"You must be shitting me."
Faith's voice was incredulous...and, Buffy noticed with only a small amount of satisfaction, tinged with something like fear. Turning away so Faith wouldn't see the smug slant of her smile, she flopped down on the bed, for all the world engrossed with watching a couple of pigeons on the window sill. (These two, like most of their kind, weren't very impressed with the metal anti-pigeon devices you could see everywhere in this city.)
"Nope. Dead serious, I'm afraid. They are planning a big reception. We're talking champagne, five-course meal, ball room dancing, and hors d'oeuvre." No need for Faith to know that she'd had to look up the latter in the dictionary. Spelling and pronunciation.
As it now turned out, this had been overkill, for when Buffy peered over her shoulder, Faith looked as if Buffy had lost her right around "champagne". The change of posture, the crossing of arms, and the grimace on Faith's face already spoke louder than the words that were to follow.
"WHAT THE HELL?"
Okay, maybe not.
Faith-- all unpacking clearly forgotten and her clothes a lost bundle on the bed next to Buffy-- started pacing the room, spanning its rather unimpressive width in two strides. To say that she was agitated would be a bit of an understatement, Buffy thought while propping herself up to watch the other girl. But then again, calm and balanced Faith had always been sort of an oxi...oxym...well, an unlikely idea.
"First, Giles couldn't even get us a fucking motel due to 'financial restraints', then we crammed ourselves into a tiny plane that must've been built from scrap metal some time during the last century, and finally ran around London in three-day-old clothes...and now we're livin' it up?!"
Forth and back she went, her eyes stormy in the filtered light that fell through the window. Strands of hair had slipped out of her haphazard ponytail ("Hey, B. got a ribbon? No? Rubber band lying around somewhere? Thanks!"), and Buffy idly noticed how wavy it was when still slightly wet from the shower, dark curls bouncing cheerily.
Much more cheery than Faith herself, obviously, but Buffy wasn't easily intimidated-- especially not by Faith who (thank God for small favours) had to breathe just like ordinary humans. Time to cut in:
"Not exactly Hotel California material, this place", a frown and pointed look towards the yellowed ceiling, "but I don't see how a bit of a celebration would hurt now that the Council has de-frosted-"
"Unfrozen!"
Buffy, in lieu of a hearty "whatever!", just gave her a short yet long-suffering look. "Point is, they agreed to use their huge old bank accounts to re-organise the whole Slaying-slash-Watching. Setting it up as a sort of public enterprise, with associates, business partners, and tax-deductible luncheons? Means there have to be official functions. With guests. And hors d'oeuvre." Well, she'd learned it.
Buffy focused on Faith and her reaction again-- not that she was ready to bring out the pom-poms for the New Council model Robin and a few younger Watchers had proposed, but this was just too good a chance to pass on.
Sure, Giles would've been all stern father by now, minding her to play nice with the other Slayer for the sake of peace and quiet during reconstruction...but even after these few weeks, Buffy found peace and quiet oddly unnerving.
"Official functions, my ass!"
After quickly considering both, Buffy found it hard to see a connection.
"Not like I got a problem with those pencil-pushers in their stiff suits-- they do their thing, I do mine, right?-- but I definitely got a problem with them trying to turn me into some Council sheep. Baa-ing on command? Not my gig. Lords'n ladies thinking they can have my Slayer powers by night and fake smiles by day? I'm sorry--hey, wait, I'm not!" A fierce sideways glance at Buffy. " I'll keep my promise and help you clean up this mess, but don't make me fill out vacation forms!"
Also hard not to giggle at Faith's righteous rage of rugged individualism--
too hard, obviously, because Faith stopped and turned to her, a sneer on her face.
"Yeah. Right. General Buffy is oh-so-very-cool with order and discipline and good little soldiers these days. The old B. would've laughed about all this bullshit."
Okay-- quelling that white-hot spark of anger on the agenda now. Buffy took a deep, steadying breath. Faith was calling her bluff, and even though she would've played devil's advocate for a while longer, she wasn't going to argue a point she felt Faith really wasn't all that wrong about.
"Faith, stop it. General Buffy's gone-- dead and buried in the Hellmouth." Buffy gave her a tight smile and, just for Faith's benefit, added, "And I got an eye on Willow, believe me."
A snort was her only immediate answer. However, the strained expression on Faith's face flickered and dissolved. Mission accomplished.
With a resigned sigh, Faith let herself fall back onto the king-sized bed next to Buffy, making her jump a little in shock and scoot away a little.
Up close, Faith's face was a study in unease-- the smooth skin paler than she recalled from her Sunnydale days, expressive eyes hooded and framed by dark circles that, for once, weren't due to smeared mascara. Faith hadn't put on any make-up yet; no bright sheen of colour coating these full lips.
Noticing her stare but obviously interpreting it as an invitation to continue, Faith gifted her with the patented Eligible For Sainthood For Even Dealing With This Shit Look.
"So, anyway, what's the idea? How much of a celebration are we talking about?"
"Lydia said it would be quite...," Buffy frowned. Why were the Spice Girls suddenly chanting in her mind? Oh, right, "...posh."
A raised eyebrow at that. "Sure thing. We play dress-up, bore ourselves do death with small-talk, and try to look fancy while raiding the buffet-- only that we do it the English way."
Buffy couldn't help but smile. "Does that mean tea and biscuits are involved?"
Faith's eyes were more lively now, the old twinkle back when she rolled onto her side, too, batting her criminally long and dark eyelashes at Buffy. "Only if you don't want to join the wicked orgy in the back room." A smirk. "Come to think of it, especially then."
Buffy rolled her eyes and punched Faith, playfully and with an exclamation of extreme shock: "Please! The Watchers are all way un-hot, except for Robin..." She trailed off, taking in the expression in Faith's face: shutters closing again, thanks for your patronage, try again tomorrow.
Stupid.
Shifting her weight, Faith rolled off the bed, and, in one liquid movement, stood; with a shrug, she turned back to her bundle on the bed. "Yeah, well. Only that everybody knows a guy's pretty face don't count for nothing." Stiffly, she grabbed the clothing and haphazardly stuffed it in into the cupboard. Its door creaked in protest.
Buffy opened her mouth and, catching Faith's narrow-eyed gaze at her just in time, closed it again. Instead, she busied herself with staring out of the window again where roofs and ledges (pigeon-less, what a surprise) were now lit up by a few stray rays of sun peeking through the cloud cover. No rain.
Early summer in London wasn't half bad; perpetually damp, grey, and dim England had obviously just existed in her California-tinted imagination.
What had proven to be true about London, however, was the wealth of shopping opportunities. Hurrying down Oxford Street, she had given the clothing stores looks hungry enough to make their Council-hired guide-- young and urban, wisely chosen with a bunch of teenage girls in mind-- laugh and sidle up to her, explaining that she hadn't seen nothing yet, that there were plenty of gems down Regent Street, in Knightsbridge, Chelsea, and Camden, or in the small streets of Mayfair.
Just what a girl needed, right? Even if the girl in question preferred leather and jeans to really cute blouses. "Faith?"
The cupboard door slammed shut. "Buffy??"
"Remember the Council credit card Giles gave me 'for necessary expenses'? Well, call me crazy, but I think I hear some dresses for one very important reception calling our names..."
Faith's voice was incredulous...and, Buffy noticed with only a small amount of satisfaction, tinged with something like fear. Turning away so Faith wouldn't see the smug slant of her smile, she flopped down on the bed, for all the world engrossed with watching a couple of pigeons on the window sill. (These two, like most of their kind, weren't very impressed with the metal anti-pigeon devices you could see everywhere in this city.)
"Nope. Dead serious, I'm afraid. They are planning a big reception. We're talking champagne, five-course meal, ball room dancing, and hors d'oeuvre." No need for Faith to know that she'd had to look up the latter in the dictionary. Spelling and pronunciation.
As it now turned out, this had been overkill, for when Buffy peered over her shoulder, Faith looked as if Buffy had lost her right around "champagne". The change of posture, the crossing of arms, and the grimace on Faith's face already spoke louder than the words that were to follow.
"WHAT THE HELL?"
Okay, maybe not.
Faith-- all unpacking clearly forgotten and her clothes a lost bundle on the bed next to Buffy-- started pacing the room, spanning its rather unimpressive width in two strides. To say that she was agitated would be a bit of an understatement, Buffy thought while propping herself up to watch the other girl. But then again, calm and balanced Faith had always been sort of an oxi...oxym...well, an unlikely idea.
"First, Giles couldn't even get us a fucking motel due to 'financial restraints', then we crammed ourselves into a tiny plane that must've been built from scrap metal some time during the last century, and finally ran around London in three-day-old clothes...and now we're livin' it up?!"
Forth and back she went, her eyes stormy in the filtered light that fell through the window. Strands of hair had slipped out of her haphazard ponytail ("Hey, B. got a ribbon? No? Rubber band lying around somewhere? Thanks!"), and Buffy idly noticed how wavy it was when still slightly wet from the shower, dark curls bouncing cheerily.
Much more cheery than Faith herself, obviously, but Buffy wasn't easily intimidated-- especially not by Faith who (thank God for small favours) had to breathe just like ordinary humans. Time to cut in:
"Not exactly Hotel California material, this place", a frown and pointed look towards the yellowed ceiling, "but I don't see how a bit of a celebration would hurt now that the Council has de-frosted-"
"Unfrozen!"
Buffy, in lieu of a hearty "whatever!", just gave her a short yet long-suffering look. "Point is, they agreed to use their huge old bank accounts to re-organise the whole Slaying-slash-Watching. Setting it up as a sort of public enterprise, with associates, business partners, and tax-deductible luncheons? Means there have to be official functions. With guests. And hors d'oeuvre." Well, she'd learned it.
Buffy focused on Faith and her reaction again-- not that she was ready to bring out the pom-poms for the New Council model Robin and a few younger Watchers had proposed, but this was just too good a chance to pass on.
Sure, Giles would've been all stern father by now, minding her to play nice with the other Slayer for the sake of peace and quiet during reconstruction...but even after these few weeks, Buffy found peace and quiet oddly unnerving.
"Official functions, my ass!"
After quickly considering both, Buffy found it hard to see a connection.
"Not like I got a problem with those pencil-pushers in their stiff suits-- they do their thing, I do mine, right?-- but I definitely got a problem with them trying to turn me into some Council sheep. Baa-ing on command? Not my gig. Lords'n ladies thinking they can have my Slayer powers by night and fake smiles by day? I'm sorry--hey, wait, I'm not!" A fierce sideways glance at Buffy. " I'll keep my promise and help you clean up this mess, but don't make me fill out vacation forms!"
Also hard not to giggle at Faith's righteous rage of rugged individualism--
too hard, obviously, because Faith stopped and turned to her, a sneer on her face.
"Yeah. Right. General Buffy is oh-so-very-cool with order and discipline and good little soldiers these days. The old B. would've laughed about all this bullshit."
Okay-- quelling that white-hot spark of anger on the agenda now. Buffy took a deep, steadying breath. Faith was calling her bluff, and even though she would've played devil's advocate for a while longer, she wasn't going to argue a point she felt Faith really wasn't all that wrong about.
"Faith, stop it. General Buffy's gone-- dead and buried in the Hellmouth." Buffy gave her a tight smile and, just for Faith's benefit, added, "And I got an eye on Willow, believe me."
A snort was her only immediate answer. However, the strained expression on Faith's face flickered and dissolved. Mission accomplished.
With a resigned sigh, Faith let herself fall back onto the king-sized bed next to Buffy, making her jump a little in shock and scoot away a little.
Up close, Faith's face was a study in unease-- the smooth skin paler than she recalled from her Sunnydale days, expressive eyes hooded and framed by dark circles that, for once, weren't due to smeared mascara. Faith hadn't put on any make-up yet; no bright sheen of colour coating these full lips.
Noticing her stare but obviously interpreting it as an invitation to continue, Faith gifted her with the patented Eligible For Sainthood For Even Dealing With This Shit Look.
"So, anyway, what's the idea? How much of a celebration are we talking about?"
"Lydia said it would be quite...," Buffy frowned. Why were the Spice Girls suddenly chanting in her mind? Oh, right, "...posh."
A raised eyebrow at that. "Sure thing. We play dress-up, bore ourselves do death with small-talk, and try to look fancy while raiding the buffet-- only that we do it the English way."
Buffy couldn't help but smile. "Does that mean tea and biscuits are involved?"
Faith's eyes were more lively now, the old twinkle back when she rolled onto her side, too, batting her criminally long and dark eyelashes at Buffy. "Only if you don't want to join the wicked orgy in the back room." A smirk. "Come to think of it, especially then."
Buffy rolled her eyes and punched Faith, playfully and with an exclamation of extreme shock: "Please! The Watchers are all way un-hot, except for Robin..." She trailed off, taking in the expression in Faith's face: shutters closing again, thanks for your patronage, try again tomorrow.
Stupid.
Shifting her weight, Faith rolled off the bed, and, in one liquid movement, stood; with a shrug, she turned back to her bundle on the bed. "Yeah, well. Only that everybody knows a guy's pretty face don't count for nothing." Stiffly, she grabbed the clothing and haphazardly stuffed it in into the cupboard. Its door creaked in protest.
Buffy opened her mouth and, catching Faith's narrow-eyed gaze at her just in time, closed it again. Instead, she busied herself with staring out of the window again where roofs and ledges (pigeon-less, what a surprise) were now lit up by a few stray rays of sun peeking through the cloud cover. No rain.
Early summer in London wasn't half bad; perpetually damp, grey, and dim England had obviously just existed in her California-tinted imagination.
What had proven to be true about London, however, was the wealth of shopping opportunities. Hurrying down Oxford Street, she had given the clothing stores looks hungry enough to make their Council-hired guide-- young and urban, wisely chosen with a bunch of teenage girls in mind-- laugh and sidle up to her, explaining that she hadn't seen nothing yet, that there were plenty of gems down Regent Street, in Knightsbridge, Chelsea, and Camden, or in the small streets of Mayfair.
Just what a girl needed, right? Even if the girl in question preferred leather and jeans to really cute blouses. "Faith?"
The cupboard door slammed shut. "Buffy??"
"Remember the Council credit card Giles gave me 'for necessary expenses'? Well, call me crazy, but I think I hear some dresses for one very important reception calling our names..."