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The door slams behind Buffy, and Faith’s never felt more dread in her life. Not even Kakistos.
She didn’t want to come in the first place. She only came because B had that stupid little smile on her face, and Faith had nothing better to do than stare at her pathetic fairy lights until her eyes went blurry. And now she’s stuck here with Buffy’s mom and kid sister. Faith couldn’t have dreamt up nightmares more scary than this.
Faith can’t even duck out. Before Buffy had abandoned her (for Angel, of all people) she’d made Faith promise to keep Joyce and Dawn safe. And sure, Buffy’s perfect little family scares the shit out of Faith, but she isn’t twisted enough to want them hurt – or worse. She’d just prefer if they were at a distance, not directly taunting Faith with all their cute Christmas jumpers and Christmas spirit and general Christmas-ness – some inverse of everything Faith grew up with.
Faith stands awkwardly in the living room, the silence left by Buffy still painfully echoing around the room.
Dawn sits on the couch, a forlorn look in her eyes.
Joyce clenches her jaw. Her eyes are fixed on the closed door. She forcefully turns herself away from it, eyes landing on Dawn and softening. “Well,” Joyce starts, gathering herself. Faith doubts Dawn sees the falseness in Joyce’s smile. She has no reason to not trust it. “We have some work to do, girls. Buffy will be hungry when she’s back. I think we should cook up a nice feast.” Joyce claps her hands together.
Dawn jumps to her feet. “Christmas cookies?” Dawn’s eyes go wide, almost puppy-like. She turns them on Joyce, and Faith can see the exact moment Joyce crumbles.
“Yes, yes! Fine! Christmas cookies,” Joyce says. Dawn jumps, and darts towards the kitchen with an excited squeal. Any sadness Dawn felt at Buffy’s hasty exit is quickly forgotten.
Joyce turns to Faith with a haunted look in her eyes. “Every year,” she says slowly. “Every year she begs to do them herself. She’s enthusiastic, but… it’s not her forte,” Joyce explains delicately. “One year she managed to short circuit the entire house – don’t ask me how. I have no clue.”
Faith laughs. Mostly because she thinks it’s what’s expected of her. It’s the polite thing to do, right? Partially though, she laughs at the apprehensive look on Joyce’s face as bowls clatter in the kitchen.
“I’ll do all the savoury. I think that’s the safest option.” Joyce nods decisively. “And you…” Joyce turns to her, a contemplative look on her face. “Do you bake?”
“Uh, not really–”
“Pecan pie is one of Buffy’s favourites,” Joyce says, as though Faith didn’t speak at all. “I have all the ingredients already. I was expecting Buffy to help, but…” Joyce looks out the window, and shakes her head. “I think you’ll do great.”
With that, Faith’s quickly ushered into kitchen, protestations dismissed and ignored. Joyce is twisting her around and tying an apron behind her back before Faith even knows what is happening.
“Here.” Joyce places a recipe in front of Faith. The piece of paper is crumbled and stained. It’s hand-written too, with measurements crossed out and rewritten with new revisions. Faith snorts at that. Proper suburban, wholesome, goodness – that’s the Summers’ household. B doesn’t realise how good she’s got it.
“I really don’t–” Faith starts.
“Hush, you’ll do fine,” Joyce says. “And if you don’t, well, it’s Buffy’s favourite. Not mine,” she adds under her breath, quiet enough so that Faith shouldn’t be able to hear it. (Joyce has clearly forgotten about slayer hearing).
Faith makes one more attempt to dissuade Joyce of her insane notion that Faith can successfully bake something without setting the house on fire, but Joyce just prods at the recipe, and raises her eyebrows. There’s a kind challenge in her look, a slight smile tugging at Joyce’s lips at the expression on Faith’s face.
It makes Faith want to do well at this. To not fuck up. And it’s not because Faith wants to beat Joyce’s quiet challenge. Faith wants to prove Joyce right; she wants to not be a fuck-up just this once. She wants to live up to Joyce’s (presumably, low) expectations of her.
Faith’s bemused to find she’s actually enjoy herself with this whole baking shit. It’s pretty easy. Read the recipe, measure the ingredients, shove them in a bowl and stir them around with a big spoon. Faith’s never been the best at following instructions in the past, but there’s stakes here (it’s Buffy’s favourite pie, and Faith won’t survive her pouting).
So Faith follows the recipe, reads it a thousand times, measures everything perfectly, and stirs. She lets her brain tune out the buzz of the kitchen: Dawn’s constant chatter; Joyce’s quiet humming; the sounds of dishes clattering. She focusses at the task on hand with more intensity than she’s ever focussed on anything.
“Ha!” Dawn suddenly pops up over Faith’s shoulder. Faith tenses at the sudden intrusion. She’d been getting into the zone. “That’s all wrong!”
“What?” Faith jerks round, glancing between Dawn, the recipe, and the mixture.
She’d read the recipe over each time she did a new step; measured every ingredient down to the once.
Dawn picks up the sugar and twists it around in her hands, then presents it to Joyce. “See, she got it wrong,” Dawn repeats. Joyce just hums, busying herself pouring some brown-looking liquid into a pan. It looks gross, but it smells wicked, so Faith reckons she’ll try it anyway. (Taste and looks aside, free food is free food, and Faith ain’t stupid enough to turn that down).
Faith grits her teeth. “Did not,” Faith mutters, rereading the recipe. She rubs at her eyes to make the words get clearer and less scrambly. (It doesn’t work). She’s read it over so many times. She knows it’s right.
“You’re supposed to use light brown sugar.” Dawn jabs a finger at the recipe, sending a smug smile in Faith’s direction. “See!”
“Fuck,” Faith hisses, then sends a startled look in Dawn’s direction to see if she heard her. You’re not supposed to cuss around kids, right? That’s like, a white picket thing? Good people don’t swear at the tweens, or whatever.
Dawn’s eyes widen. Her eyes dart over to Joyce, whose back is still to them. Her eyes gleam, and Faith is two seconds away from slapping a hand over her mouth to stop Dawn from ratting her out, when Dawn brings two fingers to her mouth, and mimes zipping it shut. For a minute, Faith reckons the kid might not be so bad.
Then she opens her stupid little mouth again: “You know it’s supposed to be in grams, right? Not ounces.”
“What?” Faith turns back to the recipe. She hadn’t checked the unit – she just presumed. Followed the big numbers on the scale and poured all the ingredients into the scales until the little ticker hit those numbers. That’s all baking is, right? Measure, mix, and shove in the oven.
Faith’s stomach drops. Shit. It says ‘grams’. Who the fuck uses grams? Isn’t that like some old-timey shit? Or English, or something equally bullshit? All of the (two) recipes that Faith’s mom had were in ounces, and cups, and that sorta thing. (Faith can’t really remember them well; they only used them a handful of times when her mom was actually around and sober enough to cook).
“‘Fuck’, right?” Dawn whispers. Faith sends her the best disapproving look she can muster; it’s not very convincing. She’s too worried about how Joyce will react to Faith screwing everything up for the gazillionth time.
“Sorry, Joyce.” Faith scratches the back of her neck.
“It’s alright, Faith,” Joyce sighs. Faith can’t tell whether she sounds disappointed or not. She probably is – Faith tends to have that effect on adults. Heck, Faith has that effect on everyone. Even people who don’t know her. Gwendolyn Post had been an evil, maniacal bitch who’d known Faith for like, a day, and even she’d understood enough to know Faith was a huge loser. “We’ll just have lots of leftovers. Divide it between two – three, maybe – pans. Maybe we can take the extras to a shelter or something. If Buffy doesn’t get to them…” she adds.
“I can’t believe you did it in ounces. There’s so much! Oh my god, you’re so bad at this,” Dawn giggles, moving back to her own recipe.
Faith ignores her. She ignores the way the words slip into her bloodstream, igniting everything on fire. The heat travels around her body. But Faith’s used to running hot; she ignores it.
“It’s like you’ve never been in a kitchen before!” Dawn exclaims gleefully.
Faith ignores her.
“Look, mom! She’s worse than Buffy!”
Faith bristles. She’s about to snap and say something dumb, but then Dawn’s reaching for a bowl just out of her reach, fingers gripping on the plastic edge. It’s just enough to send the bowl flying off the counter. The bowl flips, sending the mixture all over Dawn, who stands, frozen in shock.
Faith jerks around to look at Joyce, half-expecting to see some apoplectic vein bursting out her forehead.
That’s money on the floor. Money in the mixture. Money and time down the drain.
(Why do you always do this? Why do you always ruin everything, Faith? We can’t afford your fuck ups anymore. Just get out. Go!)
Joyce just laughs. Faith jumps at the noise.
Dawn makes a whining noise. She’s still too shocked to move; or maybe she just doesn’t know how to move without spreading her hurricane of mess further round the kitchen.
Joyce laughs harder. It’s so infectious, Faith can’t bite back her own laugh. It floods over her, washing the tension clean from her body. Dawn pouts, and tries to wipe flour from her eyes. It just sends a new puff of white clouds around her, and Faith damn near doubles over.
Joyce gathers up cloths and mops, whilst Dawn stands there, sputtering.
“Honestly, this is probably best case scenario when it comes to Dawn’s cooking,” Joyce whispers to Faith as she sidles past her en route to Dawn.
Faith doesn’t even try to control her next bout of laughter.
Dawn glares at her. It just makes Faith laugh more. Dawn’s never been able to master a good glare. She just squints her eyes and purses her lips, and thinks it’s a glare. It’s funny on the best of days; it’s downright hilarious when she’s already covered in flour and cookie dough, and her mom’s patting her down with a cloth.
“I think you’re going to have to go change, Dawn. Take a shower, and put on some PJs. Faith and I will finish up in here, and then we can go watch a nice movie with dinner.”
Once Dawn’s gone upstairs (grumbling the entire way up), Joyce explains it’s a Christmas Eve tradition: eat in front of the TV with dinner made up from whatever was leftover in the cupboards and fridge.
It’s an odd collection of foods, but still more of a meal than Faith’s mom ever put together. Faith carries the trays through to the living room, resting on the table. Joyce had ordered her out of the kitchen whilst she did clean-up on the collective mess, telling Faith to set up ‘It’s a Wonderful Life’ on the TV.
Dawn complains when she sees what film is queued up, and is quickly quelled by a stern look from Joyce and a reminder of tradition. She positions herself on the couch, only halfway facing the TV. Dawn spends most of the film looking over her shoulder, out the window. Faith pretends she doesn’t notice it; or the way Joyce’s eyes dim every time they track Dawn’s gaze.
Faith’s not sure she really likes the film. It’s one of those ‘thinky’ ones, with all that dark, depressive, suicidal stuff going on. Faith can see Buffy liking it though. She settles onto the couch, hands wrapped around a mug of eggnog, and tries to imagine Buffy watching it. She’d probably be into the whole brooding thing. Buffy would reprimand Dawn for talking over it, and lean forwards to really soak it in. Faith reckons she’d have a whole intellectual thing going for her with this one.
Or, at least, she’d be paying more attention to it than Faith is.
Faith’s watching Dawn watch the window, when she sees it. It’s a sprinkling at first. Faith can barely discern what it is. It gets heavier quick, layering on the ground like icing sugar. It’s only when Dawn hops up from the couch, practically squealing in excitement, that Faith realises: it’s snowing.
It’s actually snowing.
Faith’s had white Christmasses before. They weren’t a regular occurrence in Boston, but they weren’t rare enough that the sight of white powder falling to the ground didn’t instantly register as snow. It was normally accompanied by a biting cold though; the opposite of the fierce sun that had been beating down on Sunnydale the past week.
(Fucking California).
This is the first time a white Christmas actually felt, well, Christmassy. There’s eggnog in Faith’s hands, a Christmas tree in the corner, and a film on the TV. It’s more Christmas than Faith’s ever had before.
Dawn rushes to the door before Joyce and Faith can react, exclaiming, “Snow!”, with the same excitement Faith would have had if she'd won the lottery. Joyce gets up after her, sending a brief smile Faith’s way.
Faith follows the two of them like some kind of parasite, desperate to feed of their excitement. She’s clinging to it, this echo of normalcy and family. It’s all a façade, and it’ll shatter in the morning when Faith’s back in her motel room, alone, with only dim, twinkling lights as company. But for now, she spreads out her arms, and lets the snow fall on her hand with a childlike wonder.
She copies Dawn, and sticks out her tongue, spinning around, only to get a faceful of snow.
“Hey!” Faith complains.
Dawn points and laugh. Joyce’s wearing a quietly amused smile. Faith shakes the snow out of her face, and tries to look annoyed. (She fails).
“You’re gonna get it now, kid,” Faith threatens, crouching to the ground and gathering up a ball of snow in her hands. Dawn’s eyes go wide, and she starts backtracking. Faith pursues after her, and Dawn starts outright running. She’s laughing the entire time as Faith chases after her, gasping in shock at the cold when Faith finally lands one on the back of her neck.
Dawn decides it’s an all out war at that point. Joyce carefully backtracks to the porch, leaning against one of the posts as she watches Dawn and Faith exchange snowball after snowball, until eventually Dawn slips. She falls backwards onto a thick padding of snow, and stays down, giggling.
Faith goes over to check on her. Dawn doesn’t say anything, just starts moving her arms up and down.
“Snow angel, see!” she exclaims. “You’ve got to do it too!”
“Oh, I dunno about that, kid.”
“Faith! Come on, don’t be boring and old!” Dawn insists.
Faith contemplates it for a moment, then quickly sits down into the snow, leaning back into it and copying Dawn’s actions.
Snow angel made, Faith lies in the snow, staring up at the sky. It’s still snowing, but it’s slightly lighter now than it was. Faith sticks out her tongue, and tries to watch as the flakes land on it, and just as quickly dissolve.
She could have stayed there for days, lying on the Summers’ front lawn, surrounded by thick snow. Dawn, on the other hand, not so much. Dawn’s trying to pretend she’s not cold, but her cheeks are red and glistening, and her teeth are chattering.
Joyce quickly ushers them inside, two large towels ready and waiting for them. Joyce wraps Dawn up tightly, whilst Faith grabs one and slings it over her shoulders.
“I made some hot cocoa and put the fire on,” Joyce says, rubbing Dawn’s shoulders to try and get some warmth into them.
Faith’s not sure she needs the fire. She’s never felt warmer in her life.
“OOH! Can we make s’mores?” Dawn looks up at Joyce, eyes wide.
“I think we’ve probably made enough food,” Joyce replies.
“Ple-ease,” Dawn begs, stringing out the syllables. Faith can see the moment Joyce’s resolve melts.
“Okay.” Joyce nods. “You two girls go sit down, get warm. I’ll go see what we’ve got in the cupboards.”
Dawn leads Faith through to the fireplace. The dining table’s been pushed to the side to make room, and there’s blankets on the floor. Two mugs wait on the floor, each with towering whipped cream and cocoa powder sprinkled on top. Faith snorts at the sight of it; it’s like a freakin’ magazine or something. Some Christmas wonderland.
Joyce comes back with ingredients, and Dawn painstakingly shows Faith the ‘right’ way to do s’mores – and is very insistent that Faith does it Dawn’s way, and not Faith’s way, because Faith’s way is ‘totally wrong’ and ‘won’t taste half as nice’.
Faith obliges her, mostly because she can barely form a thought right now, beyond how nice this all is – and how much worse that’s going to make tomorrow feel.
Her and Joyce sit in relative silence, warming themselves by the fire, whilst Dawn talks for the three of them, regaling them with school gossip and telling Faith stories about past Christmasses.
Faith hates how jealous she feels about it all. Each story Dawn tells is like a stab to her stomach; Dawn just keeps twisting the knife. But Faith doesn’t want Dawn to stop. She encourages her onwards, makes her keep talking. Faith tries to immerse herself in those stories, tries to picture the look on Buffy’s face when she’d been caught climbing to the top of Christmas tree when she was six.
Faith wraps the stories around her. They warm her up more than the fire ever could. Faith’s not sure whether it’s anger, or contentedness – or both.
There’s a noise at the front door, and Joyce is on her feet to go and answer it before Faith and Dawn can even move.
Joyce opens the door, with a soft exclamation of Buffy’s name that Faith knows Dawn can’t hear. Faith can hear Buffy and Joyce exchange a few words; Buffy insisting that she’s okay, and Joyce reiterating her confusion at Buffy having run off like she did.
Dawn leaps to her feet when she hears Buffy’s voice, and Faith follows after her.
Faith watches as Buffy politely brushes Joyce away, a weary look in her eyes as she looks around the house. It’s not what she expected from Buffy. She figured B would have been all wired after some sort of confrontation with the big guy. She just looks tired.
Dawn bounds up to her, unaware of any of it.
“You’re back!” Dawn exclaims. Faith’s not sure if Buffy realises how pleased her sister is at her presence. Buffy tends to miss that kind of thing. “Did you see? It snowed!”
Buffy snorts, and reaches to ruffle Dawn’s hair. Dawn ducks out of the way of Buffy’s hand. “Yeah, Dawnie, I saw. Did you have fun?” Buffy’s mostly focussed on Dawn, but her eyes flicker up to Faith.
“Me and Faith had a snowball fight,” Dawn says. Buffy raises her eyebrows at Faith, an amused smile tugging at her lips. “I totally won,” Dawn continues.
“Totally did not,” Faith replies, eyes still locked with Buffy’s.
“Totally did,” Dawn counters, crossing her arms. “Then we had smores by the fire.”
“We’d have had cookies too, if they hadn’t ended up all over you,” Faith says, nudging Dawn playfully.
Dawn scowls at her. “Yeah, well. It’s not like your pie went much better.”
Buffy turns to Faith sharply. “You were pecan pie girl?” Faith nods. Buffy crosses her arms, and tilts her head appraisingly. Her eyes are sharp as they take in Faith. “Is the pie burnt?”
“Uh – no?” Faith’s caught slightly off guard by the sudden intensity in Buffy’s eyes and posture.
“Undercooked?”
“Nope.”
“Not mixed in properly?”
“B, there’s nothing wrong with the pie!”
Dawn snorts. “She misread the entire recipe,” she says.
Buffy glares at Faith. Faith thinks there’s a playful element to it. Maybe. “You messed up my pie?” Buffy takes a step forward. Faith suppresses an urge to take a step back. She’s not sure whether she’s slightly intimidated by the look in Buffy’s eyes, or two seconds away from laughing at how serious Buffy’s taking this pie thing.
“No – I mean, yeah. But it tastes fine. Good, even,” Faith adds defensively.
Buffy stares at her, disbelief evident in her eyes. Buffy turns to Dawn, and raises her eyebrows expectantly.
“She messed it up real bad,” Dawn says. Faith glares at her. “But,” Dawn reluctantly adds, “it actually tastes alright. Somehow. Mom said the sugar mix-up wouldn’t change it too much, and reading the measurements wrong apparently isn’t a huge deal,” Dawn says.
“Better than throwing the bowl all over myself,” Faith quips.
Dawn glares at her.
“You did the measurements wrong?” Buffy still sounds apprehensive.
“Yeah. Read it in ounces.”
Buffy pauses, her brow scrunching up. It’s kinda cute, Faith thinks, then quickly rids her brain of the notion. She can not find Buffy Summers cute. “So there’s more?”
“There’s like, three, huge pies,” Dawn says.
Buffy’s eyes widen, gleaming. “Really?”
“Come see,” Dawn says. Faith feels rather forgotten in the sudden revelation. Pies clearly come before Lehanes in the Summers’ household.
Faith follows after them, standing in the doorway to the kitchen as Buffy surveys the pies.
“Neat,” Buffy says. “We might have to keep you around, y’know?” Buffy turns to Faith, a half-smile tugging at her lips. “Three pies every Christmas sounds pretty great to me.” Faith’s stomach does a somersault. Then another. ‘Every Christmas’ – as though Faith’s still gonna be here. As though Buffy’s still gonna want Faith here.
Faith realises, then and there, that she’s never wanted anything more. She wants to do this every year, but without Buffy running off on some Angel-errand. She wants the Christmas cooking, and the boring, old film. She wants to have snowball fights with Buffy and Dawn, then sit by the fire and cook s’mores.
She wants it all and, Faith realises with a sudden sharpness, she’s never going to get it. She’s not the kind of person to get this stuff. She doesn’t have the happy family life, or the picture-perfect Christmas. She gets a deadbeat mom, and shitty, cheap Christmas lights in a motel room.
This is probably the best day of Faith’s life. And it probably always will be. Faith doubts it can go up from here. Not for someone like her.
“Not bad,” Buffy says over a mouthful pie. “Mine’s better, ‘course. But, not bad,” she acknowledges.
Faith’s eyes track the crumbs on Buffy’s lips, trace her smile and the creases by her eyes; then stamps down on that wanting.
None of this is hers. She’s not allowed to want it.