hair and gives her a questioning stare until the woman turns away in embarrassment.  "No, that's my *girlfriend*."

"I bet she spells it P-H-R-E-D."

"Okay, she's not some lesbian folk singer. She spells it with an F as in Fuck You, like normal people do. Why am I even having this conversation?" The cashier's back, and Cordy thankfully collects her change. This is 30 seconds of her life that she'll never get back.

"Listen you dyke, just because you had a bad childhood that turned you queer, don't take it out on the male sex. "He whips out a credit card to pay for his purchases, says the last jab offhandedly because he's already dismissed her in his mind. The salesgirl jerks her head between the two of them, fascinated by the exchange in what is otherwise a monotonous shift.

It's not the words that piss her off, it's the fact that he doesn't even have the decency to say them to her face, it's that he's dismissed her as someone beneath him, someone who deserves to just take whatever shit he feels like dishing out. She mentally thanks Angel for training with her, and doubles her fist, gives the jerk one good shot to the kidneys. She knows it hurts; even Angel flinched when she'd practiced the move on him. This guy crumples immediately, doubles over huffing for breath through the pain as Cordelia turns and walks calmly out of the store.

Within five minutes, she's met Fred in the spot they'd agreed on, the gift appropriately double wrapped in bags so it's impossible for her to guess what it is. She shakes off any lingering anger, and is surprised to find that there isn't much. She actually feels good. "Find everything you were looking for?"

Fred smiles when she sees her, unconsciously holds her bags tighter to her body. "Yeah. Whew, I forgot what it's like in a crowd this big. I feel like I'm drowning."

This was a lot to ask of someone who has been hiding in caves for the last five years. Cordy doesn't want her to start hiding under the bed again; God knows how she'll explain that to Angel. "Maybe this is too much?" she says, indicating the busy common area. "Let's just go into one of these stores, we'll try stuff on. It's a great stress reliever believe me, my friends and I do it all the time. It's a lot of fun."

"Oh, okay, " Fred, agrees, looking grateful for the suggestion.

The shop isn't too busy, but there are only a few dressing rooms, so they decide to share one. Within twenty minutes, Fred's giggling as she looks at herself in the mirror of the large cubicle, modeling a Muppet coat with a red feather collar.

Cordelia can't help but laugh at the ridiculous sight. Maybe she could pull that off, but not Fred. "I'm not sure if that's the look for you...or anyone. It's kind of Dennis Rodman, with a dash of Rupaul."

Fred replies with a snicker that for the first time isn't all that self-conscious.

 Fred has never talked about her time in Pylea, or her life before. Did she do this? Did she have girlfriends and shopping expeditions and laughter? The thought that she might have been just as isolated in the normal world as in the demon dimension makes Cordelia sad, and she pulls away from that feeling, turns and pulls a dress over her head. When she surveys her reflection next to Fred's, she grunts. "Ugh, this makes my hips look enormous. God, I look matronly."

"I think you look beautiful."

The next thing she knows, Fred kisses her,hip bone pressed into her stomach, lips, and hesitant breath. The entire moment feels like some ethereal spell, some inserted, alternate time blip that doesn't belong in this reality. So Cordelia doesn't have much reaction at first, just stands there and goes with it, wonders if this will shift back into a shopping expedition at the mall again.

Fred's a surprisingly good kisser, not the image Cordy has of a librarian or a slave from world of hairy demons, and certainly not the slobbery tongue of a stuck up prick that you tolerate so you won't be alone on a Saturday night, just to have him tell everyone he fucked you the next day. Or call you a dyke when he didn't get any.

And the whole girl/girl thing doesn't throw her. She's been out with friends: smoky club, loud music, one drink too many...bad combination with a confident group that isn't afraid of one- up-man-ship. A ring of girls writhing on a dance floor, noticing how guys go crazy when you touch each other. It was fun, and wild, and she'd suddenly realized that her friends were *hot*.

This isn't too different: public place, Fred's cute, there's just that edge of forbidden discovery. The Christmas ‘musack’ from the speakers leaves something to be desired, but she remembers how it goes: a little shimmy, hand at the back of your partner's head, and slide your tongue through her lips to show her you're not going to be upstaged.

Fred's hand creeps under the hem of the store's merchandise. Soft, conscious of the price tag that far exceeds whatever remains in each of their funds. Are her fingers trembling as she traces the lace at the leg of Cordelia's panties?

No one's better at this game than Cordelia, she's unafraid to go just that little step further. Always the last one standing, earning that nervous titter of laughter and a "Jesus, Cordelia" as the other one steps away first. She twirls them around during a saxophone solo from Silver Bells, feels the small bench in the corner hit her in the back of the knees. She increases the pressure of her tongue, grips Fred’s skull tighter, and parts her thighs.

Cordelia can feel the shudder in Fred's chest, like she's coughing, and wonders if she's close to being declared the Queen of Outrageous. She's stupefied though, when Fred throws her weight forward. Cordelia staggers back, losing her balance, and finds herself sitting on the bench.

Whoa Fred.

Thin wrists, small hands, Fred pushes the neckline of Cordy's dress down until it bunches underneath her breast. With a flick of the thumb, the satin cup slides down until Cordelia's right breast pops out, goose bumps rising and nipple tightening.

She's almost forgotten that she's the one with the crown to defend here; the title grows hazier when Fred runs her index finger over the satin covered cleft and breaks the contact of their lips. Fred slides down, and takes Cordelia's nipple in her mouth-hot compared to the store's environment, hotter still when the finger slides without resistance into her. Decorum pushed out of her mind by random memories of sitting on her couch, Late Night Movie on TV with the sound turned up louder than necessary, knees to her ears, and a red taper candle inside of her-bumping up against just the right spot. She bends her knees to mimic that flashback.

Damn, exactly *how* did Fred spend her time on Pylea? She knows that when she ponders the question later, she will be deeply disturbed, but for now she can only mutter, "F-fuck Fred." It sounds loud as hell, even though she's tried to whisper. Fred glances up, lips still puckered around the pink disc of Cordelia's areola, and the sight makes Cordelia unconsciously spread her legs wider feeling a spasm around Fred's finger as it slides farther into her. There's something about seeing a part of her disappearing into those eager lips that is so erotic. Visceral.

When Cordelia hears an involuntary grunt escape her own throat, Fred rises up, a thin, silvery train of saliva connecting them. "You're right, this really is fun."

There's a pounding on the changing room door that rattles the flimsy lock. "Are you okay in there?"

"Y-" Cordelia stops when her voice comes out a full octave higher, readjusts the tone. "Yeah. I just got a zipper stuck. It's fine now."

"Okay then." The voice slides back into the neutral customer service drone that's drilled into all retail help, and they can feel the presence move away.

Fred's already jumped up, wiping her mouth self consciously with the back of her hand as she struggles with her clothes and hanging store merchandise back on hangers.

 Cordelia shakes herself for a moment before she stands up and starts to do the same. The possibility that one day she will have to explain this day to Angel flashes through her mind, and she panics, feeling heat flush to her face. "Okay, that was interesting. We will never tell anyone what happened here."  That familiar high school skin settles over her without any problem. That wasn't quite how she intended it to come out.

Fred's back stiffens, and the other girl doesn't even bother to turn around as she frantically jumps on one foot while pulling her jeans on. "No, of course not." Cordy has to strain to hear the hurt in Fred’s voice. She hides it well. Fred's used to adapting to whatever life hands her.

"I didn't mean it like that," Cordelia protests as Fred, having pulled her shoes on, bolts out of the door.

 And now she has to grab her bags, stuff the rest of her things in an awkward fist as she tries to catch up to her. Even if she does, the damage is done. Apologies can be made, but they can never wipe away everything entirely, not the insult, unintentional as it was.

Why does she keep hearing Wes’ voice echoing in her head, / the memory of this afternoon will be a bittersweet reminder of the value of caution and keeping your tongue./

Long live the Queen.

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