All the Endings Buffy and Faith Never Had
Author Notes: so, this is the first of a series of unconnected Buffy/Faith ficlets. Each chapter will be a new story, and they will all be slash (or have slashy undertones.) Some will be fluffy, others funny, and some just good ol' dark and angsty. Oh, yes, and I LOVE feed back. Just thought you should know.
Disclaimer: HA. as if I owned anything. Buffy and all of her friends belong to Joss and Mutant Enemy, etc. I also don't own the title of this ficlet, which belongs to Augustana.
Chapter One: Boston
The wind slipped through her hair, the cold air flooding into her lungs as they ran together. Side by side, dark and light with laughter bouncing off the tombstones. For once they weren’t running from anything, or to anything. They were just running, winter air skimming across their skin and rushing through their veins.
They weaved between and leaped over the headstones, riding the high together, post-slay adrenaline and too-expensive strawberry daiquiris still on their tongues.
And then her world spun in blonde silk and inky sky as she twirled and let her legs give away, falling to the soft earth. The sky was dotted with all those shiny, sparkly stars, and she wanted very much to share this her dark counterpart. She looked around to find Faith perched on a headstone, breathing hard with locks of deep, dark hair obscuring her dimples and laughing eyes.
Buffy felt a bubble of excitement expand in her chest with every breath of stormy, clean air, so she laughed loudly and Faith joined her, releasing the built up happiness. Buffy could taste carefree in the air, and it felt so good, to be here in green grass of a Boston cemetery, laughing and living. With Faith.
She patted the grass next to her, and soon the younger girl was falling too, closing her eyes in reverence at how the cold, wet grass felt to her flushed skin. Faith realized she was still smiling because she could feel Buffy’s cool fingertips tracing the dimples in her cheek. Buffy had been doing that a lot recently. Faith used to ask why, but Buffy always shrugged her shoulders and said ‘just because.’ So Faith stopped questioning and enjoyed the attention.
“This is how it was supposed to be.”
Faith’s eyes opened and looked over at Buffy as she dropped her hand to the ground. They smiled wider into each other’s eyes.
“The Chosen Two, right girlfriend?”
Buffy shook her head.
“Buffy and Faith.”
Buffy rested her head in the grass again, closing her eyes and interlacing her fingers with Faith’s. Faith let out another giddy laugh, staring at the pretty, infinite starlight.
Because six months ago she wasn’t even sure she even had a future, but here she was wasting it away on the lawn of rainy graveyard, holding hands with Buffy.
They don’t leave until the rain soaks them to the bone.
Chapter Two: The (After) Life of the Party
Timeline: Season 4, while Faith is still in the coma.
Buffy could feel the crushed white and red petals under her feet as she padded across them in the ancient theater. She gazed at the burning candelabras, with the shredded pink banners hanging underneath. The half-eaten, candy-hearts with cheap messages of love. Sparkles and dust alike on the ripped, blood-colored stage curtains. The ground littered with broken glass and dying flowers and empty boxes of chocolate.
Tattered, decadent and tragically beautiful.
“Kinda looks like Valentine’s Day threw up, huh?”
Faith was sitting on the chipped and dusty grand piano, champagne in hand, with her pretty dimples and pretty white dress, and pretty lips painted the same blood red as the curtains behind her.
Buffy knows this is a dream, so she doesn’t bother to question the fluttering in her chest.
The record player in the corner starts playing of its own accord, and Faith smiles softly, cocking her head to one side before setting down the crystal glass, and moving toward Buffy.
“Dance with me, B?” She asks quietly, smile fading and stretching out her hand with its shiny, black nail polish. Buffy wordlessly slips her hand into Faith’s because it’s always easier in their dreams. They somehow manage to avoid all the shattered glass, and make it to the center of the dimly lit dance floor.
Faith slips her hands around Buffy’s waist, and Buffy places her hands on Faith’s shoulders. They begin to sway in time to the scratched record, never breaking away from each other’s gaze.
“What is this Faith?”
“This is me saying I’m sorry.”
It’s something in Faith’s eyes. Something in her tone. It makes Buffy’s heart clench.
Faith smiles sadly and pulls Buffy closer.
“Because I loved you. Because I love you. But it was just so much easier to hate you.”
Buffy opens her mouth in shock and shakes her head in disbelief. But Faith looks so damn sincere. It’s the dimples and sad eyes. It’s the complete lack of sexual come-ons and leather. It’s Faith, vulnerable and stripped of her defenses.
“It…it would have been different...if I had known – “
“No, it wouldn’t have. I wasn’t ready…you weren’t ready. I wasn’t our time. We were never supposed to happen.”
Buffy is not sure what Faith is referring to anymore and the dread in the pit of her stomach is growing.
“Do you forgive me, B?” Faith’s smile is gone and she looks so sad, dark brown eyes shimmering with tears like the glittery glass beneath their feet. Buffy clutches tighter to Faith’s shoulders.
“Maybe when you wake up we can try to…we can start over, okay? When you wake up, we can start over.”
Faith doesn’t say anything, she just gazes far behind Buffy at the bloody, velvet curtains.
“…Faith? When you wake up, okay?” Buffy’s voice sounds desperate even to herself. Her heart pounds a little faster, and Faith refuses to look at her.
Faith finally glances at her again, grinning slightly before pressing her lips against Buffy’s.
Her eyes flutter shut and she wraps her arms around Faith’s neck, pulling her closer. She allows Faith to guide her across the dance floor to push her against the wall, and she whimpers when Faith sucks on her tongue and nibbles her bottom lip.
It’s only later when they break for air, foreheads resting together with their eyes locked and lips swollen that Buffy knows.
She knows that there will be no ‘when Faith wakes up.’ She knows that Faith is not going to wake up. Faith’s hair feels soft between her fingers and her throat begins constrict with all the what-ifs and what-could-have-beens she is losing.
Faith’s sad, brown eyes begin to blur in her vision.
“Please don’t cry, B.”
“I forgive you, Faith.”
“I forgive you, Buffy.”
Buffy pushes her lips against Faith’s again, and when the music fades and she opens her eyes, she is in her dorm room with hot tears stinging her cheeks.
She doesn’t need Giles’ phone call to know a new slayer has been called.
Chapter Three: Every Day is a Struggle
Timeline: this is set in season four, and Faith is awake, but the body switcharoo never happened. Just pretend she stuck around Sunnydale but is still the rogue slayer. So, in other words, it's AU.
Faith is laughing.
Here in her old apartment with all the lights out and her back against her bed, J.D. in hand.
She’s laughing because last night she fucked Buffy against a crypt in a cold cemetery.
They were fighting. Punch for punch, kick for kick.
And then they were kissing. Hip to hip and heart to heart, trapping Buffy against the rough surface as hard as she could.
The alcohol tastes sour and harsh, burning her throat as it goes down. She needs that right now.
She’s laughing because she dug her teeth into Buffy’s neck until she tasted metal. She laughs harder because she can practically here the girl stuttering out some lame explanation to her perfect, precious G.I. Joke of a boyfriend as to why his golden girl has a bite mark.
She’s laughing because with her nails scraping and teasing the inside of Buffy’s thighs, she made her beg for it. And then she knocked the princess off her fucking pedestal.
Faith’s laughing and laughing until saltwater falls onto the half-moon cuts on her wrist, and she realizes that she’s crying. The tears make the cuts twinge.
She’s crying because Buffy dug her claws into Faith’s wrist until warm blood bubbled up around and under her fingertips, until Buffy came hard bucking and moaning.
She’s crying because she kissed her way back up Buffy’s body, and buried her face in the older girl’s neck, breathing in the sweat and fading perfume. Sucking on her pulse point and in that moment, ready to whisper ‘I love you.’
She’s crying because after catching her breath, Buffy ran her fingers softly through Faith’s hair and then turned to hiss in her ear ‘I hate you so much.’
They never were on the same page.
Faith is crying because Buffy smoothed out her skirt and walked away, leaving Faith on the hard, dirty ground without one glance back.
Chapter Four: Read my Mind – Pt. 1 of 2
Your ears were ringing the first time she kissed you.
You don’t really understand how she can stand to listen to that noise for any extended period of time. But it’s her birthday, and they’re her favorite band. In town for one night only.
So that was how you ended up walking to the hospital. Faith just had to dive into the mosh pit, and of course crowd surfing was a must. And crowd surf she did. That is until someone dropped her.
And somewhere in the deafening noise and zero breathing room of the stadium, you were pick-pocketed, leaving you cashless and phone less. Hence the three-mile hike in the freezing cold to the hospital, because Faith’s wrist is definitely of the broken variety.
You are going over some of highlights of tonight’s funfest (the smelly pothead hitting on you and the smelly pothead then spilling his beer on your favorite top) when Faith wraps her good arm around your waist from behind and leans over your shoulder to kiss you softly.
You think that she probably did that just to shut you up, but the inside of her mouth tastes like cotton candy and you’ve always liked cotton candy. So the night is no longer a total bust.
She pulls away slightly, leaving her nose grazing your cheek.
“Thanks, B. I had a wicked good time.”
“We got mugged, your wrist is broken and it’s cold as a bitch out here.” You point out, eyes still closed and no longer shivering because Faith’s body is flush to your back.
“Yeah. That kinda sucked. But you’re here. With me. So, I’d say it’s a pretty good birthday so far.” She drops butterfly kisses along your jaw and on the corner of your mouth.
“Happy birthday, Faith.”
You held her uninjured hand all the way to the hospital.
It was one week and four days of awkwardness after the night she kissed you.
She wouldn’t talk about it, so naturally, neither would you. And with a house full of hyper, screaming mini-slayers, avoiding wasn’t a huge issue. But Willow and the others decided you needed the day off, and so you two are alone in an empty mansion.
The house used to bother you. It was too big, too dark. Too many rooms and passages and hallways to lose yourself in. But it’s grown on you. Kind of like a certain fellow slayer.
You don’t really know exactly how you got here, but what you do remember is that there was sparring involved, which led to tickling, which led to kissing.
You remember warm sunshine spilling onto the cool white sheets where you tasted her hot, sweat-slicked skin. You remember fingers on your cheeks while she writhed and arched beneath you.
You also remember the cool breeze on your naked back from the open window, and how she sounded when she whispered your name and clenched the sheets. You remember how everything smelled like grass and jasmines and Faith.
You remember she wouldn’t let you touch her when it was over.
Chapter Five: Let's Talk About Spaceships – Pt. 2 of 2
You spent two weeks and three days sleeping in Faith’s bed before she would let you hold her.
You dug your nails into her shoulders and closed your eyes, falling apart beneath her. And then you are breathing hard and she is lazily kissing your neck and chin.
This is the part you hate. When the soft kisses and adoring gazes would end. When she would move away and the white chasm of sheets between you and the smooth skin of her back feels like a distance of forever. You hate when she shuts you out.
She doesn’t move away tonight. She wraps her arms tentatively around your waist and kisses the top of your head. You try to hide the blissful smile and nuzzle into her neck.
“This is new.” You say as you suck at her collarbone. She makes a sound of assent, running her fingers along your spine.
“I thought you didn’t do the post-sex cuddle.”
“I didn’t. Now I do.”
She shifts beneath you, refusing to meet your eyes. She looks so…uncomfortable.
“We don’t have to…I mean, you don’t have to – “ She cuts you off with a light kiss.
“No, it’s okay. I want to. If ya like this, then I want to do it.” She moves her eyes back to yours and slowly relaxes her body.
Four months, two weeks, and six days later, and you’ve only been falling further.
It has been exactly three hours and fourteen minutes since she fell asleep sitting on your lap in the huge, cushy chair. Only God knows where Dawn and the other slayers have bounced off to.
You’ve been watching the whole time, every breath she takes.
You’re so scared of her.
Scared of saying it. Of saying it too late.
You think it every time you see her. When she wakes up with mussed hair and a gravelly voice. When she pretends to be listening to Giles drone on about the latest Big Bad, but is really teasing the inside of your thigh, and stealing kisses when no one is looking. When gives you that lopsided grin and winks at you over coffee.
When she slips her hand into yours wherever you are, just so she can stay in contact.
It is always on the tip of your tongue. You are so afraid it will slip out. You don’t think you stand watching her walk away.
But you are more scared that she will never even get the chance to hear it. All it takes is one mistake. Your always one careless move away from a swift death.
You run your fingers through her silk hair and swallow hard.
Her eyes flutter open and she smiles up at you, leaning up to kiss your cheek affectionately.
She moves her eyes back to yours, and her smile slowly disappears. She tucks some stray hairs behind your ear, and the way she is looking at you makes it hard to breathe.
“Yeah?” Your voice cracks. She looks down at her hands.
“Nothing…I just, I love you. That’s all.”
She wraps her hands around your neck and rests her cheek against yours.
You smile and kiss her shoulder, whispering your answer into her skin.
Chapter Six: The Writhing South
Timeline: late season three, but Angel didn't come back. or he left already. doesn't really matter, he's just gone. and Faith isn't evil.
Dammit. I think this is the fifth time I’ve read that sentence and I haven’t absorbed a thing. I guess I’ve never been very sponge-y.
It’s not my fault, though. No siree! I mean how could anyone concentrate with Faith sitting over there acting like…like a porn star.
Okay, so fine. She’s not intentionally acting like porn star, but it’s Faith! She just naturally sits all porn-staresque.
Because seriously, who sucks on a pen like that? I mean, for God’s sake, the way her tongue keeps circling the top, every so often nibbling gently. Jesus, her and that pen should get a room.
I wonder what it would feel like. To have those pouty lips traveling down my stomach. Her pink tongue flicks out as she continues her assault on the blue cap.
That same tongue dipping into the hollow of my neck. White teeth digging into my hipbone...my nails sliding down her spine….
Oh my god. Did I just moan out loud? I think I kinda did.
Faith’s the only one who catches it. Perks of Slayer hearing, I guess. She glances up at me, and I feel the heat in my face rush south when she slowly pulls the pen from her lips. She raises one perfectly sculpted eyebrow and sends me a shit-eating grin.
My breath hitches and I try to look busy with my Big Book of Things That Go Bump in the Night. Well, that’s not really what the title is. But, me? Not so good with the pronunciation of ancient Greek text.
“Oh, Buffy, I forgot to ask, how did last night’s make out go?”
Giles is gazing at me expectantly over his glasses. Panic mode? Check.
“I didn’t…w-we…there wasn’t…um…what?”
I’m not nervous. Nope. Nothing to hide here.
Because I was in no way, shape or form making out with Faith last night.
I also did not get knocked to my ass by a newbie vamp because I was too distracted by Faith’s hands under my shirt, undoing my bra strap. Didn’t happen.
“I asked you how the stake out went. You two were supposed to do recon outside the Mayor’s office last night.”
“R-right. Stake out. Mayor’s office. We did that.” For a few minutes. “Very uneventful. Boring even…”
“Well, I wouldn’t say boring, B…” She gives me a smoldering look, subconsciously licking her lips. I think if I blush any harder, my face will match Faith’s lipstick. She flashes me those perfect, shiny white teeth.
“We kept ourselves… occupied.” She says, grinning predatorily. I shift uncomfortably in my seat.
“Yup…those vamps and their…occupying techniques.” I say, nodding. My voice also seems to have taken on a high, pitchy quality. That’s always good.
Giles and the others are staring at us with interest. Faith is grinning at me like she’s won the damn lottery, and I either look like I’m going to smack her, or jump her. I really hope it’s the former.
“Yes…well, I think it would be beneficial to try again tonight.” Giles says, breaking the awkward silence.
“You got it, G-man.” Faith winks at me then turns her attention back to the large text in front of her.
Okay. Fine. So maybe there was some kissing last night.
…And maybe even a little gropage.
Oh, great, she’s back to the pen sex, pushing the cap past full lips, where she chews idly on the end. I swear to God, if she keeps that up I’m going to rip that pen from her mouth and replace it with my –
NO! Bad thoughts, Buffy! Very bad, very hot…umm...wow. Faith’s leaning back in the chair now, flipping her hair over her shoulder. My eyes drop to the exposed skin of her neck, right to her pulse point. I’ve always wondered what it was with vamps and all the neck biting. I can sympathize now.
I so wanna bite her.
I glance up to find her eyes on me again. Whoops. She definitely knows I was checking her out. She curls her lips into sexy grin around the cap of the pen. She sucks on the pen a little harder, and drops her head to one side, nodding subtly toward the double doors.
And then she’s stretching, her too-tiny tank riding up further and further. I seem to have forgotten how to breathe. All I can think about is taut, smooth skin and how badly I wanna run my tongue along her stomach. She pushes out her chest, and her tank goes higher. I fidget, my nails digging into my palm.
She arches her neck, dragging out the stretch, and oh my god, if she just lets it ride up a little farther…
The book I was (not) reading falls to the ground and suddenly, all eyes are on me again. Fire engine red is really not a good color for my cheeks. Faith drops her arms to her sides and gives me the naughtiest smile I’ve ever seen.
“I have to go to the bathroom.” She announces, gazing directly at me. How does she do that? Make a normal phrase like ‘I have to go to the bathroom’ sound like ‘I really wanna fuck you right now.’
As she passes behind my chair, she lets her fingers brush along my shoulders, and I can smell her now, all leather and vanilla.
Well if she thinks that I’m just gonna go after her like…I’m some kinda…um, well she’s got another…uh, goddamn her ass looks so hot in those tight, black jeans. Did she paint them on this morning?
My eyes follow her hips from side to side as she struts from the room, pushing through the doors.
She’s not gone thirty seconds when I slam my book down on the table and stand abruptly.
“Bathroom! I need to go to the bathroom!”
I realize I must have shouted this, because everyone is now looking at me with raised eyebrows. I stare back expectantly. Giles clears his throat.
“Well, by all means…” He says, gesturing toward the double doors.
I spin on my heel, rushing after Faith.
I’m gonna find out first hand how tight Faith’s…pants really are.
Chapter Seven: The Boy who Blocked his own Shot
Timeline: hmm, it's kinda vague. I'd say fifth season, but Angel has Faith doing her redemption in Sunnydale to help out with the Glory situation, instead of prison.
The blood drip, drip, dripped to the muddy ground from the slash in her stomach.
(You wish you could just leave her to bleed herself dry amongst the headstones and cold grass. You want to leave her bleeding with a razor smile and a bitterly cheerful ‘Have a good night, Faithy.’)
Somehow you know that Faith won’t take herself to the hospital, and the idea of her dying causes a dull pain in you chest.
“Thanks, B.” This is what she says when you tell her to come home with you, with a soft voice and dimpled smile, and that nickname (you still hate it).
It makes your heart skip a beat.
“Yeah, well, I really don’t want your death on my conscience because you let yourself bleed to death.” Your words sounded like ice, and make you cringe internally as you spin on your heel and set off toward your house. She stands a second, before limping after you.
In case she’s forgotten (she hasn’t), you haven’t forgiven.
(You wish you could have enjoyed the wounded look in her eyes, but it’s hard when the words you say to break her cut you just as deep.)
She’s sitting on your bathroom counter with no shirt and the blood still running, and she’s trying not to look at you. She’s so tired. You wear her down with all your cold indifference and rigid grudges. Even Xander tries harder to give her a second chance.
You clean the injury and she winces.
(You wish you could make it hurt more. You wish you could splash it with iodine, so it would burn and sting as you stitched it as slowly and painfully as possible.)
You can’t bring yourself to stop the gentle dabbing with the warm washcloth, or the whispered apologies when the needle goes in a little too hard. You can’t stop caring.
Your hands are still on her sides when you finish, fingering the soft gauze and softer skin. Her eyes are whiskey brown and you can’t look away.
(You wish you didn’t want this.)
Where is all your self-righteous anger and spite when you need it?
“I don’t care. I don’t care about you.” You don’t believe the words even as you say them. You just wanted to break the moment. Break the suffocating longing stuck between your heart and lungs.
It breaks you a little when she tries leave, before you can see the crestfallen look. Before you can see you’ve hurt her. Again.
(You wish you could still enjoy crushing her spirit.
You just wish you could have told her to get the hell out of your house.)
You grab her wrist and tug until she’s close, and then closer, until your arms are around her waist and your lips are against hers.
And then you’re in the hallway, and then you’re in the bedroom. And then you’re on the bed, kissing and moaning and feeling.
It’s too slow and too fast, and you’re not ready for this at all. But you want it so bad.
Faith is under you with her hands shaking, trying to unbuckle your belt. Your hands cover hers, helping her undo the clasp as you nuzzle her cheek.
(You wish it could be rough and angry and then over. You wish you blame it on the post-slay hornies and an extreme lapse in judgment.)
It’s not supposed to be like this.
It’s soft touching and longing gazes, whispered names and pleas in the dark. Gasps and trembling and bright colors behind closed eyes.
Faith is whimpering and you’re teasing.
And then you’re touching the scar (the one you made). You wonder if it still hurts and you lean down and brush your lips against it. When you look up Faith is crying (it still hurts).
(You wish you could roll off and laugh derisively, before shoving her away. Leave her vulnerable and naked and wanting.)
You kiss the tears on her cheeks and give her what she needs.
She’s sleeping in your bed and in your arms and you have been watching all night.
(You wish you could just bring yourself to shake her awake and hiss that you hate her. That she was the biggest mistake you’ve ever made.)
Your fingers are interlaced with hers, and you can feel the heartbeat in her wrist thudding in time with yours, and all you really want to do is hold tighter.
And when she opens her eyes looking sleepy and confused, the only words that come are the ones you can’t say, so you kiss her hard and say them over and over in your head.
(You wish you could hate her. You wish you couldn’t see the good person she’s trying desperately to become.)
You’re not ready to love her.
Chapter Eight: Our Work of Art
Timeline: none really. could be season three, or after Chosen.
You say that you need her. You say you’ve wanted her for so long. She says, please just shut the fuck up, and kisses you like she wants to suffocate you.
You tell her she’s beautiful, and say her name in reverence, whisper it like she was a saint. She growls that you’re fucking hot and calls you a bitch. A whore. Her slut.
You hold her face in your hands and kiss her softly, but she pulls your hair and bites your neck.
You look at her with adoration, and she won’t even look at you.
You ask her to make love to you, as cliché as it sounds. She fucks you hard and fast.
She’s going to ruin this. Stain it and taint it before it can ever be something good.
Because if it’s already damaged, she has nothing to lose.
Chapter Nine: All Over Me
I’m awake again. Staring at the ceiling and counting the cracks. You would think that after finally having a room all to myself I would sleep like a baby. But I can’t. She’s not here.
Sometimes she looks at me like I’m the only one in the room, in the world. Sometimes she smiles at me and links her pinky with mine when no one is looking. Sometimes she brings me a flower or my favorite ice cream ‘just because.’
Sometimes she has nightmares and she lets me hold her until she stops shaking.
Sometimes she lets me see her cry. Sometimes she tells me why she cries. Most of the time she doesn’t.
Other times she won’t even talk to me. She leaves for days at a time. She gets drunk and kisses other people when she knows I can see her. Brings them home and fucks them in the room right next to mine.
She lets me get so close and then she pushes me as far away as she can. It hurts so much, but I can’t stop wanting this. Wanting her. She knows she’s all over me.
She’s scared. And who can blame her? The first time around was so fast and intense and went to hell all too fast. Our angsty, teenage love ended like most do, with broken hearts and bittersweet memories.
Only ours had a body count.
I hear the doorknob turn slowly and the light from the hall spills onto the carpet before the door shuts quietly. She pads across the carpet and stops in the center of the room.
“B? You awake?”
She knows I am. She can feel me.
“Yeah.” My voice sounds thick and scratchy.
I feel the mattress sink and I pull myself up to a sitting position. She looks over at me, the moonlight catching her eyes, and the shadows playing with her features. She opens her mouth, and closes it again.
Please say something. Anything.
She sighs and pulls her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around them, closing her eyes. I feel my chest constrict as she shuts me out again.
I crawl across the bed to where she is and pull her arms away and push her knees apart gently. She lets them fall limply and stretches her legs out around me. I settle between them and wrap my arms around her waist, pulling her close as I can.
I feel her heartbeat thudding harder and harder, and she rests her forehead on my shoulder, her arms winding themselves around my neck.
“I’m trying to be good, B… I-I’m trying to play nice, and be your friend. And I-I can’t. Do this…I’m…Just stop, okay? Please. I’m falling all over the place for ya, and I can’t do this again.”
“It can be different this time.”
I can feel her warm breath on my shoulder and my hands slip under the hem of her shirt, my fingers running up and down the bumps of her spine. I need to feel her.
“What if isn’t? What if all goes to shit like everything else in my life? Do I go all psycho-Slayer again?”
“You’re not that person anymore…”
“Yeah? You think I’m so damn stable now, don’t ya? But newsflash, B, I’m still fucked up in more ways than you can count! I’ll screw this up…I’ll hurt you like I always do.”
She’s angry and pulling away, but I hold her tighter, closing my eyes and clenching my jaw, swallowing the lump rising in my throat.
“Just give us chance, Faith. Please?” My voice cracks.
“Buffy…” I can feel her anger draining just as quickly as it came, and her resolve weakening.
She stops struggling in my arms and her body relaxes into mine. Her hands rest gently at my waist and she turns her head, burying her face in my neck.
I feel her lips press softly to my collarbone. The breath hitches in my throat, and my hands stop their descent just below her shoulder blades. She pushes her lips against my skin again, and she begins trailing kisses up my neck and along my jawbone. Her teeth graze my ear lobe and I begin to tug at the hem of her tank top.
She stops her assault on my ear, and lifts her arms, allowing me to pull the top over her head. Her dark locks fall messily around her flushed cheeks and onto bare shoulders. She looks so young right now.
She keeps her eyes closed and rests her cheek against mine. I feel her chest rising and falling quickly, and I turn my head, nudging her nose with mine.
“It’s okay.” I say, willing her to believe me.
I run my fingers through her hair and push my lips against hers for the first time.
It feels like falling.