Buffy Fic: I Knew You Were Mine When I Walked in the Room, PG13, Buffy/Faith
Disclaimer: not mine
Fandom: Buffy: the Vampire Slayer
Pairing: Buffy/Faith
Rating: PG13, language, kissing.
Length: 2400
Genre: AU. Specifically, mundane, WWII-era AU. Femslash.
Notes: I made one too many trips to the library that included books about the WASPs during WWII. Then I had a prompt that matched a vague idea. I'm still not sure it works. I'm also not sure I shouldn't have just given in and thrown in some vampires, too. All mistakes in navigation are totally my own. Title from Garbage's Hammering in My Head.
Prompt: btvs - buffy/faith - a blur of dancehall hips, pretentious quips, a boxer's bob & weave. (for Dollsome's Ladyloves! comment ficathon)
Knew You Were Mine When I Walked in the Room
by ALC Punk!
Faith's always had an eye for the girls in uniform--the women who pilot planes, or drive ambulances, nurses, assistants, strategists, code-breakers (all the things a woman can do, but don't let the boys know, ladies). The ones who run to danger rather than away from it. Of course, most of the women who do those sorts of things don't put on their uniform for dances--makes it harder to spot them in amongst the civilian girls who are just there for a good time. But Faith's gotten good at recognizing that same drive in others. In the midst of the hall full of airmen and women, she can spot a woman who's danced with danger as easily as she can turn down yet another eager boy, too young to understand the impact of war. Not that Faith gives a crap about philosophy, but they're getting younger every month.
A blonde dances by in the arms of a dashing lad, and Faith can see the carefully-concealed boredom in her eyes from here. One side of her own mouth tips up, and she grabs the nearest young man, steering him into the dance quickly.
"May I cut in?" The question is polite and one of the phrases that no one ignores, even with the world at war. The airman (he looks barely old enough to drive, let alone kill someone), reluctantly agrees to change places.
Both lads are left in the dust with their mouths open in surprise when Faith's hands catch at the blonde's, and she dances her away with ease.
"Not quite what I expected," the blonde is looking more interested now, some of the boredom gone.
"I like keeping people on their toes," suggests Faith, her eyebrows raising in innocence.
They whirl and dip, swirl and dance until the music reaches a crescendo. It's exactly the dance Faith was looking for, even if her partner seems uncertain and slightly disinterested. Still, she's entertained herself for the evening already--only a fight of some sort would make it better, and she's under strict instructions not to get into another fight this soon.
With a flourish, the band finishes, and Faith turns to clap along with her companion.
"Thank you," the girl says, suddenly looking away as though admitting that Faith saved her from an annoying and boring dance companion is something to be ashamed of. "I'm Buffy."
Summers. Faith's heard of her, and her eyes widen a little. The exploits of Buffy Summers are explained to every new training class as something to avoid doing. Faith's always thought she would like to be as daredevil. Get her own name bandied about in training courses as something not to do. 'Course, she's waited until getting stationed to go against the grain. Didn't want to wash-out of the program before she'd even begun, after all. "Faith. Lehane."
Buffy tips her head a little as she looks back at Faith. Like, maybe she's already heard about Faith, even being new to this post. Word had it a whole new crop of old-hands had been shipped in that day to augment their numbers for the next run-up to readiness. "Why dance with me?"
"You looked bored," offers Faith, then she grins as a slinky number starts up. "Wanna dance again?"
Around them, couples are pairing up, leaning into each other in a manner that would have been (almost) illegal ten years ago. The war has changed a lot of things, some of them for the better. Faith approves of being able to brush up against another woman in a dance. Even if most will just take it for two women lamenting the loss of the men who've gone to war.
"I think I need a drink," Buffy says, shaking her head and moving out of the path of two dancers already lost in the slightly-scandalous delight of being close to each other in such a manner.
Faith could grab another partner, but she doesn't, following Summers to the bar and leaning her hip against it while the other orders. No time like the present to see if some of the shiny rubs off on her--Faith might have good stick skills, but that doesn't mean shit when the squadron commander won't send her out to fly the big stuff. Less because Major Shaw worries about Faith's health than because he worries about the health of the plane.
Summers orders a gin, Faith goes for whiskey and soda (she really just wants the harsh burn to be felt all the way to her toes, but the whiskey is already so watered-down now it's not going to work anyway).
"Did you think this was what it would be like?" Summers suddenly asks, her voice low as she looks out over the mob of dancers.
It's Saturday night, and the regular army officers and their girls, the WACS and other assorted women (not the pilots, of course, and Faith still thinks that's a bit of an injustice: ferry pilots are on-duty every day of the damned week) have got until Sunday evening to pretend like hell that everything is normal. There's desperation in them, a sort of grand fuck-you to Hitler and everything Nazis have been throwing at them, as though they're recovering from being in the field, even here. If Faith could personally deliver a bomb to Hitler, she might feel like she was accomplishing something important. Then again, someone's got to get the planes where they need to go. She shrugs, "I didn't really think about it."
"Just wanted to do something?"
"Yeah." Faith closes her eyes, and she's in the cockpit, flying. Dipping and turning, pushing her bird to the limits and beyond. It's almost better than sex (but don't tell any of her flight instructors that). "I've always wanted to fly, though."
"Me, too." They share a smile of kinship, and Summers moves closer to Faith, bumping their shoulders together. "So, had your first big plane yet?"
"Nah. Shaw thinks I'll crash and burn."
Summers grin widens into something conspiratorial. "He thought that about me, too." At Faith's slightly raised eyebrow, she explains, "Was stationed here two months ago, then loaned out. Now I'm back."
And suddenly the whiskey isn't enough. Faith sets her half-full glass (better hooch back in quarters, anyway) on the bar and grabs Summers' hand, "Hey, you wanna get out of here? You can give me pointers on the new air-routes," she hastily adds, to make it sound like a legitimate reason to leave a club full of dancing people pretending the war doesn't affect them.
"You wouldn't be trying to convince me to sweet-talk Shaw around?" Summers asks lightly, leaving behind her empty glass and sliding her arm around Faith's.
"Maybe," with a smirk, Faith twirls Summers around to the beat before pulling her out into the street.
Summers tips her head back and looks up at the stars as Faith tugs her along, their light-colored party skirts dulling as they go further away from the officers' club. There are streetlights, but they're dim. Even here, the stars could be seen above in the clear night sky.
"Big Dipper," Summers says, one finger tracing a line from it through the North Star. Like any navigator worth her salt. "North Star--"
"I know, I know," breaks in Faith before she can get a long lesson in night-flying (not that she couldn't use the pointers, mind, even if she won't admit it), "C'mon, this way."
"We're going to the air field?" Disbelief colors Summers' tone, and she tugs back against Faith's insistence. "Don't you get enough of that place?"
Faith shakes her head, "Never. It's such a rush to be there." She swallows more of what she wants to say, feels the muscle memory of the harsh thrum of an airplane engine underneath her, and thinks about kissing Buffy Summers in the shadows. Things like that ain't meant to be, though. Or so she tells herself.
Quick in and out won't work if they're going to be stationed here for a while. But Faith's never done the whole long-slow-play thing. Maybe Summers will get 'borrowed' out again.
"We can't stay out long anyway," Summers says as they arrive at the air field, "We'll both get on the schedule in the morning--you know there's more to shift."
"Heard there's a new set coming out of the factory on Monday."
"Rumor says they're fast-tracking to get 'em out tomorrow."
They share a half-excited grin and frown combination that all of them learn as they pass from training to ferrying and testing these new planes. Things can go wrong in a brand new engine, and Faith's already heard one horror story meant to remind her that women shouldn't be pilots.
"Not much time left before curfew, then," teases Faith as they stop next to one of the Cessnas the base uses for light transport duties. Even powered down and empty, Faith can smell the intoxicating combination of oil and fuel, dust, metal and plastic that flood the cockpit on a good day. She sucks in a breath and acts before she can stop herself.
Summers doesn't look surprised to find her back up against the plane and Faith moving slowly closer, like a magnet reacting to iron. "You do this to all pilots you meet?" she asks, just before their mouths meet.
The laugh that bubbles out of Faith changes the kiss. It's a sweet brush of lips and then something deeper for just an instant before she pulls back. "I assume you don't object."
"If I did?"
One side of Faith's mouth draws up, and she steps away from Summers, spreading her arms wide. "Then I suppose it's a good thing we're on ferry duty tomorrow."
There's always the fact that Summers could report her. Conduct unbecoming was something Cochran wouldn't tolerate, and Faith would find herself out of the program before she could work up the right words for a protest (even if Cochran had to break some records to fly down from DC to berate her and toss her out personally).
Hands flat against the plane, Summers rolls her shoulders and then looks at Faith through her eyelashes. "I'm not objecting."
It would be so easy to move back up against Summers, to let her hands find out how smooth the skin under her skirt and blouse are. Faith takes one step towards her, and stops, wondering where her devil-may-care attitude went. Fingering, touching, Buffy Summers would be a coup to write one of her baymates about (the only one who'd keep it secret, obviously). She licks her lips and reaches out to brush her fingers over Summers' cheek. "You're so beautiful."
"You say that to all the girls?" As though she's more sure of where this is going, Summers licks her lips and tips her chin up. It's a dare Faith can't quite refuse.
"Only the ones who can fly planes," Faith murmurs before she kisses Summers again.
It's not sweet and breathless, a kiss to test the waters with or send thoughts of fairies dancing through the air. This time the kiss is hard and full of need and an edge of desire. Faith presses up against Summers, enjoying the way she can feel the heat from Buffy's skin through her clothing. Desire dances down her back, the kind of edge Faith feels the need to rub out when she lands her plane and climbs out of it, alive. Almost instinctively, she shifts her stance, and finds that Summers has shifted too. Legs tangling for a moment, Faith is lost to everything but the feel of the woman against her.
Plane, air field, starlit sky, regulations, the club in the distance--all of them fade away as her world narrows to Buffy's leg sliding between her own, while she returns the favor.
Fingers drag up the back of Faith's blouse, and Summers has the nails of one hand scraping down Faith's back an instant later. The flare of pain just makes her moan softly, pressing harder against the other girl.
"This how you got so many demerits?" Summers asks, mouth traveling from Faith's lips to her ear, then back again, teeth nipping at the point of her chin.
"Naw," answers Faith, twisting a little, and hissing in pleasure when Summers scrapes fingernails down her back again. "That was mouthing off to no-good instructors."
"Mmm."
They're both silent, fumbling for a moment as they shift and wriggle against each other. It's deliciously frustrating to feel Summers through her clothing, and Faith thinks about stripping, getting rid of the cloth that catches against the calluses on her hands, and truly feeling skin against skin.
"We'll get caught," Summers suddenly says, as though she can read Faith's mind. She stops moving, though she can't be comfortable not finishing. Her voice is uneven as she murmurs sadly, "I can't afford to lose this job, Faith."
"It's just nerves," suggests Faith, even though she knows she's already lost the skirmish. She wants to push, and doesn't, seeing the distance already in Buffy's eyes.
Summers puts her hands on Faith's waist, pushing her away and sliding the other direction against the plane. The distance between them feels like it's too much, and Faith's body protests, even as she moves to lean herself against the plane as much to pretend nothing's wrong as to keep her shaky knees from buckling.
It's even money Summers is using the Cessna for the same thing.
"We've got to get in before we're on report." Summers says the words like she's not still panting slightly, her face flushed in the starlight and her fingers rubbing absently against her blouse, tracing patterns against it as though checking dials in the cockpit.
Faith curses softly, then shoves away from her and the plane. Her legs don't buckle, and she shrugs like it's no big thing. "Right. No demerits for Buffy Summers."
"No." Without looking at Faith again, Summers steps away and begins walking for the WAC barracks they've put the ferry pilots in. A place with regulations and army-trained women who don't look impressed with pilots.
Yanking her blouse down and smoothing it out (more as a reflex than because she cares), Faith waits thirty seconds before stalking after her. The evening had not been supposed to end like this, she fumes, even as part of her sees the stars above and the planes around her and shivers in anticipation of the coming day and the plane she will fly.
Next time, she promises herself as her eyes trace the line from the Big Dipper to the North Star. Buffy Summers was a better goal to have than going out in a blaze of glory.
-f-
Fandom: Buffy: the Vampire Slayer
Pairing: Buffy/Faith
Rating: PG13, language, kissing.
Length: 2400
Genre: AU. Specifically, mundane, WWII-era AU. Femslash.
Notes: I made one too many trips to the library that included books about the WASPs during WWII. Then I had a prompt that matched a vague idea. I'm still not sure it works. I'm also not sure I shouldn't have just given in and thrown in some vampires, too. All mistakes in navigation are totally my own. Title from Garbage's Hammering in My Head.
Prompt: btvs - buffy/faith - a blur of dancehall hips, pretentious quips, a boxer's bob & weave. (for Dollsome's Ladyloves! comment ficathon)
Knew You Were Mine When I Walked in the Room
by ALC Punk!
Faith's always had an eye for the girls in uniform--the women who pilot planes, or drive ambulances, nurses, assistants, strategists, code-breakers (all the things a woman can do, but don't let the boys know, ladies). The ones who run to danger rather than away from it. Of course, most of the women who do those sorts of things don't put on their uniform for dances--makes it harder to spot them in amongst the civilian girls who are just there for a good time. But Faith's gotten good at recognizing that same drive in others. In the midst of the hall full of airmen and women, she can spot a woman who's danced with danger as easily as she can turn down yet another eager boy, too young to understand the impact of war. Not that Faith gives a crap about philosophy, but they're getting younger every month.
A blonde dances by in the arms of a dashing lad, and Faith can see the carefully-concealed boredom in her eyes from here. One side of her own mouth tips up, and she grabs the nearest young man, steering him into the dance quickly.
"May I cut in?" The question is polite and one of the phrases that no one ignores, even with the world at war. The airman (he looks barely old enough to drive, let alone kill someone), reluctantly agrees to change places.
Both lads are left in the dust with their mouths open in surprise when Faith's hands catch at the blonde's, and she dances her away with ease.
"Not quite what I expected," the blonde is looking more interested now, some of the boredom gone.
"I like keeping people on their toes," suggests Faith, her eyebrows raising in innocence.
They whirl and dip, swirl and dance until the music reaches a crescendo. It's exactly the dance Faith was looking for, even if her partner seems uncertain and slightly disinterested. Still, she's entertained herself for the evening already--only a fight of some sort would make it better, and she's under strict instructions not to get into another fight this soon.
With a flourish, the band finishes, and Faith turns to clap along with her companion.
"Thank you," the girl says, suddenly looking away as though admitting that Faith saved her from an annoying and boring dance companion is something to be ashamed of. "I'm Buffy."
Summers. Faith's heard of her, and her eyes widen a little. The exploits of Buffy Summers are explained to every new training class as something to avoid doing. Faith's always thought she would like to be as daredevil. Get her own name bandied about in training courses as something not to do. 'Course, she's waited until getting stationed to go against the grain. Didn't want to wash-out of the program before she'd even begun, after all. "Faith. Lehane."
Buffy tips her head a little as she looks back at Faith. Like, maybe she's already heard about Faith, even being new to this post. Word had it a whole new crop of old-hands had been shipped in that day to augment their numbers for the next run-up to readiness. "Why dance with me?"
"You looked bored," offers Faith, then she grins as a slinky number starts up. "Wanna dance again?"
Around them, couples are pairing up, leaning into each other in a manner that would have been (almost) illegal ten years ago. The war has changed a lot of things, some of them for the better. Faith approves of being able to brush up against another woman in a dance. Even if most will just take it for two women lamenting the loss of the men who've gone to war.
"I think I need a drink," Buffy says, shaking her head and moving out of the path of two dancers already lost in the slightly-scandalous delight of being close to each other in such a manner.
Faith could grab another partner, but she doesn't, following Summers to the bar and leaning her hip against it while the other orders. No time like the present to see if some of the shiny rubs off on her--Faith might have good stick skills, but that doesn't mean shit when the squadron commander won't send her out to fly the big stuff. Less because Major Shaw worries about Faith's health than because he worries about the health of the plane.
Summers orders a gin, Faith goes for whiskey and soda (she really just wants the harsh burn to be felt all the way to her toes, but the whiskey is already so watered-down now it's not going to work anyway).
"Did you think this was what it would be like?" Summers suddenly asks, her voice low as she looks out over the mob of dancers.
It's Saturday night, and the regular army officers and their girls, the WACS and other assorted women (not the pilots, of course, and Faith still thinks that's a bit of an injustice: ferry pilots are on-duty every day of the damned week) have got until Sunday evening to pretend like hell that everything is normal. There's desperation in them, a sort of grand fuck-you to Hitler and everything Nazis have been throwing at them, as though they're recovering from being in the field, even here. If Faith could personally deliver a bomb to Hitler, she might feel like she was accomplishing something important. Then again, someone's got to get the planes where they need to go. She shrugs, "I didn't really think about it."
"Just wanted to do something?"
"Yeah." Faith closes her eyes, and she's in the cockpit, flying. Dipping and turning, pushing her bird to the limits and beyond. It's almost better than sex (but don't tell any of her flight instructors that). "I've always wanted to fly, though."
"Me, too." They share a smile of kinship, and Summers moves closer to Faith, bumping their shoulders together. "So, had your first big plane yet?"
"Nah. Shaw thinks I'll crash and burn."
Summers grin widens into something conspiratorial. "He thought that about me, too." At Faith's slightly raised eyebrow, she explains, "Was stationed here two months ago, then loaned out. Now I'm back."
And suddenly the whiskey isn't enough. Faith sets her half-full glass (better hooch back in quarters, anyway) on the bar and grabs Summers' hand, "Hey, you wanna get out of here? You can give me pointers on the new air-routes," she hastily adds, to make it sound like a legitimate reason to leave a club full of dancing people pretending the war doesn't affect them.
"You wouldn't be trying to convince me to sweet-talk Shaw around?" Summers asks lightly, leaving behind her empty glass and sliding her arm around Faith's.
"Maybe," with a smirk, Faith twirls Summers around to the beat before pulling her out into the street.
Summers tips her head back and looks up at the stars as Faith tugs her along, their light-colored party skirts dulling as they go further away from the officers' club. There are streetlights, but they're dim. Even here, the stars could be seen above in the clear night sky.
"Big Dipper," Summers says, one finger tracing a line from it through the North Star. Like any navigator worth her salt. "North Star--"
"I know, I know," breaks in Faith before she can get a long lesson in night-flying (not that she couldn't use the pointers, mind, even if she won't admit it), "C'mon, this way."
"We're going to the air field?" Disbelief colors Summers' tone, and she tugs back against Faith's insistence. "Don't you get enough of that place?"
Faith shakes her head, "Never. It's such a rush to be there." She swallows more of what she wants to say, feels the muscle memory of the harsh thrum of an airplane engine underneath her, and thinks about kissing Buffy Summers in the shadows. Things like that ain't meant to be, though. Or so she tells herself.
Quick in and out won't work if they're going to be stationed here for a while. But Faith's never done the whole long-slow-play thing. Maybe Summers will get 'borrowed' out again.
"We can't stay out long anyway," Summers says as they arrive at the air field, "We'll both get on the schedule in the morning--you know there's more to shift."
"Heard there's a new set coming out of the factory on Monday."
"Rumor says they're fast-tracking to get 'em out tomorrow."
They share a half-excited grin and frown combination that all of them learn as they pass from training to ferrying and testing these new planes. Things can go wrong in a brand new engine, and Faith's already heard one horror story meant to remind her that women shouldn't be pilots.
"Not much time left before curfew, then," teases Faith as they stop next to one of the Cessnas the base uses for light transport duties. Even powered down and empty, Faith can smell the intoxicating combination of oil and fuel, dust, metal and plastic that flood the cockpit on a good day. She sucks in a breath and acts before she can stop herself.
Summers doesn't look surprised to find her back up against the plane and Faith moving slowly closer, like a magnet reacting to iron. "You do this to all pilots you meet?" she asks, just before their mouths meet.
The laugh that bubbles out of Faith changes the kiss. It's a sweet brush of lips and then something deeper for just an instant before she pulls back. "I assume you don't object."
"If I did?"
One side of Faith's mouth draws up, and she steps away from Summers, spreading her arms wide. "Then I suppose it's a good thing we're on ferry duty tomorrow."
There's always the fact that Summers could report her. Conduct unbecoming was something Cochran wouldn't tolerate, and Faith would find herself out of the program before she could work up the right words for a protest (even if Cochran had to break some records to fly down from DC to berate her and toss her out personally).
Hands flat against the plane, Summers rolls her shoulders and then looks at Faith through her eyelashes. "I'm not objecting."
It would be so easy to move back up against Summers, to let her hands find out how smooth the skin under her skirt and blouse are. Faith takes one step towards her, and stops, wondering where her devil-may-care attitude went. Fingering, touching, Buffy Summers would be a coup to write one of her baymates about (the only one who'd keep it secret, obviously). She licks her lips and reaches out to brush her fingers over Summers' cheek. "You're so beautiful."
"You say that to all the girls?" As though she's more sure of where this is going, Summers licks her lips and tips her chin up. It's a dare Faith can't quite refuse.
"Only the ones who can fly planes," Faith murmurs before she kisses Summers again.
It's not sweet and breathless, a kiss to test the waters with or send thoughts of fairies dancing through the air. This time the kiss is hard and full of need and an edge of desire. Faith presses up against Summers, enjoying the way she can feel the heat from Buffy's skin through her clothing. Desire dances down her back, the kind of edge Faith feels the need to rub out when she lands her plane and climbs out of it, alive. Almost instinctively, she shifts her stance, and finds that Summers has shifted too. Legs tangling for a moment, Faith is lost to everything but the feel of the woman against her.
Plane, air field, starlit sky, regulations, the club in the distance--all of them fade away as her world narrows to Buffy's leg sliding between her own, while she returns the favor.
Fingers drag up the back of Faith's blouse, and Summers has the nails of one hand scraping down Faith's back an instant later. The flare of pain just makes her moan softly, pressing harder against the other girl.
"This how you got so many demerits?" Summers asks, mouth traveling from Faith's lips to her ear, then back again, teeth nipping at the point of her chin.
"Naw," answers Faith, twisting a little, and hissing in pleasure when Summers scrapes fingernails down her back again. "That was mouthing off to no-good instructors."
"Mmm."
They're both silent, fumbling for a moment as they shift and wriggle against each other. It's deliciously frustrating to feel Summers through her clothing, and Faith thinks about stripping, getting rid of the cloth that catches against the calluses on her hands, and truly feeling skin against skin.
"We'll get caught," Summers suddenly says, as though she can read Faith's mind. She stops moving, though she can't be comfortable not finishing. Her voice is uneven as she murmurs sadly, "I can't afford to lose this job, Faith."
"It's just nerves," suggests Faith, even though she knows she's already lost the skirmish. She wants to push, and doesn't, seeing the distance already in Buffy's eyes.
Summers puts her hands on Faith's waist, pushing her away and sliding the other direction against the plane. The distance between them feels like it's too much, and Faith's body protests, even as she moves to lean herself against the plane as much to pretend nothing's wrong as to keep her shaky knees from buckling.
It's even money Summers is using the Cessna for the same thing.
"We've got to get in before we're on report." Summers says the words like she's not still panting slightly, her face flushed in the starlight and her fingers rubbing absently against her blouse, tracing patterns against it as though checking dials in the cockpit.
Faith curses softly, then shoves away from her and the plane. Her legs don't buckle, and she shrugs like it's no big thing. "Right. No demerits for Buffy Summers."
"No." Without looking at Faith again, Summers steps away and begins walking for the WAC barracks they've put the ferry pilots in. A place with regulations and army-trained women who don't look impressed with pilots.
Yanking her blouse down and smoothing it out (more as a reflex than because she cares), Faith waits thirty seconds before stalking after her. The evening had not been supposed to end like this, she fumes, even as part of her sees the stars above and the planes around her and shivers in anticipation of the coming day and the plane she will fly.
Next time, she promises herself as her eyes trace the line from the Big Dipper to the North Star. Buffy Summers was a better goal to have than going out in a blaze of glory.
-f-