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When she slips into her dream its like waking up. Really being alive, for the first time; really using every part of her brain and her mind so that she can experience this fully. The chase. She lives for it, always has. Back on the streets of Boston, the boys used to chase her up the street, yelling, "Trash! We'll get you and fuck you up!" Emphasis on the fuck.
Then, she ran just for the chase, just for fun. Those neighborhood boys could never catch her, them and their leather jackets and their shiny pocketknives clenched in fists scarred at the knuckle. No, they were fucking beneath her, the firecracker with the long brown legs and her hair streaming out behind her like a banner. Laughing, always laughing.
But now its different. There's something dark behind her and its scary, so much scarier than anything she's ever seen, vampires and demons and not now, Mommy's talking! Remember the corner, Faith? And even all that, the bottles and the booze and all the cigarettes, that wasn't as bad as the steel-eyed girl walking, slowly and surely just like Jason from the movies, right behind her.
Graveyard. She's on sensory overload right now, her brain is frying, but she can see that it's the graveyard she's running into as her hair whips her in the face. And all she can think of is those times on patrol, her and B. just cutting right through those vampires, hungry and horny and lips, oh God, lips on hers. So much softer than her own.
The voice was hard though. "Tell any of them and I'll kill you." Who knew that B. could hold a knife so close to her flesh, that her voice could be sharper and colder than the metal?
Not that it was any surprise. B. cherished her family friends rep so fucking much that she'd sooner leave Faith dead in an alley than let anyone know that she had kissed her, let her fragile soft baby-pink skin touch Faith's callused brown hands. Buffy is so pure and so sweet and she tastes just like honey that Faith couldn't bring herself to be angry. Just respectful.
That is another time entirely. Different, and now she has to stop herself from turning around, from letting B. catch her. She used to give her girl everything she wanted, a knife in Faith's gut a kiss a kill, blood on her hands and is it Buffy's? is it Allen Finch's? Who the fuck cares?
But she can't give herself to B. this time. B's rejected her for something cute and clean-cut, she can already tell. Maybe it's a Slayer thing, but she can smell the boy on B. Not Angel, this one's alive. Warm hands, and B. doesn't need Faith anymore, now does she?
So its time for the great escape, run run run on the wet cemetery grass in boots, oh blisters on her heels! Fuck 'em. Whether she won or not, B. would get a high from this and so would she, terror and adrenaline and lust mixed into a glorious melange. And isn't this fun? Just like old times, her and her girl inside the cemetery walls, just like fate--
And maybe not. The dirt slips beneath her heels, and she's on the bottom of the open grave before she even knew that she was falling. Stars. Stars so pretty.
Stars and Buffy, light forming a little halo around her blond head. She stops at the side of the grave and looks down, down on Faith, and Faith can almost see angel wings on her girl, because she just glows such radiant white light. For a moment she thinks that B. is smiling down on her, but it must have been the reflection of the streetlamps on the knife in B.'s hands, because in brief, sweet seconds, Buffy is slipping down into the grave with an angel's grace. Light and a halo and eyes that glint like the knife in her hands. Threads of honey and steel, Faith could remember the poem that Angel read to her, back in her hospital bed. We are connected by threads of honey and steel, my angel.
But B. doesn't care about any of that, never did. Its all about her rep as the Good-Little-Girl and God, this is going to hurt, isn't it? It hurt the first time, as she went flying off the roof and landed, in a bloody heap, on the bed of the truck. At least then she had a choice, she was free. She could fly. This time she's trapped in a tiny little space with her girl, her angel, her fucking savior who would take off her skin, bit by bit, with her tongue or with her teeth or with her knife. Threads of honey and steel.
All of a sudden she's fighting back without even being aware of it. B.'s face is still so soft, her eyes still so hard, and Faith could be in a bee's nest for all she knows, because it smells so much like honey. Buffy's tongue tastes sweet on her own...
And the knife is in her stomach before she can even process it. Blood is pouring out, warm and honey-thick, onto the other girl's hand, and she remembers Willow's music, playing in her hospital room on a stereo. Threads that are golden don't break easily... She twists the knife a little bit harder.
Oh, God. The look on B.'s face is beautiful. It feels like hours have passed, but its barely been seconds. Who knew that a life so big could extinguish in such a small time? Who knew the threads could be broken so swiftly?
She drops the knife, lets the body drop to the ground. Oh, angel. Oh, beautiful. Its started to rain, and when she pulls herself out of the grave, the dirt is moist beneath her hands. Not quite mud, not quite dirt anymore.
Faith gets up off her knees and screams. B. is dead and oh fuck, who knew it could hurt like this? Who knew it could feel so good? She can hear her own voice, raw pain and death life love lust orgasm and all, wrapped in her voice, tied together with threads of honey and steel.
It will be awhile before she really awakes.
