fic: Hungry (BtVS)
Title: Hungry
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Rating: teen
Pairing(s): Faith/Buffy
Notes: For sail_aweigh. 960 words. Set sometime after "Chosen." No comics spoilers. This ended up in a softer place than I’d anticipated. Huh.
Summary: Faith has the post-slay munchies. Buffy just wants to sleep.
Faith brushes vampire dust from her jeans and looks at the sky. It’s still pretty dark, but a faint blush warms the eastern horizon. “Hey, B,” she calls. After a moment, there’s an answering grunt from the shadows that steep a big-ass - seriously, who did the dead guy’s family think he was? Abraham fucking Lincoln? - mausoleum. Faith perches on a gravestone and waits, and a few seconds later, Buffy stumbles into view.
She’s kind of wobbly, though in the dark and from this distance, Faith can’t tell if it’s because she’s injured or tired.
“Calling it a night?” Buffy asks, tugging a hand through her hair. “Or … a day? Or whatever.” She drops her head back, squeezes her eyes shut, and yawns, big and gulping. So that answers that.
“Think we pretty much cleaned this place out. Feel like getting some food?”
“It’s too early for breakfast.”
“I’m hungry, though.” As if on cue, Faith’s stomach growls. “Hear that?”
Buffy wrinkles her nose. “I think the dead heard that.”
Unfazed, Faith grins. “Call to action. C’mon.” She slides off the gravestone and jabs her stake through one of her belt loops. “I could so murder a blueberry Danish right now.”
By the time the cemetery gates clang shut behind them, Faith has changed her mind: somewhere in this otherwise pointless little town, there is a cream cheese-smeared sesame seed bagel with her name on it. She strides purposefully down the sidewalk as the stars fade and the sky turns the color of strawberry ice cream. There’s a nip in the air that makes her want to run, but Buffy’s kind of sagging at her side and it wouldn’t be right to leave her behind.
The thought sends little shocks through Faith’s body, jolting her into something beyond mere alertness. She’s hyper-aware of everything suddenly: the smell of fresh-cut grass and car exhaust, the faint screaming of seagulls, Buffy’s shivering heartbeat.
So fucking weird.
She is so fucking hungry.
At Starbucks, Buffy orders something complicated-sounding: skinny soy decaf who the hell knows. Faith just gets a big cup of coffee an enormous lemon bar. She decided at the last second that she wants something tart and creamy on her tongue. As the barista rings her up, his glance goes to the stake in her belt loop. Faith drums her fingernails on the counter and raises her eyebrows, but the kid doesn’t say anything.
After paying, she and Buffy take their snacks outside and sit down on a wrought iron bench. Between sips of coffee, Faith pinches off bits of the lemon bar and pops them into her mouth. She offers some to Buffy, who smiles limply and shakes her head.
“What’s with you anyway?” Faith asks finally. “You look like hell, B.”
“You always say the sweetest things to me.”
“Seriously. You look awful.”
“Love it when you flatter me.”
“You look like you need a break.”
Buffy yawns again. “I need a vacation.” She slumps forward, elbows on her knees, hair falling down over her cheeks. The ends of her hair brush the foam-flecked rim of her coffee cup, which, maybe more than anything else, tells Faith how truly exhausted she is. “Nice long vacation. On a beach. With palm trees. And drinks.”
Faith licks the crumbs from the lemon bar off her fingers. “Yeah? What kinda drinks?”
“The drinky kind of drinks. Pink n’ frosty.”
Buffy is just about faded, Faith thinks. She gulps down the last of her coffee, crumples up the cup, and lobs it casually at the garbage can by the curb. It’s an easy shot, one she could have made even before she got superpowers.
There’s a soft thud as Buffy’s coffee cup drops to the ground, and Faith turns in time to see her jerk upright, her eyes huge and round. “Oh,” Buffy moans. “Oh, that was not cool. Nobody saw that, right?”
“Just me,” Faith assures her. “And I don’t count.”
“’F I’m being magicked by some sleepy-making monster demon thing, you have to kill it for me.”
“Can do.”
“And if I fall into a magical sleep…”
Faith’s lips curl. “You want me to kiss you?”
“Mmm. Try Chris Pine first.” Buffy’s eyes flutter closed again. She tilts her head slightly and gives Faith a small pink smile. It’s sweet as sugar frosting, and Faith’s stomach gives a sort of flaily lurch that makes her sit bolt upright.
“No problem, B,” she croaks.
Buffy doesn’t say I knew I could trust you, because that’s something she will never say, not to Faith, not ever again. And that’s cool, Faith thinks, even as something deep inside her gives a thin wail of loss and remorse. It’s fine. It’s to be expected, anyway.
But then Buffy hugs her legs to her chest and tucks her chin over her knees. Her hair slides away from her neck, exposing that slender white column and the tiny puckered scars that mar it. Faith counts two vampire bites: one from the Master, one from Dracula himself. She knows Angel bit her too; those scars must be on the other side of her neck, or hidden by the lacy collar of her shirt. Faith’s stomach twists and her right hand goes unconsciously to rest over her own scar, the one Buffy gave her with her own knife.
Some wounds never really heal.
But then she looks at Buffy’s lips again. Her smile has faded. The rising sun casts the shadows of her lashes across her cheeks, making them appear sunken, bruised. Faith squirms uncomfortably against the bench. She wants to do something. Fight something. Fuck something.
Instead she sits there, perfectly still, watching Buffy sleep, and tries not to feel like she’s guarding something or someone.
10/19/10
Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Rating: teen
Pairing(s): Faith/Buffy
Notes: For sail_aweigh. 960 words. Set sometime after "Chosen." No comics spoilers. This ended up in a softer place than I’d anticipated. Huh.
Summary: Faith has the post-slay munchies. Buffy just wants to sleep.
Faith brushes vampire dust from her jeans and looks at the sky. It’s still pretty dark, but a faint blush warms the eastern horizon. “Hey, B,” she calls. After a moment, there’s an answering grunt from the shadows that steep a big-ass - seriously, who did the dead guy’s family think he was? Abraham fucking Lincoln? - mausoleum. Faith perches on a gravestone and waits, and a few seconds later, Buffy stumbles into view.
She’s kind of wobbly, though in the dark and from this distance, Faith can’t tell if it’s because she’s injured or tired.
“Calling it a night?” Buffy asks, tugging a hand through her hair. “Or … a day? Or whatever.” She drops her head back, squeezes her eyes shut, and yawns, big and gulping. So that answers that.
“Think we pretty much cleaned this place out. Feel like getting some food?”
“It’s too early for breakfast.”
“I’m hungry, though.” As if on cue, Faith’s stomach growls. “Hear that?”
Buffy wrinkles her nose. “I think the dead heard that.”
Unfazed, Faith grins. “Call to action. C’mon.” She slides off the gravestone and jabs her stake through one of her belt loops. “I could so murder a blueberry Danish right now.”
By the time the cemetery gates clang shut behind them, Faith has changed her mind: somewhere in this otherwise pointless little town, there is a cream cheese-smeared sesame seed bagel with her name on it. She strides purposefully down the sidewalk as the stars fade and the sky turns the color of strawberry ice cream. There’s a nip in the air that makes her want to run, but Buffy’s kind of sagging at her side and it wouldn’t be right to leave her behind.
The thought sends little shocks through Faith’s body, jolting her into something beyond mere alertness. She’s hyper-aware of everything suddenly: the smell of fresh-cut grass and car exhaust, the faint screaming of seagulls, Buffy’s shivering heartbeat.
So fucking weird.
She is so fucking hungry.
At Starbucks, Buffy orders something complicated-sounding: skinny soy decaf who the hell knows. Faith just gets a big cup of coffee an enormous lemon bar. She decided at the last second that she wants something tart and creamy on her tongue. As the barista rings her up, his glance goes to the stake in her belt loop. Faith drums her fingernails on the counter and raises her eyebrows, but the kid doesn’t say anything.
After paying, she and Buffy take their snacks outside and sit down on a wrought iron bench. Between sips of coffee, Faith pinches off bits of the lemon bar and pops them into her mouth. She offers some to Buffy, who smiles limply and shakes her head.
“What’s with you anyway?” Faith asks finally. “You look like hell, B.”
“You always say the sweetest things to me.”
“Seriously. You look awful.”
“Love it when you flatter me.”
“You look like you need a break.”
Buffy yawns again. “I need a vacation.” She slumps forward, elbows on her knees, hair falling down over her cheeks. The ends of her hair brush the foam-flecked rim of her coffee cup, which, maybe more than anything else, tells Faith how truly exhausted she is. “Nice long vacation. On a beach. With palm trees. And drinks.”
Faith licks the crumbs from the lemon bar off her fingers. “Yeah? What kinda drinks?”
“The drinky kind of drinks. Pink n’ frosty.”
Buffy is just about faded, Faith thinks. She gulps down the last of her coffee, crumples up the cup, and lobs it casually at the garbage can by the curb. It’s an easy shot, one she could have made even before she got superpowers.
There’s a soft thud as Buffy’s coffee cup drops to the ground, and Faith turns in time to see her jerk upright, her eyes huge and round. “Oh,” Buffy moans. “Oh, that was not cool. Nobody saw that, right?”
“Just me,” Faith assures her. “And I don’t count.”
“’F I’m being magicked by some sleepy-making monster demon thing, you have to kill it for me.”
“Can do.”
“And if I fall into a magical sleep…”
Faith’s lips curl. “You want me to kiss you?”
“Mmm. Try Chris Pine first.” Buffy’s eyes flutter closed again. She tilts her head slightly and gives Faith a small pink smile. It’s sweet as sugar frosting, and Faith’s stomach gives a sort of flaily lurch that makes her sit bolt upright.
“No problem, B,” she croaks.
Buffy doesn’t say I knew I could trust you, because that’s something she will never say, not to Faith, not ever again. And that’s cool, Faith thinks, even as something deep inside her gives a thin wail of loss and remorse. It’s fine. It’s to be expected, anyway.
But then Buffy hugs her legs to her chest and tucks her chin over her knees. Her hair slides away from her neck, exposing that slender white column and the tiny puckered scars that mar it. Faith counts two vampire bites: one from the Master, one from Dracula himself. She knows Angel bit her too; those scars must be on the other side of her neck, or hidden by the lacy collar of her shirt. Faith’s stomach twists and her right hand goes unconsciously to rest over her own scar, the one Buffy gave her with her own knife.
Some wounds never really heal.
But then she looks at Buffy’s lips again. Her smile has faded. The rising sun casts the shadows of her lashes across her cheeks, making them appear sunken, bruised. Faith squirms uncomfortably against the bench. She wants to do something. Fight something. Fuck something.
Instead she sits there, perfectly still, watching Buffy sleep, and tries not to feel like she’s guarding something or someone.
10/19/10