In fire and whispers
All completely un-beta'd. Any faults are mine. Blah blah blah. I make no money, I own nothing.
He's beautiful in the way only a man can be beautiful- chiseled jaw, straight nose, full lips, and dark, long lashes to compliment bright eyes. His hair is short though there's still more than enough to grab and it's softer than she imagined it would be. He shoulders the weight of the world and there are secrets and sorrows etched into the small lines of his face. His smile doesn't quite reach those eyes of his, the tension in the set of his shoulders a dead give away that there's more than meets the eye where he's concerned.
Then again, she doesn't really care about all of that beyond casual observation. Not at first. No, the first time she finds him, it's not him she's looking for. Not specifically anyway. She's looking for someone to help her forget the weight on her own shoulders. To help her forget her own secrets and sorrows.
It's not until their second meeting that she's actually curious. It's not until she watches him salt and burn an old pile of bones in a graveyard devoid of vampires that she feels any kind of desire to learn more than what she already has. From her place behind a mausoleum, she watches. She watches, and she waits until he's finished. It's only once she's stepped out and made herself known, found herself staring down the barrel of a .45, that a smirk crosses her face.
The stance is familiar. The way he carries himself says that he's ready for a fight, or maybe that he's tired of fighting but refuses to go down any other way than swinging. Confusion colors his features, creases his brow, and then recognition. Immediately after the recognition comes the distrust-- maybe even anger-- before the hammer clicks in place.
She can't blame him for the response. If their positions were reversed, she'd be doing much the same. After all, she'd automatically gone for the knife in her belt when she'd suspected him of some kind of dark magic.
Still, there's the smallest hint of amusement when she speaks, her voice low but clear and loud enough to carry.
Easy there, killer. Just got this jacket. Wouldn't want to ruin it.
In the end she spends more time than she's really got the patience for explaining what she is and why she's not a demon before getting the skinny on what it was he was doing in her normal stomping grounds. They'd met outside of New Orleans the first time and Cleveland was a long way off.
He travels with a brother that he doesn't go into detail about in much the same way she glosses over her girls. She can recognize that protective streak when she sees it a mile away and it resonates with her. Hours later, once they've finished sizing each other up, they're busy stripping each other down. Hands are harsh and hurried, touches desperate and hungry, though the sex is decidedly less so. The two of them indulge in a slow burn between the sheets, and by the time he comes, she doesn't feel the brunt of the weight she'd felt before. Multiple orgasms could do that for a girl... even if it was only a temporary fix.
They part ways with her willingly giving him her number, a real one, and not just a fake she conjured up to expedite the process, along with a genuine offer of help if needed. She has access to resources and from what little he's said, it sounds like he needs them.
Weeks go by before she hears anything and she doesn't think much of it. It's not like she doesn't have a million and one things to keep her busy. And it's sure as hell not like she's pining away. Still, there's a small, half-smile on her face when she answers and a certain kind of anticipation when she agrees to meet him with a few books and whatever information she can find about the nasty thing he's going up against.
They meet. They hunt. They drink. They fuck.
It's after she's freshly showered and pulling on her boots that he looks up at her from the mattress and somewhat grudgingly tells her she's pretty awesome for a chick. It sounds like he's surprised when he says it, and it's enough to make her laugh.
With lines like that, it's a wonder you get laid at all.
Except she's already kicking off the boot she just put on and moving to straddle him again in order to show him just how awesome she can be.
In the first time in a long time, she falls asleep when they're done. When his phone goes off she pretends not to hear it, or wake up when he starts pulling on his clothes. He doesn't try to wake her and she hears his hand on the door before he pauses. There's the quiet sound of the drawer next to the bed opening and the quick scribble of pen on paper. The corner of her mouth pulls up slightly when the door closes and she shuts her eyes again.
It's the start of something she has no desire to label when she's completely content to let it play out however it's going to play out. He calls or she does if one of them gets wind of something the other might be better suited for. Sometimes one or the other is close enough that they meet up to blow off steam and it always follows the same pattern.
They meet. They hunt. They drink. They fuck.
Sometimes there are things she thinks he wants to say but they normally bury those in the physical, let their bodies do the talking because it's obvious by now that they're both completely damaged individuals with enough secrets to fill an ocean. Other times they explore scars and exchange war stories. On one occasion they simply sleep. Sharing a bed with a man is a novelty she hasn't experienced since Robin, and that had just been an exercise in stupidity if ever there'd been one.
This, whatever it was, was different than all that. But still she refused to label it. She knows that if she does, she'll lose it, and somewhere along the way, Dean Winchester became one of the best things she had. It was easy. There were no expectations, no need for hearts and flowers, and there was a kind of brutal honesty between them that kept her on her toes. Kept her in line. Any kind of label would only ruin the simplicity of it all, and Faith had never been much for labels in the first place.
It's only when she's alone again and reflecting on her latest time spent with him that she thinks about it all to any extent and decides, a little offhandedly, that if she had to label it... she'd probably call it love. Inasmuch as she can love someone, she thinks maybe she loves him.
And that's how she knows she'll lose him. It's only a matter of when and how given that their lifestyles don't exactly lend themselves to longevity. It's a sobering thought.
The next time he calls she half considers not answering it. In the end she does, and when she's on the road, she wonders when she officially became a masochist. It's another label though and she shoves it firmly in the corner with the ones labeled "idiot" and "in love".
Maybe one day she'll learn. She'll wise up and ignore the call before this turns into something that's out of her control. Today just doesn't happen to be that day. She drives and when they meet, they hunt, they drink, and they fuck.
And it's simple.
He's beautiful in the way only a man can be beautiful- chiseled jaw, straight nose, full lips, and dark, long lashes to compliment bright eyes. His hair is short though there's still more than enough to grab and it's softer than she imagined it would be. He shoulders the weight of the world and there are secrets and sorrows etched into the small lines of his face. His smile doesn't quite reach those eyes of his, the tension in the set of his shoulders a dead give away that there's more than meets the eye where he's concerned.
Then again, she doesn't really care about all of that beyond casual observation. Not at first. No, the first time she finds him, it's not him she's looking for. Not specifically anyway. She's looking for someone to help her forget the weight on her own shoulders. To help her forget her own secrets and sorrows.
It's not until their second meeting that she's actually curious. It's not until she watches him salt and burn an old pile of bones in a graveyard devoid of vampires that she feels any kind of desire to learn more than what she already has. From her place behind a mausoleum, she watches. She watches, and she waits until he's finished. It's only once she's stepped out and made herself known, found herself staring down the barrel of a .45, that a smirk crosses her face.
The stance is familiar. The way he carries himself says that he's ready for a fight, or maybe that he's tired of fighting but refuses to go down any other way than swinging. Confusion colors his features, creases his brow, and then recognition. Immediately after the recognition comes the distrust-- maybe even anger-- before the hammer clicks in place.
She can't blame him for the response. If their positions were reversed, she'd be doing much the same. After all, she'd automatically gone for the knife in her belt when she'd suspected him of some kind of dark magic.
Still, there's the smallest hint of amusement when she speaks, her voice low but clear and loud enough to carry.
Easy there, killer. Just got this jacket. Wouldn't want to ruin it.
In the end she spends more time than she's really got the patience for explaining what she is and why she's not a demon before getting the skinny on what it was he was doing in her normal stomping grounds. They'd met outside of New Orleans the first time and Cleveland was a long way off.
He travels with a brother that he doesn't go into detail about in much the same way she glosses over her girls. She can recognize that protective streak when she sees it a mile away and it resonates with her. Hours later, once they've finished sizing each other up, they're busy stripping each other down. Hands are harsh and hurried, touches desperate and hungry, though the sex is decidedly less so. The two of them indulge in a slow burn between the sheets, and by the time he comes, she doesn't feel the brunt of the weight she'd felt before. Multiple orgasms could do that for a girl... even if it was only a temporary fix.
They part ways with her willingly giving him her number, a real one, and not just a fake she conjured up to expedite the process, along with a genuine offer of help if needed. She has access to resources and from what little he's said, it sounds like he needs them.
Weeks go by before she hears anything and she doesn't think much of it. It's not like she doesn't have a million and one things to keep her busy. And it's sure as hell not like she's pining away. Still, there's a small, half-smile on her face when she answers and a certain kind of anticipation when she agrees to meet him with a few books and whatever information she can find about the nasty thing he's going up against.
They meet. They hunt. They drink. They fuck.
It's after she's freshly showered and pulling on her boots that he looks up at her from the mattress and somewhat grudgingly tells her she's pretty awesome for a chick. It sounds like he's surprised when he says it, and it's enough to make her laugh.
With lines like that, it's a wonder you get laid at all.
Except she's already kicking off the boot she just put on and moving to straddle him again in order to show him just how awesome she can be.
In the first time in a long time, she falls asleep when they're done. When his phone goes off she pretends not to hear it, or wake up when he starts pulling on his clothes. He doesn't try to wake her and she hears his hand on the door before he pauses. There's the quiet sound of the drawer next to the bed opening and the quick scribble of pen on paper. The corner of her mouth pulls up slightly when the door closes and she shuts her eyes again.
It's the start of something she has no desire to label when she's completely content to let it play out however it's going to play out. He calls or she does if one of them gets wind of something the other might be better suited for. Sometimes one or the other is close enough that they meet up to blow off steam and it always follows the same pattern.
They meet. They hunt. They drink. They fuck.
Sometimes there are things she thinks he wants to say but they normally bury those in the physical, let their bodies do the talking because it's obvious by now that they're both completely damaged individuals with enough secrets to fill an ocean. Other times they explore scars and exchange war stories. On one occasion they simply sleep. Sharing a bed with a man is a novelty she hasn't experienced since Robin, and that had just been an exercise in stupidity if ever there'd been one.
This, whatever it was, was different than all that. But still she refused to label it. She knows that if she does, she'll lose it, and somewhere along the way, Dean Winchester became one of the best things she had. It was easy. There were no expectations, no need for hearts and flowers, and there was a kind of brutal honesty between them that kept her on her toes. Kept her in line. Any kind of label would only ruin the simplicity of it all, and Faith had never been much for labels in the first place.
It's only when she's alone again and reflecting on her latest time spent with him that she thinks about it all to any extent and decides, a little offhandedly, that if she had to label it... she'd probably call it love. Inasmuch as she can love someone, she thinks maybe she loves him.
And that's how she knows she'll lose him. It's only a matter of when and how given that their lifestyles don't exactly lend themselves to longevity. It's a sobering thought.
The next time he calls she half considers not answering it. In the end she does, and when she's on the road, she wonders when she officially became a masochist. It's another label though and she shoves it firmly in the corner with the ones labeled "idiot" and "in love".
Maybe one day she'll learn. She'll wise up and ignore the call before this turns into something that's out of her control. Today just doesn't happen to be that day. She drives and when they meet, they hunt, they drink, and they fuck.
And it's simple.