I can do you with my hands, a novel written by Misty Day.
She’s telling the truth, a sequel by Cordelia Foxx.
It has been exactly two weeks and three days since Cordelia decided that she is in love with Misty Day, and it has been exactly two weeks and three days since Cordelia decided she isn’t going to do anything about it. The coven needs her now more than ever and while she’s relieved to have Misty’s presence back at Robichaux’s she can’t allow herself the luxury of a distraction (but, god, if only she could see her again).
But it’s obvious, isn’t it? Cordelia doesn’t need eyes to know that everyone’s figured it out, because heaven knows she’s always worn her emotions on her sleeve and discretion isn’t exactly her forte. Misty’s always hovering around her and it’s hard to focus when she’s around because, well, she’s there and she smells of incense and earth and hope, and––Cordelia stops, inhales shakily, reels in her thoughts. She can’t be daydreaming right now when the Seven Wonders are tomorrow morning. She has to prepare.
Misty making breakfast for Cordelia (Cordelia letting her), Cordelia constantly checking in to see how she’s recovering, listening to Stevie Nicks on repeat for the umpteenth time as Misty tries to reveal some new hidden meaning only she can hear––it has to stop. Living this little fairytale isn’t doing either of them any favors. This calm before the storm. This sanctuary before the chaos. The day of reckoning is at hand and all they can do is long for one another in silence and waste time dreaming about the future they both know they can never have. If Misty is the Supreme there could be a chance at some semblance of a happy ending, but if not––
––everyone knows you either prove yourself to be the new Supreme or you die trying.
This very well could be Misty’s last day on earth. She needs to be spending it with calm reflection and practice. She needs to avoid all distractions and focus on accomplishing the task at hand. She needs to be alone.
So, then, what is Cordelia doing standing in front of her door, hand poised to knock?
“Misty?” she calls, uncertainly. “Are you there?”
The door opens and if Cordelia still had her eyes she would see Misty’s pink flush of excitement at hearing Cordelia say her name. “Miss Cordelia,” she says, softly. “Come on in.”
Misty reaches out to take Cordelia’s arm and help her in, but she knows better––she knows that Cordelia isn’t an invalid and doesn’t appreciate being treated as such (it almost took an act of god himself to get Cordelia to let Misty cook her breakfast) so she falters, steps to the side allowing Cordelia ample space to assess her surroundings with her walking stick, and closes the door behind her once she finds her way in.
Bella Donna is playing softly in the background as Cordelia moves her way forward and sits down on Misty’s unmade bed, hands anchoring themselves on the bedposts. “How are you feeling, Misty?” she asks, in part already guessing at the answer.
“I’m fine,” she deflects easily, sitting beside Cordelia with an unconvincing smile. “Don’t worry ‘bout me. Been through death two times before, I can face it again.” She’s lying, of course; she doesn’t want to die (and it doesn’t escape her mind that the second time she faced death it was the thoughts of Cordelia that brought her strength), but she also doesn’t want to inspire another worry line on Cordelia’s face so she keeps quiet, looking down from Cordelia as if to hide the untruth that she knows Cordelia can’t even see (but still, nonetheless, she’s sure of it, can sense).
“Misty,” Cordelia starts, less than mollified. “Please, be honest with me. I know it must be terrifying.”
Misty shakes her head. “Death don’t terrify me,” she admits, and she is somewhat earnest in that confession, at least. “Dyin’ with regret is what I’m fixin’ to avoid.”
“What do you mean?” Cordelia probes, brows furrowed.
“I mean that there’s some things I gotta do before tomorrow, just in case, so that if I die I can at least die knowin’ I did ‘em.”
Cordelia finds her heart picking up speed as Misty’s words start to sink in. “I don’t understand.” But, oh, she does.
Misty’s heart, too, is beating at a rapid pace, as she leans forward and takes Cordelia’s hand in her own. “What do you see?” she asks, timidly, as she places Cordelia’s hand over her heartbeat. “What do you feel?”
At the contact, Cordelia’s mouth goes dry and she bites down on her lower lip, straining to focus against the soft warmth that she feels emanating from beneath Misty’s skin. “I––I don’t––” she mumbles, because she hasn’t regained full control of her visions yet and she can’t just trigger them by contact anymore.
“You can do it,” Misty assures her, quietly, tightening her grip on Cordelia’s hand.
And then Cordelia sees. More than just sees––she feels. She feels the stirrings of passion swelling inside Misty’s heart as she takes her first breath out of that coffin and lays eyes on Cordelia. She sees the world through Misty’s eyes as she readjusts to life at Robichaux’s and watches Cordelia with two parts desire and one part admiration from a distance. She sees––she sees and she feels––in Misty a perfect reflection of everything she herself has been seeing and feeling since Misty returned. And with a bravery hitherto unknown to her Cordelia pulls her hand away from Misty’s and drags it upward to tug on her chin and bring her closer, so that Cordelia can align their lips and bring them together in a wordless affirmation of understanding.
Breathless, Misty pulls back from the kiss and grins against Cordelia’s lips. “I knew you could do it,” she says, triumphantly, running a finger along Cordelia’s jawline.
Cordelia’s smiling back until she catches herself and stops, abruptly shifting backward and away from Misty’s warmth. “You don’t want me,” she insists, shaking her head. “Shit, Misty, look at me. I’m a monster.” She’s seen what she looks like through the eyes of others and it’s worse than she could have even imagined.
Misty lets out a chuckle and scoots forward, taking Cordelia’s head in her hands. She leans forward, suddenly, and without hesitation plants a soft kiss on each one of the headmistress’s battered, swollen eyelids. Cordelia shivers. “You know what I see when I look at you, Miss Cordelia? I see the only one who ever gave a rat’s ass about this coven. That don’t make you a monster. That makes you a leader. Makes you even more beautiful than before, and stronger than the rest of us put together.”
Cordelia feels hot tears stinging at the healing wounds in her eyes and she trembles, struggling not to give way to the onslaught of emotion threatening her composure. If Misty doesn’t survive the Seven Wonders, what is Cordelia going to do without her? “I love you,” she whispers, faintly, against the tightness of her throat, and though it feels euphoric to finally say it there’s something nagging at the back of her head, wishing that she hadn’t said it, that she’d kept it in, because now––now, if Misty fails, it will be even harder to say goodbye.
“I love you too,” Misty says, and presses their lips together a little more insistently, running her hands down Cordelia’s shoulders. Cordelia gasps and leans breathlessly into the kiss, body aching for Misty’s touch. If this is their last night on earth together then she wants to feel it all. She wants to see it all.
So she ghosts her hands over Misty’s skin, begging for a glimpse, and her inward eye opens––she can see what Misty sees, see what Cordelia herself ought to see (a rush of hands, a crippling need buoyed between them both, a montage of clothing being torn off and cast aside, hair being tugged and bodies melding, sweat and moans and sighs and friction, twisted sheets and the faint hum of Leather and Lace, a staggered climax that has them both spinning and clamoring for air).
And when the morning comes, Cordelia feels a little less monster and a little more human; and Misty calmly faces death once more––but this time, with no regrets.
“Come on Misty, give me a hint.”
My contribution to the AHS fandom
“Misty give me a hint….”
“I see you.”
