Title: The Night After
Disclaimer: These characters are not mine and I make no money off this.
Summary: Set at the end of "Chosen." In which the subtext ultimately becomes text.;)
Suggested soundtrack: "Lucky" by Bif Naked, followed by "Out of this World" by Bush
Willow's eyes shift away from tracing the rim of the crater and settle on Buffy. There is dried blood on the back of her scalp, and Willow briefly wonders whether the wind's tug on her long hair is painful. "The First is scrunched," she says slowly, feeling herself start to smile as she actually begins to believe it. "So... what do you think we should do, Buffy?"
"Yeah," Faith puts in. "You're not the one and only Chosen anymore. Just gotta live like a person." She pauses slightly, as though realizing for the first time that the words apply to her as well. "How's that feel?"
Buffy still doesn't answer, staring instead at the deep pit that swallowed her home, at the horizon, at the remains of the "Welcome to Sunnydale" sign. Towards L.A., and Angel, and the unnecessary second front. Towards Spike's dust. There probably isn't a neat little pile, she realizes. He's probably mixed in with all the debris from the Hellmouth's collapse. Maybe she's even breathing him in, right now.
"Yeah Buffy," Dawn asks, and even though her sister is standing close enough for their shoulders to brush, her voice sounds tinny, as though it's coming from far away. "What are we going to do now?"
And then it's as though their words finally bridge the gap; they sink into her, like rain on the desert. The First - vanquished. All Potentials awakened. Hundreds, maybe even thousands of Slayers coming into their strength, all over the world. Not alone.
Buffy begins to smile, even though the slight motion stretches some of the cuts on her face. Essence of bittersweet. We won. she thinks, projecting the thought like a grenade over the closed Hellmouth, over the ashes of Spike, of Amanda, of Chao-Ahn. We won.
She doesn't say it, though - it's not what they need to hear. Not the answer to their questions. And then, thankfully, Faith surges forward and relieves her of her inability to decide their futures. Momentarily, at least.
"Shit, shit, B, you were down - I saw you! Run through..." And now they're all turning to her with expressions of concern, and Faith is suddenly kneeling at her feet and peeling the hemline of her shirt slowly, slowly up, uncovering the angry slit that is exactly as long as a Turok-han blade was wide. It's still oozing a little, though her Slayer healing has managed to close off the worst of it. "How the hell-" Faith is still muttering, and looking up at Buffy as though she's some kind of war goddess. Giles is saying something about infection, and Willow is asking her whether she wants magickal healing, and Dawn is squeezing her left hand, and Xander is kneeling next to Faith...
"Because I had to," she finally forces out through tingling lips. Suddenly the adrenaline is gone, and the pain is back, and she is so, so tired. Faith has given her permission to be wounded, vulnerable, exhausted... to be one of the Chosen instead of the Chosen One.
But what are we going to do now, Buffy?
"I don't know," she mumbles, and slips into the welcoming dark.
Faith's Slayer speed makes her the one to catch Buffy when she passes out. She stands still, legs spread apart slightly, clutching her sisternemesisrivalally so that the blonde head is cradled against her strong right bicep.
"Oh god, oh god," Dawn is saying. "Is she going to be okay?" Faith hears Giles telling Dawn that yes, everything will be fine - that Buffy is just exhausted and has probably lost some blood. She turns to Willow.
"What can you do?"
"Close the wound up, if it's still bleeding," Willow replies tersely as the move slowly back towards the door of the bus. "And I have a spell that should prevent infection. But..." She frowns a little. "Most of the energy has to come from the person being healed. It's too dangerous to do it any other way."
"Shouldn't we be trying to find a hospital?" Xander points out. He's walking too close to her, peering over her shoulder at Buffy's pale, bruised face.
"I don't think we can," Giles answers. "They'd ask more questions than we'd be willing to answer." Faith stumbles on a patch of gravel and winces as her knee twists, slightly. Buffy shouldn't feel this heavy.
"Sleeping for a week," she mutters to the unconscious Slayer. "Definitely."
"What we need is a... a safe house of sorts," Giles announces at the same time.
Kennedy stops abruptly, making Andrew plow into her. He backs off quickly, hands in the air, but she doesn't even bother to glare. "I think I might have an idea," she says. "If a safe house is really what we want."
They are climbing back into the bus, now, and Faith has to concentrate on not letting Buffy's feet or head hit the seats. "I'm gonna lay her down in the back," she announces to no-one and everyone, slowly making her way past Rona and Vi, Shannon and Nora.
"Whatever you can do for the injured, Willow," Giles speaks from the front of the bus, "I suggest you do it now."
Faith gently lays Buffy down on the back seat and finds herself wishing for her leather jacket, to make a pillow for Buffy's head. Too bad. And then she turns around to see Willow bending over Robin and glowing, and everything stops as they all watch him twitch slightly against her hands on his forehead before the light surrounding her is far too bright to stare at directly.
"Holy shit," Faith mutters.
"That's-" Xander begins. "It's never looked that way, before."
"I do believe," Giles whispers reverently into the silence, "that Willow may have made a full recovery."
But then the moment is over and she's moving on to hover over Rona, and Vi is looking on anxiously, even through the glare of the light. Faith's eyes flick back to Robin, and when she sees him slumped over the steering wheel, she starts forward in alarm. But then Willow stands up from Rona, and catches her shoulder in one still-glowing palm. "It's okay. He's just sleeping - they both are. I told you - it takes a lot of energy."
Faith nods and lets Willow slip past her. "You were saying that you know of a place for us to go, Kennedy?" Giles asks from up front.
"Think so, yeah," she replies. "My parents - they own a cabin just outside of Yosemite. I know they'd let us use it. We could stay there for... as long as we needed, I guess."
"Does it have wings?" Willow asks as she straightens up from attending to Nora. Her smile is tired.
Kennedy laughs out loud. "No wings. It'll fit us all comfortably, though - it was designed to house a lot of guests, so there are lots of beds and plenty of bathrooms."
"That'll be a nice change!" Dawn exclaims.
Somehow, Giles' cell phone has made it through Armageddon, so Kennedy calls her folks while Willow finally makes it to the back of the bus, and Buffy. Faith finds herself wondering what exactly you say to your parents after surviving a battle like they've just been through. Hi Mom, hi Dad. Yep, I'm still alive. Lots of other girls aren't, so I feel lucky. You would have been proud - I killed more than thirty ubervamps. Next time you should really come and sit on the sidelines - hand out oranges during halftime.
She shakes her head. Tired, and more bitter than usual. Damn. Then Willow straightens up and the glow fades away, and Faith gets ready to catch her, because she looks like she might follow Buffy's example and faint. But Willow only leans heavily on the seats and catches her breath, and after a moment there's a bit more color in her cheeks.
"They'll all be fine," she croaks. "Just need to rest." She tries another smile. "Rest... would definitely be of the good right now."
"Will you call the caretaker?" Kennedy is asking. "Oh, good. Thanks. Yeah - love you too. No no, we'll be fine. Yep - bye."
"Caretaker?" Xander repeats incredulously.
"Yeah," Kennedy replies, handing the phone back to Giles. "Y'know, a guy who takes care of your house when you're not there. Care-taker."
Xander lets his head slump forward to rest against the back of the seat in front of him. "Even Cordy didn't have one of those," he mutters.
Kennedy turns away from him with a shrug and takes charge. "I've got directions. Who's driving?"
They decide it will look best if Giles drives, of course, despite the fact that he doesn't have a license. Dragging Robin out of the driver's seat proves difficult, but they finally manage and the engine roars into life. At first, Dawn, Andrew, and Xander try to get everyone to sing silly songs: "The Wheels on the Bus," and "We are the Champions," and "Life is a Highway." Faith just sits sideways in her seat with her knees pulled up, back against the warm window, sometimes looking out at the dry scenery, and sometimes looking over at Buffy. She wishes for sleep, but somehow can't keep asking the question. What now?
She has been given a second chance - that much seems likely. If she's presumed dead in Sunnydale, the cops will stop looking. She can start over somewhere. Maybe even change her name. If she was really clever, she'd change it to match the name of one of the girls who just died - Amanda, maybe. "Amanda," she whispers, just to try it out. No one hears her over the too-raucous singing up front.
Finally, things quiet down. People come back to check on Buffy a few times, and for some reason, they seem to accept Faith's self-delegated role as bedside guardian. They're too tired to be suspicious, she thinks. Deep down, though, she hopes it's more than that. She would like to be trusted by these people.
Twice, over the course of the drive, Faith becomes afraid that Buffy is no longer breathing. Maybe it's her tired eyes betraying her, or maybe it's just plain old paranoia, but she has to reach through the crack between the seats to grab Buffy's wrist and feel her pulse. It's slow, but that's not surprising. Buffy is in superb athletic shape.
The second time this happens, Faith fails to let go of Buffy's hand. And then she dozes off, because the next thing she can remember is the jolt of the bus stopping combined with Kennedy's voice announcing that they've arrived.
Faith reels her now-cramped arm back into her own seat, and looks out of the window with bleary eyes. Kennedy's "cabin" is actually made of logs, and it's big. It's two stories high, and the lower story's windows are clearly of the floor-to-ceiling variety. The upper story boasts three smaller windows on each side of the door, and there is no way she can tell how far back the house extends. As she listens to the admiring comments and incredulous whistles of those awake, a man walks out of the front door wearing a flannel shirt and tan Carharts. Kennedy descends from the bus to meet him, and they talk briefly before he hands her a set of keys. Faith watches him take off in one (of two) pick-up trucks parked further up on the driveway and wonders what he's thinking.
By now, the excited buzz in the bus has woken everyone except Rona and Buffy. Faith scoops up the latter again and follows Vi into the house, where she gently deposits Buffy on one of the (three) futons in the room to her right. She steps back, admiring the view, then strolls into the kitchen for a peak. Two refrigerators, a marble-top L-shaped counter and an espressomaker later, Faith is officially impressed. "Score two for the boarding school brat," she says admiringly as she rejoins the gang.
"This place is wicked cool," Andrew adds. "It's a perfect base for covert operations!"
"All I want to do is sleep," Nora groans.
Giles and Dawn are kneeling next to Buffy, so Faith crouches in front of Robin. His grip on one rail of the futon looks like it might be all that's keeping him upright. "How ya doing, big guy?" she asks, more cheerfully than she feels.
"Rough day at the office," he whispers hoarsely, then coughs a little. But he's smiling. She squeezes his hand and stands up. Too fast. Everything spins a little, and she has to throw her arms out to both sides to stay balanced.
"Are you all right, Faith?" Giles asks. There's genuine concern in his voice, and it feels good.
"Five by five" jumps instinctively to her lips, but she's too tired to pretend. "I'm beat, G-man," she tells him honestly. When she dares to look him in the face, she notices the dark bags under his eyes, and the discoloration of a bruise spreading across his left cheek.
"Okay," Kennedy says loudly as she marches through the door. "Here's the deal - there's plenty of sleeping room upstairs, or you can crash on one of the futons if you want. Nick - the caretaker - stocked the fridges with food and drink, so help yourself. And there are two bathrooms - one upstairs, one down - both with showers. Towels under the sink. If you need to call someone, the phone's in the kitchen. Any questions?"
Those who are able, shake their heads. Faith is starting to feel numb all over - wooden. Like Pinocchio. Just wanting to be a real girl. "Willow and I call dibs on the master bedroom," Kennedy announces, grabbing Will by the hand and almost physically hauling her up the stairs.
They all settle in quickly. Faith relinquishes Buffy to the care of her sister, Giles, and Xander. She thinks for a second about finding Robin, but the idea of cuddling up just doesn't fly, and they're both too tired for sex. Instead, she retreats to a tiny room next to the master suite that must have been a closet once, but is now furnished with a twin bed and a dresser. It feels like her jail cell, and that's oddly comforting. She doesn't even kick off her shoes - just whips the dust cover from the bed and throws herself down. She smells terrible, and her teeth feel fuzzy, and there's blood on the inside of her elbow from a Turok claw... but nothing matters now except sleep.
"Well, damn," she mutters as her head drops onto the pillow. "What a day."
Suggested soundtrack: "Stronger" by Lamb, followed by "Something I Can Never Have" by Nine Inch Nails
Some indeterminate amount of time later, she wakes up - hungry, horny, and needing to pee. Stumbles to the bathroom, and once she's there, decides that the shower looks pretty damn good, too. Only... Faith doesn't relish the idea of getting back into the dirty, bloody, ripped-up clothes she has on, so she heads back to her cell, hoping that Kennedy's parents were decent enough to leave some clothes in the dresser. And she's not disappointed; alongside extra sheets for the bed, there's a pair of gray jogging pants and a black fleece sweatshirt. She'll be swimming in them, but they'll do.
Her shower reveals a few new scars, but Slayer healing is a wonderful thing, and even on only a few hours of sleep she feels mostly rejuvenated. She's still got some aches - back, shoulders, quads - but nothing that a good massage and a few more hours of sleep won't be able to handle. Thinking of massage makes her remember being horny, and she almost just takes matters into her own hands, there in the shower. But then her stomach growls long and deep, and hunger's back on top.
Faith has to fold the pants' waist three times before they'll stay over her hips, and the hem of the sweatshirt comes down to mid-thigh. But they're soft and warm and they smell faintly like the wood of the dresser, so she's happy. Down the stairs - almost tripping on the extra fabric pooling around her feet - and into the kitchen, mouth already salivating... and there's Buffy sitting at the counter on a tall stool in a terry-cloth bathrobe, feet swinging idly as she chews on a half-eaten PB&J sandwich. Bottle of Coors Light in her other hand, and wet hair cascading down her back, and when she hears Faith's swishing footsteps, she turns around, swallows, and says, "Hey."
Horniness is suddenly back in first, and Faith has to really concentrate to keep her eyes away from the slight bit of cleavage revealed by the robe's v-neck. For a wild moment, she thinks that maybe she's still dreaming - this is one-hundred percent fantasy territory. But as she moves forward out of her surprised halt, she stubs her left big toe on a stool leg, and the slight pain is definitely real. Fuck, she thinks, and wishes for about the thousandth time that B was even the littlest bit into girls. With Willow being gay all these years, she must have at least thought about it...
"Hey," she replies, ignoring her own klutziness. "Didn't expect you to wake up at all tonight - how ya feeling?"
Buffy shrugs - a small roll of her shoulders that makes the robe's fabric ripple ever so slightly - and Faith mentally curses the firecracker intensity of her body. The last time it had been this bad around Buffy... well, it had led to skipping school and dancing and dead men and knives. Faith fights off the sudden urge to slam a fist into the countertop, and leans against it instead, letting her body cover hands that grip the marbled edge so tightly that her knuckles shake. Deep breaths. Let the memories go. Focus on the hunger twisting her stomach.
"A little sore," Buffy answers. "And like I could sleep for years." She looks up at Faith and grins slightly. "When I woke up, though, I was starving. True to form, I guess." She takes a long swig of her beer, then, and Faith watches her throat convulse before turning away towards the fridge.
"Damn the double H's," she replies breezily. "There anything good in here?"
"Sandwich stuff," Buffy replies. "Icecream. Little frozen pizzas."
"Ooh, yeah," Faith croons. "That's what I want. Bring that on." She rummages past a big box of Eggo waffles and a tub of chocolate fudge mint cookie-dough to grab a 10-inch pepperoni Tombstone. "What do you want on your tombstone?" she mimicked, brandishing the pizza and shoving the fridge shut with her right heel.
"I think the inscription on mine went something like, 'She saved the world a lot.'" Buffy takes another sip - a longer one - and as the bottle leaves her lips, they're curved in a crooked smile. "Works for me."
Faith sets her pizza down on the counter and begins to unwrap it, focusing too intently on the plastic covering.
"Yeah... I kinda heard about that. From Willow, while we were driving up." She doesn't meet Buffy's eyes until the pizza is in the microwave and she has nowhere else to look. "I guess I don't really know what to say," she admits, crossing her arms under her breasts. "I mean, sure, coma for almost a year... but it's not six-feet-under."
Buffy shrugs again, and it's still hot as fuck. "It probably wasn't all that different, really," she replies. "Well, except for the crawling out of your own grave part."
Now it's Faith's turn for the crooked grin. "Metaphorically speaking? Been there, done that." She runs her hands through her dark curls and stretches. "But good ole Will brought you back, eh?" She whistles lowly and shakes her head. "Beaucoup de mojo, no joke."
"And Xander," Buffy amends. "And... Tara and Anya. Who are both-" She doesn't have to finish the sentence; Faith looks up again and nods quickly. Dead. Anya is dead. Amanda is dead. Chao-Ahn is dead. Spike...
The microwave beeps, and Faith retrieves her pizza, along with another Coors from the fridge. Buffy watches her deftly twist the cap and take a long swallow. "Spike always said American beer tasted like piss," she says abruptly. "He wouldn't drink anything but English imports. And whenever he was talking about cookies, he'd call them 'biscuits.'" She blinks rapidly and begins peeling at the label on her beer with those perfectly manicured fingernails that Faith has never been able to rationalize. "And 'bloody,'" she continues. "Bloody this, bloody that. Bloody everything. He w-was such a - such a goddamned v-vampire..." There are tears running down her face now, and Faith moves to the stool next to her so she can reach out and catch them on her fingertips. Slayertears. Buffy's tears. She barely resists the urge to taste them, and instead wipes her fingers on the borrowed jogging pants before replacing them - so lightly - against Buffy's flushed cheeks. But there are only a few more - not nearly enough - before Buffy's eyes are dry again. Swollen, though - red and a little puffy.
Faith can't decide whether it's cute or frightening, so she leans over her plate and takes a big bite out of her cooling pizza. "Did you love him?" she asks, once she's washed the bite down with another cold swig of beer. She closes her eyes briefly, enjoying the rush of the liquid hitting the bottom of her stomach. Coolsplash.
"No," says Buffy, shaking her head. "I didn't. I cared about him, though. Enough to wish I could've loved him." She sighs and combs those fragile-looking fingers through her hair. "You don't have the monopoly on fuck-ups, you know," she continues, lips twisting in an expression that Faith has never seen on Buffy before. She knows it, though. Self-loathing.
"So you screwed around with him for a while," Faith replies, trying out a shrug of her own. Right shoulder's still a little sore. "What's the big?" She smacks the counter lightly with her open palm, startling Buffy into eye contact. "And if you say 'because it's wrong,' I will hit you."
That gets her to smile, and Faith's glad. They both take another drink, simultaneously. "I was using him," Buffy answers slowly as her smile fades. "He loved me and I used it. Selfishly."
Faith throws her hands up in the air, literally, and looks at Buffy like she's from outer space. "And he wasn't using you right back? I mean, come on, B. He knew you didn't love him. And he fucked you anyway." She takes another long swallow, trying to regain some measure of calm. "Sometimes that's just how it is," she continues. "Maybe it ain't pretty, but so what?"
Staying calm isn't happening, so she gets up off the stool and starts to pace. "You're still living in the goddamn fairy tale, Buffy," she rants. "But this shit isn't black and white, good and evil, loving and screwing. It's life." Faith pauses to glare. Buffy's eyes are wide and white and a little bit pissed. She's beautiful. "You died twice, and you still don't fucking get it. Maybe you're the slow one."
"Fine," Buffy snaps. She stands up, clutching the beer bottle in her left hand, and Faith automatically scans the kitchen for a weapon. Habit. "If you're so smart, why don't you explain it to me," she retaliates, her voice husky in anger. "Slowly. And use small words."
"Fuck you," Faith replies easily, scoffing at her sarcasm.
Buffy gestures across her body, mimicking Faith's motion from so long ago at the window of her chem class. "Be my guest," she retorts.
And suddenly, Faith knows she will. She moves forward quickly, feeling her triceps ripple as she traps Buffy against the marbled countertop. "Don't dare me, B," she hisses. Physical hunger is forgotten as heat rockets through her body. She can feel the sweat start to bead beneath the soft material of the fleece. And she grins. "Oops - too late. You already did." Buffy's pupils are huge and her breaths are coming fast, but she meets Faith's gaze without flinching and doesn't even try to pull away. Whatever the reasons, she's going with this for now, so Faith leans in a little closer. Not touching, though. Teasing.
Buffy's eyebrows arch, and she grins back. Smugly. Which throws Faith, for all of two seconds. "Well?" Buffy asks, her tone almost conversational. "What ever happend to 'want, take have?'"
Suggested soundtrack: "Not an Addict" by K's Choice, followed by "Angel" by Massive Attack, followed by "Strong" by Velvet Chain.
Faith's left eyebrow arches deliberately. It reminds Buffy of her favorite crossbow. "Glad you're finally starting to see things my way," she murmurs, moving closer. Their bodies are almost touching, now - the heat radiating from each is palpable. "But that doesn't mean I don't like to tease," Faith continues, her lips less than an inch from Buffy's. Who isn't pulling back or beating the crap out of her or acting offended or doing any of the other things Faith always figured she'd do if it ever came to this.
Faith's about to kiss her, when Buffy bridges the gap for the both of them. Despite the violent posturing, it's gentle and slow and so, so soft. Buffy's body follows her lips, and suddenly she's curling into Faith's curves - hands stroking her back over the fleece, breasts pushing into Faith's own. The dark Slayer is too overwhelmed by sensation to do anything for a long moment, until she finally gets enough of a grip to press against Buffy's hipbones, urging her back against the counter. And that's when the kiss gets deeper, harder, just a tiny bit rougher.
Buffy's tongue darts out to touch Faith's in a series of fleeting little French kisses that leaves the younger girl feeling dizzy. Goddamnit, she's supposed to be the one in charge! Her hands are squeezing Buffy's hips in rhythm with their kissing, and she can feel the terry-cloth cord begin to slip. The next time Buffy's tongue darts into her mouth, Faith captures it, sucking lightly, and simultaneously pulls open her robe. Hands rush in to feel her skin, fingers seeking those twin perfect dips where her hips and pelvis meet.
Buffy's gasp draws air from Faith's mouth, and her head snaps back. Wide, startled blue eyes, and harsh breaths, and she even shivers a little. Faith has to struggle to not look at her breasts - freed now from the confines of the robe - but she's gotta be sure. In that moment, she misses the taste of her - beer over peanut butter over *Buffy*.
"Warm," Buffy breathes, eyelids fluttering a little as Faith resumes the massaging motion of her hands.
"That's right," she replies huskily, finally feeling back on top. "I'm the one touching you, Buffy. Not Spike. Not Angel. Me." She lets go (reluctantly) with her left hand and grab's Buffy's right, pulling it away from her back. Brings it forward to her left breast. "Me. Faith."
Buffy's hand is shaking a little, but she cups it around the generous bulge of Faith's breast and squeezes. Faith's breath hitches. "I know," she whispers. "It's you."
Faith lets her right hand slide up the sides of Buffy's torso oh-so-slowly. She's ticklish. Faith remembers the night she discovered that fact, when they'd ended up in a heap after a particularly gymnastic fight with a couple of Fyarl demons. She'd wanted Buffy so badly that time... it took three separate hookups in the back of the Bronze before the knot was gone.
Buffy's left hand darts under the fleece just as Faith touches the underside of her breast with a tentative finger. Buffy squeezes hard in reaction, and a low moan slips out between Faith's lips. And then Faith is kneading both her breast and her hip, and Buffy's fingers have graduated to pinching through the fabric. It's all happening far too fast, but maybe this is how it has to be with them, the first time, and it's not like Faith's complaining - oh no - especially when Buffy's hot little left hand slips under the sweatpants' waistline.
The air leaves her mouth in a reverent sigh of "ohfuck." Buffy's index finger is sliding down the center of her body - down, down, down - until it brushes curly black hair and comes to a stop. Faith's eyes fly open, her breath puffing against Buffy's chin in shallow pants. Buffy's eyes are the color of Massachusetts Bay in summer as she rubs her finger in light circles, just above where Faith wants her most.
"Will and I got drunk, once," she murmurs. Faith blinks rapidly to keep her face in focus, wondering why the hell Buffy's decided to turn this moment into storytime. Followed by why in the fuck she's not the one in control. Her hands on Buffy have lost their rhythm. "A few months ago. When she was missing Tara so much." The finger slides lower, tracing the soft edges of Faith's outer lips. And just like that, she's shaking. Shaking. In Buffy's arms. Some part of her wonders if this is how Buffy felt with Angel. Mortal enemy, knowing you so well, reducing you to this - to hot liquid want. To quivers. To sweet, sweet weakness. "She told me a lot, about what it was like with a girl." Buffy grins again, stormy-dark eyes glinting with the memory. "She wouldn't shut up."
It's the smallest of movements, and then the callused pad of Buffy's finger is pressed against her. Lightly at first. Faith's hand clutches reflexively at her hip as the pressure increases, slowly, slowly, until finally Buffy swivels her finger in a tiny circle. Faith's gasp is cut off as she bites down hard on her bottom lip. Salty-rust taste of blood. Always blood, with Buffy.
"Tell me what you want, Faith," she whispers, and it's so damn good to hear her own name leaving Buffy's mouth. The dark slayer's hips are rotating counterclockwise with that incredible finger, thrusting up just as Buffy gently pushes down. But she's still empty - hollow and aching.
"Inside," Faith manages to choke out, fighting to keep her eyes locked on Buffy as two long, thin fingers fill her in response. Buffy pushes into her slowly, tongue snaking out to lick both lips as she concentrates. Her thumb takes over at Faith's swollen pressure point, leisurely flicking back and forth like there's all the time in the world. But as those fingers move and curl inside her, Faith knows control is out of the question.
Buffy slows down as Faith's eyes start to glaze, wringing a moan from the younger Slayer's throat. "You like it hard and fast," Buffy murmurs. "But I'm going to make you come like this. So slowly. Like a wave."
Faith actually whimpers this time, and then again as Buffy leans forward to press sucking kisses to the side of her neck. The small kernel of rational thought that hasn't yet been blown away is wishing she could send a postmortem fruitbasket to Spike for teaching Buffy how to talk during sex. But then B starts to press down just slightly harder with her thumb, and every muscle tightens.
"Buffy Buffy Buffy." The name slips out in a chanting whisper as Faith's body ripples in ecstasy. It lasts forever, pulse after pulse sinking into her, wringing her out oh-so-gently.
When she finally returns to herself, her head is resting in the dip between Buffy's neck and right shoulder, and the blonde Slayer's fingers are combing through her thick curls. Faith pulls back to look at her, but there's no disgust or pity on her perfect face. Only a somber peacefulness that Faith can feel reflected in her own quiet smile. But...
Energy returns in a rush, and then she's lifting Buffy from the waist, raising her up so she's sitting on the edge of the counter. She laughs out loud - it's so easy. So good to bestrong. Buffy tries to smile back, but the hunger gets in the way and her lips tremble. "That's right, B," Faith smirks. "My turn, now." She slips the robe from Buffy's shoulders, tracing her shoulderblades with butterfly fingers. "Lean back on your hands," she rasps.
Faith's own hands - so warm! - start at Buffy's hard little calf muscles and move up her legs, all the while pushing them slowly apart. By the time they reach her knees, Buffy is making these little noises, halfway between a pant and a whimper. Faith grins rakishly at her, allowing her hands to slide even further up. "I've wanted to do this for years," she admits, thumbs pressing in small circles against Buffy's firm quads. "Sometimes, in jail, I'd think about you. While touching myself."
Faith steps closer, then, and lets one hand move up to Buffy's left breast. She kneads it for a while before finally cupping it in her palm and leaning forward to close her mouth over the swollen nipple. Buffy's hips jerk as she laves it roughly with her tongue, and then again when she hollows her cheeks in gradual suction. And still, that other hand is moving. Up.
Buffy is whimpering nonstop by the time Faith leaves her breast to track sucking kisses down over her abdomen. She pauses at Buffy's bellybutton, startled because she can remember just how arousing it is for Buffy to be touched like this. Riley had spent what felt like hours dipping his tongue into her navel and dragging it over the surrounding skin, and Faith had been completely bowled over by the resulting stabs of teasing pleasure. So she closes her eyes and gently traces her tongue around the rim of Buffy's bellybutton... and sure enough, not even death can change the fact that Buffy is ultra-sensitive, here.
Faith slowly lifts her head from the exquisite softness of Buffy's stomach, suddenly feeling the need to be honest. "It feels so good for you," she whispers. "I... I remember."
Buffy doesn't get it for a second; she's breathing hard and her eyes are cloudy with lust. Faith feels a momentary spike of fear that Buffy will remember she can't be doing this - that she's perpetually pissed off and hurt and disappointed when it comes to her. But all she does is whisper a breathy little "yeah," and reach for the nape of Faith's neck to pull mouth back to her skin. Faith smiles against her slightly rounded belly and obliges by thrusting her tongue deeply into Buffy's navel several dozen times.
When she finally raises her head, the fingers of her left hand are mere centimeters away from Buffy's soft folds. The older Slayer's hips move restlessly, trying in vain to force Faith's fingertips into contact with the focal point of her desire. "Stop moving," Faith whispers harshly. "If you move again, I'll stop."
Buffy's eyes snap open, but her hips freeze in place on the countertop. "God," she gasps, and Faith can't tell where her pupils end and irises begin.
"Remember," Faith orders. And then she returns both hands to Buffy's inner thighs, finally allowing herself to push them as far apart as they'll go. Both thumbs dip into her wetness, then run gently along the impossibly soft ridges of skin that curve together just above where Buffy wants her attention most. Faith can hear her labored breathing as she struggles to suppress the instinctive jerks of her hips.
The younger Slayer opens Buffy with an aching slowness, exposing her completely to the cool air and her own hot eyes. "Gorgeous," she mutters, just before leaning in to lightly press the tip of her tongue against the swollen bundle of nerves.
"F-Faith!" Buffy cries, unable to suppress a shudder.
"Shhh," Faith answers, breath hot against this most sensitive skin. "Relax, B. Relax and keep still, so I can touch you." She presses her tongue to Buffy again, slowly increasing the pressure and finally ending with a light flick. A half-sob, half-moan erupts from Buffy's throat, so Faith does it again. And again. A little harder and faster each time, cheeks rubbing against B's inner thighs, until she finally positions one finger against her entrance and slides deep, deep inside.
Neither of them hear the sounds of footsteps on the stairs, of course, and it's to Kennedy's credit that when she rounds the corner, she just takes a startled step backwards, without making a sound. After a moment, she leans against the doorjamb, watching Faith's torturous technique and Buffy's incoherent responsiveness with appreciative eyes. All thought of food leaves her mind, and it doesn't take long for Kennedy to feel that she'd really rather be upstairs with Willow, discovering sex as a Slayer.
"Faith," Buffy sobs, as Kennedy reaches the foot of the stairs and begins to take them two at a time. "Please. Oh, oh please..." Faith grins again and hums a little, and Buffy actually *squeaks*.
"Don't come until you can't stand it anymore," she finally whispers. "Until you think you'll die if you don't." Buffy's only reply is a groan, and Faith draws it out by pushing a second finger inside her. She curls them up as she thrusts, faster and faster, until Buffy is mindless with passion. Faith pushes her harder, loving every sound, every insuppressable movement. Loving the control. Loving that she's good enough to make Buffy feel this much.
"Ah-" Buffy cries sharply, and for a long moment, her body hangs poised on the brink of orgasm, before Faith's fingers and tongue finally tip her over into incandescent pleasure. The dark Slayer doesn't stop her ministrations until Buffy's body has melted into the countertop. She pulls the robe back around her so she won't take a chill, and takes to rubbing her stomach gently until the older Slayer recovers.
"Pretty damn amazing, B," she admits, allowing her eyes to roam leisurely over Buffy's body.
"Got that right," Buffy replies, smiling broadly and raising her arms above her head in a cat-like stretch.
Faith keeps rubbing her stomach and taps her left foot against the floor a few times. "Want to move this party upstairs?" she finally asks in what's probably supposed to sound like a casual tone. Buffy hears the effort behind the words, though, and cranes her neck to meet Faith's suddenly insecure eyes.
"Yeah," she replies, coming up with one of those slow, sweet trademark Buffy smiles. "Let's do that."
Faith takes the opportunity to tickle her on their way up the stairs, which leads to a genuine shriek from Buffy and an ensuing race down the second floor corridor. Once they're safely ensconced behind the bedroom door, though, Faith turns to her sister Slayer with a lascivious grin. "So," she begins, "did drunken Willow ever happen to mention the '69'?"
Sometime near dawn, they finally fall asleep, only to wake up again just after noon. The moment could be awkward, but it isn't. Buffy stretches and grins, folding her arms beneath her head. "I feel good," she announces. Faith rolls on her side and gently reaches out to tuck an errant lock of blonde hair behind her ear.
"Yeah, well, seven orgasms will do that to a girl," she replies. Her smile is smug. Buffy arches her eyebrows and scoots a little closer.
"I've always liked the number eight better, myself," she confesses coyly.
"Oh, yeah?" Faith asks, using her replenished strength to flip Buffy over onto her stomach. "That's good to know."
Over an hour passes before more words are spoken, and they're not the ones you'd expect. Want to go downstairs? Yeah, man - I'm starved. Okay, cool. No declarations of undying love. No accusations. No admonitions to keep last night a secret beyond the grave.
It's funny, Faith thinks as they finally get dressed, that this probably won't happen again. Funny interesting. Not that it couldn't, but... this isn't a relationship, like Will and Kennedy or Xander and Anya, or even Buffy and Angel. It's communication. Forgiveness. Healing. Something in between fucking and lovemaking. Something nobody's ever invented a word for. She snorts at herself in the mirror for getting all philosophical, and grins at Buffy as they head downstairs.
"Thanks," says B, squeezing her hand lightly before turning the corner towards the kitchen and the sounds of a (very) late breakfast. Faith just nods in return, and then they're there, in the spotlight again, everyone saying shit like "How'd you sleep?" and "How are you feeling?" and "We're already out of lowfat milk."
Life goes on, Buffy thinks, grabbing two waffles out of the toaster and tossing one to Faith.
"Hey!" Andrew shouts. "L'eggo my eggo!"
Willow catches her eye and flashes a smug grin. So... Kennedy walked in on you two last night, she confesses telepathically. In the kitchen. Her smile grows wider. She came back to bed all inspired.
Buffy grins back and shrugs, reaching for the syrup. Yeah, she thinks in reply. It was... a thing.
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