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the_dala at 11:58am on 26/08/2003 under fic: other
the_dala at 11:58am on 26/08/2003 under fic: otherThe first thing I am really moved to write all summer, moved enough to actually start it, is that B/F tattoo fic. And the first character who volunteers as my muse is Buffy, even though I have never been able to get inside her head before.
This is really, really weird. But the fic is going surprisingly well. It's untitled, and this is just the beginning, and it's unbetaed, but I thought I'd post the bit I've written just the same.
Parlor Games (I)
Disclaimer: all characters belong Mutant Enemy, Joss Whedon, the WB/UPN, etc.
"You think you're gonna get away with that? Come back here, you piece of demon shit! I'll tear your arms out and use 'em to beat your balls off!"
A roundhouse kick, a few quick jabs, a nasty right hook and Faith's opponent is on the ground. She lifts her arms in a classic victorious pose.
The lumpy creature on the ground grunts, rolling itself onto its back. Gloved hands reach up to take off a padded vinyl mask, revealing Buffy's face, no worse for wear but more than a little cranky. She attempts to pull herself into a sitting position, but the suit is just too damn heavy. She settles for glaring at Faith, who is now dancing around like a boxer and humming the theme from "Rocky."
"Little help here, champ?"
Faith turns and fixes her with a post-workout grin. "Sorry, B." She kneels to zip Buffy out of the bulky brown suit, which gives the wearer roughly the body fat index of a sumo wrestler. "It's just, things have been so quiet lately, and I've been itchin' for a fight. Guess I went a little Fantasy Island on those last few hits."
"I like when things are quiet," Buffy replies peevishly. She hates wearing that suit; she hates anything that restricts her movements. Except maybe for a really cute brown suede jacket, tight across the shoulders, narrow at the waist, which she spotted at the Gap last week. Unfortunately her nonexistent Slayer pension doesn't really provide a dividend for the fashions she was accustomed to wearing just a few years ago. They're having a hard enough time as it is, but they are scraping by. Giles is working at the Cleveland Museum of Natural History, and Buffy has taken a job with a travel agency. It's mind-numbing paperwork, but it has a good dental plan and it leaves her nights free for patrolling. Xander is slowly working his way up with a local construction company; it hurt to see him lose the regard he had in Sunnydale, but he will gain it back here, she is certain of that. Willow threw herself into her job at a downtown occult store when Kennedy left a few months ago. Andrew has found a calling in a tiny comic shop, and even Dawn is talking about maybe looking for a part-time job. Buffy hates for her to take yet another step into adulthood, but she can see that her little sister craved the independence, and she knows they could use the money.
Faith is currently between jobs; she's had four or five since they had settled in Cleveland six months ago, and she refuses to tell anybody why she quit or was fired from each one. Probably the fact that she's still hiding from the police and possesses only fake forms of ID has something to do with it.
Yanking the suit off of Buffy's legs at last, Faith sits next to her on the basement floor, digging in the pocket of her coat for a cigarette. Buffy makes a face at her and she rolls her eyes, but puts it back.
"It's not like when you need a smoke after sex," Buffy admonishes.
"Actually," says Faith, leaning back on her elbows, "it kinda is."
Now it's Buffy's turn to roll her eyes. She's tired from a long night of unpleasant dreams and an equally long day at work, and their workout session hasn't helped. She hasn't been sleeping well for -- well, for what seems like forever, but for some reason it's particularly bad in Cleveland. Really she would like nothing more than to stretch out on this concrete floor right now, but it's freezing down here. Whatever heat she got from the suit is quickly dissipating, and she shivers.
Faith notices -- she always notices stuff like that -- and tosses her jacket at her fellow Slayer. Buffy murmurs, "Thanks," and snuggles into the worn black leather. This jacket has seen a lot of action, but the only scent it carries is Faith's own, an odd mixture of cheap shampoo, heavy lipstick, and something that smells like cinnamon.
She misses Giles. He's in England now, helping to rebuild the Watcher's Council. He'll be back in just over a week, but still, every time he takes off for the airport, she gets a little fluttering of panic in her chest. She knows Dawn gets the same way, if not worse; they have been left too many times.
Glancing over at Faith, she suddenly becomes curious about the tribal tattoo on her right arm. She has never asked about it before. "When'd you get that?"
Apparently startled out of a reverie, Faith looks at her in question; she gestures toward the tattoo. Faith sits up and rubs it thoughtfully.
"Oh, this? 'Bout five years ago, just before I came to Sunnydale. Don't think it means anything, but I could've missed the explanation, since I was a little wasted at the time. My Watcher was pissed. 'S not my favorite, though."
"There are more?"
Faith nods and pulls her tank top down over her left shoulder, turning so that Buffy can see. It is also black, a perfect miniature of the knife Faith received from the Mayor -- the knife Buffy used on Faith, the night before graduation. There is red ink on the edge of the blade, and a tiny mark below it in red -- it's a droplet, but whether it is supposed to be of blood or tears, Buffy neither knows nor wishes to ask. She and Faith share a look with lots of regret and hurt in it, but also resignation. Their past is their past. They're aware of that.
"That's from when I first got to L.A., before I ran into Wolfram and Hart. And this --" She pulls her shirt up slightly and the waistband of her sweats down, hand sliding surely over her abdomen, and touches a tattoo of a curled fist, in baby blue, four inches south of her navel and one left from her right hipbone.
Buffy reaches out to touch this tattoo, which she somehow knows is the last. It's different from the others, both in its coloring and the way Faith cups her palm partially over it, almost lovingly, almost protectively. But she keeps her body still as Buffy's fingertip brushes the pale surface of the tiny fist.
"When I was fifteen --" Faith pauses as if searching for the words. Buffy's eyes quickly dart up to hers, but Faith does not look at her, only at the blue tattoo. "When I was fifteen I got pregnant and had an abortion. Got that as a kinda memorial."
Buffy isn't sure what to say, but some words come automatically for instances like these. "I'm sorry." She doesn't touch Faith very often -- she doesn't touch anyone much these days, not even Dawn. Whenever somebody hugs her she can feel her body stiffen. She doesn't know exactly when this reticence to touch happened, but she imagines it has something to do with dying, and with Spike.
But now she takes Faith's hand in a halting attempt at comfort. Faith isn't particularly huggable, even if Buffy were sure of how to start one. Her hand is slightly larger than Buffy's own but otherwise similar, callused and scarred from countless battles over the years, a logging truck's worth of rough wooden stakes. The fight, the Slayer destiny, is in their hands, literally and figuratively.
Slowly Faith's hand tightens in Buffy's, pressed against Faith's stomach. They say nothing for a few moments, and Buffy is just beginning to panic at the awkwardness, when Faith speaks softly.
"I never told anyone that before."
"I'm glad you told me." And she is, although it would have been more accurate to say that she was glad Faith had someone to tell, or that Faith trusted her enough to tell her, or that anyone trusted her enough to tell her something like that. But that is what slipped out first, and it isn't untrue.
Faith's dark eyes flit suddenly to Buffy's. There is a question in them, a question which she has seen before, in many different circumstances. Normally this would be the point where she would become uncomfortable and withdraw, ignoring that silent half-formed thought, and then the moment would be quickly forgotten by both of them.
Instead she meets Faith's gaze squarely, and she does not remove her hand. Her heart is pounding and she can feel the pulse at her throat jumping erratically, but she does not move her hand. It's always felt different with Faith, because of the Slayer thing -- they're on the same wavelength. Slayer 102.9, fewer commercials and on-the-hour traffic reports. Two halves of the same whole, she used to think, one dark and one light. She wonders idly if Faith's darkness diminishing means that her own increases; at first she dismisses this as ridiculous, but then she thinks of fucking Spike, and letting Willow slip into evil, and being unable to connect to any of the Slayer potentials, and costing Xander an eye, and admitting to Giles that if saving the world required her sister's life she would let her die. And she isn't so sure.
That's all I have so far. I need Meg and Beth to beta this reeeeeeal bad.
This is really, really weird. But the fic is going surprisingly well. It's untitled, and this is just the beginning, and it's unbetaed, but I thought I'd post the bit I've written just the same.
Parlor Games (I)
Disclaimer: all characters belong Mutant Enemy, Joss Whedon, the WB/UPN, etc.
"You think you're gonna get away with that? Come back here, you piece of demon shit! I'll tear your arms out and use 'em to beat your balls off!"
A roundhouse kick, a few quick jabs, a nasty right hook and Faith's opponent is on the ground. She lifts her arms in a classic victorious pose.
The lumpy creature on the ground grunts, rolling itself onto its back. Gloved hands reach up to take off a padded vinyl mask, revealing Buffy's face, no worse for wear but more than a little cranky. She attempts to pull herself into a sitting position, but the suit is just too damn heavy. She settles for glaring at Faith, who is now dancing around like a boxer and humming the theme from "Rocky."
"Little help here, champ?"
Faith turns and fixes her with a post-workout grin. "Sorry, B." She kneels to zip Buffy out of the bulky brown suit, which gives the wearer roughly the body fat index of a sumo wrestler. "It's just, things have been so quiet lately, and I've been itchin' for a fight. Guess I went a little Fantasy Island on those last few hits."
"I like when things are quiet," Buffy replies peevishly. She hates wearing that suit; she hates anything that restricts her movements. Except maybe for a really cute brown suede jacket, tight across the shoulders, narrow at the waist, which she spotted at the Gap last week. Unfortunately her nonexistent Slayer pension doesn't really provide a dividend for the fashions she was accustomed to wearing just a few years ago. They're having a hard enough time as it is, but they are scraping by. Giles is working at the Cleveland Museum of Natural History, and Buffy has taken a job with a travel agency. It's mind-numbing paperwork, but it has a good dental plan and it leaves her nights free for patrolling. Xander is slowly working his way up with a local construction company; it hurt to see him lose the regard he had in Sunnydale, but he will gain it back here, she is certain of that. Willow threw herself into her job at a downtown occult store when Kennedy left a few months ago. Andrew has found a calling in a tiny comic shop, and even Dawn is talking about maybe looking for a part-time job. Buffy hates for her to take yet another step into adulthood, but she can see that her little sister craved the independence, and she knows they could use the money.
Faith is currently between jobs; she's had four or five since they had settled in Cleveland six months ago, and she refuses to tell anybody why she quit or was fired from each one. Probably the fact that she's still hiding from the police and possesses only fake forms of ID has something to do with it.
Yanking the suit off of Buffy's legs at last, Faith sits next to her on the basement floor, digging in the pocket of her coat for a cigarette. Buffy makes a face at her and she rolls her eyes, but puts it back.
"It's not like when you need a smoke after sex," Buffy admonishes.
"Actually," says Faith, leaning back on her elbows, "it kinda is."
Now it's Buffy's turn to roll her eyes. She's tired from a long night of unpleasant dreams and an equally long day at work, and their workout session hasn't helped. She hasn't been sleeping well for -- well, for what seems like forever, but for some reason it's particularly bad in Cleveland. Really she would like nothing more than to stretch out on this concrete floor right now, but it's freezing down here. Whatever heat she got from the suit is quickly dissipating, and she shivers.
Faith notices -- she always notices stuff like that -- and tosses her jacket at her fellow Slayer. Buffy murmurs, "Thanks," and snuggles into the worn black leather. This jacket has seen a lot of action, but the only scent it carries is Faith's own, an odd mixture of cheap shampoo, heavy lipstick, and something that smells like cinnamon.
She misses Giles. He's in England now, helping to rebuild the Watcher's Council. He'll be back in just over a week, but still, every time he takes off for the airport, she gets a little fluttering of panic in her chest. She knows Dawn gets the same way, if not worse; they have been left too many times.
Glancing over at Faith, she suddenly becomes curious about the tribal tattoo on her right arm. She has never asked about it before. "When'd you get that?"
Apparently startled out of a reverie, Faith looks at her in question; she gestures toward the tattoo. Faith sits up and rubs it thoughtfully.
"Oh, this? 'Bout five years ago, just before I came to Sunnydale. Don't think it means anything, but I could've missed the explanation, since I was a little wasted at the time. My Watcher was pissed. 'S not my favorite, though."
"There are more?"
Faith nods and pulls her tank top down over her left shoulder, turning so that Buffy can see. It is also black, a perfect miniature of the knife Faith received from the Mayor -- the knife Buffy used on Faith, the night before graduation. There is red ink on the edge of the blade, and a tiny mark below it in red -- it's a droplet, but whether it is supposed to be of blood or tears, Buffy neither knows nor wishes to ask. She and Faith share a look with lots of regret and hurt in it, but also resignation. Their past is their past. They're aware of that.
"That's from when I first got to L.A., before I ran into Wolfram and Hart. And this --" She pulls her shirt up slightly and the waistband of her sweats down, hand sliding surely over her abdomen, and touches a tattoo of a curled fist, in baby blue, four inches south of her navel and one left from her right hipbone.
Buffy reaches out to touch this tattoo, which she somehow knows is the last. It's different from the others, both in its coloring and the way Faith cups her palm partially over it, almost lovingly, almost protectively. But she keeps her body still as Buffy's fingertip brushes the pale surface of the tiny fist.
"When I was fifteen --" Faith pauses as if searching for the words. Buffy's eyes quickly dart up to hers, but Faith does not look at her, only at the blue tattoo. "When I was fifteen I got pregnant and had an abortion. Got that as a kinda memorial."
Buffy isn't sure what to say, but some words come automatically for instances like these. "I'm sorry." She doesn't touch Faith very often -- she doesn't touch anyone much these days, not even Dawn. Whenever somebody hugs her she can feel her body stiffen. She doesn't know exactly when this reticence to touch happened, but she imagines it has something to do with dying, and with Spike.
But now she takes Faith's hand in a halting attempt at comfort. Faith isn't particularly huggable, even if Buffy were sure of how to start one. Her hand is slightly larger than Buffy's own but otherwise similar, callused and scarred from countless battles over the years, a logging truck's worth of rough wooden stakes. The fight, the Slayer destiny, is in their hands, literally and figuratively.
Slowly Faith's hand tightens in Buffy's, pressed against Faith's stomach. They say nothing for a few moments, and Buffy is just beginning to panic at the awkwardness, when Faith speaks softly.
"I never told anyone that before."
"I'm glad you told me." And she is, although it would have been more accurate to say that she was glad Faith had someone to tell, or that Faith trusted her enough to tell her, or that anyone trusted her enough to tell her something like that. But that is what slipped out first, and it isn't untrue.
Faith's dark eyes flit suddenly to Buffy's. There is a question in them, a question which she has seen before, in many different circumstances. Normally this would be the point where she would become uncomfortable and withdraw, ignoring that silent half-formed thought, and then the moment would be quickly forgotten by both of them.
Instead she meets Faith's gaze squarely, and she does not remove her hand. Her heart is pounding and she can feel the pulse at her throat jumping erratically, but she does not move her hand. It's always felt different with Faith, because of the Slayer thing -- they're on the same wavelength. Slayer 102.9, fewer commercials and on-the-hour traffic reports. Two halves of the same whole, she used to think, one dark and one light. She wonders idly if Faith's darkness diminishing means that her own increases; at first she dismisses this as ridiculous, but then she thinks of fucking Spike, and letting Willow slip into evil, and being unable to connect to any of the Slayer potentials, and costing Xander an eye, and admitting to Giles that if saving the world required her sister's life she would let her die. And she isn't so sure.
That's all I have so far. I need Meg and Beth to beta this reeeeeeal bad.
creative