"Here in the moment I belong
In a waking dream
The night is young but isn't long
If you know what I mean...
Oh it's beautiful the thought of what might be
Close your eyes so you can see"
Faith can feel it right down in her bones. It keeps whispering to her with every thud of bass. Free...free...free...I'm free...
She prowls into the middle of the dancefloor, and it's all thrusting hips and shaking breasts and go go go slip slide up down with the beat.
And she laughs, apparently at nothing, but she's laughing at everything. All the times she dreamed of this, counted hours upon hours in her little cell, remembered the songs playing and the girls dancing and the scent of smoke and sweat and lust in a crowded club and it's all back now...
She can taste it. And freedom tastes like sex alcohol everything.
She curves her body around the vocals and spins, just a little. Her eyes are half-lidded, focused on nothing, when — suddenly —
Platform shoes and a tight tight dress that's leaving nothing to the imagination. Bleached blonde hair (platinum-blonde suicide-blonde), and her eyes are fucking luminous, little club lights focusing their beams on her. And the music changes as the girl with the spotlights for eyes makes their way down.
Faith is still dancing, still moving with the beat, her arms swaying around her waist, her hips sliding against the melody, but her eyes never leave those high-beams, even as the girl walks right up to her, the crowd magically parting in front of her.
"Faith," she says, her voice so soft and so gentle that it seems impossible for it to travel through the club.
But Faith hears it perfectly. "B," she says, her voice just as quiet, but never soft and never gentle. "How'd you know?"
"Just did." Buffy moves up next to her and, slowly, begins to dance, matching Faith's rhythm and movements in a way only another slayer could. "Enjoying your first night of freedom?"
Faith shrugs effortlessly, blending it with another slow sweep of her hips. "Dancing...you...what more could a girl want?"
Buffy turns, resting her back against Faith's chest, still keeping time to the beat as she manages nearly full body contact. "Maybe more?" she asks.
Faith closes her eyes, feeling the sparks of electricity when Buffy's back brushes up against her nipples (rock hard now, it's been so long...), and shudders just slightly. "What about him?" she asks, her mouth so close to Buffy's perfect ear, the tiny little diamond stud sparkling with all the colors of nightlife.
They both glance over to the bar, where Mr. Tall, Bleached, and Sinewy is ordering a beer and refusing to make eye contact.
"He's nothing..." Buffy replies. She turns back around, her legs wrapped around Faith's left thigh, her left arm sliding around Faith's waist. "Wasn't that something you taught me? Men don't matter — it's what we have that's important?"
Faith licks her too-dry lips, one hand slowly making its way up Buffy's back while the other slides down her own vinyl pants, trying to find something to grasp onto and yank this entire scene back into reality. "Buffy..." And it's almost a gasp, almost a moan, and it takes her a few more seconds to get a grip on herself. "...What're you doing?" she finally asks. "What the hell are you doing?"
"A lot's changed since you were put away," Buffy whispers, her mouth next to Faith's ear, lips pressed against the faint scar tissue of earrings yanked out in one too many prison fights. "I dumped one, gained a sister, died, came back, slept with another, and you've just been counting the minutes in a dull grey cell..." She darts her tongue against the scars. "Have you changed at all, Faith?"
Faith pulls away, just a little, her body still keeping with the dancebeat even as the song changes again. It's softer, slower now, and when the white halogen lights flash on Buffy, Faith sees what she already knew.
Buffy, on the other hand, didn't. "I—I guess you have..." Buffy says, her eyes never leaving Faith's face.
It's that heartbroken tone — that world-shattering stutter that changes everything, and with the next reprise of the chorus, Faith's taken Buffy into her arms, dancing so close and so tight that it doesn't look like dancing at all.
Not even when she pushes the stake into her.
Buffy's eyes are sharp and shiny with tears before they flash into dust, a strobe light catching the slightest sparkle of diamonds and girlhood.
Faith stands there, refusing to dance again, even as the music swirls around her. She can feel his eyes on her from the bar, those gaping pools of black and death, and she's not looking up from her feet. Ever.
A man slowly stumbles through the crowd, grasping Faith's sleeve just as she's about to turn away from it all. "You've done it..." he says, pushing up his glasses and staring at her with amazement. "We...we thought—"
He's silenced when she finally looks up, her eyes trapping him. "I don't want to hear it," she says, her voice nearly as old as her looks. The music changes, and the strobe lights flash against her grey hairs and wrinkles, silvering her in her age.
"I don't want to hear anything."