FIC: The Confessional (parts 1-3)
My heart is with the victims, families, and heroes of 9/11. It may be wrong of me, but it felt appropriate to post this fic today--either as escape or a way of dealing with the things that are going on in the world today.
*
Title: The Confessional
Length: 12 short(ish to midlength) parts (and a few lines of prologue) in 4 posts.
Rating: R, for language and some images
Warnings: This fic contains reference to slash and some subjects which I guess could be considered controversial.
Pairings: This is not a shippy fic. B/A and A/S are explicitly referenced; many others are hinted at.
Summary: Angel visits Faith in prison. Takes places between AtS S1 & 2.
A/N: Although this fic has a definite time frame, it can't be read as "missing scenes". Among other things, Faith's prison is too far away for Angel to visit this often in one summer. This fic is much more of a "what if", especially towards the end.
Prologue
This story about the firmness of my fabu tits and the tightness of this highly fuckable ass. It’s about where my mind went last time I was high and why, exactly, Where Eagles Dare is the best movie ever. Maybe if you want, and definitely if you don’t, there’ll be a word from our sponsors about demons I’ve whacked: how I slice; I dice. I murder without all that pesky muss and fuss, just name your price. If you order today, you’ll get what you were looking for-something personal, honey, something all about Faith: I’ll tell you ‘bout my soft spot for pancakes with bananas, free of charge.
But I’m not gonna tell you how bad I feel about what I’ve done and how much I wish I could change. That’s between me, my bars, my cell-mate Davida and a pack of fifty other women who’re just itching to make me their bitch. The parole board and a vamp are in on it too, but I didn’t ask them here. And I sure as a bear shits in the woods didn’t ask you.
I can see we’re not connecting. Why would we be? I’m a murderer, aren’t I-that and one really good lay, if you’ll excuse my saying so. Just a killer and a cunt, that’s me; and who might you be? Some pity-pussy who wanted to cry over the joke that is my life, I’ll bet that’s who you are. I’ll bet you were all cozy on your couch with your coffee and your comforter, and ten to one you were expecting to cuddle up with me, weren’t you, you sad fuck.
Not so warm and cozy as you thought now, is it? This is my turf, my mind. So let’s get a few things straight, shall we? There will be no cuddling. There will be no crying. There will be no condolences, commiseration, or comfort. Don’t like it? Get out. I don’t want you here.
I don’t want anyone here.
1.
Can’t say as I’m tickled Angel’s here, either, on the other side of the glass and all broad and brooding shoulders hell-bent too gorgeous for this place. I slide into my seat, pick up my phone, and say coolly, “Well, if it isn’t the white-wingéd halo-man himself. What brings you to my scrawny neck of the woods?”
“I came to see you,” he says.
“Great. Are we done? ‘Cause there’s a game of dominoes down in the rec I’m really sorry to miss right now.”
“Thought you might want to talk.”
“What? You, me, and your high and mighty soul make three? I’m not your little project.”
“You’re right.” Voice is bland. “You’re not worth the effort.” A brow lifts, the cocky bastard. “Or is that what you wanted to hear?”
A ‘hello’ would’ve been nice. “It’s just I like dominoes,” I say.
“How have you been?”
“Me? Oh, it’s all daffodils and daisies in the joint, Angel. Tonight the girls and I are painting our toe-nails and French-braiding our hair, and I know a dyke on fourth who’s going to try to slit her wrists with a plastic spoon.”
Just looks at me. Then says: “Your hair would look nice. French-braided.”
“Really?” The boss said once I should pull back my hair-said I had a pretty face.
“You look thinner.”
Now he sounds concerned. I don’t like this. I don’t like this I don’t like this I don’t like-“Checking me out, big stud?”
“You know, it doesn’t sound like you’re interested in change at all, Faith.” He speaks his sentence very smoothly. “Have fun with your plastic spoons, huh? Officer!”
“What, you’re leaving?” He’s hanging up the phone, standing up. “No, this conversation isn’t over. Sit back down! Hey!” I stand up on my side, slam a hand on the glass. I can break it; I can hurt people; I can kill him. Bells would ring and flowers would bloom; there’d be a spring in my step, I’d be so content, and my feet would be shredded to ribbons by the shards of glass on the floor. “Did you hear me?” I’m hollering. “I said-” There’re guards on me, hauling me away. I can snap their bones like butterfly backs-
Angel talks to a corrections officer on the other side, puts on an innocent act of alarm. I read his lips. “She’s a bad seed, I guess,” he says and shakes his head.
“Hey!” I yell, thinking of the only thing I want from him, the only thing that really matters. “Are you coming back?”
He smirks at me and walks away.
*
Now, when I say it was “the only thing that really matters,” don’t get your panties in a twist. Just so we got things clear, I don’t care if he comes back. If you really want to know, I’ll pay cash money never to see his Buffy-whipped ass again.
I’m busy. Don’t believe me? Alright then, big shot, do some time in the big house, where half the girls’ll want to make you their fluff n’ stuff ‘cause the other half’s already been butched in. Try convincing them you’re tough enough not to need a sugar mama while at the same time not hurting a hair on their eighty-five IQ skulls. Try knowing you could blood in and be the toppest of top dogs, and try putting your head down instead, keeping to yourself at rec, minding your own business in the mess-letting them walk all over you, thinking they’re bigger than you. Better than you.
You think this is easy, don’t you-doing nothing, being nothing. Yeah, you would; you’re just as bad as he is. For people like me, on the other hand, jail’s kind of a wish your heart makes, if you get my drift. It’s all about confidence, strength, rack and bush. It’s about showing the girls who’s boss, sticking it to the ones who think they can screw you, making your way by the blood on your fists. If it weren’t for one itty bitty issue, I’d be all over the dynamics in this hole like a duck on a June bug.
But somehow I can’t quite figure, quality time with my little sisters got knocked back in line, ‘cause I’m already someone else’s punk. I’m the biggest sissy in the slammer, the most submissive, the most owned. I get on my knees whenever I hear “please” from that catty flirting whore-Angel’s big daddy, his dom and darling cocktease: that thing he likes to call redemption. Him and me, we’re its bitch and we’re just begging for more.
2.
The next time, I walk in, pick up the phone, and keep my mouth shut.
“How are you?” Angel asks.
“Good. I’m . . . good.” I’m the good little girl you want me to be. “How are you?”
“Same old.”
We stare at each other and then I remember I’m supposed to pretend like I’m interested. “Oh?” I ask.
He tilts his head at me; it’s Law and Order: small talk with subtext. “Wolfram and Hart blew up my office,” he says finally. “A redneck in a business suit wants redemption so I cut off his hand; big bad’s got some bigger bad in a box which they’ll probably use to kill me and my friends . . . you know, the usual.”
“Yo, bright side,” I suggest. “You got friends.”
“I know,” he says.
“But you’re not perfectly happy.”
“No.”
There, got rid of that smug rat-bastard smile. “Miss the blonde runt, huh?”
Doesn’t even flinch. “She could wipe the floor with you.”
“Bull feathers. Look, she’s got a lot going for her, I’ll give you that. But when it comes to brute strength hand to hand, let me tell-”
“Does it ever come down to just brute strength?”
“Sure. When I fight demons,” I answer. Easy.
“But not in the war you’re waging. Those other things Buffy has going for her, they make her stronger than you. Smarter. Better.”
“Prettier,” I add sullenly.
“Buffy loves the world. She can’t help herself. She loved it enough to give you more chances than you deserved. More chances than I . . .” He trails off. Come on baby, that’s it. Just hurt yourself a little more-
“She loves it enough to fight for it.” His eyes sidle away from mine; voice is low. “And die for it. To her, the world is beautiful.”
“Also,” I add flippantly, because I like to bathe my hands in blood and dig the wounds yet deeper, “she has this really tight little ass and a complete come-fuck-me mouth.”
Now he just looks bored. “Would you like me to leave you to your wet dreams, Faith?”
“What?” I snap. He’s starting to hang up his phone. “No-don’t go. I mean, I didn’t mean it. I mean I did but I didn’t mean to say it. Uh.” Here comes part I hate: “Sorry?”
He doesn’t hang up, but he shakes his head. “Starting to like that new word of yours, aren’t you?” he asks. “‘Sorry’ is only the beginning. An inch around the circumference of the world, Faith.”
“But . . . but you’re not leaving?”
He’s standing up. “I think I’ve had enough of you for one day.”
*
Angel is weak.
You wouldn’t think it to look at him, would you? The sucker packs a wicked punch; he’s given Buffy and me a run for our money. I’d be all over that if I thought I had half a chance. Screw him half way to Sunday before he knew what hit him. He’d buck; I’d suck; we’d fuck and fuck and fuck, and sweet Jesus but it’d be one hell of a ride.
And to top it off, he’s got grit. He went to Hell and back, withstood the First Evil, fought the big boss, blah, blah, that’s Angel: hit of the soul stars club. That’s fine, meet mister dandy, but want to know what the best part is?
He still hates himself.
It’s not ever gonna be over for that boy. The second he sees happiness, I’m telling you, he’ll run the other way. Sure, there’s the soul-poppin’ sex thing, but I’m not even talking about that. This is about the century before Sunnydale. What’s he do? How’s he live? I’m betting nine years out of ten, he’s kicking himself into a corner, huddling against the world, waiting for his beating from the wrists that feed him because he’s been such a bad boy.
I don’t need Angel here helping me lick my wounds with you, sick-o. Tongues have better uses, and pussy’s sweeter than a pup who’s lapped at the balls of atonement so long he’s made the fellatio of abstractions a fine art. Bet he tastes like shame by now. Besides, I’ve always liked chicks as much as dicks, and here’s another thing to be said for the bitch slammer: there certainly is an assortment of tail.
3.
I saunter in and pick up the phone. “Back for more, champ?”
“Let’s get something straight. We’re not going to talk about Buffy for a long, long time. And you’re never going to talk about Buffy’s relationship with me. Understood?”
“Sure,” I say; play it cool. “Sure. It’s not my fault, you know. It’s everyone else who always wants to talk about B. Me? I could care less. The bitch bores me.”
Angel stirs impatiently. “Somehow I doubt that.”
“Got a lot of that, don’t you,” I snap. “Doubt. You come across like this arrogant bastard, but really you’re just looking for someone in the world to love you, and you’re not even sure it can happen. You’re a sick fuck who gets off on being a martyr.”
“I’m a sick fuck who gets off on being a martyr,” says an indifferent mask, “but I was never searching for, or hoping for, love.”
“Aren’t you? Could’ve fooled me, what with you and-”
“Faith.” A broad hand clenches on the table. He sees me looking at it; it loosens and drops to his side, the better to be alone.
“I was going to say you and Wesley,” I lie. “Getting all cozy.”
He blinks. “I’m not in love with Wesley.”
“Sure about that?”
So perfectly still when he stares. “I never think of Wesley in that way,” he says at last, lowly.
“Maybe you should start. The man needs a nice hard screw. Hey, is being hetero a soulful thing? Bet you weren’t so discriminating back in the day.”
Suddenly, there’s a smirk. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“About how you get it up for Wesley?”
“I don’t.”
He’s cute when he’s defensive. “Why not? Those steely blue eyes, that English accent, that tight-set mouth-”
Now the smirk is back. “Sounds like I’m a lot less attracted to him than you are, Faith.”
Right, because you get it up for one and only, and now your cunt of choice is clenching around another cock.
I want to say that. I’m dying to say that, because I don’t get wet for Wesley. I don’t get wet for Wesley I don’t get wet for Wesley I don’t get wet for-“You’d never get your hands on him, anyway,” I snap. “You kidding? A Watcher? Former Watcher, whatever. The Council hates you. They don’t care about your poor pussy-whipped soul. And Giles-woo-ee, Giles. I heard what you did to his girlfriend, you know, you murderin-
“Are you trying to piss me off?” he asks mildly. “Because if you are, you suck at it. Just like you suck at everything else.”
“Yeah, well.” I tap the glass. I put this here between us so I can’t destroy him, so I can’t destroy the world in my hatred and my fury. “Can’t really hurt you, can I?”
“Sure you can,” he says, like he’s giving me a gift. “I’m just not going to let you.”
That’s why he’s not letting me talk about Buffy, and that’s why she’s all I wanna talk about. Oh shit, I might cry; where did that come from? Am I made of glass too? How long before I break and bare my wrists? “I don’t want to hurt you,” I’m saying, “but I do. I really do. You know I sit around, just hoping you’ll come back, just waiting for you to come back-”
“Yes,” he says, still soft, “I know that.”
*
I still dream about it. I fantasize about number two pencils. I’ll use one to pin up my hair, just like he told me to do, and I’ll walk in and smile. He’ll smile back and he’ll be waiting for me, only for me, just waiting. Soon as I get there I’ll crash a fist through the glass; it’ll only hurt for a moment, and the other hand’ll be whipping down my hair so fast it’ll make everything clouded, confused: streaming chestnut and gleaming shards of shattered sound. Trusty number two will find it’s way so sure it won’t even break-
But he’ll escape. The broken glass between us will splinter into stars, and the night will cut us up, slashing us with rain. I’ll follow Angel, long legs pounding wet pavement, lungs burning, breath catching, heart racing, and chasing chasing chasing the kill kill kill. You wouldn’t know, you’ve never felt how it feels to hunt; it’s better than breath than sex than life.
Then my foot will connect with his face. I’ll revel in the pain, never have my fill. This time there will be no tears and the rain will be only rain. There will be no forgiveness Angel, none of that schmaltz in this dream; there won’t be; there won’t be; no, no, no, and-
He is holding me and I am crying. His hands are moving through my hair, soft, stroking, sending rivulets of rain down into untouched places. I’m cold, shivering, but he is warm in all the wet and somehow that’s wrong-because it’s Wesley. Wesley holding me, touching me, feeling me forgiving me and I told Angel I didn’t want this!-and then Wesley is touching those untouched places, which can’t be right either, because with me there’s no where pure left to touch.
This can’t mean anything; I only tortured him, never cared for him, never loved him; you have to believe me-but it means everything because it’s Buffy. Buffy’s sitting with me in a puddle; we’re laughing at the way we’ve fallen, soaked to the skin; we don’t care. She smiles, and the sun comes out. She leans in, and loves me. She kisses me, and forgives me.
This isn’t fantasy. It’s a nightmare.
*
Continue to part [4.]
*
Title: The Confessional
Length: 12 short(ish to midlength) parts (and a few lines of prologue) in 4 posts.
Rating: R, for language and some images
Warnings: This fic contains reference to slash and some subjects which I guess could be considered controversial.
Pairings: This is not a shippy fic. B/A and A/S are explicitly referenced; many others are hinted at.
Summary: Angel visits Faith in prison. Takes places between AtS S1 & 2.
A/N: Although this fic has a definite time frame, it can't be read as "missing scenes". Among other things, Faith's prison is too far away for Angel to visit this often in one summer. This fic is much more of a "what if", especially towards the end.
Prologue
This story about the firmness of my fabu tits and the tightness of this highly fuckable ass. It’s about where my mind went last time I was high and why, exactly, Where Eagles Dare is the best movie ever. Maybe if you want, and definitely if you don’t, there’ll be a word from our sponsors about demons I’ve whacked: how I slice; I dice. I murder without all that pesky muss and fuss, just name your price. If you order today, you’ll get what you were looking for-something personal, honey, something all about Faith: I’ll tell you ‘bout my soft spot for pancakes with bananas, free of charge.
But I’m not gonna tell you how bad I feel about what I’ve done and how much I wish I could change. That’s between me, my bars, my cell-mate Davida and a pack of fifty other women who’re just itching to make me their bitch. The parole board and a vamp are in on it too, but I didn’t ask them here. And I sure as a bear shits in the woods didn’t ask you.
I can see we’re not connecting. Why would we be? I’m a murderer, aren’t I-that and one really good lay, if you’ll excuse my saying so. Just a killer and a cunt, that’s me; and who might you be? Some pity-pussy who wanted to cry over the joke that is my life, I’ll bet that’s who you are. I’ll bet you were all cozy on your couch with your coffee and your comforter, and ten to one you were expecting to cuddle up with me, weren’t you, you sad fuck.
Not so warm and cozy as you thought now, is it? This is my turf, my mind. So let’s get a few things straight, shall we? There will be no cuddling. There will be no crying. There will be no condolences, commiseration, or comfort. Don’t like it? Get out. I don’t want you here.
I don’t want anyone here.
1.
Can’t say as I’m tickled Angel’s here, either, on the other side of the glass and all broad and brooding shoulders hell-bent too gorgeous for this place. I slide into my seat, pick up my phone, and say coolly, “Well, if it isn’t the white-wingéd halo-man himself. What brings you to my scrawny neck of the woods?”
“I came to see you,” he says.
“Great. Are we done? ‘Cause there’s a game of dominoes down in the rec I’m really sorry to miss right now.”
“Thought you might want to talk.”
“What? You, me, and your high and mighty soul make three? I’m not your little project.”
“You’re right.” Voice is bland. “You’re not worth the effort.” A brow lifts, the cocky bastard. “Or is that what you wanted to hear?”
A ‘hello’ would’ve been nice. “It’s just I like dominoes,” I say.
“How have you been?”
“Me? Oh, it’s all daffodils and daisies in the joint, Angel. Tonight the girls and I are painting our toe-nails and French-braiding our hair, and I know a dyke on fourth who’s going to try to slit her wrists with a plastic spoon.”
Just looks at me. Then says: “Your hair would look nice. French-braided.”
“Really?” The boss said once I should pull back my hair-said I had a pretty face.
“You look thinner.”
Now he sounds concerned. I don’t like this. I don’t like this I don’t like this I don’t like-“Checking me out, big stud?”
“You know, it doesn’t sound like you’re interested in change at all, Faith.” He speaks his sentence very smoothly. “Have fun with your plastic spoons, huh? Officer!”
“What, you’re leaving?” He’s hanging up the phone, standing up. “No, this conversation isn’t over. Sit back down! Hey!” I stand up on my side, slam a hand on the glass. I can break it; I can hurt people; I can kill him. Bells would ring and flowers would bloom; there’d be a spring in my step, I’d be so content, and my feet would be shredded to ribbons by the shards of glass on the floor. “Did you hear me?” I’m hollering. “I said-” There’re guards on me, hauling me away. I can snap their bones like butterfly backs-
Angel talks to a corrections officer on the other side, puts on an innocent act of alarm. I read his lips. “She’s a bad seed, I guess,” he says and shakes his head.
“Hey!” I yell, thinking of the only thing I want from him, the only thing that really matters. “Are you coming back?”
He smirks at me and walks away.
*
Now, when I say it was “the only thing that really matters,” don’t get your panties in a twist. Just so we got things clear, I don’t care if he comes back. If you really want to know, I’ll pay cash money never to see his Buffy-whipped ass again.
I’m busy. Don’t believe me? Alright then, big shot, do some time in the big house, where half the girls’ll want to make you their fluff n’ stuff ‘cause the other half’s already been butched in. Try convincing them you’re tough enough not to need a sugar mama while at the same time not hurting a hair on their eighty-five IQ skulls. Try knowing you could blood in and be the toppest of top dogs, and try putting your head down instead, keeping to yourself at rec, minding your own business in the mess-letting them walk all over you, thinking they’re bigger than you. Better than you.
You think this is easy, don’t you-doing nothing, being nothing. Yeah, you would; you’re just as bad as he is. For people like me, on the other hand, jail’s kind of a wish your heart makes, if you get my drift. It’s all about confidence, strength, rack and bush. It’s about showing the girls who’s boss, sticking it to the ones who think they can screw you, making your way by the blood on your fists. If it weren’t for one itty bitty issue, I’d be all over the dynamics in this hole like a duck on a June bug.
But somehow I can’t quite figure, quality time with my little sisters got knocked back in line, ‘cause I’m already someone else’s punk. I’m the biggest sissy in the slammer, the most submissive, the most owned. I get on my knees whenever I hear “please” from that catty flirting whore-Angel’s big daddy, his dom and darling cocktease: that thing he likes to call redemption. Him and me, we’re its bitch and we’re just begging for more.
2.
The next time, I walk in, pick up the phone, and keep my mouth shut.
“How are you?” Angel asks.
“Good. I’m . . . good.” I’m the good little girl you want me to be. “How are you?”
“Same old.”
We stare at each other and then I remember I’m supposed to pretend like I’m interested. “Oh?” I ask.
He tilts his head at me; it’s Law and Order: small talk with subtext. “Wolfram and Hart blew up my office,” he says finally. “A redneck in a business suit wants redemption so I cut off his hand; big bad’s got some bigger bad in a box which they’ll probably use to kill me and my friends . . . you know, the usual.”
“Yo, bright side,” I suggest. “You got friends.”
“I know,” he says.
“But you’re not perfectly happy.”
“No.”
There, got rid of that smug rat-bastard smile. “Miss the blonde runt, huh?”
Doesn’t even flinch. “She could wipe the floor with you.”
“Bull feathers. Look, she’s got a lot going for her, I’ll give you that. But when it comes to brute strength hand to hand, let me tell-”
“Does it ever come down to just brute strength?”
“Sure. When I fight demons,” I answer. Easy.
“But not in the war you’re waging. Those other things Buffy has going for her, they make her stronger than you. Smarter. Better.”
“Prettier,” I add sullenly.
“Buffy loves the world. She can’t help herself. She loved it enough to give you more chances than you deserved. More chances than I . . .” He trails off. Come on baby, that’s it. Just hurt yourself a little more-
“She loves it enough to fight for it.” His eyes sidle away from mine; voice is low. “And die for it. To her, the world is beautiful.”
“Also,” I add flippantly, because I like to bathe my hands in blood and dig the wounds yet deeper, “she has this really tight little ass and a complete come-fuck-me mouth.”
Now he just looks bored. “Would you like me to leave you to your wet dreams, Faith?”
“What?” I snap. He’s starting to hang up his phone. “No-don’t go. I mean, I didn’t mean it. I mean I did but I didn’t mean to say it. Uh.” Here comes part I hate: “Sorry?”
He doesn’t hang up, but he shakes his head. “Starting to like that new word of yours, aren’t you?” he asks. “‘Sorry’ is only the beginning. An inch around the circumference of the world, Faith.”
“But . . . but you’re not leaving?”
He’s standing up. “I think I’ve had enough of you for one day.”
*
Angel is weak.
You wouldn’t think it to look at him, would you? The sucker packs a wicked punch; he’s given Buffy and me a run for our money. I’d be all over that if I thought I had half a chance. Screw him half way to Sunday before he knew what hit him. He’d buck; I’d suck; we’d fuck and fuck and fuck, and sweet Jesus but it’d be one hell of a ride.
And to top it off, he’s got grit. He went to Hell and back, withstood the First Evil, fought the big boss, blah, blah, that’s Angel: hit of the soul stars club. That’s fine, meet mister dandy, but want to know what the best part is?
He still hates himself.
It’s not ever gonna be over for that boy. The second he sees happiness, I’m telling you, he’ll run the other way. Sure, there’s the soul-poppin’ sex thing, but I’m not even talking about that. This is about the century before Sunnydale. What’s he do? How’s he live? I’m betting nine years out of ten, he’s kicking himself into a corner, huddling against the world, waiting for his beating from the wrists that feed him because he’s been such a bad boy.
I don’t need Angel here helping me lick my wounds with you, sick-o. Tongues have better uses, and pussy’s sweeter than a pup who’s lapped at the balls of atonement so long he’s made the fellatio of abstractions a fine art. Bet he tastes like shame by now. Besides, I’ve always liked chicks as much as dicks, and here’s another thing to be said for the bitch slammer: there certainly is an assortment of tail.
3.
I saunter in and pick up the phone. “Back for more, champ?”
“Let’s get something straight. We’re not going to talk about Buffy for a long, long time. And you’re never going to talk about Buffy’s relationship with me. Understood?”
“Sure,” I say; play it cool. “Sure. It’s not my fault, you know. It’s everyone else who always wants to talk about B. Me? I could care less. The bitch bores me.”
Angel stirs impatiently. “Somehow I doubt that.”
“Got a lot of that, don’t you,” I snap. “Doubt. You come across like this arrogant bastard, but really you’re just looking for someone in the world to love you, and you’re not even sure it can happen. You’re a sick fuck who gets off on being a martyr.”
“I’m a sick fuck who gets off on being a martyr,” says an indifferent mask, “but I was never searching for, or hoping for, love.”
“Aren’t you? Could’ve fooled me, what with you and-”
“Faith.” A broad hand clenches on the table. He sees me looking at it; it loosens and drops to his side, the better to be alone.
“I was going to say you and Wesley,” I lie. “Getting all cozy.”
He blinks. “I’m not in love with Wesley.”
“Sure about that?”
So perfectly still when he stares. “I never think of Wesley in that way,” he says at last, lowly.
“Maybe you should start. The man needs a nice hard screw. Hey, is being hetero a soulful thing? Bet you weren’t so discriminating back in the day.”
Suddenly, there’s a smirk. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“About how you get it up for Wesley?”
“I don’t.”
He’s cute when he’s defensive. “Why not? Those steely blue eyes, that English accent, that tight-set mouth-”
Now the smirk is back. “Sounds like I’m a lot less attracted to him than you are, Faith.”
Right, because you get it up for one and only, and now your cunt of choice is clenching around another cock.
I want to say that. I’m dying to say that, because I don’t get wet for Wesley. I don’t get wet for Wesley I don’t get wet for Wesley I don’t get wet for-“You’d never get your hands on him, anyway,” I snap. “You kidding? A Watcher? Former Watcher, whatever. The Council hates you. They don’t care about your poor pussy-whipped soul. And Giles-woo-ee, Giles. I heard what you did to his girlfriend, you know, you murderin-
“Are you trying to piss me off?” he asks mildly. “Because if you are, you suck at it. Just like you suck at everything else.”
“Yeah, well.” I tap the glass. I put this here between us so I can’t destroy him, so I can’t destroy the world in my hatred and my fury. “Can’t really hurt you, can I?”
“Sure you can,” he says, like he’s giving me a gift. “I’m just not going to let you.”
That’s why he’s not letting me talk about Buffy, and that’s why she’s all I wanna talk about. Oh shit, I might cry; where did that come from? Am I made of glass too? How long before I break and bare my wrists? “I don’t want to hurt you,” I’m saying, “but I do. I really do. You know I sit around, just hoping you’ll come back, just waiting for you to come back-”
“Yes,” he says, still soft, “I know that.”
*
I still dream about it. I fantasize about number two pencils. I’ll use one to pin up my hair, just like he told me to do, and I’ll walk in and smile. He’ll smile back and he’ll be waiting for me, only for me, just waiting. Soon as I get there I’ll crash a fist through the glass; it’ll only hurt for a moment, and the other hand’ll be whipping down my hair so fast it’ll make everything clouded, confused: streaming chestnut and gleaming shards of shattered sound. Trusty number two will find it’s way so sure it won’t even break-
But he’ll escape. The broken glass between us will splinter into stars, and the night will cut us up, slashing us with rain. I’ll follow Angel, long legs pounding wet pavement, lungs burning, breath catching, heart racing, and chasing chasing chasing the kill kill kill. You wouldn’t know, you’ve never felt how it feels to hunt; it’s better than breath than sex than life.
Then my foot will connect with his face. I’ll revel in the pain, never have my fill. This time there will be no tears and the rain will be only rain. There will be no forgiveness Angel, none of that schmaltz in this dream; there won’t be; there won’t be; no, no, no, and-
He is holding me and I am crying. His hands are moving through my hair, soft, stroking, sending rivulets of rain down into untouched places. I’m cold, shivering, but he is warm in all the wet and somehow that’s wrong-because it’s Wesley. Wesley holding me, touching me, feeling me forgiving me and I told Angel I didn’t want this!-and then Wesley is touching those untouched places, which can’t be right either, because with me there’s no where pure left to touch.
This can’t mean anything; I only tortured him, never cared for him, never loved him; you have to believe me-but it means everything because it’s Buffy. Buffy’s sitting with me in a puddle; we’re laughing at the way we’ve fallen, soaked to the skin; we don’t care. She smiles, and the sun comes out. She leans in, and loves me. She kisses me, and forgives me.
This isn’t fantasy. It’s a nightmare.
*
Continue to part [4.]