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Some things, you should simply wash your hands clean of (politics, dogma, anything longer than a one-night-stand). The knowledge is high in Faith's skill set, no lie.
But Dawn has the most beautiful eyes in the world, and they're stripping Faith bare as she hovers over the younger woman, skin to skin and breast to breast, and does things with her fingers that would make Buffy blanche. Of course, that was how this had begun, you know – a flash of spite, a sting of lust spun sideways, and who's to say which of the two played prime instigator – but there's something gone wrong in the middle. Something in the way that the sheets are warm and crumpled, the air loose around them, and the sunlight chewing at the curtains; something in the way that the two of them are tangled, again. Something in the way that Dawn arches into Faith's touch, and whispers Faith's name; something in the way that Dawn's eyes watch her, watch her, from behind trembling lashes and tumbled hair. Dawn's skin is glowing beneath Faith's hands, beneath the dressing of the sunlight; Dawn's face is bright. Faith tries so hard not to think about it, tries so hard not to see, as she presses deeper – her fingers curving, Dawn's hips shaking – as she drags her mouth against pale neck and pulse beat; as she feels the heat pool in her own self, answering Dawn's hold upon her. Faith tries so hard not to feel, as Dawn falls apart and falls together; as Dawn falls into hers.
Because Dawn has the most beautiful eyes in the world, and Faith tells herself that she can kick the habit any time she wants.
Rinse, repeat. Repeat.