Faith lingers briefly in the doorway before she clomps inside, careful to stamp her boots on the mat lest she drag half a blocks' worth of snow in with her. Even if the scrunched up expression Buffy would make falls on the right side of adorable, she's not really in the mood to hear lecture from the slightly older Slayer. Not tonight, anyway.
She passes the living room with her eyes trained on her boots, unwilling to intrude on the Christmas cheer, certain it's not meant for her eyes. She's aware, more than aware, sometimes, of how fragile her welcome is here in Casa de Slayer and, despite the unpleasantness that accompanies her life of walking on eggshells, she doesn't want it to end. There's good to be done, to be found, here and she refuses to let it slip between her fingers just like it always has.
Besides, it won't be the first time she's skipped out on the Scooby Gang's festivities and she's sure it won't be the last; there's a reason, after all, for the (mostly) full bottle of Jack Daniels sitting in her room, her own little holiday tradition. So, as she makes her way into the kitchen, drags the fixings for a sandwich (or three) from the fridge and gets to work, she's more than a little surprised to look up from her now full plate and straight into the eyes of one Buffy Summers.
She looks good, too good, really, for someone wearing one of those stupid, purposefully ugly Christmas sweaters. But, then again, Faith's pretty sure Buffy could pull off just about anything.
"Hey,"
She swallows, unable to shake the feeling of being a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar, and offers her a mock salute, mayonnaise-covered knife still in hand. "Hey,"
The silence starts building between them, as it's wont to do, and her throat hurts with the effort to keep her acid-laced thoughts from voicing themselves. The sudden vitriol almost surprises her and she busies herself with washing the knife in an effort to distract herself from it. Which, she has to admit, is a little ridiculous in and of itself, because she doesn't care that she's not part of their little clique; she's made her peace with it, at least. So why, suddenly, does standing alone with her lonely little plate feel like a slap to the face?
"So…" she glances over her shoulder, briefly finding Buffy's eyes before returning them to the task at hand, "How was patrol?"
Shop talk, huh? This, she can do. "Went alright," she says with a shrug, "Took down four vamps in Westhaven and another two in Silas; might wanna send a group that way tomorrow night, make sure there ain't a nest or somethin'," she switches off the water and runs the dishtowel over the knife before returning it to the drawer. Her hands feel empty as she turns to face her sister Slayer and she wishes she'd made more of a mess so there'd be more to clean.
Unaware of her inner floundering, the blonde nods, making an approving sound in the back of her throat that, in turn, makes Faith shiver. "Would you take them? I've only been on that side of town a few times, none of them recent,"
She shrugs again. "Sure, B; whatever you need," she drops her eyes then, all but bracing herself for the sound of Buffy's retreating footsteps because, surely, that was all she wanted. Just another field report for the illustrious elder Slayer to file away.
Only…she doesn't move.
Faith frowns, glancing up only to find Buffy still there, leaning back against the doorframe like it's the most natural thing in the world for the two of them to be in the same room without one of them trying to kill the other. Except it's not and they both know it.
Her fingers twitch at her sides, the only outward indication of her mounting nerves, and she clears her throat. "Ya, uhm, ya need somethin' else, B?"
"I," Buffy drops her eyes for a moment, tucking a stubborn strand of hair behind her ear in a way that makes Faith's fingers twitch for an entirely different reason. "I was just wondering if you were gonna join us anytime soon,"
She blinks, frown deepening. "Huh?"
The inelegant sound startles a laugh from the blonde and she can't quite contain a smile at the sound; it's not all that often that she inspires such a thing. "Come watch really terrible Christmas specials and drink cocoa; help us decorate the tree,"
"Dawnie's taller'n me," she hears herself say and it sounds like an excuse, and not even a very good one, even to her.
"Then help me do the bottom," she says and, suddenly, it feels like she's asking for a lot more than help with her Christmas tree's esthetic.
"I…" she swallows, heart beating just under a thousand times per minute. "Shit, I dunno, B…"
"Faith, come on," she says, taking her hand, and Faith blinks because, seriously, when did she get so close? "Spend Christmas with me,"
She waits for the correction but it doesn't come; Buffy just grips her hand all the tighter and she's got this look in her eyes that makes it hard to breathe.
"Okay,"
She smiles, wide and happy, and Faith wants to kiss her and, even though she doesn't, she thinks this may be the first time Buffy's wouldn't mind if she did. So she lets the blonde drag her into the living room, Jackie D forgotten, where she and Dawnie con her into watching both Frosty cartoons in between bouts of laughter and eggnog and tangled Christmas lights. It's the most wholesome holiday experience she's ever had and, every now and then, she feels Buffy's eyes on her, warm and bright and so green they should be illegal, and by the end of the night her cheeks hurt from smiling.
And, when midnight rolls around and everyone's either gone home or to bed, instead of trying (and failing) to drink herself into oblivion, she's still there, sprawled on the couch with Buffy's head lolling onto her shoulder as the blonde fights to keep her eyes open.
"…Faith?"
She starts slightly, more than a little surprised that she's still awake. "Yeah, B?"
"Thanks for," she smothers a yawn against her hand, "For tonight,"
She swallows. "Sure,"
"Mmm," she hums, snuggling closer until she's completely pressed against her side. "Can we watch Frosty again?"
It's at least the third time they're watched it but Faith finds herself nodding anyway, already reaching for the DVD remote. "Sure, B," she manages to squeak out, hoping against hope that she's too out of it to notice how high her voice is. "Anythin' fer ya,"
Buffy hums her agreement against her shoulder, her eyes moving to the TV as she sneaks her hand into her lap and entwines their fingers. "This' nice," she breathes and Faith is powerless to disagree.
This, she thinks, resting her chin in a sea of blonde hair as that doofy snowman dances his way across the screen, is a tradition she wouldn't mind getting used too.