Buffy Summers looked like a girl who had never smiled in her life. Faith's been told this is not the case. By the Watcher – what was his name again? Wesley Something-Price. He'd showed up in her life a week ago, all English stiffness trying to hide how soft he really was. Faith hated him on sight, the twitching, flapping idiot trying to fit into a role that was too big for him.
Kinda like she felt when she looked at Buffy Summers.
She'd been told that Buffy had power. She had seen it, too. Buffy was fast and strong. Buffy had taken out that mountain of a man, a snarling beast, and she was what, about the size of a thirteen-year-old?
She'd been told that if Buffy died, she'd be powerful, too.
Faith only saw Buffy once before the training started.
Not under whatshisface, of course – the Watchers had better martial arts masters than that. Thing was, she was told that these were apocalyptic times, and even the Slayer could drop at any time. So that's why they wanted the next in line in tip-top shape. That meant extensive training – weapons, martial arts, demon recognition, lore.
Faith worked hard. Really hard. She wasn't that into the whole demon lore thing – her philosophy pretty much was that, if it had horns, likely it was okay to kill it. She did like learning how to beat things up, no matter how often that meant that she went to bed with every muscle aching and her joints screaming for relief.
And all the time she knew that she could never, would never beat Buffy Summers.
That wasn't so much a driving thought as a thought to put the fire of anger and frustration into her belly, until every target seemed to bear Buffy's face.
Slayers heal well, but not impossibly well. Faith watched the water find strange pathways down Buffy's thin back, catching in the knots of scars.
Faith stood shivering on the cold tiles of the Watchers' training hall gym showers and found her heart beating fast, but not for the reason she could have anticipated.
'Look at you, B,' she said, a smile curling her mouth.
Buffy turned around.
Faith could never beat Buffy Summers, but this she could have.
She pressed her breasts tight against the burn scars running down Buffy's back and sank her fingers in Buffy's sex. Buffy Summers never smiled, but her mouth fell open now in gasps and whimpers as she grasped the bed post. Faith watched for the wood to break under her super-girl fingers even as she kissed those scars, the bumps and lines, marks of Buffy's battles and her pain.
When the power rushes her, the first thing Faith notices is the resounding crash as the target she had been hitting splinters and shatters into a thousand pieces. The second is the realization of what this means – no more Buffy Summers.
It's been a long, hard night, but a good one; her hands are still warm with unholy blood, and her heart is pumping it through her, calling for another fight, sex, anything. She sees the witch-girl Tara in the corner of the mess hall, huddled into herself and over a book, as if she wants to fold into herself and disappear.
"Hey," Faith says as she parks her bottom at Tara's table. "Wanna see my scars?"
It's not the worst of lives.