It’s damp; it smells of rotting wood and standing water and stale blood, and fuck her sideways for even knowing that last one. In this hidey hole she’s wriggled her way into, there’s only the occasional drip, but distantly, echoed flatly and nearly swallowed by the concrete, she hears the sound of battle.
B’s here somewhere. She knows it. Call it a tingle. She followed it all the way to this shady-ass suburban burg, and it hasn’t failed her yet. She scrapes her elbows raw pushing out of the vent; she twists and lands on her feet, stake already in hand. She wishes now she’d lifted that axe she saw shining on the Watcher’s wall while she was busy punching him until he told her what she wanted to know. Too late now.
A vamp steps out, wrinkled as a discarded Trojan and slavering like some dumb mutt. He goes down easy enough; tries to yell, but only gurgles before he’s dust.
She moves on. She trots. Hate to get there too late, miss all the action. Can’t let B have all the fun.
Can’t have that.
Something lurches in a cage. It smells like sickness. It hisses; it’s only as she passes that a sliver of light falls across its mouth, and she sees why it doesn’t shout.
Battle. Screams of triumph and pain. Faith gets to wide wooden doors; she swings them open with one shove of her hands, and they slam against concrete walls, and for a just that single moment the whole world is still, like someone’s painted a painting of blood and teeth and dead things right before her eyes.
“Faith,” Buffy shouts, murderous – Faith knows that sound. She loves that sound. She lets it fill her, her throat all the way down to her pussy, and she grins at the stench standing upright and toothy before her. She stakes him, and she laughs.
This is joy.
Soon enough only she and Buffy remain. They stare at each other across a battlefield of dust. “I told you to stay in Cleveland,” Buffy says.
“You ain’t the boss of me,” Faith says, sauntering forward, swinging her hips. It’s a lie. It’s a delicious, jagged-edged lie. Buffy’ll prove it soon enough; might do it right here on this filthy concrete, and Faith might let her.
But Faith’s only half libido. The other half is belly, and it’s rumbling now. “French fries.” She takes another step forward. “Big Mac. Couple of apple pies, and one of those fake-ass shakes that doesn’t have any dairy in it.”
Buffy’s mouth is set, but her eyes give her away. She’s intrigued despite herself.
“And if that ain’t enough, you could always go downtown.” Faith shows her teeth.
Buffy rolls her eyes, turns away, but Faith knows that look. It’s a look that promises tongue in Faith’s pussy, teeth on her clit. “As long we make it fast. I already hate this fucking town.”
Faith grins after Buffy through the gloom. Moments like this, she almost wants to hold Buffy’s hand.