Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Willow and Tara show up at Faith’s apartment door Sunday morning, it is as foes, not friends. Tara softens the battlefield with a sweet hello, then Willow launches into a plea for Faith to “help your fellow slayer, she needs you Faith, yes specifically you, she said so I swear to Gaia.”

And in a legit scenario, Faith would be peeling down the pavement with a stake in each hand and a knife in her teeth to rescue Buffy, blood pounding in her ears.

But this is not that.

Buffy’s not kidnapped by vamps or chained to an altar. She’s swaying between Willow and Tara, evidently smashed. She’s got a baby pink cami and gray sweats on. Her hair’s in a messy bun with pieces framing her face, some blonde strands sticking to the lip gloss on her smiling mouth, and she’s fiddling with the little clear plastic choker on her neck.

The sight, admittedly, sends a cozy warmth to Faith’s chest. Turns her heart to a marshmallow. One of those fucked marshmallows that caught fire, leaving her to choose between the bittersweet coal cube or her self-respect.

And Faith’s been working hard on the self-respect piece of surviving her twenties. So she knows she shouldn’t welcome these witches into her studio, off the clock, with a Buffy-shaped errand. No matter if—especially because—Faith’s desperately in love with her.

“No dice, Red,” Faith says, one combat boot already tactically retreating inside. “Get someone else to babysit the Chosen One.”

Faith’s hope is if she just sounds South Boston enough, she can get out of this easy. Something about her accent gets these West Coast girlies all weak-kneed no matter how she uses it. It’s a shade of Hot Girl Privilege that Faith didn’t even know she had, before moving here.

Sadly, not much of a privilege in this case. Tara and Willow are too gay for each other to be seduced by it, too comfy with Faith to be intimidated by it, and Buffy—well, Buffy’s hammered to Hell and she doesn’t kiss girls.

“Please, F-faith?” Tara asks. Smart play, since she’s the only one here with a chance at coaxing out Faith’s better angels.

Faith takes another glance at the source of her problems: Buffy shifts her weight between socked feet, staring into Faith’s absent soul with glossy green eyes.

Faith sighs. “Yeah sure whatever.”

10 seconds ago, Buffy was snoring on a pile of Faith’s half-clean clothes by the closet.

Now she’s rolling around Faith’s carpet in butterfly pose, to the beat of Around the World, chanting the lyrics with cheer spirit.

Faith's initial Buffy’s-Totally-Wasted theory is crumbling with every verse. Buffy at The Bronze switches through bubbly and sleepy (and flirty), sure. But this is new.

Buffy’s a spin cycle of Coke. She’s that Anaconda game on lowercase coke. She’s…

“What is she?” Faith asks, glaring at the witches in her apartment. “I mean. Fuck’s wrong with her?” Daft Punk can’t be that powerful.

“Magical weed,” Willow supplies, and Faith decides she needs to be less vertical for this.

She sidesteps blonde Sonic and plops down on her bed, sending air whooshing out of her black silk comforter. “Alright.” Faith stretches her hands wrapped in fingerless gloves. She punches a fist against her other palm, skin meeting leather. “So where’s the drug-dealing demon I gotta gut?

Willow gives an angelic smile. This fuckin’ guy.

“Ok so this morning,” Willow says. “Buffy said she wanted to try the real MJ. You know...M-A-R-I-wanna?”

“Gee, I was real lost there before you literally spelled it out for me.”

“Sorry.”

“Whatever. So then you—” Faith jumps up and rips the stereo cord out of the wall before Buffy’s finger can hit replay.

Buffy loudly boos her and cartwheels away.

Shoving the stereo under her bed with her foot, Faith turns back to Willow. “Go ahead.”

“So then, I…” Willow pauses, then grasps Tara’s hand between them, coming-out style. “We-”

“I had no part in this,” Tara says, peeling Willow’s hand off hers.

Faith snorts. That one’s sure bulked up her backbone since they met.

“Anyway,” Willow chirps, “I figured I’d just do a wee teensy spell, you know? So Buffy doesn’t get addicted.” She makes some Kindergarten teacher hand movements. “I took out the druggy stuff, and slipped in a magic placebo. Basic alchemy. But, well. This happened.” She gestures vaguely at Buffy.

Faith follows the gesture, unfortunately catching Buffy yoga stretching in front of her full-body mirror. There’s these metal things all around the bottom of Buffy’s top, attaching to her waistband. Faith was too busy not checking Buffy out to notice before. She points to them and looks at Willow. “What’s going on there?”

“Oh! Jumbo safety pins. Nifty, right? If you want there’s a 1-for-10 sale at-”

“No, why are they on Buffy?” Faith has to specify for some fuckin’ reason.

“She kinda kept trying to take off her shirt,” Willow says. “And pants.”

“W-we compromised on shoes,” Tara adds.

A chill creeps up Faith’s spine. This fuckin’ day. She gives Willow a dubious look. “And those discount pins are strong enough to stop a Slayer?”

“Psychologically, yes. We told her if she tried taking them off they’d spawn into 37 rats.”

Faith has a snarky comment for Willow, but then she spots Buffy nearing her weapons rack. She strolls over and intercepts her, gathering the weapons and shoving them under the bed with the stereo. Buffy starts actually crying until Faith gives her the TV remote as consolation, patting her shoulder. Buffy takes it to the floor for God knows what reason.

The witches are giving Faith these knowing smiles. Wicked irritating. “So what does your magic plasito do, exactly?” Faith says.

“Placebo,” Willow says. “And honestly, not entirely sure? But whatever it is, she can’t get addicted to it!”

“We’d help if we could,” Tara says. “But Miss Kitty Fantastico is s-sick.”

Faith purses her lips. “How bout I trade you B for Miss Kitty? I’m great with pets.”

“Thanks for offering,” Willow says. “But you’re the only one who can reel Buffy in when she gets all wacky.”

Faith rolls her eyes. "Why? Because I can take her down?"

"It's not the Slayer thing, Faith." Willow gives a little flourish toward Buffy, who's playing spin-the-bottle with herself on the floor with the remote. "See! You're a natural. Look how reeled-in she is."

"Wow. To think I flipped off my middle school counselors when they said I'd go places in life."

Willow smiles. “Oh come on, Grumpy Spice. It’s just Buffy.”

Just Buffy. Sure. The woman who haunts Faith’s daymares with her dumb sweet smile and cute hair and pretty eyes. Just Buffy, with her bear hugs that leave vanilla body spray sticking to Faith’s jacket, whenever she walks Faith home from patrol.

Faith’s already gotta suffer Just Buffy nearly every night. Quipping all over the graveyard, asking Faith personal questions. Grasping her arm every time Faith makes her laugh. Smacking it every time Faith says something “overly sexual.”

Faith shouldn’t have to put up with Buffy on the Lord’s day.

But Faith’s just Faith.

“Fine,” she says, spinning the silver rings on her pointer finger. “I’ll deal. How long will she be Squirrel Girl?”

“Should be less random by the time we get back from the vet,” Willow says. “It’s in LA, so. We’ll be back in around 7 hours? Or I can try a spell to-”

“No,” Faith and Tara say together.

With nothing left to hash, Faith walks the witches to the front door. She locks up after them and takes a deep breath before turning around.

Before she can, a face crashes into her upper back.

The noise out of Faith’s mouth is a bit murdery. But Buffy’s blowing raspberries into her skin and it tickles and Faith cannot let anyone survive with that information. She opens her mouth again to threaten Buffy, but a giggle leaks out instead.

She finally succeeds in twisting around in Buffy’s arms, back against the door, and fixes the blonde with her best 40-to-life face.

“Soooo you’re ticklish?” Buffy drawls, unbothered.

“I’m also a killer.”

“Well you haven’t killed me yet, Miss Giggles.”

Perfect. Buffy’s entered the Little Shit phase of the non-drug trip.

Faith sighs for the rest of her life. She grabs her jean jacket off the door hook behind her and shrugs it on, in case Buffy’s hatching any more lip-glossed schemes.

“Listen, B. I already know I’m gonna hate whatever you say for the next 7 hours, so just.” Faith makes a shh gesture, then snaps her fingers toward the tie-dye beanbag by the foot of her bed.

Buffy hops onto Faith’s bed instead, landing criss-cross in the middle. “Why don’t you just?” She hugs a pillow, snuggling her chin on it.

Faith doesn’t bother telling Buffy to put it down. She knows it’s already poisoned with Buffy’s annoying/addicting vanilla-scented aura. Laundry Day it is.

“I’m the eldest slayer and this is my Hellmouth,” Buffy says.

“Well this is my apartment.” Though it might as well be the Hellmouth’s seat of power right now. “So if I say no talking, no talking. Got it?”

Buffy squints, leaning back and rubbing her grimy little paws all over Faith’s comforter. “7 hours without talking...what is this, Lent?”

“Yeah, sure.” Faith aims finger guns on her way to the kitchenette. “Respect my traditions, B.” She grabs a Gogurt out of the bar fridge and leans against the counter, pulling her switchblade out of her jeans pocket.

“You don’t get to swipe or insert the Catholic card between sins, Faith.”

“Sins who?” Faith slices off the end of the Gogurt (coulda used hands, but she’s feeling knifey). “I’ve literally been Sexier Jesus all day.” She pockets her knife and heads back to Buffy, snapping at the beanbag again with her free hand.

Buffy makes grabby hands for the Gogurt, but Faith raises an eyebrow and points aggressively at the beanbag.

Buffy whines and pelts the snuggled pillow at Faith, who lets it fall to the floor. “Not so Jesusy to me,” Buffy grumbles, plopping down on the beanbag.

“Yeah, yeah.” Faith shoves the Gogurt into Buffy’s hands. Pincer-grasping the Buffy-scented pillow by one corner, she takes it to the laundry basket by the weapons rack and tosses it in, making a mental note to do the same with her comforter later.

When Faith turns back to Buffy, squishy plastic hits her in the face. Faith shuts her eyes, snatching the empty Gogurt before it falls, and breathes deep.

Pity the demons who cross her tonight. Specially the drug-dealing ones.

“Hey, Faith?” Buffy says.

And Faith staggers back dropping the Gogurt tube, because Buffy somehow ninja’d her way within choking distance while Faith’s eyes were closed. Slayer sense is a myth.

“What is it, B?” Faith says coolly, righting herself.

Buffy smiles. She reaches for the collar of Faith’s jean jacket and untucks Faith’s hair, combing her fingers through the ends.

Faith frowns. She wonders which stop they’ve come to on Buffy’s trip.

“Have you ever kissed a girl?”

They’ve stopped in Hell.

Faith raises an eyebrow. “No,” she says dryly. “Ow! What the fuck, B?” She grasps her shoulder that Buffy just sucker-punched.

“Why do you always do that?” Buffy whines, like she’s the victim here.

“Do what?”

“Lie to me when I ask anything deeper than a kiddie pool.” Buffy’s doing that soft-voice pouty thing that gets her everything she wants (Faith assumes).

Faith leans back against the wall, folding her arms. “How do you know I’m lying?”

“You’re a bad liar,” Buffy says slowly, stepping into Faith’s space again. “And I was hoping you’d leave that habit in high school.” She starts toying with Faith’s silver cross necklace, glaring at it like it needs all her focus. “I wanna know you better, and you always get all...spooky with me. You’re a little Halloween kitty who won’t show her belly.”

Faith has strong feedback about that description, but then Buffy’s hand drops down, lightly scratching at the front of Faith’s tank top. Her nails catch on the gem of Faith’s bellybutton ring through the cloth, and she frowns cutely, fingertips closing over it. Then she brightens. “Can I see?”

Faith clasps her fingers, taking her hand off gently. “Sorry for dodging questions,” she says, actively dodging the one Buffy just asked. “Guess I just. I’m never sure if you really wanna know, or you’re just playing nice with me.” Faith shrugs. “And I kinda like the nice, so I don’t wanna give you any wrong answers, you know?” She gives Buffy a quick half-smile. “I don’t wanna screw this up. You’re the best pal I got.”

“Faith.” Buffy squeezes her hand, green eyes all shimmery with tears. “There’s no wrong answers with a best pal.”

Faith pulls her hand away and drags it through her hair, looking everywhere else. “You’ve got no idea.”

“Then give me one.”

Faith stops fidgeting. She frowns, searching Buffy’s nearly-lucid eyes that are beaming with...affection. “Why?” Faith says.

“Because,” Buffy says. “You mean a lot to me. You made that vampire cry about being bald last night, and it was very funny. I feel like I’m getting this Slayer thing right when it’s just us and you make me feel fluffy and strong at the same time. Your room feels cozier to me than my dorm these days and I really want to kiss you, Faith. And another Gogurt.”

Faith tries to run back Buffy’s babbling in her head, and trips over every sentence. She’s half-sure the placebo’s contagious. “Huh?”

“Three Gogurts, in fact.” Buffy taps the spots on Faith’s face where her dimples would be if she wasn’t frowning. “And I want these.”

Faith rolls her eyes, but can’t stop herself from giving into Buffy’s last request, smiling wide.

Buffy gives a delighted little squeal, clapping Faith’s face between her hands and bouncing a bit. “Thank you!”

While Buffy plays with her face, Faith takes her shoulders, steering her backwards to the beanbag and nudging her onto it. She fetches the box of Gogurt from the fridge and tosses it into Buffy’s lap.

Buffy grins down at the box, then looks at Faith expectantly.

Faith pretends not to notice her staring. Sitting on the foot of her bed, she grabs the remote off the floor and starts flipping through channels. She lets Buffy sigh for several clicks before letting a grin slip, looking over at her.

She almost breaks at Buffy literally puckering her lips and pointing to her mouth.

“Tell you what, B.” Faith nods to the TV. “We’ll watch Xena save her wife again; order a pizza. We’ll come back to this convo when Will—when Tara—says you’re all better.” She tries to smile flirtatiously at Buffy. It comes out soft instead, but she doesn’t mind. “Then I’ll give you whatever you want.”

Buffy raises her hand.

“Yes?”

Buffy’s hand comes down. “Another for the Whatever Buffy Wants list.” She points at Faith’s bellybutton, grinning in a way that puts heat in Faith’s cheeks. “I wanna see that.”

Chapter Text

Buffy’s fallen in battle.

The world around her is shouty and swordy. But she’s at peace, sinking in a cozy puff of sand.

Hugging everyone bye is probably not an option now, but Buffy wishes she could at least turn in some incomplete life homework. Just so she doesn’t go all Clingy Ghost Girl.

Not a whole lot she can finish within arms’ reach. But if she’s dying by the sword, Faith’s probably here somewhere. Buffy can give her some sweet last words. Like how proud she is of Faith. How grateful she is, knowing she can let go, because Faith will be there for the world and everyone in their lives, just like she was for Buffy.

Or they can skip all that noise and kiss.

Yeah. Better plan.

Buffy squints her eyes open to search for Faith.

Instead of her death site, a fuzzy bright square comes into focus: Xena, Gabrielle, and what’s-his-face are in an old timey town, post-battle. I have all the time in the world, Xena is saying.

Buffy’s sitting on her assigned beanbag, so this must be Faith’s apartment. One hand is cramped against the safety pin prison on her waist. The other rests on Faith’s bare forearm, knuckles brushing the popcorn bowl on Faith’s lap.

Faith’s on the floor beside her, propped against her forbidden bed, legs stretched out. Shoes off, so Buffy must’ve been here a while. She doesn’t remember how or why she’s here, but Faith’s not in danger mode, so she can suffer the mystery a while longer.

Especially when the mystery has her pressed up next to Faith like she never gets to be.

Soft brown hair cushions Buffy’s neck and cheek where she’s laying on Faith’s shoulder. The scent of cherry blossoms caresses Buffy's nose. Little crunching sounds tickle her ear. Maybe she can still tell Faith her brilliant plan, even if she’s not dying.

Right after this episode.

Onscreen, volleys of arrows swoosh at Xena, Gabrielle, and what’s-his-face from all directions. A rooster crows.

Buffy smiles, ready for the part that always gets Faith’s adorable giggly reaction: Xena’s spinny thingy is stuck in what’s-his-face’s chest.

He falls over and dies (hehe), but all Buffy gets from Faith is a barely-there breath as her shoulder vibrates on low. Buffy frowns at the unexpected loss. No Faith giggles for her…

...Because Faith doesn’t wanna wake her up. Oh God. It’s Buffy’s fault that Faith doesn’t get to laugh out loud at her favorite scene. She stole Faith’s joy by falling asleep on her shoulder.

Just like she stole Baby Faith’s joy by ditching her on Christmas 1998.

Oh God. No wonder Buffy never gets the belly.

One of Buffy’s tears sneaks into Faith’s hair. Another falls onto Faith’s arm tattoo, just past the rolled cuff of her jacket sleeve.

Faith’s popcorn hand comes over and swipes where Buffy’s tear splashed. She makes a questioning sound, and then her hand moves to Buffy’s cheekbones, buttery fingertips gently probing the wetness.

“Woah, hey.” Faith shifts toward Buffy, bombing Slayer 101 as the bowl tips entirely out of her lap, popcorn spilling to the floor. “What’s wrong?”

What’s wrong, is Buffy’s stupid little tear betrayed her, cutting short her turn with Faith’s shoulder. And it’s October 2002.

Buffy feels her chin quivering and tilts her head forward to hide it. “Merry Christmas, Faith.”

“Aw, B…” Faith tucks Buffy’s fallen hair behind her ear, nails tracing the curve as she pulls back. “It’s been a tricky day, huh?”

Buffy looks up at her comforting smile and nods.

“I put a rush on the merry,” Faith says. “Santy Boy doesn’t haul his ass over here by tomorrow, I’ll drag him out of Alaska myself.”

Buffy lets that image ping-pong in her echoey skull, wondering if Santa’s Canadian, and whether she should break it to Faith.

While Buffy wonders, Faith’s smile fades in a shy, cute way, all hesitant, and she breaks eye-contact only to look up through her lashes.

Duplicate of Baby Faith on Buffy’s porch, Christmas 1998.

Sobbing, Buffy falls forward, a metal jacket button clinking against her forehead where it collides with Faith’s chest.

Faith grunts at the impact.

"I'm sorry," Buffy says, for the impact and the ditching and the everything she's ever done in her life.

"It's ok, Buffy."

"No it's not," Buffy says, then says another sorry for arguing. She curls her hands against the only soft surface on Faith’s body that’s ok to touch from this position, feeling tummy muscles twitch, and wraps her arms around Faith under her jacket.

Not only is there no Faith hug back here, but there’s evil material sliding all over Buffy’s skin. Wiggling her arms free of the denim cage, she feels around for the lapels of Faith’s jacket, yanking politely.

“Buffy, what-”

“Scratchy.”

“Ok, one sec. Don’t rip it. Jeez.”

Buffy hears the vile cloth being defeated and there’s a rush of pretty-scented air, a muffled drop beside her, and there—finally.

She snuggles into Faith’s hug. Soft, warm. Why is Buffy ever not here? Silly, billy Buffy.

"You're alright, B." Faith sighs, rubbing her back up and down. “You got so much to answer for, Red,” she mutters.

It’s true. Colors are very mean; they swirl too much in Buffy’s head when she closes her eyes. “Sleepy.”

“I bet.” Faith’s fingers lightly trace along the space between Buffy’s shirt and waistband, where the safety pins live. “Can I get these off for you? So you can be comfier.”

Faith is very wise. Buffy would love to let her undo the metal curse. “But the rats.”

“Rats went bye bye. I kil—put them up for adoption.”

Buffy smiles. “Sweet Little Stuarts.” She stays pressed against Faith as the pins are undone, granting Faith the bare minimum space required to accomplish the task.

She hears Faith complaining about this, but Faith should’ve thought of that before being plushier than the beanbag and smelling like best dreams.

Once Buffy is freed, there’s a dip in her stomach as she’s lifted up, and another as she’s relocated to alien terrain. Stretching out on her new surroundings, Buffy nuzzles into a cherry blossom scented pillow. She smiles as cool puffy cloth is draped over her back.

It’s silky and perfect and off-limits, just like Faith.

Buffy wakes in her dorm with two immediate problems. First, her usual curse of pining for the Chosen One. And second, having no memory of yesterday. Except for something about a list.

When Buffy asks what’s the deal with her memory, Willow wordlessly places Ms. Kitty on Buffy’s lap; her usual proactive defense against Buffy’s rage.

No rage occurs when Willow admits what she did yesterday. In fact, the opposite. Buffy finally has leverage to guilt Willow into solving the Faith dilemma she’s had for months.

She could be cured before 9am lecture.

But her so-called bestie refuses. Blah blah something something humans don’t get to magic away normal feelings. Which is pretty rich coming from the human who magicked away Buffy’s right to a normal collegiate high yesterday. The least Willow could do is take a little guilt-trip through Buffy’s brain and usher out the butterflies.

Unjustly, Buffy’s soft-voice, pouty thing doesn’t get her everything she wants. So she spends all her classes daydreaming about modern witch-hunts and a shameless, dimpled grin.

By the time Faith knocks on her door for patrol with said grin, the grand total revenge Buffy’s accomplished against Willow is switching all the caps of her gel pens.

She’s not sure what leaves her more hollow: the vengeance, or Faith’s greeting fist-bump in lieu of their usual hug.

Suffice to say, Buffy’s a bit of a brat until Faith drags her by the hand to grab mandatory Slayer fuel from 7-Eleven. By her second pack of peanut m&ms, and the first sip of Blue Raspberry Icee, Buffy’s made peace with existence.

Except the part where she’s still got it bad for the woman who’s currently walking beside her, shoving half a hotdog into her mouth.

As the cemetery down the street from 7-Eleven comes into view, Buffy feels the condensation of Faith’s Big Gulp cup tap against her shoulder.

“What’s up?” Buffy says, wiping off the condensation and smearing it on Faith’s cheek.

“Double sure you’re down for this?” Faith talks around her last bite of hotdog, visibly struggling to chew. “I can—” The rest of her sentence is garbled in hacks and coughs.

Rolling her eyes, Buffy slaps Faith's back with a force that would count as assault if Faith wasn’t superpowered, until Faith’s airways clear. “Can you stop flirting with my CPR certification for 10 seconds?”

“Jealous, much?” With a few gorilla-beats against her own chest, Faith gets out a last few weak coughs. “I was tryna say, I’m totally cool with a solo shift, if you wanna tuck in early.”

Shaking her head, Buffy stirs her Icee, cringing when the straw audibly scrapes the insides of the cup. “I’m cleared for the slayage. Willow told me to tell you that Tara told her I’m all the way better, to make you feel better.”

“What was that? Slam poetry?” Faith’s eyes dart around the outline of Buffy’s head as if checking for sparks.

“I’m fine, Faith. This will be good. Fresh night air, demon dust in my hair. It’s the best therapy for girls like us.” Buffy stops at a trash can half a block from the cemetery entrance. “Are you ok? From the nothing that Will and Tara told me, I get the feeling you had a rougher yesterday than I did.”

“It was no biggie,” Faith says, passing her Big Gulp between her hands. “You were kinda needy, but that’s your blood type.”

"Shut up." Buffy scrunches her nose at Faith's snickering. “I'm not needy. If I was needy, then you'd hate to learn that I remember making a list of stuff you promised I could have.”

“Of course you do,” Faith mutters around her straw.

Buffy brightens. “What did it say?” Her smile drops, eyes widening. Oh God. What did it say?

Faith shrugs, shaking her half-full cup. “Didn’t read it. But it’s probably still in my room somewhere.”

“Can we get it after patrol?”

Holding a wait finger out, Faith chugs the rest of her Big Gulp. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, she chucks the empty cup over Buffy’s head, whispering a cheer when it makes it into the trash. “No.”

Buffy pouts, glancing at Faith’s merciless teddybear-brown eyes. Clearly nobody’s on Buffy’s side today. She takes a final sad sip of her Icee, shuffling over to the trash.

“I’m screwing with you, B. Gimme that.” Faith stretches her hand out for Buffy’s cup.

“It’s like half an inch of melted ice. Most of it’s probably been in my straw.”

“Give it.” Faith frees the cup from Buffy’s uninvested grasp, popping off the rounded top and taking out the straw. She tosses it back, bottoms-up, a drop spilling down her neck.

“You’re gross,” Buffy says on autopilot, locked in on the drop disappearing into Faith’s V-neck.

“It’s only gross if you’re gross.” Faith tugs up the bottom of her shirt to dry her neck and chin.

Buffy looks up at the streetlights and stars, dragging her thoughts away from Faith’s unsolicited hotness and toward safer concepts, like this mysterious list.

It could be Buffy’s compensation for the past two days. She can try risk-free, when she thinks about it. If the contents are mortifying, Buffy can play it off as magic sillies. Or, if there’s any good stuff on there, she can probably get Faith to give it to her, if Buffy can give the appearance of earning it. “Up for a challenge?”

Faith perks up. “Slayer v Slayer? Kill count?”

“Yes ma’am.” Buffy starts leading them to a wooden bench on the sidewalk. “When I win, and we find my list, you get to give me whatever I want from it. If you win, you don’t have to.”

Faith frowns. “Do I have this right? You win, get all your little blonde heart’s desires. I win, all’s I get is the chance to not do what you tell me? Which I already never do?”

“You’re kinda boring these days.” Buffy walks backwards with springy steps, fixing Faith with her sweetest smile. “I once knew a girl who was always down to throw down, without the promise of prizes. Kinda miss her.”

“Motherf—it’s on, Summers.”

“There’s my girl.” Buffy stops at the bench, nodding toward it.

Once Faith sits sideways, Buffy settles behind her on her knees and starts gathering Faith’s hair away from the back of her neck. She smiles at the little satisfied sigh Faith always tries to hide.

But other than the sigh, Faith seems kinda off.

It’s most obvious in her shoulders as she shrugs her jean jacket off of them, exposing her upper back. Every movement stiff and choppy. Like she’s bracing for a finishing blow.

So Buffy’s hands pause their favorite nightly ritual.

For all Buffy’s technical self-sacrifice, she hasn’t reached the level of virtue where she would naturally forego worldly pleasures like touching Faith’s soft fluffy hair. So she’s never asked Faith if she knows how to tie her hair back herself, for fear of losing this gift. But maybe Faith’s outgrown their teenage touchiness. After all, she did fist-bump Buffy hello today, instead of hugging her.

“Want to do it by yourself?” Buffy asks, gently releasing Faith’s hair. “I’m always happy to, but you don’t have to put up with me touching you just because I’m happy to.” She winces. “Sorry that I never clarified.”

Faith is quiet for a moment. “No,” she says softly, scooting back closer to Buffy. “No. Appreciate it, B. I um...I never learned how. Don’t really feel like learning, either.”

“Yeah?” Buffy asks, equally soft. She rests her hands on Faith’s shoulders, rubbing gently.

Faith leans into the touch for a while. “When I was like, 6ish, I asked my mom to show me when she got back from work, one time...” Buffy sees the movement of her swallowing. “One time.” Faith ends with a shrug.

Buffy takes a sharp breath, teeth grinding. She backs herself away from the urge to fling the woman she knows has already passed into a concrete wall.

Faith reaches back to touch Buffy’s hand on her shoulder. “Please?”

Buffy blinks repeatedly, clearing tears from her eyes. “Of course.” Re-collecting Faith’s hair, she starts twirling it into a bun. “Thank you for sharing,” she says. “It means a lot to me.”

“Sure,” Faith says, fidgeting. “I do trust you, B. And not just, you know. With my life.”

Buffy pauses. Putting her heart’s back-talk on mute, she leans forward and wraps her free arm around Faith, feeling the warmth of Faith’s skin and the cross of Faith’s necklace pressing into her wrist.

As Buffy’s cheek rests on Faith’s shoulder, a mist of nostalgia falls over her, for something she can’t remember feeling. When it passes, she’s tearing up again for some reason.

Faith presses her hand over Buffy’s on her chest, giving a light squeeze. Then she takes the hair tie off Buffy’s wrist and passes it to her.

Discreetly wiping her eyes, Buffy finishes putting Faith’s hair up and secures the hair tie.

Tucking a stray lock behind Faith's ear, Buffy feels a familiar tingle at the back of her neck. Tiny live wires of fear, and want, and thrill. All criss-crossing to spell out Danger. Her Slayer Sense lands on the mausoleum just past the cemetery entrance. “Feel that?” she asks.

“Hmm?”

Using her two pointer fingers, Buffy traces a heart on the back of Faith’s neck, then swipes one finger through the corner of the heart.

“Oh,” Faith says, squirming a bit much for a non-ticklish person. “Mine’s a bit further down, but yeah. Just caught it.”

Buffy’s hands twitch at the exciting revelation of where Faith’s Slayer sense is located, but she pulls them away for the greater good.

Faith nods toward the mausoleum. “Twelve-ish vamps? Beefy types?”

“Fifteen," Buffy says. "I'm thinking the rest of Varsity Bald.”

Faith grins, shrugging her jacket back on. “Back with some hats to cover their widdle feewings?”

“God I hope so.”

Chapter Text

Buffy skips to the cemetery gates, Mr. Pointy in hand. “Let’s say whoever wins here wins the night.”

Beside her, Faith's twirling her stake in her usual tactic to annoy Buffy off her game. “Looking forward to you rolling that back the second I beat you.”

"I won't backsies," Buffy says, snatching Faith’s stake mid-spin. She passes it back when Faith looks sufficiently obedient. "I'm not keeping score past 15. I’m cleared for slayage, not math.”

When they reach the mausoleum, 14 balding keys to her victory are now in V-formation on the graveyard grass, while 1 “ambushes” on the mausoleum roof.

The whole team, as Faith guessed and Buffy hoped, are mercifully outfitted with hats. Crisp Razorbacks baseball caps, tags still hanging. Clearly lifted from the campus store.

Though their hairlines are vintage, their immortality is not. These guys just got turned this weekend by blood-sucking sorority girls while crashing a Homecoming tailgate party.

They were already ewwie creepy alumni before ascending to supernatural evil. But now Buffy can kill them and please not only herself, but God.

“Slayer chicks,” the center one rasps in a voice that Buffy would use to mock him. “Thought you were still held up with the airhead babes who sired us.”

“Sorry for the tardiness, Mr. V,” Faith says, in her attractive Sarcasm Voice.

Shaking off the secondhand damage, Buffy rushes to get her own warm-up in. “Couldn’t be helped. Turns out when you control for aliveness, sorority girls pack more heat than former student athletes.” Her stake gets stuck in Mr. V’s chest, his offended face crumbling to dust with the rest of him (hehe).

Intercepting Faith’s predictable charge ahead, Buffy lands a backflip stake-first into Mr. V’s would-be avenger. “O for 2.” Buffy smiles at Faith, then dodges an oncoming beer-smelly vamp, blocking his next clumsy hit.

“Nuh-uh,” Faith says. “Foul as fuck. Hey, Coach.”

“Centerfield,” Buffy’s vampire growls, spinning around and taking a tipsy swing at Faith.

Buffy throws her hands up. “Eyes on my ball, Bud Light.” She stakes a substitute vamp rounding her periphery. “O-3.”

Faith weaves under Centerfield’s next punch, driving a knee into his gut. “That was totally a red card she did, right? You must be an expert.” She catches his arm as he pauses mid-slug, his yellow eyes blinking thoughtfully.

As he starts to vamp-splain to Faith, Buffy front flips overhead and lands behind him. She stakes him through the back. “O-4.”

The sudden lack of his arm throws Faith off-balance, and her stake soars up and away.

Buffy grabs the front of Faith’s shirt to stop her from pinwheeling. Averting her eyes when the shirt is stretchier than anticipated, she aims Mr. Pointy behind herself at a little sneaker. “And that’s 5. What even are you doing, Slayer? It’s like you want me to win.”

Faith smiles, warm hands a soothing pressure on Buffy’s arms as she rights herself. “Just needed your attention, B.” She boops Buffy’s nose, then yoinks the extra stake from Buffy’s jeans holster, taking out a vamp on her way by. “Thanks for the boost. 1-5.”

Buffy rubs away the boop and her blushing cheeks once Pesky Faith passes her. “I aced Psych on the retake. Your lazy mind tricks can’t touch me.” She angles her stake up, catching the vampire who’s Bond-diving off the mausoleum roof. “1-6. Weak sauce, Boston.”

Faith finds the stake she dropped. “Weak sauce was you punching me yesterday.” Now dual-wielding, Faith tags three bench-warmers closing in. “Side effect of your sparring partners who aren’t me, I guess.” She tosses Buffy’s extra stake back to her. “4-6.”

“Oh good, she’s finally trying,” Buffy says, holstering the spare. “I was starting to feel like a bully.” She rams an elbow into a vamp wearing paisley under his Letterman, who stumbles back into Faith. “Dang it,” Buffy says when Faith stakes him.

“5-6. You are a bully, Queen B.” Faith dusts paisley off her jeans. “Called me a lying, tummy-shy scaredy cat yesterday.”

“I-I did?” Buffy bumps into the snickering vampire that she meant to stake, stepping on his white Nikes. “Sorry,” she says to him and Faith.

“All good,” Faith says, stealing the kill. “It was the wake-up call I needed. 6-6.”

Buffy slumps on a headstone, chin in hand. “I...well, you shouldn’t be shy about your tummy. It’s very nice and soft.”

She hears Faith smashing a vamp in his various squishy parts. “Is that right?”

“Looks soft! Or...implies softness.” Sighing, Buffy stabs the ROTC dropout army-crawling past her headstone. “6-7. It’s not like I stare at it or anything.” She looks at Faith to validate her lie with eye-contact.

Faith snatches a baseball cap as it falls through a vamp cloud. “Never said you did. 7-7.” She shakes the cap out then wears it backwards, shooting Buffy a smile.

“That’s cute on you,” Buffy concedes.

“Cute as a scaredy cat?” Faith scans the area, stake poised.

Buffy rolls Mr. Pointy between her hands. Redemption is hard. “You know, in some ancient cultures, cats were actually worshipped, so…” She fades out, noting Faith’s specific smile she always wears after helping Buffy dig herself a verbal hole. “Oh that’s real mature.” Buffy storms over to her, knocking the looted baseball cap off Faith’s head.

“Suck it up, Sunny D. Game point, by the way.” Faith takes off after the final vamp scrambling toward the cemetery fence.

Buffy starts to follow, then she spots a stretch of mud in Faith’s path. “Faith, stop!”

Too late. Tumble.

Buffy rushes to Faith’s side, nailing Game Point with her flung extra stake before he can clear the fence.

Faith’s lying face-up in the mud puddle, arms by the sides of her head, fingers twitching. Another cat analogy comes to mind, but Faith looks like she’s at the end of her 9th life, so Buffy keeps it to herself.

“You ok?” Buffy says, heroically not laughing.

“Yeah,” Faith says. “Just bury me here. Leave my hands out for the raccoons to eat.”

“’Fraid not. I need those loser hands to pass me my many spoils.”

“Excuse you?” Faith sits up with a growly groan, batting away Buffy’s helping hand. “Game point got away. We’re tied.”

Buffy smiles, wiping her hand on her jeans. “Don’t worry, champ. I got him.”

“What? Not even! He was all the way...no!”

“Aww, buddy.” Buffy crouches down. With her fingertip, she draws a smiley face on Faith’s muddy cheek. “Suck it up.”

Faith murders the smiley with her sleeve. “How do I know you’re not screwing with me? I mean, nobody saw.”

Buffy stands up, giving Faith and herself space. The pout on Faith’s mouth is tempting her to either kiss it off or give in to her whining, and neither choice is redeemable. “Can we take this tantrum to go? Sacred duties to fulfill, Muddy Bones.”

When they reach the door to Faith’s studio some graveyards later, the post-patrol tension in Buffy’s body melts away quick as microwaved butter. Well...all the strictly bad tension, anyway.

“Sorry for the mess,” Faith says, opening the door for her. “Didn’t get to it after solo patrol last night.” She slips off her combat boots, locking up behind them. “Then I worked doubles at the arcade. You know how many truant teeny-boppers I had to deal with today?”

Buffy smiles. “You mean how many minors you threatened?” She lines her pink Vans against the wall, then almost trips over them scrambling to beat Faith to her dresser. “Wait!”

“Too bad, so slow,” Faith says, holding her faded blue Daria t-shirt out of Buffy’s reach. With her other hand, Faith grabs a pair of black volleyball shorts, socks, and underwear out of the same drawer, then heads for the bathroom without a passing glance.

Sighing as the lock clicks, Buffy rifles through Faith’s remaining jammies selection. She's not gonna ask to stay over on the air mattress (Faith's probably still Buffied Out from yesterday), but the clinical level of mud on Faith's body will require at least an hour of scrubbing, so Buffy might as well be comfy while she waits. She picks out a green shirt. Mojo Jojo it is. Not as soft as Daria texture-wise, but arguably cuter.

After changing into Mojo, socks, and random uniform shorts of yet another sport Faith doesn’t play, Buffy folds her dirty slaying clothes and puts them by her shoes.

Then she takes a snoopy little gander around the studio for forensics of yesterday.

There’s popcorn scattered on the floor, pizza boxes stacked by the front door. Candy wrappers nesting in the sound-hole of Faith’s guitar. Smudgy pink kiss marks on the bottom half of the full-body mirror. Faith’s stereo is under her unmade bed, along with her weapons.

A twinge of guilt pokes Buffy’s chest; her usual catalyst for goodwill.

She puts Faith’s stereo back on the CD shelf beside the TV, plugs it in, then switches out the Daft Punk album for Ashanti’s. She skips to track 2, humming Foolish under her breath as she gets to work on the mess.

45 minutes into Faith’s shower and Buffy’s redemption arc, Buffy switches to the mixed CD her mom made for Faith’s birthday this year. She turns it up while she vacuums. The Middle by Jimmy Eat World fades out as she dumps the canister.

All that’s left is Faith’s unmade bed, and Buffy pauses there, knowing how wigginsy Faith is about it…

...Except Faith isn’t, though? She lets Will and Tara chill there during post-patrol parties, Ms. Kitty curled between them. Dawn has literally played Monkey on Faith’s Bed multiple times during Mario Kart, and all Faith asks is that she take off her sneakers.

Only Buffy ever has to sit in Slayer time-out on the tie dye beanbag. Not even the other Slayer has to do that. Faith would rather sit on the floor.

With a stab of indignation, Buffy grabs the bottom corners of Faith’s comforter and tugs up, giving a violent shake to spread it out.

A white paper square flutters to the floor.

After smoothing out the comforter, Buffy picks up the paper. Red ink bleeds through in some spots.

She’s about to set it on Faith’s nightstand when she recognizes her own handwriting on one side, in thick red sharpie:

WHATEVER BUFFY WANTS (FAITH PROMISE)

Buffy shields the folded paper behind her hands, glancing furtively at the bathroom door, then chills herself out. Faith didn’t ask her not to read the list if Buffy happened to find it without her.

So a sneaky peek won’t put a dent in Buffy’s honor. It’s the morally correct move, actually. If there’s something weird on here, she can run it through the garbage disposal right now, sparing her own embarrassment and Faith’s secondhand. 100% more dependable strategy than trying to play it off as magic sillies to Faith in the moment.

The “Faith Promise” subtitle gives Buffy good vibes, though. Even spell-drunk, Buffy wouldn’t ask Faith for things she couldn’t promise, would she? With a magically impaired imagination, spell-drunk Buffy probably would’ve just defaulted to sober Buffy’s most popular requests.

Faith’s Daria shirt, or a song on the guitar Faith pretends she doesn’t play.

The logic is Buffy’s soundest of all. Still, she doesn’t want to get her hopes up. She carefully unfolds the paper, prepared for anything.

Prepared for nothing.

1. Kiss Faith (7 hours)<3
2. Love you Pal<3

P.S.S.T. I’m falling in love with you

Please requite,

3. Belly Button

The paper wrinkles in Buffy’s shaking hands. She sits heavily on Faith’s bed, squeezing her temples to stop the ringing in her ears.

Amazing. Not only are her hopes up, so too is the appeal of Faith’s 3rd story window.

She jumps up at the sound of the bathroom door opening.

Faith enters in a cloud of cherry blossom steam, wearing the cozy clothes she took in with her. She speaks around her electric toothbrush. “Alright, let’s get this over w—oh.” She pauses tooth brushing, staring at the paper in Buffy’s clenched hands.

The only sound in the room is the muffled bzzzz trapped inside Faith’s rosy cheek.

“Heyyy Girlfriend,” Buffy says, slowly hiding the paper behind her back, and quickly reversing the dumb move because Faith has object permanence.

Playing coy about her object permanence, Faith’s already turned her attention to everything in sight that isn’t Buffy or the paper in her hands. “Thanks for cleaning up. Sweet of you.” She resumes toothbrushing.

“Oh! Yeah, of course.” Buffy fans her heated face with the note, the sharpie fumes canceling out any soothing effects. “It’s the least I could do to thank you.”

Still looking away, Faith nods, running her free hand through her wavy damp hair. “Want me to walk you home?”

Buffy stops her toxic self-care, narrowing her eyes. She’s already prepped to die here, now Faith’s rushing her off to a second location? Unacceptable. “I’m the Eldest Slayer. I walk you home. And you’re already in your PJ’s.”

Faith shrugs, switching her toothbrush to the other side of her mouth. “You’re also in my PJ’s. You can borrow my hoodie, if you want.”

“Why would I take your hoodie? You’re the one with a wet head. You’re not thinking this through, Faith.”

Faith frowns, finally looking at her. “What’s the matter, B?”

Through the bricks Faith’s casually stacking on her personal wall, the sharpie haze around Buffy’s face, and her own blushing cheeks, all Buffy sees is red. “You’re trying to get rid of me!” She shakes the list in a way that’d get her sentenced to life by a List Jury. “You know what this says, don’t you?”

Faith sighs, clicking off her toothbrush. She disappears in the bathroom to rinse and spit, then comes back out and leans on the wall, arms folded. “I told you I didn’t read it.”

“You—” Buffy cuts herself off, dropping back on Faith’s bed with a huff. She anchors her heels to the carpet, knees locked, in case Faith gets any ideas about evicting her. “You didn’t read it,” Buffy says, flourishing the list again. “But you obviously have enough of a gist to be playing Buffy Dodge right now.”

“B, you literally just tried to hide it behind your back. I was following your cues.”

“There were no cues! I was cue-less. You just startled me, is all.”

Shaking her head, Faith walks past her to the kitchenette. “No. Whatever’s on there has you freakin’ out, I get it.”

Buffy frowns at the floor, setting the list an arm’s distance beside her. She’s not freakin’ out. She’s totally chill. Frosty cool, in fact. A model snowball. Behind her, she hears Faith grab something from the fridge.

Then Faith’s bare legs and a water bottle come into view. “I’m sorry.”

Buffy looks up into hot cocoa-brown eyes, gazing down at her so soft and sincere. She accepts the water from Faith, lingering when their fingers brush. “Why are you sorry?” she asks gently.

“I didn’t mean to wig you out with the list,” Faith says, retreating to the wall by the weapons rack. “Just didn’t want to make you think you were making it up, either. Since you brought it up.” Shrugging, she takes a drink of her own bottled water. “If I blacked out, magic or normal, I’d be pissed if someone lied to me about stuff I forgot or remembered, you know?”

Buffy nods.

“Figured at least this way, if you read it first, you could take the lead on how you wanted to act about it.”

Buffy sighs under her breath. Pesky Faith, all sweet and mature and communicative and considerate. Maybe Buffy could be too...She downs the water, gathering the frayed strands of her singed last nerve. “What lead would you want me to take?” she says, screwing the cap on. “If you could pick?”

In the middle of another swig, Faith makes a noise of protest in her throat. “That’s fucked up, B,” she says after swallowing. “I gave you space to be as hedgy as you want about all this, and you corner me?”

“I wasn’t…” Looking down at her lap, Buffy rolls the empty water bottle on her thigh, plastic crinkling against her skin. “I wasn’t...I was trying to be considerate, I-”

“Buffy.”

“Sorry.” Buffy stands up, taking the list with her. She tosses the bottle in Faith’s recycling, then approaches her. Slowly, in case Faith makes a break for the only exit in the room. “Would it help you pick if you knew exactly what it said?” Buffy says.

Faith rolls her eyes as Buffy gets within reach. “It would help if you just told me exactly what you want from me.”

“I’m actively trying to,” Buffy says, holding the paper out to Faith.

Faith squints, leaning away from Buffy’s hand like it’s one of those Chain Chomp things from Mario.

“Please Faith?” Buffy says softly. “Don’t make me read it out loud. I took too much Sharpie, I’ll pass out.” She channels the last of her strength into a shaky smile.

Finally, Faith’s shoulders drop. She sighs, reaching for the weapons rack. Hanging her water bottle on an empty stake-holder, Faith takes the paper from Buffy with a gentle hand.

As Faith reads, her expression is, fools would say, blank.

Though fool-adjacent herself, Buffy knows better. Faith’s so obviously choking back her signature blend of hope and fear.

It pinches Buffy’s heart in ways she hasn’t felt since...Christmas 1998.

“Ow,” she whispers, as all yesterday's memories come crashing back in a comic-book blast.

Chapter Text

Christmas 1998

When Faith hears knocking at the door of her bare new studio, her fingers stutter on the guitar strings she’s plucking, but there’s no tingle between her shoulder blades. Either her Slaydar’s fried from lugging all two boxes of her life’s possessions in and out of an elevator, or there’s a non-demon on the other side of that door.

Faith frowns, shifting on her air mattress. Does a landlord count as a non-demon, or is it more like a sort of civilian vampire?

Re-setting her fingers, she jumps back into the acoustic solo in Don’t Speak by No Doubt.

There’s another batch of knocks, in a secret clubhouse beat.

Rolling her eyes, Faith hits pause on her stereo beside her air mattress. Now she has to fuckin' restart the track and wait for the solo again. She strums her guitar rage-ily, kisses its neck sorry, and rests it on her air mattress, pushing herself to her feet.

Tracking with Faith’s dogshit karma, the non-demon outside the door is the source of at least 4 knots in her shoulders.

Buffy Summers.

In a wine-red top, black dress pants, and a khaki coat. Face and hair all dolled up.

And Faith’s still in her PJ’s at 4pm. Red flannel pants and a blue tee with a cartoon on the front. Hair in whatever coin-flip state it was in when she woke up.

Buffy’s eyes drop to the Daria graphic on Faith’s chest, and she frowns, and God dammit, is there anything about Faith this girl doesn’t disapprove of?

At first Faith thought it was just the sex talk (isn’t that what straight girls talk about though? Which Faith is, also. That’s how she knows what they talk about, duh).

But no. Buffy hates everything Faith says and does.

Hates when Faith slays with her, when Faith gets along with her friends and family, when Faith asked about her boyfriend.

It’s obvious Buffy’s already made up her mind about her, like everyone else who’s ever been—or not been—in Faith’s life. It’s even more obvious she doesn’t trust Faith. But to be real? Faith’s the same way, and not just about Buffy.

So why the tender loving fuck does Faith care what Buffy Summers thinks?

Faith folds her arms, leaning against the door frame. “Hey, B.”

“Hi,” Buffy says to Faith’s shirt. “You like Daria?” she says, looking back at her face.

Faith casually looks down at herself, as though she just noticed what she’s wearing, so Buffy can know she doesn’t care. “Oh. Uh, yeah.” She plucks at the soft cloth where it’s bunching under her bra. “Checked it out after I got this…” at the Goodwill north of the train tracks... “at the mall.” She smooths her hands down the front of her shirt, then folds her arms again.

“Cool! Me too. The like part, not the shirt part. Not that I don’t like the shirt! It’s cute on you.”

“Thanks,” Faith says, with a sudden urge to fling this shirt out the window.

“Were you playing the guitar?” Buffy asks, eyes bright.

“No,” Faith says. “Did you need something, B?”

Buffy leans forward, peeking around Faith into the apartment. She smells real nice, as always. Like a cupcake Faith can’t afford.

Faith takes a few steps back, which Buffy apparently reads as an invite to come inside.

“Your place is really nice, Faith,” Buffy has the guts to say, looking around at scraggly Christmas lights, two cardboard boxes in the corner, an air mattress, stereo, and the guitar Faith wasn’t playing. Her dress shoes echo on the wood flooring by the front door.

Faith fidgets with the drawstrings on her flannel pants. The place is nice, but Faith’s been to Buffy’s suburban dream house, so there’s really no way for Buffy to compliment the apartment without coming off as kind of a d-bag.

“Thanks,” Faith says. “It’s The Council’s ‘gee sorry’ for sending me an evil foster mom to replace the dead one.”

Faith meant it as a joke. So Buffy takes it seriously.

“Right,” Buffy says with a blush, slowly clasping her hands together. “Um, so we’re having Christmas Eve dinner at home. Me, Mom, and Dawn. I know it’s kinda last-minute, but I was wondering if you-”

“Yeah, sure. I can cover patrol.”

Buffy looks surprised, which almost makes Faith bang a U-ey. “No, that’s not—that’s super thoughtful, but I was actually inviting you over.”

“What for?”

“As aguest.”

“August?”

“A guest.” Buffy gives Faith a confused look, like Faith is the one acting body-snatched right now. “I thought we could both use the night off.” Buffy shifts her weight, shoes clicking on the floor. “Besides, you’re Baptist, aren’t you? Or was that just the nuns and the priest...and the alligator?” She smiles.

“Catholic,” Faith admits accidentally, thrown off by the X-File that Buffy remembers anything Faith’s said. “Well. Catholic in writing, at least.” Mommy D said JC’s the only power keeping Faith from being dragged by the ankles to Hell. And Mommy D’s threats were never empty, so Faith hasn’t asked the Big Guy to sign her out of the Big Book just yet.

“Perfect,” Buffy says. “So you’ll come celebrate Christmas tonight. For Baby Jesus.”

“Huh?”

Buffy winces. “Sorry, was that offensive? Willow says I need to work on that. I was gonna say for me, but...I know we haven’t been really...close.” She rubs at the back of her neck. “And that’s my fault, I know. I’ve been...I’ve been a bit of a brat.” She gives Faith a shaky smile. “Sorry.”

Faith twists the black jelly bracelets on her wrist. “No worries.”

“I wanna try again, if that works for you?”

“Yeah,” Faith says. “Sure, whatever. You don’t have to, though. Not like I’ll quit the destiny gig just because we’re not friends.”

“I know,” Buffy murmurs. “But when I said I was on your side, I didn’t just mean the Slayer thing.” She steps forward, leaning in, then steps back again. “Again, sorry for the last minute-ness. Took an embarrassing amount of time to psych myself up to ask you. You’re kinda scary?”

Faith raises an eyebrow. “Good.”

“In like, a hot way though.”

“Duh.”

“Oh look, we can agree on something,” Buffy says, nearing close enough to spar with. The Christmas lights twinkle in her sparkly green eyes. “It would mean a lot if you came tonight.”

Taking a break from Buffy’s off-throwing behavior, Faith turns her attention to the sun setting through the window. The cursed Snapple fact of the matter is, she wants to say yes to Buffy. Which means care giving and hope having. Sins Faith is constantly answering for.

“Thanks, but.” Faith nods over her shoulder at the two boxes. “I got a lot of unpacking to do, so.” She squares her stance at the doubtful look on Buffy’s face.

“Well, if you change your mind?” Buffy smiles. “If not, we’ll hang out soon. Someplace that’s not a graveyard.” She pauses a moment.

And then she’s hugging Faith like a favorite pillow, squeezing tight around her arms and back with Slayer strength.

Just as fast, Buffy pulls away. “Sorry!”

“It’s ok,” Faith breathes. “Um. For what?”

“The random personal space crashing.” Buffy’s hands make pom-pom shaking moves at Faith. “You just look so huggable right now. With your little shirt, and the messy hair, and the mismatchy jammy pants-”

“Huggable?” Faith grumbles. “The fuck...”

Buffy grins. “Yes. You: scary, hot, and huggable. Deal with it, Lehane.”

“Didn’t know you knew my last name.”

“I learn all my rivals’ last names, for smack-talking purposes.” Buffy reaches out and pokes one of Faith’s dimples that’s showing because, for some godforsaken reason, Faith is smiling. “Anyway! See you soonish? Hopefully? Please?” Buffy gives a tiny smile, a tinier wave, and then she’s gone.

“Yeah.” Faith lets out a long sigh after closing the door, then slumps her back against it. She cups her poked cheek in her palm, feeling heat spreading (she’s probably allergic to Buffy’s hand lotion or something). Her heart’s beating on her ribs like a caged monkey.

She shakes her head. Straight girls are fuckin’ stressful. Faith would know, being one herself.

Two hours later, Faith knocks on the Summers’ front door. She fixes the collar of her sky blue dress shirt that she just spent half an hour threatening the iron over. Switching the newspaper-wrapped gifts she’s holding to one hand, she smooths down her khaki jacket and black skirt.

It’s her job interview outfit. For professional, arms’ distance occasions.

Which means fuckall to Buffy, who hugs Faith even closer and longer than last time, as soon as the door opens.

Faith pats her on the back twice, feeling warm skin where Buffy’s top doesn’t cover. Guess they hug now. Makes sense. Girls hug girls who are friends.

Girls also lead girls who are friends by the hand to the dinner table.

Buffy seats Faith across from her. Her kid sis actively chooses to sit next to Faith, while her mom sits at the head of the table.

“Ok,” Buffy says once everyone’s eating. “Here’s the what, Baby Slayer. Salt, sugar, board games, then you can help me pick out the movies—Anastasia’s non-negotiable, by the way—and then I’m thinking Nintendo. Then I have some extra PJs and a toothbrush and I fixed up the guest room for you. But I can also drive you home if you want. That means Christmas music on the radio, though.”

Eyes fixed on the thousand-dish table, Faith agrees every sentence or so with nods and grunts, hand-to-mouthing buttered rolls and sausage and this green stuff and—

“Wow Faith,” Dawn giggles beside her. “What are you, a chipmunk?”

“Hm?” Faith pauses chewing, hands hovering over her plate with cornbread in one hand and a forkful of scalloped potatoes in the other.

Dawn gives her a cute grin. “I’ll be the walrus.” She picks up two chopsticks that she randomly has, sticking them under her top lip by each of her pointy teeth, then leans close to Faith’s ear. “Buffy can be the dumbassaurus rex,” she whispers.

Faith starts to smile, then she full-body flinches when a hand touches her shoulder. Dropping her fork and cornbread onto her plate, Faith looks up at the threat, angling her body toward the nearest door.

“Take your time honey,” Buffy’s mom says with a smile, quickly removing her hand. “There’s plenty. And I’m sending you home with a few trays whether you like it or not.”

Faith swallows her bite, shoulders dropping an inch. “Thank you, Mrs. Summers.”

“Please, call me Joyce.”

“And call me Til-Dusk,” Dawn says. “That’s my kickass alter-ego.”

“Language,” Joyce says.

Faith flinches again at a tiny clinking sound in front of her. Why’s everything so fuckin' loud in here.

Her eyes lock onto the source of the clink: a white mug of hot chocolate someone just set in front of her.

Her gaze travels from the delicate fingers holding the mug, up a bare arm, to the wine-red spaghetti strap on a shoulder, a silver necklace, to soft blonde hair framing Buffy’s face.

Buffy smiles, eyes full of candlelight and warmth, and there’s a gentle knock inside Faith’s chest that sounds a lot like a death toll.

“Chew your food, Chosen One,” Buffy says, giving Faith’s cornbread-crummy hand a squeeze. “We have all night.”

They have 20 minutes.

Then Buffy’s taking too long to come back downstairs from checking on something. Probably the demon up in her room. At least, that’s what Faith’s Slaydar says.

As Faith sprints upstairs to the rescue, Buffy’s already sprinting down, asking her to please stay and watch Mom and Dawn.

“Yeah, for sure,” Faith says, as Buffy grabs her coat off the banister and fumbles with the lock.

Buffy fights with the fabric until it’s on. “I’m so so sorry Faith, I-” She looks pained, twisting back to Faith as she opens the door.

Faith shrugs, trying on a smile. “You don’t have to explain. It’s cool, B. Do what you gotta do. Just, be careful. Please.”

“I will tell you everything after, I swear.” Buffy hugs her again, standing on tip-toes. “I really am glad you came,” she whispers into Faith’s hair. Her necklace tickles Faith’s collarbone when she pulls back.

Faith nods, watching her leave. Buffy’s hair is honey under the porch lights. Her shoes echo down the street.

When she’s finally all the way out of sight, Faith quietly shuts the door, locks up, and steps backward until she hits the stairs. Sitting down, she frowns at the banister where Buffy’s coat was, fingertips tracing where Buffy’s necklace touched her skin.

She closes her eyes. Green eyes and candle lights twinkle in her head.

A mug of hot chocolate, just mixed. The sweetest smile she’s ever seen meant for her.

“Chosen One…”

Hugging herself, Faith takes a shaky breath. A freshly-baked vanilla scent fills her chest with warmth.

“Oh God,” she whispers. “Please God, no.”

Definitely her death toll.

Chapter Text

Maybe this list is a blessing disguised as the worst day of Faith’s adult life.

Based on Buffy’s looney toon reaction, clearly it’s all about kissing Faith and seeing her bellybutton ring, just like witch-cursed Buffy said yesterday. And at first, Faith wishes she could Bob-omb cannon right the fuck outta here when Buffy tip-toes up to her, insisting it’s what her little blonde heart desires.

Of course, Buffy would let her say no.

But maybe Faith should say yes.

Then Buffy can see her tummy ring, and say she likes it, then kiss Faith, and say she doesn’t. Could be the reality-check Faith needs to smother these squishy feelings once and for all.

So Faith opens the paper, prepared to be Just Buffy’s college experiment.

Uh oh.

I’m falling in love with you.

Oh no.

Willow’s plasito was more crime than Faith possibly could’ve imagined. There’s not enough jail for this.

Faith folds the paper more carefully than it was folded to begin with.

Buffy’s looking at her, green eyes so sweet and scared and hopeful and scared and so so scared.

“Hey B, do you think…” Faith clears her somehow dry throat. “You think Tara could help you with this? A cure, or whatever?” And she wants to punch herself in the face, because now Buffy looks like nobody showed up at her birthday party. “Wait, Buffy…” Faith sets the paper on her weapons rack.

Shoulders slouched, Buffy mopes over to the beanbag, crashing down on it with her head in her hands.

Faith kneels in front of the saddest little Slayer she’s ever seen. “Hey…” Her hand hovers over Buffy’s knee, her back, and finally drops to the beanbag.

Shoulders shaking, Buffy mumbles something into her hands.

Faith leans in. “What’d you say, B?”

“It’s no use,” Buffy cries, throwing her head back. “If my loose arcane cannon refused to cure me, there’s no way Tara will.”

Faith frowns. “What do you mean Red refused? It’s her fault in the first place. She’s got no right to keep you like this.”

“Faith, I’ve been like this since January.”

“...What?”

“Since my birthday, when you…” Buffy throws her hands up. “I dunno! You were just there, like normal, and now I’m like this, not normal, and you hate me.”

“B, I could never-”

“I know. I freaked you out, though.” Buffy rubs at her eyes. “I didn’t mean to. I just thought...well, here the list was, so I thought, now or never. You don’t get a lot of ‘nows’ on the Hellmouth.” She twists her hands up in the Mojo Jojo shirt, crumpling his little white boots. “I won’t sulk or be weird, I promise. Please, just…” She grabs Faith’s hand in her sweaty, tear-soaked ones. “Don’t pull away from me, please? Can we pretend this never happened? Can we put that on the list instead?”

“Breathe, Buffy,” Faith says. She scores a perfect 0 for breathing herself, then asks, “You’re really falling in love with me? Like, love love?”

“You just asked me to breathe, Faith. I can’t do that and talk about this. Pick one.”

Buffy’s doing a great job matching Mojo Jojo’s glare. In a Bubbles sort of way. Cheeks red, fists clenching the soft cloth of her (Faith’s) gray soccer shorts. Messy bun flopping to the side.

And Faith feels herself grinning before she can think about how Buffy might take that the wrong way.

“Don’t do that!” Buffy whines, pushing her face away with an open hand.

“Buffy,” Faith giggles against her palm. She takes her hand off, pressing a soft kiss on the back of it.

“Or that!” Buffy wrestles her hand away. It comes back as a fist to Faith’s shoulder.

“B,” Faith says, catching it easily. “I’m wicked crazy about you.”

Buffy’s arm goes slack. “Uh, what? The hell did you just say? To me?”

“You heard me.” Faith interlocks their fingers, bouncing their joined hands on Buffy’s lap. “I requite you, B.” She smiles at Buffy’s wide eyes, wiping the rest of Buffy's tears off with her free hand. “Been totally in love with you since the last century.”

Buffy frowns, looking up in the air at an invisible chalkboard. “Oh. 90’s. I get it.” She looks down at their joined hands, lips tugging up in a little smile as she rubs her thumb along Faith’s. “Loser.” She swings her foot against Faith’s stomach.

“Oh yeah?” Faith grabs her calf, tugging her forward to blow a raspberry on her knee. Showing mercy when Buffy shrieks and giggles, Faith gives one last nuzzle, then rolls onto the beanbag, resting her cheek on Buffy’s thigh. “Doesn’t feel like it to me, B.” Tracing a heart on Buffy’s leg, she smiles up at her, but Buffy’s not looking.

She’s still smiling at their hands on her lap, all rosy-cheeked. The cutest woman of every generation.

Faith sighs at the scent of vanilla, taking in all the little details of Buffy’s face that she can study as long as she wants now. Not that she doesn’t already have them all memorized. But knowing the Hellmouth, there could be a life-or-death pop quiz later.

Buffy’s free hand brushes Faith’s hair away from her face, and she carefully combs her fingers through it, over and over.

Faith is air and dead-weight at the same time. Everything in her life makes sense now. The future, the past. If anyone takes her away from this she’ll die immediately.

She gives the moment another sec before her wiggles win out. “So...did you still wanna scrap, or?”

Buffy tackles her to the floor.

“I love you,” she says against Faith’s laughing mouth, pinning Faith’s hands by the sides of her head. As Faith copies her words, Buffy plants noisy kisses on her cheeks, her nose, her forehead, and finally her lips. She lets go of Faith’s hands, cupping her face gently, and then she’s kissing her for real, and it’s the best thing that’s ever happened.

One of Faith’s hands squeezes lightly at Buffy’s waist. The other slides under Buffy’s hair, scratching gently at the back of her neck.

Buffy makes a little noise and tilts her head, kissing her deeper.

Just when Faith is about to flip them over, she feels fingertips brushing her shirt over her bellybutton ring.

“Do I still get this?” Buffy whispers into her ear.

Faith’s breath hitches, body melting into the floor. “All yours, Precious.”

“You would be a pet-name girl.” With a quick bite to Faith’s earlobe and neck, Buffy sits up on Faith’s legs, pushing Faith’s shirt up to the bottom of her bra. “That’s so pretty,” she stage-whispers, eyes alight staring down at Faith’s bellybutton.

Faith giggles, at Buffy’s reaction and the little breathy kisses Buffy’s now sprinkling all over her tummy.

“You’re so pretty.” Buffy carefully traps the ring between her teeth for a moment. She sits back up, thumb circling the gem. “Is this a garnet?”

Faith arches into the touch. “A knock-off, but that's the idea.”

“Those are my favorite.”

“I know.”

“It’s my birthstone.”

Faith smiles. “I know.”

“God!” Buffy leans down, squishing Faith’s cheeks, and kisses her soundly on the mouth. “Ok. Off.” She taps where Faith’s bunched up shirt meets the edge of her bra.

Faith raises an eyebrow. “Not that there’s a Hell hot enough to discourage me, but you got class in 8 hours, B.”

“Not for that,” Buffy says, sitting up and dropping all her weight on Faith’s lap. “Off, please? Just the shirt. Don't distract me.”

Sighing dramatically, Faith sits up and indulges her. She leans back on her hands with a smirk, rolling her eyes at Buffy’s victory smile.

Buffy curls a hand behind Faith’s neck, stroking her baby hairs.

Leaning into it with a soft moan, Faith closes her eyes while Buffy starts walking her fingers down her spine. Faith jolts when the touch reaches that point between her shoulder blades. She opens her eyes to find Buffy grinning.

“Thanks!” Buffy kisses her sweetly, then picks up Faith’s shirt and starts dressing her.

Pushing her arms through the sleeves, Faith doesn’t bother hiding her soft smile peeking out as Buffy fixes the bottom of her shirt. “Anything else I can do for you, weirdo?” She tucks Buffy’s hair behind her ear, pausing there to toy with her piercings.

Buffy turns her face into Faith’s palm, dropping a kiss there, then shakes her head cutely. “Just wanted to find the spot on you that tingles when mine does.”

A Week Before Christmas, 2002

Faith sinks back in the beanbag, trapped under the Buffy-shaped weight on half of her lap. The 4-way split on the TV screen with Mario Kart has most of her attention. The rest is focused on tracing her name on her Daria shirt that's somehow on her girlfriend.

“You’re messing me up, jerk-face,” Buffy laughs, twisting her back away as she clings to her controller.

Faith smirks. Honestly, she doubts that Buffy can mess up more than she is already, but she behaves, letting her hand come to rest on Buffy’s hip instead.

“You witch,” Buffy groans, as Willow’s Wario blasts her Toadette off the rainbow bridge again. “Say you’re sorry.”

“There’s no sorry in Mario Kart,” Faith says. She raises her free hand palm backward to meet Willow’s high-five from the bed.

“Buffy, y-you keep picking the lightweights.” Tara expertly drifts Donkey Kong around a curve. “I told you, if you want to s-stop getting bonked around, you need a heavier build.”

“Don’t waste your wisdom,” Dawn says, as her Bowser bonks Toadette into a green shell. “She was born to lose.”

“Damn, Til-Dusk.” Faith accepts Buffy’s elbow jabbing back into her ribs.

“I’m telling Mom,” Buffy yells.

Dawn mua-ha-ha’s, jumping up and down on Faith’s bed.

“Aww look Buff,” Willow says, as Toadette blasts past everyone on Bullet Bill. “At least the game says sorry.”

Buffy squeals happily, rapid-fire stomping on the floor in true upstairs neighbor fashion. “You see friends, Good will always—nononononono!” She flings her controller as Dawn’s blue shell nails her right before crossing the finish line.

Faith snatches the cord and yanks back before the controller can smash into the TV.

“Oops,” Buffy says, turning to give her a smile.

Faith rolls her eyes. “Buffyyyy,” she sighs, letting go of the cord and squeezing her arms around her.

Buffy pouts. “I’m just frustrated that I didn’t win my serenade from you.”

“You know I’ll play you one anyways, BB girl.”

Dawn makes a retching sound.

Faith pecks Buffy on the cheek with a smile. “How’s it that you’re even more of a sore loser than a sore winner?”

Buffy bumps their foreheads together. “I have many skills.”

“Mm-hmm,” Faith hums into a kiss.

“Ooh, can we watch Xena?” Tara says.

Breaking the kiss, Faith smiles at Tara over her shoulder. “You got it.”

“Hold please.” In the kitchenette, Dawn picks up Faith’s handset. “I have winnings to collect.”

“Dawnie I will pay you not to put anchovies on that pizza,” Willow says.

“They’re not all for us, Witch.” Dawn pspsps’s to Ms. Kitty where she’s curled up at Faith’s feet. “Besides, there are Slayers among us. I’m ordering two.”

“Thank goddess,” Willow sighs.

“I will be putting pineapples on the other one, though.”

“Fuck yeah,” Faith cheers as everyone else boos.

“Fine,” Willow says. “I can just do a little spell to-”

“No,” everyone says in sync.

“Jeez, I’m kidding.” Willow grins. “And what are you two chiming in for?” She mock-glares at Faith and Buffy. “You kinda owe your PDA-junkie relationship to my magic, if you think about it.”

“Good point.” Dawn wrinkles her nose at the newest couple. She punches in the number to the pizzeria, then points a finger at Willow. “Double anchovies it is.”

“Lucky nine, Kitty,” Faith says, scratching Ms. Kitty’s chin.