Black Wonderbra vs. Designer Stubble, 1-1, by dutchbuffy2305
Rating: R
Author's note: Written for Princessofangst, Wesley/Faith ficathon.
Details as follows: Two things you definitely want included in your fic: Angel is dead...er dusty, both Faith and Wes were in love with him, now they only have each other for comfort. One thing you definitely don't want to see in your fic: Fred gaks
Acknowledgements: Thanks to my dear betas, meko00, LadyAnne, ayinhara & mommanerd.
Author's website: http:home.planet.nl/dutchbuffy2305
Feedback: Yes, please, to
Faith's ride sets her down at what must once have been a service entrance. That's where she belongs, hell, that's what she is, service entrance. Never been dress up girl. Fuck. She should have thought about clothes before. Should have cleaned up before the funeral. She's wearing black, only point in her favor, but clean it ain't. She decides to button up her black jeans jacket over the corset top that's pushing her tits out. Great choice of funeral wear, Faith. Someone's going to say it to her, silently or out loud. She never thinks; when will she learn?
She throws a last look into the black desert night. The moon's bloated face peers over the ridge on her right, ready to jeer at her. There's an odd smell of paint now that it's dark, and rustling near her feet. All that's missing is flapping bats and a castle.
Faith slips into the building. It's kind of like a church, a stage with a coffin on display, candles, creepy music. People sit in rows on makeshift benches. So this is an opera house, huh? She's not too clear on what opera is exactly. Something with a fat lady singing. She's sung for Angel, that's for sure.
She looks around for a free spot in the back, where she won't be noticed, but it's kind of full in there; lots of creatures seem to share her preference for the dark and shadowy. Shouldn't be a surprise. She's sort of hopping on one leg, trying to decide between Buffy on the right and not one but two other blonde California bimbos on the left, when a big male hand closes around her upper arm. She manages to suppress her gut reaction to deck the guy just in time.
"Faith," a low voice says. "Glad you could make it."
Christ, he looks so much worse than last time she saw him and even then it was all stubble and bags under the eyes. Kinda sexy, but the deep lines between his eyebrows he has now don't do it for her.
"My sincere condolences, Faith."
So that's what you say. Faith is grateful he said it first. "Yeah, condolences to you too, Wesley."
"I reserved a place for you here."
He gestures to the front row of seats. It's a little too limelighty for her, but she's pretty struck by him having thought of her and saving her a seat. Wow. So he was sure she'd show up, huh? When her butt hits the hard little seat, she slumps down comfortably, but when she sees how straight Wes' back is she glances around and sits like everyone else. The thing in her throat won't let her slump anyway. It's been stuck there, like the Mentos she nearly choked on as a kid, ever since she heard the news.
There's so many rules to remember. Spine straight, smile on, tits off. Rules are like dry-wall, a pretense at solidity, and she wishes she could just punch through them like in an emergency situation, when nobody cares about niceties anymore. She kind of follows trouble around the country, in order to stay away from polite and civilized.
Wesley stares straight ahead at the coffin, wringing his thumbs so hard they pop and pinching the crease in his dark grey pants. Scotch and despair rise off him like steam. He's the kind of guy who rolls over and shows his belly for every guy with a bigger ego and a bigger dick, but Angel got to him good. Wesley even risked her life so he could save Angel's. Not so pretty. Expendable Faith, but then she knew that. Faith hunches up inside her jacket. She's so fucking cold, her hands are like a bunch of frozen fishfingers.
The green demon comes up and sings. He has awful taste in music. She bets even her mom, not known for great finesse, would have hated this lame ballad. Jesus. "Left you alone…Oh, Mammy." Lots of guys have mom issues, but the dark pits that Wesley uses for eyes stare at the coffin so intently she's guessing dad issues. She's definitely among the royally fucked-up, makes her feel right at home and comfy.
Wes' breath stutters and his hand comes up to his mouth. Faith grabs his other hand and squeezes hard. It certainly diverts Wes, because his eyes start popping out and his other hand scrabbles at her fingers. Slayer strength, so useful.
Wesley moves to the stage like an old man with bladder trouble, but he makes it. He says something rhymey and weird. Maybe it's a poem, coz, hell, no one speaks like that. Charlie Gunn comes up and says something about Angel that she understand and likes, even if she can't remember a thing straight after he's said it. Charlie's okay. She wonders where Angel Junior is. Or Cordelia. No one else missing, is there? Nah.
Then her jaw hits the floor with a thump. Spike? Spike comes up and starts talking in that unmistakable voice of his. Faith pinches herself. Spike used to be dead, she's pretty damn sure of that. If the amulet hadn't finished killing him, the sunlight would have. Whoa. She cranes her neck to get a peek at Buffy. Buffy's face is white and blank, like a plaster saint that hasn't been painted yet. With her, that could mean anything.
Spike's finished. Damn, she hasn't heard what he said. Angel, great leader, yadda yadda yadda no doubt. Should she speak too? Will they expect her to? No way she's going to do that. No. Okay, they're all rising. Still like church, but thank the Lord there is no praying. That might make too many of the guests go up in smoke, she guesses. Wesley steps forward to the coffin and puts down a red rose. She knew it; he loved the big lug like guys shouldn't love each other. He hands her a flower. So fucking thoughtful it's creepy. She sniffs the dark red rose and it makes her eyes burn even if it has no scent. It pricks her hands when she clenches around it. Good.
She goes up to the coffin unsteadily, aware of all those eyes sniffing and scrabbling at her like rats, but all she can see is the coffin. How dumb to have a coffin. He's not Bela Lugosi; if he's dead, he's dust. A vase would have been enough, right? She lays down the rose and rubs the blood from the thorn pricks into the fancy dark wood. She looks around for Wesley. Are they actually going to put this in the ground? Right here?
Wesley has returned to his seat already, his face blooming from his stark black and white clothing like a rotten flower, too pale and too dark, sickly orchid and bruised plum. He doesn't react to Faith's look. She doesn't know what she expected of him.
Buffy walks up, half carried on the arm of an Italian looking guy who seems to have stepped straight from the seventies, wide collar, hairy chest, medallion and all. The kind of guy you would never lend a single buck to. If even Faith can spot the walking fashion disaster, how bad is it? Odd boyfriend choice for Buffy; she used to go for these hotties. Automatically she checks for Spike; but he's not in her line of vision right now.
Things fall apart after that. People mill around, talking to each other, eating funeral food, meeting long lost friends and generally having a ball. Faith can't stand it anymore and goes to hide in a little room off the stage, but whaddya know, there's Buffy having a knee-trembler with a familiar guy in a black coat and platinum hair. Her face is flushed and ecstatic, still not seeing Faith. Good for her, though; otherwise Faith would have made a play for him.
Faith leaves the lustbunnies to it and wanders around. She can't stay still long enough to chat with anyone, she can't leave. She wishes Angel had not been a vamp; at least she could have gotten a last look at his face and told him roundly what she thought of him. Where does he think he gets the right to leave like that? He was the one guy she relied on to be around forever, not flit in and out of her life pretending to be there for her, like foster parents and Watchers. She's so fucking mad at him. Somehow, she ends up leaning on the coffin and she'd like to kick it to shreds. Because she's being all self-restraint girl she just hits the damn thing with the flat of her hands. It booms hollowly in the high space. Fuck Angel. May he rot in Hell.
She's kinda getting into it, pounding rhythmically on the wood, feeling it tremble under her hands. She's holding off, but any minute now she's going to curl her hand into a fist and smash straight through the wood. She fucking well's going to see what's in there, even if it's only dust.
A big warm hand catches hers at the highest point of its trajectory.
"Don't, Faith. He's not in there."
"Fuck off, Wesley. You're not my Watcher."
She wants to shoulder past him, but he's right there, very tall and solid. He grabs her arms and tries to catch her eyes. She's not going to be lectured, who does he think he is? She's independent girl now, and he can just go away and cry for his big ol' Daddy figure, none of her business.
"Faith. I know what you're feeling. Believe me, I do," he says in that low foreign tone that isn't sissy at all like it used to be. His voice is different from Spike's, not as rich and rolling and buzzing down low in your stomach, but lighter, more subtle, tickling something just behind her left breast.
The vaguest tendril of dark smoke uncoils at the base of her spine. She wrenches her upper body away, thinking to evade him easily. He's still there. The man's good, even without a great big gun and a needle. It's okay, she can pound him just as well as she can pound a coffin. She swings, misses and ends up flat on her face. How the hell did that happen? She thinks of just staying there, face in the dust, until everything and everyone has gone away. They're laughing and having fun and that's just not right.
Faith rolls over with a grunt. Wesley's still standing there, looming like these tall guys do. She feels scratchy and confined, itching deep inside. She wants to scream, tear out the big thorny throbbing thing in her chest, like there's a rose inside, anything to make the feeling stop. She can't make a sound. Instead, she flips over and launches herself at Wesley. Hurting him would be okay too, and maybe he'll hurt her back.
The fucker refuses to play. Why the hell can't he act out like other people do, she knows so well he's got things and feelings inside him he'd like not to have there. He dances away from her blows, and since when has he become so fast or so strong? He surprises her completely by grabbing her in a great big bear hug and crushing her to his chest. Her nose fills with wool and Wesley smell, which is hot and gamy and male. She struggles and scrabbles and whimpers, but her strength seems to have disappeared. It's a spell, she just knows it is. What's he doing, that 18th birthday thing Giles did on Buffy? Damn him, this is so not the time for that. She writhes in his grip, her hair is flying all over, her jacket is undone and her tits are about to make a bid for freedom. Maybe she can smother him between them if her hands keep up the weak flapping mode.
"Shh, Faith, don't cry, he died a good death, a sacrificed himself for his son, he wouldn't want you to cry, come here, I'll make it better, shh…"
Who's crying here? Nobody but him, that's for sure. Faith doesn't do crying, never has.
Wesley lifts her up from the floor, taking away the last stable point in her universe and hauls her up against his body. What the fuck? Is that a gun she's feeling or is he getting a happy from fighting her? She only likes those games when she starts them herself, mister sexually frustrated Watcher who never ever got laid. She opens her mouth to finally let out that scream and it fills up with smoky Wesley tongue, and what the? Hey! She rears up against him, only succeeding in rubbing her nipples against English wool, and when did her corset fall off?
Her body thinks this is a really good idea, and while his hands burn brands all over her cold flesh, her hips twist her jeans off. Wesley hauls both her legs against his chest, yanks her head back by her hair and thrusts in with alarming accuracy, spearing her like a thrashing fish. She's got nowhere to go, the coffin against her back, Wesley's sweating chest crushing her, her hands desperately seeking a hold on his butt. She teeters over the edge of orgasm, hits rock bottom with a resounding thud, bungees up again just in time to see Wesley's face scrunch up in that universal agonized expression. The more uptight the guy, the louder the grinding of his teeth. She's stares at him, stunned when the hazy blue of his eyes reappears and she takes in the rough stubble on his cheeks from up close, the origin of those red hot burning streaks all over her skin.
Wesley leans on his fists, chest heaving, sweat dripping on her face. Faith lies still, doubled up like a pretzel, thoroughly salted and kneaded and baked. Now what? She checks if they've had an audience, they're in the middle of the fucking funeral room, for Christ's sake, but no one is watching, or maybe they split after the first whiff of frantic fighty sex.
"Okay, Watcher guy, so you got off, worked off some of that grief. Now scram. Next time you try any funny stuff I kill you."
Her voice is all hoarse and pinched, the shouting she guesses. She pushes at the smooth flat male chest above her to dislodge him from her cunt, but he's not playing. She has as much strength in her arms as a fuzzy yellow chicklet, she can't even get Watcher boy off her. Her throat gets tight and she can't fucking breathe.
"Get off me!"
It comes out much more pitiful than she likes, but hey, it works. He face gets all contrite and soft on her and he sets her down so gently she doesn't even know she's on the earth again until he lets go and she doesn't fall. He looks ridiculous, his shirt open and rumpled, jacket at elbow level, dick hanging out of the staid dark pants. Says the girl whose tits are up for grabs, the tits that are still shooting flaming darts to her groin whenever she moves. Now that's she's feeling all free again she notices that her thighs are trembling and her pussy is still throbbing and wet. He did a pretty good job, actually. Way to go, Watcherly.
Wesley's face no longer has the brick red flush of excitement. It closes up, pale and tight again.
"I apologize, Faith. I imagine you won't want to drive back to LA with me, but I can arrange a ride for you, I'm sure."
Now he thinks of arranging a ride for her? When she thinks of the hours she spent getting here, hanging out her thumb and later her ass to get anywhere… He's trying to ditch her as fast as he can. She's not playing, he better know that right away.
"No way, English. You're not losing me that easily. You drive me back and spill all about the whammy you did on me. And if there's a crazy vampire gonna jump me any minute now I wanna know about it too."
"What?"
"You know, what Giles did to Buffy. When she turned eighteen."
His eyes do that funny thinking thing where they go all far away inside his big brain. "Ah. The Cruciamentum! Why would you think I did that to you? You're far beyond eighteen now and I'm not your Watcher anymore."
True. She's free-as-a-bird Faith, but it stings like a bitch when he says he's got nothing to do with her like that. All right, that cinches it. No rides for Faith. He's just a guy, after all, come here, fuck me, fuck off. She should know better than to fall for that again.
She shrugs her jacket over her breasts and does up a few buttons. Her breasts seem bigger without the black push up bra and don't want to be imprisoned.
"Hey. Nice meeting you. Let's not do it again any time soon."
She stalks off, but his legs are so long he needs only a few strides to make up for her dozen tottering ones. The thick seam of her jeans is giving her crotch hell. Maybe it's time to start wearing panties. Join a nunnery. She imagines it to be a lot like jail, and she did fine there. Men.
"Faith. This started out all wrong. I'm very glad you came; I know how important Angel was to you. I'd consider it an honor if you would use my guest room."
Faith could say she's got a glitzy reservation at the Holiday Inn lined up, but he says it like his X-ray vision saw straight through layers of denim and pleather to her lonely five dollar bill. Well, she has X-ray vision too, it's a girl thing. He's fucking scared to be alone and needs a well-padded shoulder to cry on. She can do that. She's still embarrassed about what they just did, he's her former Watcher and he shouldn't have these feelings, it's unnatural, but she's cool with pretending it didn't happen. They can do that ships that pass thing and move on, and it will be so much easier to get a ride in the morning.
The music in his car freaks her out completely. Fucking fiddles scrape at her nerves and it just goes on and on. Finally, she unbuttons her jacket to investigate if her corset can be rescued from a fate worse than death. Not as if she has that many clothes. A Slayer on the run's life is hard on clothes, and Wal-Mart seldom stocks corsets. This one belonged to a scarily tall snaky lady vamp she met one night. Her dresses were way too long, but the corsets fit although Faith's shorter and way more stacked. Come to think of it, hypno vamp lady was English, too.
"Could you do that later, Faith? I need to keep my eyes on the road."
"Well, keep 'em there, lover boy. I'm not asking you to watch."
Wesley's hands clench around the steering wheel. Abruptly, he swerves to the shoulder and halts the car with screeching tires and everything. It's like being in a car chase movie, kinda neat. He attacks the unsuspecting corset, shoving his thigh under her still slick and interested pussy.
Faith holds him off easily. "What's gotten into you, dude? You're my former Watcher, or you're just an uptight English guy I never wanted to get to know that well. What makes you think we're gonna fuck again? Mistakes happen once, not twice."
"Does it have to be mistake, Faith? We could…"
Yeah, right they could. Of course not. He's a rich educated older guy, she's a wanted fugitive, dumb as a post and about as classy.
"Wesley. Not a good plan. We don't need no frickin' attachments in this business, okay? We just saw why. People die, it hurts like a bitch if you let them get close. Right?"
"Right."
Wesley sits with bowed head. The occasional passing car hoots at them loudly. Faith gives them the finger in case they're watching. Wesley grabs her hand and kneads it. There's no rules for a situation like this, when you haven't run away after delivering the verdict. Faith is glad that it's once more confirmed her way work just fine, because this is fucking weirding her out. Check out the handholding, it's just wrong.
"We could work together, Faith. The team…we…I need someone I can work with, who I can rely on. A hero. I'd like a chance to do better as your Watcher this time."
Faith snorts. Really. This is taking sweet talking too far. "Man, if you wanna get into my pants that bad, I'll give you a quick ride when we get to your place, just the once because I owe you, 'kay? You can be upfront about it."
"I mean it, Faith. You're special."
"Fucking right I am. I'll show you how special. I'd get out my handcuffs if I still had 'em, only we did that before, huh? I need a shower and some food first. You drive on."
Wesley obeys silently. Faith is thinking. There's a flaw somewhere in what he said.
"You know what, English? You're not even thinking straight. You can't be my fuck buddy and my Watcher. It's either, or in my book."
Wesley blushes. The weird lighting in the car turns his face black. "You're right, Faith. Does that mean I get to choose?"
What has she said? It did sound as if she was offering him something. She can't have meant that, no ties, no obligations, please. There's just this scary empty place where a solid image of Angel used to live. She doesn't know how it'll feel to be all alone on the road without that comforting figure to fall back on.
"Well, yeah. Anything's fine by me. I could take off in the morning like I planned, or I could…"
Hey, it's freaking her out to say what she thinks he means. Let him say it. His hand brushes her cheek softly and now he's done it. He's made her bawl and she can't stand that. Last guy to see that was Angel, and he'd been there himself. Wesley drives off while she's sitting there like a department store mannequin, too wigged to blink, moisture dripping from her chin. She's so gonna leave in the morning.
END