Disclaimer: Joss Whedon owns BtVS and my soul; I have a keyboard and too much spare time.
Warning: Femmeslash! Mild Violence! Dancing Chickens! Or maybe not that last one. But if lesbians are knives make you unhappy, this fic is only for the masochist in you.
A/N:This is a response to the 30Kisses challenge on liveournal, and will eventually be a series of dream-based drabblesanswering each of the thirty themes issued as part of that challenge.I might add that Faith is slightly out of character, but only because she is dreaming, and thereforenot nearly as affectedly sassy (nor as coherent). So that's my excuse.
4. our distance and that person
There are two of us in the bed, on top of her good-girl comforter, all bleach-white, cotton-soft and entirely vanilla, but I don't mind. It smells a little like Summer, which I guess is appropriate, seeing how she's the one who sleeps in it. I'm on bottom, for once, and that's what makes me sure this is a dream.
She's propped herself up above me, one hand next to my head sinking into the mattress and the other ghosting along my arm like the not-quite promise of a kiss. Her blonde hair falls forward, illuminated by the sun shining through the window, and tickles my cheek. I think she's smiling.
"Buffy."
My voice stirs the silence, but her fingers keep tracing my collarbone.
"What?" She doesn't look at me.
I breathe in, out, and it takes longer here.
"Why did you bring that?"
Buffy glances to the intricately designed knife gleaming on the nightstand, and leans in to kiss my neck.
"It's just so I don't forget your name."
You could always ask, I think, but she's doing something distracting to the spot just below my ear, so I don't say anything.
"Besides," her voice has a tone of admonishment now, "It's not like I'm the only one who brought something along with me."
My head turns slowly to the shameless, toothy yellow grin beside me. His eyes are crinkled, and he reminds me just a little bit of Santa Clause. If Santa Clause were a Family Circus-reading politician with plans for becoming an ancient snake-demon and eating a whole lot of people.
"Hiya, firecracker," he greets me cheerfully, voice warm and dry like toast.
"Dad?" I ask, while Buffy plants a series of butterfly kisses along my temple.
"Well, not technically, but I suppose we don't need to concern ourselves with the details," he chuckles.
I turn back to the solemn face above me.
"I really should—"
"I know." She sits up. "You're Faith. I remember the system."
The Mayor creeps onto my shoulder, a lithe little garter snake that seems like it should be familiar, or will be someday. His small obsidian eyes watch me, wise, knowing, and he settles over my heart.
A sound like an exhalation of breathe rushes through the room, and the sheers billow out with the breeze as detached steel stabs through scaly black skin into my chest. The sun is bright, and I hear wind chimes ringing dreamily from outside. Blood starts to bead up around the knife, seeps through the cotton of my shirt. It'll be a bitch to wash out if I ever wake up.
Noises continue to stream in lazily from the open window; tires rushing along gravel like waves against a shore, a child protesting the early conclusion of his playtime, the creak of an opening mailbox. The blood spreads without a sound.
We'll have to make the bed soon. Little sisters shouldn't sleep on graves, and I have places to be.
A/N: I'm not entirely sure if garter snakes' eyes are black. But, for this fic at least, I am bending biology to my whim and making it so. References to "This Year's Girl" include the garter snake in Faith's dream about picnic-ing with the mayor and the bed-making scene in which Faith alludes to Dawn's arrival. Reviews are like pizza without the post-overeating grossness. Feed me, Seymour!
