Xover Fic: Oil for the Machine
Title: Oil for the Machine
Author: Shona aka Mara (whiskyinmind)
Disclaimer: Not my sandbox, I'm just playin' here.
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer/Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Faith, Impala
Notes: Written for my write-something-each-day-in-May project. Prompt Me! This was written on 9th May 2010. Borrowing nwhepcat's name for Faith's first Watcher. All credit to her. This was originally supposed to be Dean/Faith and the Impala, but it didn't work out that way.
Warnings: Stream of consciousness.
There was nothing quite like the feel of well aged, well maintained, leather under the fingertips. The stiffness of freshly tanned hide softened by the who-know-how-many years of continued wear - and she had a pretty damn good idea of what kind of 'wear' constituted at least forty per cent of that time. That brand-new smell, which apparently was so intoxicating they even tried to bottle it these days, mellowed by use and transformed into something more. Something welcoming. Something comfortable. Something that almost smelled like home.
Faith let her fingers trail across the bench seat, finding the seams and tiny nicks wrought by time automatically. Revelling in the texture, lingering over each crease, each mark. Letting them tell their own tales of conquest and sorrow. Of life.
These were the kind of tales that were her undoing - always had been. From the moment she could see over the dash, she had fallen in love with cars. She was a motorhead, born and bred. The only problem with that was, when she got old enough for hormones to come into play, she gravitated towards those guys who had the coolest cars. More often than not those guys were dicks and the cars spent more time up on blocks than on the road. Just like she did.
Faith had been thirteen that first time. She had been what her guidance counsellor had called an 'early developer' and what her peers had called a slut.
It didn't matter. She didn't care. It was just skin.
Even then.
That was something she'd learned in those dark nights when she'd hear her mom weeping. Begging. Giving up. Giving herself.
Just skin.
It didn't last.
It didn't matter.
Metal. Oil. Engines.
Those mattered.
They lasted.
They were beautiful.
So what if she'd gotten suckered in? Given some Andretti-wannabes some good times in the back seats of cars that would be lucky to make out of Boston, never mind round some grand prix tracks? So what?
She had always told herself it didn't matter. It was just skin. It wasn't her. It wasn't even really them. The potential was there. Always.
So what if she felt cheap? If she felt degraded?
It didn't matter.
Not really.
She didn’t matter.
When Pauline came, told her who she was, told her all about Destiny, Faith knew none of it counted.
That deep down growl of the starter motor, that clean burble of a well-tuned engine, that was all that counted.
And what was she, if not the equivalent of Mobil-1?
She oiled the machine.
That's what she was.
That's who she was.
But now? Here? She breathed deep and savoured.
Years gone by. Sorrow. Loss. Grief.
But also joy. Triumph. Victory.
Happiness.
It was all here, in the cracked-but-still-supple leather of the back seat. And if there was a more apt simile out there, Faith didn't want to know about it.
She wanted to say something; to have some pithy come-on, but she didn't. And as she looked into his eyes she knew she didn't have to have it.
This wasn't like those other times.
This was real.
Here.
Now.
Author: Shona aka Mara (whiskyinmind)
Disclaimer: Not my sandbox, I'm just playin' here.
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer/Supernatural
Characters/Pairings: Faith, Impala
Notes: Written for my write-something-each-day-in-May project. Prompt Me! This was written on 9th May 2010. Borrowing nwhepcat's name for Faith's first Watcher. All credit to her. This was originally supposed to be Dean/Faith and the Impala, but it didn't work out that way.
Warnings: Stream of consciousness.
There was nothing quite like the feel of well aged, well maintained, leather under the fingertips. The stiffness of freshly tanned hide softened by the who-know-how-many years of continued wear - and she had a pretty damn good idea of what kind of 'wear' constituted at least forty per cent of that time. That brand-new smell, which apparently was so intoxicating they even tried to bottle it these days, mellowed by use and transformed into something more. Something welcoming. Something comfortable. Something that almost smelled like home.
Faith let her fingers trail across the bench seat, finding the seams and tiny nicks wrought by time automatically. Revelling in the texture, lingering over each crease, each mark. Letting them tell their own tales of conquest and sorrow. Of life.
These were the kind of tales that were her undoing - always had been. From the moment she could see over the dash, she had fallen in love with cars. She was a motorhead, born and bred. The only problem with that was, when she got old enough for hormones to come into play, she gravitated towards those guys who had the coolest cars. More often than not those guys were dicks and the cars spent more time up on blocks than on the road. Just like she did.
Faith had been thirteen that first time. She had been what her guidance counsellor had called an 'early developer' and what her peers had called a slut.
It didn't matter. She didn't care. It was just skin.
Even then.
That was something she'd learned in those dark nights when she'd hear her mom weeping. Begging. Giving up. Giving herself.
Just skin.
It didn't last.
It didn't matter.
Metal. Oil. Engines.
Those mattered.
They lasted.
They were beautiful.
So what if she'd gotten suckered in? Given some Andretti-wannabes some good times in the back seats of cars that would be lucky to make out of Boston, never mind round some grand prix tracks? So what?
She had always told herself it didn't matter. It was just skin. It wasn't her. It wasn't even really them. The potential was there. Always.
So what if she felt cheap? If she felt degraded?
It didn't matter.
Not really.
She didn’t matter.
When Pauline came, told her who she was, told her all about Destiny, Faith knew none of it counted.
That deep down growl of the starter motor, that clean burble of a well-tuned engine, that was all that counted.
And what was she, if not the equivalent of Mobil-1?
She oiled the machine.
That's what she was.
That's who she was.
But now? Here? She breathed deep and savoured.
Years gone by. Sorrow. Loss. Grief.
But also joy. Triumph. Victory.
Happiness.
It was all here, in the cracked-but-still-supple leather of the back seat. And if there was a more apt simile out there, Faith didn't want to know about it.
She wanted to say something; to have some pithy come-on, but she didn't. And as she looked into his eyes she knew she didn't have to have it.
This wasn't like those other times.
This was real.
Here.
Now.