Fic: Killing Dom (Buffy, Faith, post-"Chosen", PG-13 for alcohol use)
For the fic-for-icons thing. Where's my icon again?
Buffy stands off about 50 feet, waiting.
50 feet. Not so much of a lead, if there's going to be a chase. Enough time to get into stance, if there's going to be a fight. Close enough to hear, if there's going to be a conversation. Far enough that she isn't crashing a moment if there isn't going to be fighting, running or talking.
They went into hell together, so they should be cool now. 50 feet into hell at max, but in hell nonetheless. The other kids are all snug in their beds -- not really, more like either roughhousing or gossiping or worrying about the one or two bad enough to require hospitalization, but close enough for now -- so Buffy's place is clearly here, keeping an eye on things.
Faith has a hoodie wrapped around her. Maybe Rona's purple one. Her boots are off and her socks hang haphazardly out the top, next to a backpack, the perfect size for carrying weapons around, providing you don't need a sword. Her toes are stuck in the sand, and she's watching the surf roll in under the pretty-full moon. Well, waves, anyway. It's really too low to surf here. There's a beach further south that Cameron showed her once, years ago, that had a decent pipeline. Not that anyone had a board available.
"It's pretty cold out here, B!" Faith calls out without turning her head. "I thought this place was supposed to be all fun and sun."
That makes it clear that Buffy's made. Not that she made a big attempt at stealth.
"The sun goes down and things get colder." She moves closer, to about 20 feet. "Give it, I don't know, maybe 10 hours and it'll start getting decent."
"Good to know."
It takes a few minutes before Faith spoke again, and Buffy finds herself wishing she wore a warmer jacket, that she had beach-ready footwear that wasn't down a pit, halfway to hell and covered with several tons of dirt and rock and … other stuff. Her heels dig into the sand with each step, causing her to lean forward and lean forward, on her toes.
"Hey," Faith says again, not turning her head. "Don't you have kids to mentor, to read bedtime stories to and all that jazz?"
"Nope," Buffy responds. "They're OK. Besides, mentoring? Not really my thing."
Waves crash against the sand. But you knew that already, didn't you Buffy leaves those words echoing around her head, not daring to let them into the air.
"Is there something I should know?"
Faith turned her attention away from the waves rolling up the beach this time. "Huh?"
"I'm not sure. It's just Cari-- Kimmy-- one of the girls said you said something about 'killing Dom'. I don't know what that means, but it doesn't sound--" Buffy starts to pace, trying to keep her distance and not be threatening. She tucks her hair over her right ear. "I don't want to be this person. Not now. Not for a while. I want to be able to say, 'OK, things will work out' and not have to worry about having my guard up. I want to be the girl in the cute blouse for a while, not Judge, Jury and Executioner in one convenient container."
"That's what this is?"
"You know what this is. I don't. Tell me."
Faith leans her head back, elbows propping her up. "I saw this movie once. This bunch of guys from like Texas or something go off into Mexico, saying they have to dig up Dom. It's like they done something bad, left someone behind. Turns out it was this bottle of champagne. 'Dom' is the bottle. Dom Perignon. I thought about that. Used to think it was a pretty cool thing."
"So you got yourself a bottle of bubbly? Aren't you still a little underage? Like a year or so? Plus the escapee thing?"
Faith stares at her, not revealing anything.
"Right. Go ahead."
"I got to thinking once I got here. Like, who am I toasting? What am I toasting? Yay me, I'm not in jail anymore? That's a drink I could've had a long time ago, but I didn't. Then to the Deputy Mayor, the volcano guy, the pimp whose ribs I broke and the guy with the snake on his face? 'Here's to you, boys! I'm sorry I did that.' That wrong, too."
"So, that's what's in the bag?"
"That's what's in the bag."
Buffy sits down next to Faith, digging her heels into the sand. She grabs the bag, unzips it and pulls out the black bottle. She opens the bottle, sending the cork and some of the champagne down the beach. She raises the bottle.
"To past mistakes; may they never be repeated. And to future mistakes; may they be small and nowhere near as dire."
And she puts her lips to the mouth of the bottle, drinks, and passes it to her right.
"I'll drink to that."
They spend some time watching the waves come in, comfortable in the silence. At the end of the bottle, Faith starts pulling on her socks. "We are, at this moment in time, kinda buzzed and good, right?"
"I'd debate the 'kinda', but yeah. Right now. Why?"
"'Cause, B, the blouse? Not cute. Actually, kinda ugly. Office girls in movies wear that kind of thing. Not cute."
Buffy pulls Faith to her feet, then starts walking up the beach and toward the hotel.
"Well," says Buffy through a smile, "I'll just have to do better tomorrow."
Buffy stands off about 50 feet, waiting.
50 feet. Not so much of a lead, if there's going to be a chase. Enough time to get into stance, if there's going to be a fight. Close enough to hear, if there's going to be a conversation. Far enough that she isn't crashing a moment if there isn't going to be fighting, running or talking.
They went into hell together, so they should be cool now. 50 feet into hell at max, but in hell nonetheless. The other kids are all snug in their beds -- not really, more like either roughhousing or gossiping or worrying about the one or two bad enough to require hospitalization, but close enough for now -- so Buffy's place is clearly here, keeping an eye on things.
Faith has a hoodie wrapped around her. Maybe Rona's purple one. Her boots are off and her socks hang haphazardly out the top, next to a backpack, the perfect size for carrying weapons around, providing you don't need a sword. Her toes are stuck in the sand, and she's watching the surf roll in under the pretty-full moon. Well, waves, anyway. It's really too low to surf here. There's a beach further south that Cameron showed her once, years ago, that had a decent pipeline. Not that anyone had a board available.
"It's pretty cold out here, B!" Faith calls out without turning her head. "I thought this place was supposed to be all fun and sun."
That makes it clear that Buffy's made. Not that she made a big attempt at stealth.
"The sun goes down and things get colder." She moves closer, to about 20 feet. "Give it, I don't know, maybe 10 hours and it'll start getting decent."
"Good to know."
It takes a few minutes before Faith spoke again, and Buffy finds herself wishing she wore a warmer jacket, that she had beach-ready footwear that wasn't down a pit, halfway to hell and covered with several tons of dirt and rock and … other stuff. Her heels dig into the sand with each step, causing her to lean forward and lean forward, on her toes.
"Hey," Faith says again, not turning her head. "Don't you have kids to mentor, to read bedtime stories to and all that jazz?"
"Nope," Buffy responds. "They're OK. Besides, mentoring? Not really my thing."
Waves crash against the sand. But you knew that already, didn't you Buffy leaves those words echoing around her head, not daring to let them into the air.
"Is there something I should know?"
Faith turned her attention away from the waves rolling up the beach this time. "Huh?"
"I'm not sure. It's just Cari-- Kimmy-- one of the girls said you said something about 'killing Dom'. I don't know what that means, but it doesn't sound--" Buffy starts to pace, trying to keep her distance and not be threatening. She tucks her hair over her right ear. "I don't want to be this person. Not now. Not for a while. I want to be able to say, 'OK, things will work out' and not have to worry about having my guard up. I want to be the girl in the cute blouse for a while, not Judge, Jury and Executioner in one convenient container."
"That's what this is?"
"You know what this is. I don't. Tell me."
Faith leans her head back, elbows propping her up. "I saw this movie once. This bunch of guys from like Texas or something go off into Mexico, saying they have to dig up Dom. It's like they done something bad, left someone behind. Turns out it was this bottle of champagne. 'Dom' is the bottle. Dom Perignon. I thought about that. Used to think it was a pretty cool thing."
"So you got yourself a bottle of bubbly? Aren't you still a little underage? Like a year or so? Plus the escapee thing?"
Faith stares at her, not revealing anything.
"Right. Go ahead."
"I got to thinking once I got here. Like, who am I toasting? What am I toasting? Yay me, I'm not in jail anymore? That's a drink I could've had a long time ago, but I didn't. Then to the Deputy Mayor, the volcano guy, the pimp whose ribs I broke and the guy with the snake on his face? 'Here's to you, boys! I'm sorry I did that.' That wrong, too."
"So, that's what's in the bag?"
"That's what's in the bag."
Buffy sits down next to Faith, digging her heels into the sand. She grabs the bag, unzips it and pulls out the black bottle. She opens the bottle, sending the cork and some of the champagne down the beach. She raises the bottle.
"To past mistakes; may they never be repeated. And to future mistakes; may they be small and nowhere near as dire."
And she puts her lips to the mouth of the bottle, drinks, and passes it to her right.
"I'll drink to that."
They spend some time watching the waves come in, comfortable in the silence. At the end of the bottle, Faith starts pulling on her socks. "We are, at this moment in time, kinda buzzed and good, right?"
"I'd debate the 'kinda', but yeah. Right now. Why?"
"'Cause, B, the blouse? Not cute. Actually, kinda ugly. Office girls in movies wear that kind of thing. Not cute."
Buffy pulls Faith to her feet, then starts walking up the beach and toward the hotel.
"Well," says Buffy through a smile, "I'll just have to do better tomorrow."