Canon-divergent in the sense that I haven't read any of the post-series comics *sweatdrops*. Bad fan, I know. But if Buffy and Faith somehow wind up hightailing it around Europe on a Supernatural Winchesterish road trip at some point in that series, I'm totally onboard.
Disclaimer: Buffy and Co. aren't mine.
Sometimes, when the rush from a stake-out doesn't hit its old peak and the adrenalin's still on an all-time high, they go dancing. Mini-discos in Sweden, Gothic kitsch pubs in Romania, open stretches of stark white beach in Greece peppered with sweaty tan-lines shimmying between folds of wet bathing suits, once even a Wiccan-run rave which ran through midnight to the first rays of sunrise on a cool day in Ireland.
Just shut up and dance.
Sometimes they even wear heels: the tacky ones the color of girly martinis to match their chipped nail polish. All bargain bin picks, except the martinis. Buffy has on a shade of fuchsia to match the tube-top she wears fresh from the dryer. It's called Pompeii Purple.
"What? Don't tell me I can't be the only girl with a sense of humor."
Faith looks at own maroon nails – 'Vampsterdam' – and smiles. "Never said I didn't like it."
The bad news is that they're stranded in Stockport, fresh off a twenty-vamp dusting, and twelve miles away from the nearest club. Ninety minutes by foot if they run for it, probably fifteen until one of them falls and twists their ankle. So Faith's dragging them to a neighborhood block party, complete with free beer and drunk college boys, though that might be wishful thinking if their luck was really that shitty.
"Sixteen being legal and all here," she yells out to Buffy over the racket once they're there. Faith almost doesn't hear her when she replies that she was sixteen when she lost her virginity to a two hundred year old Irishman before disappearing into the crowd, the bitter cackle still ringing in her ears.
She tracks down Buffy a few minutes later, punching out a kid who'd made a wistful grab at her tube-top, and catches her wrist just in time to stop the fist instinctively heading towards her face.
"Let go, Faith – "
"Hell, Buff, I just came here to have a good time and you go and clothesline a minor, so don't talk to me about letting go."
The tension in Buffy's wrist gives out a little and Faith seizes her chance.
"Just shut up and dance."
It's almost their motto now. It's not the first time she's said it to or heard it from Buffy herself. New party anthem blaring, same ol' hybrid remixes, the same ol' groove, the same, now familiar, grind of skin to skin as she pulls her closer under the glare of a street light.
Buffy's usually slow to warm-up, easing her shoulders first to the beat, then her hips. A drunk couple staggers their way, the female half back-to-back into Buffy. It's almost too easy for Faith to make the best of things and end up with an armful of panting blonde Slayer. Everything else just follows:
Sometimes it's just another competition. Their eyes meet and the grinding quickens, almost violently. Under the noise of the crowd, the scatter of moans plucked from flushed lips goes unnoticed by everyone except she and her. She thrusts harder, she returns, she leans closer, so close she can almost lick the trickle of sweat trailing a curve between her rival's breasts, the bass drops, she pulls back in time to maintain a modicum of pride in a public space, she grabs her again, and the show goes on until five in the morning.
Sometimes it's just not worth it. They sway together, clear-eyed, arms loose around each other. Two hundred miles away in London, they'd wound up in a dank, unexpectedly vamp-free alley-way, and Faith remembers she'd lain her head on Buffy's shoulder and sobbed.
Though it's the last thing on her mind now, she knows how it always ends. Once the party's over, they'll go crash-land in some cheap hole with yellowing sheets and damp stains on the ceiling. They'll probably share a bed though Faith's not the comfy, cuddly type. She might kiss Buffy goodnight. Buffy might kiss back. Shit, Buffy might do more if she's in the mood. Faith thinks that might be sliding too far on her relatively short optimism scale.
But somewhere in the mass of writhing bodies, she recognizes the slight curve of a certain pair of lips. As the dance jam breaks down into shards of static, Buffy's smile breaks out into a full-blown grin. Faith doesn't know why and she couldn't give a crap either way.
"Okay, F, what's up with that look?"
She looks up, beyond the crowd, and realizes she's smiling back. "Think I might be getting lucky tonight…"