Title: Making it Count
Author: snowpuppies
Fandom: BtVS
Character/Pairing: Faith/Buffy
Genre: Romance/Fluff
Rating: R
Highlight for Warnings: **sexytimes**
Disclaimer & Distribution: Recognizable things aren't mine but the fic is. Please don't archive or distribute without asking.
Summary: Sequel to Five by Five by Infinity. Takes place in the months following.
Word Count: 1,400
x-posted to: TBA

A/N: for fan_flashworks, 24: Amnesty - Five things
A/N2: Also for my kinda_gay Prompt Table #15 - Wet

Beta'd by velvetwhip




Making it Count

or

Five Times Faith's Life Resembles the Twilight Zone


i.

Sometimes, she still thinks it's a dream—warm, soft body tucked into the curve of her own, soft-apple-scented hair tickling her nose, smooth, supple flesh under her fingers…

After twelve days of waking up with Buffy plastered against her, one might think she'd have a clue.

And she does…it's just…

Unbelievable.

After everything between them, after the fights and the blood and tears and utter disaster that was their hate-love-hate relationship, well, it kinda boggles her mind that she's allowed to slide her hand up underneath Buffy's cami to cup a perky breast.

It's even more unbelievable when—after a few moments of twisting and tugging on distended nipples—she slips her hand down, down, beneath the waistband of Buffy's panties and into her dampness…

...and Buffy presses back, speaking her first words of the morning: "Mmmm, Faith."



ii.

She's lived hand-to-mouth and back again before. She's done things for money that she'd rather not think about in the light of day (or dark of night, or really, any-fucking-time), and has, more than once, gone dumpster-diving for breakfast (and lunch, and dinner).

Not that she's throwing a pity-parade; she knows that as rough as she's had it, there's always someone out there that's had it worse. If time in prison—and mandatory group therapy (no joke; that Freud was a sick fucker)—has taught her anything, it's that life could be a hell of a lot harder.

Point is: Faith's not picky.

Not in the slightest.

She's always made do with the crappy motel room; the ramen-noodles-for-breakfast-again; the scratchy, questionably clean sheets; the ratty Goodwill jeans. Basically if there's anything sub-standard in life, she's had it and probably eaten it, worn it, or lived in it.

Mostly, she's fine with that. She's not a princess, after all. (She'll save that title for someone else.)

So living in Buffy's pocket again is…weird.

But it's not so much the quality of...stuff that stops her in her tracks, it's something so much more difficult to swallow.

"Hey."

"Hey, Faith. How was patrol?"

"Same old. Three vamps and something slimier than Dawn's last science experiment."

"Appetizing."

"Yeah. Hey, you got Chinese?"

"Yup. Here, have some."

"Ooh! Pot stickers."

"Eat 'em up."

"But there's, like, a whole order here."

"Yep. They're not my fave."

"Why'd you order them? They have some kind of special?"

"…"

"Come on, B. I didn't ride the short bus, but I can't read minds."

"They're your favorite."

"Yeah, so?"

"So…I ordered them."

"Oh."

"Yeah. So eat up—they're getting cold…short bus."

"So not funny. If I weren't stuffing my face, I'd kick your ass."

"Like to see you try."

"Not tonight, honey. I've got a headache."

In hindsight, she knows it's all normal, but Faith? Is about as abnormal as they come.

Still, Buffy pushes past every puzzled look, every barrage of questions, slowly but surely wearing her down.

Jericho's walls were never so eager to fall.



iii.

"Good steak?" Buffy's got that fond, sappy look that always creeps her out.

"Did the grunts and groans not give me away?" Because emphasizing her own lack of class is a sure-fire way to wipe that expression off B's face.

"You did sound disturbingly like last Saturday night."

"You mean when you did that thing? With your tongue?" Okay, so going the porno route is always a classic, and she'll take a leer over a creepy smile any day.

"Yup. That's the one."

"Damn, B. That was some hot shit." It was.

She writhes—yeah, she fucking writhes, get over it already—against the sheets stained in sweat and come and even—maybe, just a few—tears. Her hips jerk as Buffy's tongue curls around, forming a little hot, wet tunnel for her to thrust into—sweet Jesus, it's good. She can't see straight and the world's a little twisted, and with a heave, she flips them over, grinding herself down on Buffy's lips, her tongue, her cheeks and chin…

It really, really was.

"We are hot shit."

"Well, there's that."

"So…" Uh-oh. When Buffy goes for casual, it usually ends up with Faith in a fluffy, girly dress at someone's—coughcoughXanderandDawn'scough—wedding. She braces herself. "…when you're finished, you want to go catch a flick?"

"Not that mushy thing." A flick's not a bad idea, as long as she isn't subjected to the torture that is Hugh Grant, and she doesn't think punching holes in the movie screen will win her any bonus points between the sheets.

"No. Dawn and I are going to see that one on Tuesday after her last class. I was thinking something more…explodey."

"Sounds g—" Her breath catches in her throat. "Wait. Dinner? Movie? Is this…?" They've done the sex, and the sex, and the sex. And okay, there was some actual sleeping sleeping together done, but this…?

"Shut up."

"B, is this a date?" She doesn’t know which answer she wants to hear.

"Shut up." Buffy's blush gives her away.

"I…don't know what to say." Her heart soars and her stomach is gripped with fear, but she's new leaf girl, and the chick that beats up her dates and drives them away is still sitting in a prison cell miles away.

"How about you eat your steak, and I'll look up show times?"

"Yeah." She takes a deep breath. "Yeah, okay."




iv.

She's been the bit on the side. More than once, actually.

It's one of her defining characteristics.

Hell, in the dictionary under "dirty little secret" it's got her picture, right there in black and white. Or it would if "dirty little secret" was in the dictionary. The Urban Dictionary, maybe.

Either way, the point is that even with Buffy, Faith doesn't expect a lot; hot sex and nice dates are more than she's ever gotten, so she's not in a hurry to rock the boat—this is a gift horse she'll ride until it throws her off, stomps on her stomach, and shits in her hair, truth be told.

She knows to keep her distance.

It's not really difficult. With the gang all spread out across the globe, the "Scooby meetings" of the past only happen a few times a year—mainly for Christmas and the annual Apocalypse in the Spring.

So at this year's gathering, she plays it safe—keeping on the opposite side of the room, crouching on the hearth instead of plopping down on the sofa next to B, and braving the waters of the latest Willow-Kennedy Smackdown during dinner.

Overall, she's double-oh-seven; she really should volunteer for more covert missions—she'll have to talk to Giles about it in her next yearly review.

The only problem? She forgets one tiny, little thing: when Buffy Summers wants something, she's unstoppable.

Okay, so she forgets two small things. The other? Mistletoe.

So when Buffy begins to stalk across the room, she doesn't sweat it. Everyone knows they get along now…finally.

But Buffy doesn't stop.

It isn't until the last second—so close she can feel B's breath on her cheek—when Buffy's eyes flick upward, and she finally remembers the green sprig hanging in the corner.

And she doesn't have time to move, to dodge, feint and strike in play, because all of a sudden, Buffy's eyes are slipping shut and her lips are soft and moist and Faith's eyes pop open, because they're in the middle of everything, everyone, and this was always rule number one with Buffy before, back in Sunnydale. But they're not in Sunnydale, and Faith's almost getting used to Buffy throwing her for a loop, and then small, warm hands slide into her hair and her eyes fall shut almost automatically. Her mouth falls open and welcomes Buffy inside.

They're kissing—really, wetsexyhot kissing—in front of everyone.

But when Buffy breaks away, the only thing Faith sees is her smile.




v.

On a Tuesday, she finds Buffy's pajama pants in her drawer, next to her work-out pants and in front of her socks.

That Wednesday, she notices a strange pair of jeans in the closet—a little too narrow for her own curves.

Sunday, a pink electric toothbrush joins her frayed Oral-B by the sink, and on the following Tuesday, Buffy's latest issue of Cosmo is on the nightstand.

The next Friday, she presents Buffy with three empty drawers and a copy of the key.









FIN.










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