Still There

A/N: Fuffy. Buffy POV. A little dark, a little sweet, plus a whole lot of angst. Let me know what you think. Written 26.01.04

Wherever I turn, she is there. It is a constant, one on which I can always rely. No matter the day, the hour, the place. If I turn my head to the left ever so slightly, her figure is visible from the corner of my eye, and I have to steady myself to keep from calling out that name. Faith. She's always there.

I don't know why she comes. Whether it's to help me, or if she's just acting out her stalker fantasies. But every now and then, whenever I'm feeling down, or just sick of it all, I pause. And she pauses too. And we take comfort in each other's presence, close yet worlds apart. It's all so very intimate.

She takes care not to make any noise, leave any sign that she was ever there. But she gave herself away a long time ago. Something about her changes the atmosphere, the way the wind moves. Must be a Slayer thing, I suppose. I can feel her, and nothing she does will make it any different.

If I'm at the Bronze, well.. guess where she is too? I stopped watching the door in hopes that I might see her walk in, and give me that cocky grin that's always on my mind. The girl's always one step ahead of me, and I can always count on her to know everything I'm thinking. Like she's reading my mind. I know she is already there, watching. Waiting.

It's nights like these, when the urge is strongest, that I feel like screaming. I want to feel her, really feel her. What I would give to know her touch, and say her name. If I can't do that, then I can at least give her what she wants. Just a little taste. I will make her feel me.

So I stride to the middle of the floor, and slowly, sensually, I dance. Making my way to the edges of the club, I linger in front of the dusky shadows, and run my hands through my hair, all over my aching body. The heat grows ever stronger, and the stakes get unbearably higher. Who will give in first, Faith? I feel your eyes on me, and I know you know.

But then the music stops, and I stare at the darkness, where I know she is hungry for me. Heading straight for the bar, I order a Tequila. Gulping it down, I use it only as an excuse to swallow my own, savage tears. Can't let her see me cry. Never. I leave the Bronze.

When I go home, the bitter cold lashes at my face, at my eyes so I can hardly see. The streets seem empty, desolate in a lonely kind of way. As I run inside, willing the pain not to overtake me, I slam the door. The sound echoes. I wash my face and, as I stare into the bathroom mirror, the most hollow part of myself wishes I could see her still there.