Ivanova should have been in bed ages ago. She wasn't as young as she used to be, after all.

But when you ran into dark-haired Slayers bearing kosher vodka, well, you just didn't say no.

She unlocked the door, hitting the light switch absently, turning to Faith as soon as they stepped inside, reaching for her.

Ivanova had ignored the bells. The church bells were ringing, what did a good little Jewish girl care? And too wrapped up in her own little dramas - stupid, teenage dramas - she hadn't realised anything was wrong ( Read more... )

Ivanova was . . . asleep. She had fully intended to do something after class like go out for a drink, or a ride, but she had succumbed to five minutes of 'just close my eyes' that had turned into a full-blown, drool-on-the-pillow nap.

[[Open!]]

Ivanova sat crosslegged on her bed in what could only be described as a quandary. Two jackets were laid out in front of her. One was the jacket of her military uniform, the rest of which was hanging, neatly pressed, in her closet. The other was the leather jacket Faith had given her Saturday night, in the same blue and brown. Upon closer inspection ( Read more... )

No wild and crazy Saturday night for Ivanova.

Nope, sitting in her bed battling drowsiness and alternating between staring out the window and trying to write a letter. Occasional maudlin staring at the three pictures on her bedside table was totally not happening.

There is a note stuck to the door.

GONE TO CALIFORNIA
DON'T BE EMO

[[Establishly. I hope this doesn't end with them driving off a cliff.]]

Ivanova practically hauled Faith into her room, her thighs still trembling from the short ride back from the television station and her hair wild around her face. Her hand curled tightly in the front of her shirt, she pulled her close for a kiss.

[[For Faith.]]

Ivanova lay back on her bed with her knees up, absently running a small metal cylinder through her fingers. She had been looking at the small collection of photos next to her bed - one of her and Blair, one of the command staff of the station, a small smiling one of Maia . . . and the moving photograph of her and Tonks with their arms around each ( Read more... )