Chapter Text
After leaving the hospital, Faith’s first stop had been the high school. What remained of it, at least, which wasn’t much. Just a blown-out shell of a building. She had stood across the street, feeling the stink of the place come wafting on the breeze, wondering if the neighbors ever complained—and, if they did, what kind of canned explanation the authorities gave them. Exposed sewer pipes? Some kind of residue from the blast? But Faith was a Slayer, and she could damn well smell the rank occult edge to that stench.
The girl in the hospital, the one whose clothes Faith had taken—she’d said Mayor Wilkins had died in the explosion. Well, his aims had certainly been occult enough. Faith had identified the reek of the ruined high school all but instinctively: it was the stench of his failure.
She had not gone inside. There hadn’t seemed to be much of a point. Instead she had gone wandering aimlessly through the streets of Sunnydale, remembering all over again how much she hated this shitty little town. The sweaty Californian heat of it. Its vacuous civilians, who lived in the midst of death and were cattle-eyed with their denial. It had almost been enough to make her miss Boston.
And then, just like that, her fortunes had turned. Now here she was, not twenty-four hours later, and she felt good. You wouldn’t expect her to feel good, not after the shit she’d been through. And yet.
It all came down to the body she was wearing. Slayer or not, her own had felt decidedly stiff when she woke up in the coma ward, but B’s tight little bod was nice and limber with use. Plus, original-flavor Buffy, the bitch who had stabbed her and murdered her boss, was probably halfway to the big house by now, wearing the face the authorities associated with Faith Lehane. It wouldn’t bring the Mayor back, but as far as revenge went, Faith figured she could’ve done way worse.
Buffy was gone, and tomorrow morning Faith would be on the first plane out of California, and that alone was worth celebrating. And what better place for a night of celebration than the Bronze?
Well, lots of places, honestly, but none of them were in Sunnydale. And besides, there was something about the Bronze, a kind of comforting timelessness. Oh, sure, they’d switched out a chair here, a table there, but it didn’t matter. They could have replaced every last bit of furniture and repainted all the walls besides, and Faith wouldn’t have noticed, because the shitty music, the smoky light, the tang of spilled beer and teenage hormones, all of that would still have remained exactly the same. It was like she had never left.
She’d been here for an hour or so, which she had spent dancing and drinking a couple beers and taking a hit off someone’s reefer in the bathroom, and by now she had a decent buzz going. She’d made some friends, too, club friends, the kind whose names you never bothered to learn. There were always guys willing to strike up that kind of friendship, in Faith’s experience, as long as you were pretty enough and your clothes were tight enough, and her outfit—black tank, leather pants, and Buffy’s sluttiest high-heeled boots—made guys act very friendly indeed.
One of them had just pussied out of downing his beer, and she was ragging on him, perhaps a little more harshly than he deserved—beer had always made her a little mean; she got that from her mother—when a voice spoke behind her: “Hey, Buffy.”
Turning, Faith found herself face to face with Willow Rosenberg, who was wearing a slightly breathless girl-next-door smile that made Faith feel all sorts of things—fury, contempt, an annoying touch of envy. Had Willow ever smiled at her like that when she was still in her own body? Or had she gone directly from the bland politeness of a new acquaintance to those judging, hateful stares? Speaking of bitches…
Faith made sure her thoughts didn’t show on her face. “Willow,” she said, narrowly avoiding the fatal mistake of saying Red, then looked to the girl at Willow’s side. “And, uh…” Fuck.
Willow gestured to the girl, who appeared to be of the eye-contact-averse tribe. “Buffy, this is Tara.”
“Hi,” said the friend. She could talk, then, at least.
“So we’ve never met,” Faith said, a half-question which earned her a weird look from Red and a shake of the head from Tara. “Cool. Just—having a thing with names.”
“Tara was in my Wicca group,” Willow supplied.
Right—Red had been dipping her toes in the mojo even before B put Faith under. Wicca group. Christ. The whole magic business struck Faith, who had been all sharp elbows and scraped knees even before she became the littlest Slayer, as deeply boring. With a noncommittal uh-huh, she turned to saunter over to a nearby love seat.
Willow trailed after her, and Tara trailed after Willow. This struck Faith as perfectly apt. B and her ducklings. Follow the leader.
“So, what’s up?” Red asked. “Patrol a no-go?”
“Got tired,” Faith said, plopping down on the seat. “You know, the whole Faith thing. I let off some steam.”
“Good for you. You shouldn’t work yourself too hard.”
“That’s my philosophy.”
As she lifted her legs into the air to rest them on the table in front of her, Faith couldn’t help but eye them appreciatively. The novelty of inhabiting Buffy’s body had yet to wear off. It was new to the point of being disorienting, actually. The change in stature, in the dimensions of her physique—she suspected her Slayer senses were the only reason she could walk without keeling over.
Some parts were newer than others. Without thinking, Faith spread her legs, and Willow froze.
Oh. Right. Faith’s first impulse was to close her legs again—but no. If Red wanted to look, let her. Her fascination with Buffy had been obvious from Faith’s first day in town. Poor girl had probably dreamed of a sight like this. Besides, if Faith had felt any inclination to hide what B was packing, she would’ve worn looser-fitting pants.
Coming up behind, Tara glanced sidelong at Willow, then followed her gaze—and quickly looked away, her face coloring. Even as she took a seat, looking about as relaxed as a rabbit at a wolf convention, Willow remained standing, staring open-mouthed.
When Faith felt the moment had stretched long enough, she said, “Willow.”
No response.
“Earth to Willow. You still with us?”
At last Willow recalled herself, blinking and drawing a deep breath as she returned to the present. “Oh—sorry,” she said, and perched nervously on the armrest of Tara’s chair, her face turning red (hah) as well. “Just… zoned out a bit.”
The classy thing to do would’ve been to cross her legs or something, but Faith had never been very classy, so instead she began bobbing her knee nonchalantly—the better to lure Willow’s gaze back to Buffy’s crotch. “Yeah,” she said, grinning. “I could tell.”
She couldn’t fault Red for staring. Imagine Faith’s surprise in the bathroom at 1630 Revello, when, head still spinning from her jump into a brand-new body, she had slid Buffy’s panties down to find that. Back when she first came to Sunnydale, she’d whiled away a few dreary hours in her shitty motel room fantasizing about what lay between B’s legs. As it turned out, her imaginings had been wicked far off the mark.
It had made her first bath in her new body an even more interesting experience than she had anticipated.
One thing she couldn’t figure out was how Buffy did it. How, all throughout the year they had spent in each other’s orbits, had she hidden this very interesting fact about herself? There must be some trick to how she made her crotch appear so deceptively flat. For all Faith knew, it might be actual magic. Hell, maybe Red had helped. What was a little glamour between friends?
In the end, Faith had decided it didn’t really matter. Unlike her sister Slayer, she had never felt compelled to be a good girl who didn’t rock any boats. In fact, she had always liked provoking people, and walking around with a fat bulge in her skintight leather pants seemed like a great way to do just that. She was a pretty girl with a big cock, and if anyone had a problem with that, well, Faith felt confident she could take them in a fight.
“Are you seeing Riley tonight?” Willow blurted, apparently apropos of nothing. “You know, ’cause, I have it on good authority that he’s good for the blowing off of steam.” And as she spoke, her eyes wandered down to Buffy’s crotch again, then snapped back up to Buffy’s face. Ah. Apropos of something, then.
Right: the action figure. Faith had seen him through the window at Giles’s, with B in his lap. She settled back in her seat and laced her fingers together behind her head, a slow grin spreading across her face—in part because of Red’s utter lack of a poker face, but mostly due to her suggestion. Now there was an idea. Head back to campus and take a long, close look at B’s new frat-jock lover. Maybe take him for a spin herself. “You know, I just might.”
There was another pause. Faith eyed the many-headed throng bumping and grinding on the dance floor, wondering idly whether she ought to stick around any longer or just excuse herself now. It was possible she had wrung all the fun she was going to get out of the Bronze tonight.
“Anyone want a soda?” Willow asked, seemingly just to fill the silence.
“Water,” Tara replied, with a shy glance up at Red, thus confirming that she knew at least two words. Faith just shook her head in response to Willow’s look.
As Willow rose and headed for the bar, Faith couldn’t help but notice the way Tara’s eyes followed her: a lingering look, a hint of a smile on the lips. Tara may have been the all-time wallflowering champ, and her fashion sense was equal parts grandma and flower child, but all the same, Faith was noticing, she was kind of sexy. There was this thing her eye did when she smiled…
Willow and Tara—the two of them had arrived together. And that look…
Interesting.
Faith’s pants creaked faintly as she put her feet down on the floor and leaned forward. The sensation of the leather pressing against Buffy’s cock was delicious. “So,” she said. “You guys been hanging out a lot lately, huh?”
“Yeah,” Tara said, giving her a timid glance. “She’s, um, she’s really cool.”
Faith felt her smile grow. So Willow wasn’t driving stick anymore. Now that she thought about it, Oz had been conspicuously absent this entire time. He must be out of the picture entirely. Man—things had changed while she’d been out, hadn’t they?
And this—Willow and Tara—it was clearly new. After all, Willow had only now chosen to introduce Tara to Buffy, and Faith knew from experience how close B was to Red.
Suddenly, Faith was reconsidering her decision to visit Buffy’s boytoy. She might have done it just to put a ribbon on her revenge—but no. B was gone for good, and what she’d never find out couldn’t hurt her. Come tomorrow Faith would be gone too, living large in Buffy’s body. She had one night left in Sunnydale, and there was still one person around who hadn’t yet gotten her just desserts.
Besides, she’d seen the guy, and he wasn’t nearly as interesting as Willow’s girl.
Tara was fidgeting and not quite meeting Faith’s gaze, and usually that kind of mousiness would’ve made Faith mean, especially with a couple of beers in her. And, sure, she did feel a twinge of scorn, but she shoved it down. She’d had an idea, and she was going to have to play her cards carefully if she wanted to make it a reality.
She glanced towards the bar, trying to gauge how much time she had to work. Pretty crowded over there. Even just asking for a glass of water might take a while. Good. “Oh yeah, she’s great,” she said, taking pains not to sound too obviously insincere. “Nothing beats having old Will in your corner. So—Tara, was it? You from around here?”
Tara shook her head. “No, I m-moved here from out of state. For college.”
“College girl, huh,” Faith hummed, allowing a flirtatious smile to bloom on her lips. “Smart and pretty.”
Tara only smiled down at her lap. Though bashful and maybe a bit awkward, her smile seemed genuine enough. The way her cheeks went a little pink certainly was.
In the silence, Faith made a show of unabashedly eyeing her. Sure, the clothes were kind of dowdy, but even so they couldn’t quite hide that body.Juicy was the word. “I gotta say, Willow’s got good taste.”
That frightened the smile from Tara’s face, and she stared down at her lap, picking at her skirt with fretful fingers, saying nothing.
“Relax,” Faith said. “I’m not gonna flip out on you or anything. Just saw the way you were looking at her. No offense, but you were being wicked obvious.”
“It’s just, w-we—Willow, I mean, she’s, um, she’s not—”
“Not out yet?” Faith shrugged. “Well, hey, it’s a big step. Although, if I had landed a girl like you, I definitely wouldn’t ashamed of her.”
Tara blinked at her. “You’re—? W-Willow said you had, um, a b-boyfriend…”
Right. Faith racked her brain, and the name turned up; Willow had said it just a few minutes ago. “Yeah—Riley. Well, I like hot people. Guy, girl, it doesn’t much matter to me.”
But Tara didn’t seem to be listening. She was picking at her skirt again, her eyebrows drawn tight in an expression of worry or hurt. “You, um…” Lightning-fast, she glanced up at Faith, then down again. “You th-think she’s ashamed of me?”
Faith wanted to cackle—Lehane with the slam dunk!—but she made an effort not to let her triumph show. Instead she knitted her brows and let her mouth open in an O, as Buffylike an expression as she could muster, as if she were horrified that she could have been so misunderstood. “No,” she said, drawing the word out in a way that unmistakably made it mean yes. “She… Well, I mean, she introduced you to me, didn’t she?”
Though Tara didn’t reply, her expression was plain enough: Faith’s reply had not reassured her as much as she would’ve liked. Nothin’ but net.
Red chose that moment to return. She handed a glass of water to Tara, who thanked her a bit too quietly, then sat down in the chair next to Tara’s. She’d managed to compose herself while waiting at the bar; she even managed to look Faith in the eye without taking a detour down to Buffy’s junk.
“So,” she said, “what’d I miss?”
“Oh, me and Tara were just getting to know each other,” Faith said airily. “You know, making small talk.”
Willow glanced at Tara. “Anything interesting?”
“Um, B-Buffy was just telling me about Riley,” Tara said.
And that was interesting. It wasn’t a lie, not exactly, but it also clearly wasn’t the whole truth. Tara’s timid blue eyes were on Willow the whole time she spoke, and yet it felt almost like a signal to Faith. As if Tara were passing her the ball, to continue the metaphor.
Faith, whose patience for the slow and subtle approach could only stretch so far, made the shot. “Right,” she said, confidentially, sitting forward in her seat. “Speaking of boyfriends—you meet anyone new yet, Will?”
Red did not disappoint—she froze like a deer in headlights. Tara’s eyes were still on her, yet she pretended her girlfriend wasn’t even there. For a long moment she said nothing at all; then, finally, quietly: “Um… no. Not yet.”
Tara sat back in her chair, and, yes—that was unmistakably a look of hurt on her face.
“That’s a shame,” Faith said, in her best Buffy voice, dripping with saintly sympathy. “You know I hate the thought of you all alone, with no one to take care of you.”
“I’m—I’m not alone,” Willow said, lamely. She looked distinctly unhappy—and she should, after a fuckup like that. Clearly, assertiveness was not one of Tara’s strengths, but everyone had a limit. Old Red was in the doghouse now.
“Of course you’re not. With friends like us.” Faith shot Tara a can you believe this bitch? look, and was delighted to get a cold lift of the eyebrow in response.
The music throbbed and bumped. Drum machines and synthesizers. Over by the bar, there was the sound of glass shattering, followed by a round of applause. Faith watched Willow fidget, wondering if she would suddenly grow a pair and own up to the truth—but nope.
“Well,” Faith said with a shrug, “maybe you’ll find somebody tonight.” She eyed Tara again, not bothering to hide it. “Lot of pretty people here tonight.”
“I don’t know,” Willow muttered, awkwardly.
Ah, whatever. Tormenting Red was all well and good, but Faith was getting restless. She’d never been much for sitting still. She wanted to move her body. “I feel like dancing,” she said, kicking off the couch and bouncing to her feet. “You guys wanna join me?”
“No, you go ahead,” Willow replied. “Tara’s not really Dance Girl, so…”
“Sure she is,” Faith said, and held her hand out to the girl in question. “Come on. I’ll show you the ropes.”
Tara hesitated for a moment, but it seemed Faith had correctly identified her as the kind of girl who had trouble telling people no. “O-okay,” she said, very quietly, and took Faith’s hand. And as she stood—oh, this was delicious—in the dim light Faith could make out the blush coloring her cheeks.
Willow just sat in her chair, frozen, staring up at Tara’s hand in Faith’s.
Relax, Red, Faith thought, with savage triumph. It’s just good old Buffy. She’d never come between you and your girl. It would be wrong. “Don’t worry, Willow,” she said, in Buffy’s voice, as she led Tara away. “I’ll keep her warm for ya.”
They reached the dance floor just as one song ended and another began: a slow-dance number, sultry and sinister, all bassy back-alley throb. It was almost too perfect. Tara was quite a bit taller than B, but all the same Faith played the guy, pressing close, putting possessive hands on Tara’s waist. There was a nice bit of give to the flesh underneath her fingers. Red didn’t like ’em stick-thin, then. A woman after Faith’s own heart.
Hesitantly, very hesitantly, Tara put her hands on Buffy’s shoulders, and they began to sway in time with the music.
“There you go,” Faith murmured. Their faces were mere inches apart, close enough for Tara to hear her over the slow throb of the song. Close enough to kiss. “See, this isn’t so tricky, is it? The trick is to just shut your brain off. Your body knows what to do.”
As she spoke, she tightened her hold almost perceptibly, pressed her hips against Tara’s. She could see Tara’s lips flutter as her breath caught in her throat, and that flush on her cheeks was now seriously dark. God, this is almost too easy, Faith thought—just as Tara met her eye with startling directness.
Despite herself, Faith felt a sudden prick of unease. And in spite of Tara stammer, her words only added to that feeling: “I know you’re n-n-n-not—”
“Not what?”
“Not her.”
Without realizing it, Faith had stopped in mid-sway. “What? Tara, you’re not making any sense,” she said, putting as much wide-eyed Buffy-Summers concern into the words as she could—but it was no use. There was no doubt in Tara’s eyes, only a kind of quiet, defiant assurance. Where had that come from? Clearly there was more to this girl than Faith had thought. “How’d you know?”
“Y-your aura.”
Faith let out a long breath. “You’re a witch too.” It wasn’t a question.
Tara nodded wordlessly—then, as Faith’s grip on her waist tightened, her eyes shut tight and a notch of pain or fear appeared between her eyebrows. Perhaps she was regretting speaking up. It had definitely been the wrong move.
Fuck. Things had been going so well, but now it seemed the evening might take an ugly turn.
It had really been the wrong move. Faith frowned. It wasn’t even a gamble, really; usually, when someone gambled, they had at least the remotest chance of coming out ahead. Unless Blondie had a serious death wish, this didn’t make sense. “Red tell you about me?”
Tara nodded again, a tight, frightened little motion of her head.
“Then you know who I am.” With Faith in the driver’s seat, B’s voice came out low and mean. “What I’ve done. Why not just keep quiet? Get Red away from me and spill the beans to her? Why tell me?”
“B-because. You’re not g-going to kill me.”
Faith scoffed. “Yeah? My aura tell you that too?”
“Your aura,” Tara breathed, “and the way you’re grinding your hips against me.”
For a moment, Faith just stared. Then she made a sound, a little huff of incredulous laughter. Tara was still meeting her gaze, and there was something like a challenge in those blue eyes. All around them, the music was still playing, and little by little Faith got back into the rhythm of the dance.