Faith's POV

(uh huh…you read that right)

I turn on the shower and step into the spray. I feel dirty. But I don't think any amount of hot water and soap is gonna absolve me of my sins this time. Maybe I should be bathing in Holy Water instead.

The water takes a while to get warm, but I stand beneath the spray anyway. One thing about this place – the water might not be as warm as I normally like it – but the water pressure's enough to spray the skin off your bones. Comes in handy when the guards need to hose one girl off of another. And it's not any of that fun girl-on-girl action either. More like hosin' down a Death Match between two giant dykes.

It took me a little time to get used to group showers. At first I could feel everyone gazing and leering at the new fish in the pond. Not that I blame them. When you get used to the other stuff on the menu for so long, a new entrée always makes mouths water.

But enough of badly camouflaged metaphors….

When I'd gotten the notice that I had a visitor, I was honestly a little shocked. Angel had just been in to see me a few days ago, and he's usually a long time coming between trips. Not that I blame the big guy for not coming to see me more often. I know he's got a lot on his plate right now – things more important than visiting a murderer in prison.

I worried, as the guards ushered me down the corridor towards the visiting area, that some Big Bad was giving the LA gang trouble or that someone had died and he was breaking the bad news to me.

But I never expected to see her sitting on the other side of the Plexiglas when the prison guard pushed me through the heavy metal doors.

She stares at me and I'm sure my face reveals my disbelief. It takes me a few moments to gather my wits, and the guard pressing his hand in the center of my back doesn't help any. I feel like I'm on a pirate ship. Forced to walk the plank. And Buffy Summer's hazel-green eyes are the shark-infested waters I have to dive into.

I watch her pick up the black plastic phone from the receiver and stare expectedly at me. I'm forced a few feet closer to her and the little visiting booth where I've shared so many deep, revealing, and painful conversations with her former lover.

Why is she here?

As I continue to stand, staring at her, I feel a rough hand on my shoulder push me down toward the seat. "Sit. Down," the guard gruffly instructs me. I'd been on the wrong end of a guard baton too often when I first turned myself in, so I obey. Reluctantly.

I pick up the phone on my end, my hands handcuffed together in front of me. I bring the phone up to my ear. And wait.

"Hi," she speaks into the receiver. There's no malice in her voice and it mildly surprises me. But then again, there's not really much emotion of any kind in that one-worded greeting.

"Hey yourself."

I try to slip on my mask of nonchalance. The last time she saw me, I was bruised and broken and defeated. Not much has changed though. I still feel entirely vulnerable when she looks at me.

I can't even imagine what's brought her here. Shit must have seriously hit the fan or she's just bored with her life. But it's not like I've got anything better to do. I suppose getting to see her beats another Judge Judy episode in the television lounge. Dude. You have no idea how much the chicks in this place dig on that show. It's embarrassing, really.

"I…" she starts and stops. She fidgets with the black cord that connects the plastic phone to the wall. "My mom died."

My stomach lurches at her words, and I quickly forget the stoical front I was trying so hard to stand behind. "Oh God, B," I breathe. "Was it…was it a vamp? Some kind of demon?" I genuinely worry.

She shakes her head, her eyes squinting to keep the tears at bay. "Brain aneurism."

I have no idea what that is, but I know it's not supernatural. The tightness in my stomach lightens up a little bit. At least this can't be something Buffy will blame herself for, right?

Who am I kidding though? The Great Blonde One has always had a martyr complex to go with her Weight of the World shtick.

But regardless of that, the thought of Buffy's mom being dead forces me into a kind of thought-coma. Joyce had been sick. I wonder if she'd been sick when I'd held her hostage. No, I quickly reason. Buffy wouldn't have let her sick mom stay on her own, not visiting to the point that her mail had piled up like mountains. This had to have been recent. Quick. Unexpected.

Joyce had always been so kind. And a good cook on top of that. And how had I treated her the last time I saw her? I socked her in the face, stole her make-up, and racked up her credit cards.

I don't know what to say to Buffy. She isn't crying, but the void of emotion in her voice tells me she's breaking down on the inside and just trying to put on a brave face. I want to tell her how sorry I am. But they're just words. The unwanted apologies and condolences of a murder.

"It…it was about a year ago," she says. "I'm sorry no one told you."

I swallow hard. Did Buffy just apologize to me?

"S'ok, B," I murmur into the phone. "I know you must have had a lot of things on your plate lately."

I wonder if that's the only reason she's here. To tell me about her mom.

In the next cubical over, one of my fellow inmates is bitching loudly to her sister about her baby daddy not visiting enough.

Buffy releases a frustrated sigh. "I hate talking to you like this."

Her words make me squirm uncomfortably in my plastic chair. "You don't have to be here, you know. Nobody made you come and nobody's making you stay."

Her hazel-green eyes slightly widen. "I don't mean I hate talking to you," she self-corrects. "I…I hate talking to you like this." She waves her free hand around, motioning to our plastic cubical. "It's like you're a caged-up animal."

"That's because I am an animal, B," I snort. "I wouldn't be locked up like this if it weren't true."

Her mouth twists into a deep frown and I can see the beginnings of wrinkles on her forehead. Life's been hard to Buffy. I'm sure some of her premature aging has to do with me, too.

I smirk when an option pops into my mind. My cellmate had just had a visit from her boyfriend on the outside and she wouldn't stop bragging about it.

"What?" Buffy asks with a suspicious eyebrow crooked. "What are you smiling about?"

I give her an innocent grin and lean closer to the glass that separates us. "There is another way we could talk, B," I rasp lowly. "Alone, I mean."

"Am I supposed to be waiting on pins and needles?" she deadpans. "All this time in prison must have messed with your ideas of what's good suspense."

I ignore the jab because what I have to say is gonna mess with her head. "It's called a conjugal visit," I snicker.

I can't help but laugh at her expression. Her jaw goes lax for a few seconds, but her mouth snaps back up.

"When can you arrange one?" she asks, her voice low. Her eyes shift in her head and she nervously peaks around as if trying to ascertain if anyone can hear the topic of our conversation.

Now it's my turn to stammer. Luckily, her face has turned a million shades of red as well.

"I don't mean…I don't want to…It would just be…" she struggles for the word, "…nice to talk to someone who doesn't look at me like I'm about to shatter into a million pieces."

She takes a deep breath and I can see the pain fall away from her face. That's what we Slayers do best, it seems. Shove our emotions down so deep, even we can't find them.

I stand up abruptly. Her showing up and being entirely civil and so…human makes me want to scream.

"Come back around this time tomorrow," I order curtly, pushing my chair back to its original position. "I haven't been crackin' skulls these past few weeks," I tell her, "so I'm probably due some perks."

She looks up at me from her still-seated position and nods wordlessly. Then I hang up the phone, turn, and exit the way I came.

When Buffy shows up the next day, around the same time as her previous visit, she's a vision in her peasant skirt, tank top, cardigan, and gladiator sandals. I can't help but chuckle at the sight of her though. I mean, who dresses up like that to visit a prison?

When the guard opens the heavy metal door for her, and we're face-to-face for the first time since the last rooftop encounter, I can only stare at her.

"Hi," she says shyly, not quite looking at me.

"Nice outfit," I grunt. Smooth, Lehane.

Her bronzed face slightly pinks in an endearing way, and she tugs at her skirt. "I had to borrow some clothes from Cordelia," she reveals. "It's…it's a long story."

I hear the guard behind me chuckle to himself. Dirty pervert is probably already picturing what he thinks is about to go down between the two of us.

I turn my head and give him a dirty look. "Clock's a tickin'," I spit. "Where's our room?"

The broad-shouldered man adjusts his gun belt and nods in the direction of a short hallway. "Down there," he says.

Buffy leads the way and I obediently follow. I try hard to not admire the way her small, pert backside moves beneath her flowing skirt. I try. Doesn't mean I don't reward myself with an eyeful though. Girlfriend's always had a tight, smokin' body and even though she died yet again since the last time we've seen each other, death's been good to her body.

Yeah…when Angel broke that news to me a handful of months ago, I seriously didn't think I'd ever recover. I couldn't explain it at the time – why her death would have that kind of impact on me. At first I was just feelin' sorry for myself that I'd never get to apologize to her and couldn't complete my 12-step program. But after a few revealing conversations with the prison head-shrinker, I came to realize there was much more behind my feelings of dread and remorse.

Buffy walks into the small 'visiting' room and looks around briefly. "Are there cameras in here?" she asks after she's checked out the space. There's not much to look at, but then again the room isn't really used for conversations.

I pass by her and sit down on the double bed. It's the only piece of furniture in the depressing room. "Not that I know of," I state in a voice that's infinitely calmer than I really feel. I grab onto my knees to keep my hands from shaking.

She stands in the center of the room and fidgets anxiously. I know she's starting to rethink coming to see me. She sucks her bottom lip into her mouth and begins to worry her teeth against it.

"Don't worry, B," I chuckle. "They're not gonna know this isn't a real conjugal visit."

The next thing I know, she's flying at me on the bed and pressing her lips hard against mine. Her hands seem to be everywhere like she's suddenly sprouted a few extra pairs. I can only appropriately react, however, when she pushes her candy tongue into my mouth.

"B," I gasp, retching myself away from her clinging, warm figure, "w-what the fuck are you doin'?"

"Please. I just…I just need to feel something," she sobs, pulling at my arms. "I just feel so empty and confused. Y-you can't understand what I've been going through the past few days."

The look in her eyes makes something inside me break. It's aching and needy and for a split-second I entertain the idea that maybe she needs me. But I know that's not what this is about.

I feel utterly rattled, but I can't let her know that. I stand up and pace away from her a few steps, my back to her. I can't understand?

"Try me," I say. I turn on my heels and see her face, full of confusion. "We've got time," I remind her.

She stands again and closes the distance between us. I feel my body involuntarily bristle when her hand glides up the side of my face. I don't expect such a soft, intimate touch from her. A broken nose, yes. This gentle caress, no.

"I'd rather not waste our time talking about me," she says in a quiet voice.

Her eyelashes flutter. Her hazel-green irises drink me in and it feels a little like falling. She once again, this time more gently, presses her lips against mine. I really thought we were going to talk. But if this is what she'd rather do with our time together, who am I to say no?

My hands go down her back and I pull her closer to me, our cores pressed tightly together. Her skirt seems like a good idea now, and I can't help but wonder if she'd had this planned from the beginning. Leave it to B to plan everything.

Hesitantly I reach behind her with my left hand. My fingers grasp the cotton material of her skirt and I begin to bunch it, raising her hemline higher with every handful of cotton. After a few seconds I feel my hand against her bare ass cheek. She doesn't resist, and instead deepens our kiss, so I move my hand lower and between her slightly parted legs until my fingers find the tiny strip of material that covers the back of her pussy.

Buffy surprises me, moaning quietly when my fingers make their first intimate contact with her. And even though I'm only touching her thong, we both know that only a sliver of fabric separates her from my fingertips. I can feel the warmth of her sex and I can feel her wetness, too. But I stop there with my fingers just barely grazing the modest material covering her pussy lips.

It's the point of no return.

I press my fingertips into the fabric and Buffy breaks our kiss to breathe in sharply. Her eyes are closed tightly and she's clutching my shoulders now, but she hasn't moved and she hasn't pulled away.

I continue looking at her beautiful face as I remove my left hand from her backside and instead push my right hand between our bodies. I guide my hand under the front material of her skirt, sliding my hand up her leg and between her soft thighs. Her skin is so soft, it makes me want to cry. Everything about prison is cold and hard and she's a reminder of just what I'm missing while being locked up here.

I take a deep breath and push my fingers under the edge of her panties. When they finally come in contact with her bare pussy lips, we both release a ragged breath. I didn't realize she'd been holding her breath as well. Her timidity is soon forgotten however, and I feel her suddenly thrust herself against my hand.

Her arousal is thick and slippery and as soon as my fingers find their way between her lips, it's like a dam breaks inside of her. I avoid my desire to push a finger into her. I want to be swallowed up by her, I want to be buried between her delicate folds. But not just yet.

Buffy grunts quietly and I wrap my free arm around her svelte waist as she continues to grind her sex against my hand. I move my fingers beneath the tight confines of her underwear, seeking out her small nub of flesh. When I find it, she slumps in my hold. Again and again she rubs herself against my fingers and I struggle to keep contact against her clit as she wiggles and continues to spill her juices onto my hand.

She clutches at my back, holding me against her as she masturbates herself on my hand. All I can do is hold her and enjoy the ride. Despite my desires to tease her to the point of frustration, she's determined to get herself off…right now. She wants to cum, and I know it.

Despite her frustrated cry of protest, and my own insanity, I pull my hand out of her underwear. Her face looks flushed and a little embarrassed by her own enthusiasm. The old me would have taunted her about letting down her guard like that. But I bite my tongue, and instead push the light cardigan off of her shoulders.

If this is really going to happen between us, I want it to be more than teenagers fumbling over their clothes. The sweater falls easily down her slender, toned arms and falls into a heap on the floor. I pause long enough to kiss the tops of her lightly-golden shoulders. She tastes a little like sunscreen, but I certainly don't mind.

I pull at the bottom hem of her form-fitting tank top. She wordlessly raises her hands above her head to help me. I pull the material up, mindful of her hair, and painfully aware with each inch of revealed skin, that she's the most breathtaking woman on the planet.

When I carefully remove her bra and drop it to join the rest of her clothes, I stand for a moment, just admiring her naked torso. Her abdomen is flat and slightly muscled from years of self-denial and discipline. Her breasts might be small, but they stand high on her chest, capped by two pink nipples. And her collarbone might be the most delicious looking thing I've ever seen.

I immediately dip my head and suck a small breast into my hungry mouth. I feel her body shiver beneath my mouth, and I place my hands in the small of her back, holding her where I want her. Her nipples are stiff and supple in my mouth and I take my time, worshiping her flesh.

I flick the tip of my tongue against the soft, spongy nubs, smiling when I hear her small gasps of pleasure. I rotate between her hardened nipples, sucking the nubs into my mouth and gently biting them between my front teeth.

When her nipples look painfully erect, I release them from my mouth and push her back onto the double bed. She still doesn't say anything though. Just keeps looking at me with those big, expressive eyes.

I reach beneath her skirt yet again and my fingers nervously fumble to find the elastic top of her underwear. She lifts her hips and ass off of the bed, allowing me to pull away the final barrier between her pussy and myself. She's still got on her skirt, but something about her still having it on turns me on too much to bother taking it off of her.

I hover above her reclined form momentarily, just resting on my knees. Her feet are flat on the top of the covers, and her knees are in the air like she's waiting for an OB/GYN to check her out. That thought alone should turn me off, but the prospect of eatin' out Buffy Summers has me salivating too much to ruin this moment.

I glide the palms of my hands beneath her skirt and up along her smooth inner thighs. Her breath is ragged when my hands touch her this way, and I'm surprised I still remember how to breathe. I push the soft cotton material of her skirt up her slender tanned thighs. My stare is intense, memorizing every inch of her unblemished skin.

When I finally have her skirt pushed up around her waist, the material bunched up to reveal her naked pussy, I hesitate. It's not that I've never done this before – I have – and I know I'm damn good at it. But this is Buffy.

As if she can read my thoughts, she reaches up from her prone position and gently grabs the back of my neck. She still doesn't say anything, but I'm only too happy to be pulled down and relocated between her thighs.

I suckle at her perfectly shaped clit and Buffy releases a tortured moan like she's been waitin' for this to happen all her life. Truth be told, I've been waitin' a helluva long time to get between her perfect thighs.

The shape of her clit, the softness of her pussy lips, the way she tastes. It's all perfect. I shoulda known though. Everything about Buffy is perfect, so why wouldn't her pussy be the same way?

A few months ago and I'd probably be gettin' off on the rush of power I feel being able to make her moan and writhe on the bed sheets like this. But that's who I used to be. Now I hardly recognize the girl I am. I'm more like a shell of my former self. But at least I don't wanna kill her anymore. And from the way she's groaning out my name, something tells me that killin' me is the last thing on her mind, too.

I slide a single digit between her pussy lips and bury it to the hilt. I can't help the loud groan that escapes my mouth when I feel how warm and tight her pussy is. She's wet. So wet. And the clicking noise her pussy makes when my finger slides in and out is nearly enough to make me cum in my prison jumpsuit.

I piston my finger in and out of her clenching hole while still sucking on her clit. The entire time she's crying out and clenching onto the metal bed frame. The bed didn't look all that stable to begin with, and I half expect her to break the bed, honestly.

With one final thrust, and one final moan, her sex clamps around my finger and she cums with shuddering gasps.

It's all over far too soon.

I pull my finger out of her and wipe her juices off my cheeks with the back of my other hand. When I pull myself off of my knees, I notice her body is slightly shaking.

"B…Buffy…are…are you okay?" I ask, mildly shaken by her reaction. I didn't go too far did I? Maybe this…this wasn't what she had in mind?

I hear her sniffle loudly. "I-I'm fine," she says in a shaky voice. "It's…It's not anything you did, I promise."

I don't know what to say to her. I can't apologize for the many mistakes I made in our collective past. She's already made that clear. So instead of words, I crawl up on the double bed beside her huddled body. And I just…I just hold her until our hour is over.

The warning buzz comes five minutes before our time is up. Buffy slowly pulls away from me, wiping away at her nearly dried tears with the backs of her hands.

She stands up and slowly dresses, and I look away. Her back is to me as though we're strangers and she's uncomfortable being naked in my presence. It's as though what just passed between us never really happened.

She doesn't look at me when the door opens; she just thanks the prison guard curtly and goes down a hallway towards Freedom.

I stand up from the bed, leave the now-empty room, and head back towards the showers.

TBC