author notes: once again, thank you all for the reviews, they make me feel special. YUP.

OH. and I now have a website. it has most of my stories. and some graphics (most of them are Buffy/Faith). I might also decide to write smut (maybe), which will definitely be going up on my page (because no smuttyness on ffnet)

So go look! it's under the homepage link on my ffnet profile. yes, I know I'm kinda being a publicity whore.

disclaimer: Don't own Buffy. Title belongs to Brand New.

timeline: hmm, it's kinda vague. I'd say fifth season, but Angel has Faith doing her redemption in Sunnydale to help out with the Glory situation, instead of prison.

The Boy Who Blocked His Own Shot

The blood drip, drip, dripped to the muddy ground from the slash in her stomach.

(You wish you could just leave her to bleed herself dry amongst the headstones and cold grass. You want to leave her bleeding with a razor smile and a bitterly cheerful 'Have a good night, Faithy.')

Somehow you know that Faith won't take herself to the hospital, and the idea of her dying causes a dull pain in you chest.

"Thanks, B." This is what she says when you tell her to come home with you, with a soft voice and dimpled smile, and that nickname (you still hate it).

It makes your heart skip a beat.

"Yeah, well, I really don't want your death on my conscience because you let yourself bleed to death." Your words sounded like ice, and make you cringe internally as you spin on your heel and set off toward your house. She stands a second, before limping after you.

In case she's forgotten (she hasn't), you haven't forgiven.

(You wish you could have enjoyed the wounded look in her eyes, but it's hard when the words you say to break her cut you just as deep.)

She's sitting on your bathroom counter with no shirt and the blood still running, and she's trying not to look at you. She's so tired. You wear her down with all your cold indifference and rigid grudges. Even Xander tries harder to give her a second chance.

You clean the injury and she winces.

(You wish you could make it hurt more. You wish you could splash it with iodine, so it would burn and sting as you stitched it as slowly and painfully as possible.)

You can't bring yourself to stop the gentle dabbing with the warm washcloth, or the whispered apologies when the needle goes in a little too hard. You can't stop caring.

Your hands are still on her sides when you finish, fingering the soft gauze and softer skin. Her eyes are whiskey brown and you can't look away.

(You wish you didn't want this.)

Where is all your self-righteous anger and spite when you need it?

"I don't care. I don't care about you." You don't believe the words even as you say them. You just wanted to break the moment. Break the suffocating longing stuck between your heart and lungs.

It breaks you a little when she tries leave, before you can see the crestfallen look. Before you can see you've hurt her. Again.

(You wish you could still enjoy crushing her spirit.

You just wish you could have told her to get the hell out of your house.)

You grab her wrist and tug until she's close, and then closer, until your arms are around her waist and your lips are against hers.

And then you're in the hallway, and then you're in the bedroom. And then you're on the bed, kissing and moaning and feeling.

It's too slow and too fast, and you're not ready for this at all. But you want it so bad.

Faith is under you with her hands shaking, trying to unbuckle your belt. Your hands cover hers, helping her undo the clasp as you nuzzle her cheek.

(You wish it could be rough and angry and then over. You wish you blame it on the post-slay hornies and an extreme lapse in judgment.)

It's not supposed to be like this.

It's soft touching and longing gazes, whispered names and pleas in the dark. Gasps and trembling and bright colors behind closed eyes.

Faith is whimpering and you're teasing.

And then you're touching the scar (the one you made). You wonder if it still hurts and you lean down and brush your lips against it. When you look up Faith is crying (it still hurts).

(You wish you could roll off and laugh derisively, before shoving her away. Leave her vulnerable and naked and wanting.)

You kiss the tears on her cheeks and give her what she needs.

She's sleeping in your bed and in your arms and you have been watching all night.

(You wish you could just bring yourself to shake her awake and hiss that you hate her. That she was the biggest mistake you've ever made.)

Your fingers are interlaced with hers, and you can feel the heartbeat in her wrist thudding in time with yours, and all you really want to do is hold tighter.

And when she opens her eyes looking sleepy and confused, the only words that come are the ones you can't say, so you kiss her hard and say them over and over in your head.

(You wish you could hate her. You wish you couldn't see the good person she's trying desperately to become.)

You're not ready to love her.