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The penultimate part! Thanks as ever to all reading, commenting, discussing and typo-spotting :;g::
Previous parts are here
Hollow Heart
by Jane Davitt & Bit
Chapter Thirteen
He sits at his desk for hours, ignoring the phone for a while and then sighing and going back to work because it's easier and right now he needs easy, needs simple. Requisition forms for weapons, training equipment --
Finally he squints blearily at an estimate for repairs to the training room wall, where a mounting has been ripped free. That had been Anna as he recalls, short and stocky and solid muscle, leaping for it and clinging as she swept her feet around and sent Faith flying, landing with a thud, a woosh and an admiring grin.
Surely it hadn't done this much damage, though? Frowning, he decides to check it out as his final task of the day.
As he approaches the training room, he can hear muffled thumps coming from behind the double doors and he slows down. Some of the younger girls can be a little self-conscious about their scrapes and tumbles.
"Why the fuck did you come back, B?"
"Oh, was I supposed to get written permission from you first, Faith?"
And there's another muffled thud, which actually sounds more like someone's head being smacked against the wall and he's running, in time to see Buffy pin Faith's flailing body to the ground and keep her there with some considerable effort.
He's just about to get his favourite shotgun and commit first degree murder, when he realises that Buffy is holding Faith off rather than trying to finish what she started a few months ago.
"I said I was sorry," she pants, clinging on as Faith bucks viciously beneath her and tries to get her legs free. "Even offered you congratulations on your new job so why are you being such a grade one pain in the ass?"
"Fuck you," Faith growls. "And fuck your bullshit congratulations." She wriggles free after digging her knees into Buffy's ribs and in a whirlwind of black cotton, gets Buffy in a vicious headlock.
He's standing there, rooted to the spot, not sure what to do. Whether he should help Faith because even he won't be able to sweet talk Giles into forgiving this. Or whether he should help Buffy because it seems as if Faith is about to pull her head free of her neck.
Buffy doesn't need his help though. She kicks Faith's legs out from under her and down they go again, Buffy on top. "Will you just stop and tell me what the matter is?"
"You, you're the matter." Faith's voice is choked, like she's holding back sobs which simply can't be the case. "Coming back here and saying you're in love. It's not fucking fair."
And she is crying. Stretched out on her back, fists balled into her eyes as she cries like her hearts being torn out of her chest.
"'Fair'?" Buffy sounds genuinely at a loss. "I don't -- God, Faith, you and Xander -- you're not -- oh God."
"What?" Bewilderment, then disgust, does a remarkable job of calming Faith down. Her hands drop away and she sniffs comprehensively and sits up with a tentative helping hand from Buffy. "You think this is because I've got the hots for Xander?"
"What's wrong with him?" Buffy snaps back, and it's all about to start again when Faith shrugs awkwardly.
"Nothing. He's kinda sweet. So not my type, but the guy's got guts and yeah, he's nice."
She's utterly sincere and Buffy, after searching her words for some hidden slight on her honey, relaxes and shrugs as well, a decidedly dreamy smile crossing her face. "More than nice."
"Yeah. I remember those bits." Faith's mouth purses in a frankly sensual pout.
Wesley quells the urge to howl with horrified laughter but Buffy, amazingly, takes no offence. There's even a wicked gleam in her eyes as she nods slowly and raises her eyebrows.
"So how does Wesley -- ?"
"Compare?" Faith shakes her head and Wesley's rooted to the spot, his nanny's words about eavesdroppers never hearing any good about themselves loud in his head. "Sorry, Buffy. Not gonna kiss and tell."
"So you have -- ?" There's a world of insinuation in her voice and Wesley finds himself thinking grimly that Giles really does need to have a word with --
"Oh, yeah." A deliciously dirty smile lights up Faith's face but then it fades. "Not like I'm getting any now, though."
Buffy's eyes are out on stalks. "Why not? Did Giles say something?"
Wesley thinks his blood must have instantaneously freeze-dried. Faith is unpredictable to say the least and this would be the killer blow, but she's shaking her head.
"Nah, he's been wicked supportive. It's just Wes -- he's -- " she tails off and stares at her hands.
"He's a what? A jerk?" Buffy supplies helpfully. "An idiot. A wannabe badass. I mean, the gun fixation alone." He knew there was a reason why he violently disliked the woman. Well, four reasons and counting.
"Worse than that." And his nanny was right. "Won't fuck me because he has this screwed up thing about love and how we're having this relationship."
"Well, aren't you? Jeez, sometimes you need to come with flashcards."
"We're Slayers, B, you got that memo, didn't you?" Faith snaps. "We've got a sacred birthright to kill the forces of darkness. Nothing about snuggling with your honey in the small print, last time I checked."
Buffy slowly gets to her feet and stretches then gives Faith what can only be described as a pitying look. "God, you're stupid," she says feelingly.
"Say what?" Faith demands, scrambling up in an instant.
"He's a Watcher. He's your Watcher," Buffy says. "He knows all about everything you are and everything you do."
"So?"
"So he's safe."
Safe? Wesley feels vaguely insulted.
"That's not a word I'd hang on Wes," Faith says indignantly, the little darling.
"Whatever," Buffy says. "He's not going to care that you could break him and he's not going to freak if you come home bloody. If you want to die and have no one care, keep on being the loner. If you want to grab a small slice of normal, stop fighting it and admit that you're in --"
"Don't say it," Faith warns her, shoving her face forward. "Warning you, B, just don't --"
Buffy rolls her eyes and flips shining hair back out of the way. "In love. With Wesley."
"In love. With Xander," Faith snarls and Wesley's back to feeling insulted again.
The eight words hang between them and they're glaring hot enough to melt steel when suddenly they start to smile and then giggle and by the time Wesley's turned to stalk away, stiff-backed with outrage mixed with hope, they're clinging to each other, laughing helplessly and hiccupping as they try and catch their breath in between gasped words like, 'English', 'demon magnet', 'bookworm' and 'donut-lover'.
There's a light drizzle misting the air as he steps outside and he walks for hours and wonders whether she'll come to him. Or if it still counts if he goes to her? Or if neither have them make the first move, can they still meet halfway?
And as he sits in an old timber and sawdust pub somewhere off the Strand, he knows that he doesn't want halfway. He wants everything and that will always be his curse. So if Buffy can't get through to her then he'll have to -- well, he's not sure exactly how but it involves a good length of enchanted chain and strict rations until she finally comes to her senses.
Somewhere between the third and fourth glass, he remembers that she never actually confirmed Buffy's snarky little affirmation and by the time he stumbles out into the rain-soaked night, he's full of whisky and despair, but certain that he'll take whatever crumbs she throws his way.
For one moment, he contemplates standing outside her dorm window and reciting sonnets but he's not so drunk that he doesn't recognize a spectacularly bad idea. Instead he crosses over the Strand, and starts walking home through Covent Garden.
Wesley turns into his street, hunched over the bag of chips he bought on Endell Street to stop them going soggy from anything other than the liberal amounts of vinegar he doused them in and at first he thinks it's just an apparition sitting on his doorstep. If it is an apparition, then it's a very wet, very pissed off one. Faith.
She's wearing the black dress she bought for their first date, which is clinging to her shivering skin. Her hair's in rats' tails and her mascara is running down her face along with the raindrops. He doesn't think she's ever looked more beautiful.
"Where the fuck have you been?" she starts with a snarl and then looks down at the bedraggled bunch of daisies clutched in her hand. Or maybe they were daisies in a past life. It's hard to tell. "Don't you ever switch on your goddamn phone, asshole?"
"I love you so much," he says in his head but it comes out as, "Phone?"
"Yes, phone," she says. "It rings, you answer, I get to be able to tell you -- "
"Tell me what?" he murmurs, entranced by the rivulets of rain running over her like silvered fingers.
She opens her mouth and he waits, distanced by the whisky and swaying slightly. Tell me, he commands her silently. I'm your Watcher and I order you to tell me, to tell --
"Wes, you are so fucking drunk."
"Indubitably," he replies smartly. "Tell me what?"
"You're making up words!" she says accusingly.
"No, I believe you'll find that one in the dictionary between 'intractable' and 'intransigent'."
Faith snorts. "I might not know what it means but I know my fucking ABCs. It comes before them, dumbass." She nods sharply, point proved. "Drunk as a skunk."
"Oops?" he offers.
"Buffy was right," she says and so he really must be that drunk. "You're a jerk. Stupid, drunk jerk."
"I stand guilty as charged," he says because he loves the way her eyes flash when she's mad at him.
"I've been waiting for, like, hours and I put on this lame dress and I even bought you flowers. Flowers!." Faith brandishes them in his face so the petals wilt and droop like water-logged confetti. "And I'm soaked to the fucking bone and you weren't here."
"What did you want to tell me?" he reminds her because she seems to be going off-topic.
Her eyelids flutter down and she twists her lips. "Stuff. I wanted to tell you stuff but you're probably too drunk to even hear me."
It's like pulling teeth with a pair of foam pliers. "What kind of stuff?"
There's just a shadow of a smile that makes him think that she's yanking his chain and having a bloody good time of it too. "The kinda stuff that's better said inside where it's warm." She prods his chest as punctuation. "And dry. And I don't have raindrops running down my ass crack. OK?"
He imagines plump drops of water sloping down the cleft of her arse, chasing them with his tongue --
"I said OK? God, give me your keys." She holds out her hand and he dutifully starts rummaging in his jacket pocket, grimacing apologetically when she rolls her eyes.
"Sorry, it's just the wool's rather damp and -- "
"Jesus, Wes," she hisses, yanking his hand out of his pocket so she can rummage herself. "I fucking love you, you fucking idiot. There! You happy now?"
"Yes," he says. "Oh, yes." Wesley looks around for a choir of cherubim to suddenly descend from the heavens and when none appear, he reaches out to touch Faith's hair but she ducks away from him.
"Nuh-huh, not so fast, mister," she snaps without an ounce of her usual venom. "I came up with my end of the deal now it's all official and coupley, can we just fuck already?"
"You didn't just say that so you could have your wicked way with me?" Wes asks and he's not entirely joking, as he stands there, chips forgotten, rain lashing down the back of his collar.
The look she gives him is half-exasperated, half-fond. "I'm not saying it again, Wes. Not until you're fucking me and then I can pretty much guarantee that I'm going to be screaming it. Now, c'mon, let's go inside and get naked."
He thinks about that, cursing every drop he's drunk. "Tomorrow?" he says regretfully. "I've had rather a lot of whisky. I'm quite pissed, you know."
Her hand reaches out and grabs his, tugging him towards the front door. "Fuck that. We've waited long enough."
He stares down at her, raindrops caught in the streetlight, flaring into a halo. "Worth it."
"Yeah." Her lips, cold and warming instantly as they touch his, curve in a smile. "Still going to fuck me right the hell now, Wes." She fits his keys into the lock and looks over her shoulder at him.
"Make love," he corrects her as the door opens and they stumble inside. "Call it making love."
"Whatever. We can make love and shit tomorrow," she insists as she tugs him up the stairs. "Right now I want to fuck. God, Wes, it's been weeks! Girl can only take so much."
They're already on his landing and she's looks fragile and soggy. Just a girl who's inexplicably tied his heart up in knots but then she shoves him up against the door of his flat with not even a fraction of the strength she's capable of so she can cup his face in her frozen hands and kiss him.
He doesn't even know how they get inside, just one moment his arms are full of Faith; the next he's spinning through space and collapsing on the sofa as she stands in front of him with a deadly intent look on her face and slowly begins to peel off her clothes.
It's not provocative, not some grind and shimmy of a striptease, just Faith ridding herself of her clothes because they're cold and wet and preventing him from seeing her beautiful flesh. She really was the most considerate, darling girl sometimes.
"Shower," she says, tossing the wet ends of her hair back so tiny droplets of water bounce off her breasts. "Get undressed and come join me." Then she leaves him gawping at the wiggle of her arse as she walks out of the room.
By the time he's stripped, undressing with clumsy, shaking fingers, the rush of the shower is all he can hear. He walks into a bathroom fragrant with soap-tinted steam and gets in beside her, gasping as the heat scalds him part-way to sobriety.
She turns, hair plastered to her head, her face bare of everything; makeup, defences, masks. Just Faith, eying him quizzically, then wrapping her arms around him and nuzzling in close. He squeezes her to him, feeling hot slippery skin against his chest and belly and the soft soaked fuzz of hair rubbing against his thigh.
She's very real for a dream girl, for a fantasy, knocking their knees together painfully as she squirms closer still, her fingers stroking his back in frantic spiralling circles as if she's checking that he's still as she remembered him. "Missed you," she says fiercely against his throat, the words choked and hard to hear.
"Oh God, Faith," he says. "You had me. I was always there."
"Not like this," she insists, tipping her head back so that she can start to kiss him, dotting the kisses randomly over his face and neck. "Want all of you, Wes. You know that."
And if she can feel that way, it's a mystery to him why she fought so hard against his insistence that without love they weren't having it all, but he's too happy -- and drunk -- to quibble.
"You've got me," he repeats. "I'm right here -- "
Her mouth fastens onto his in a greedy kiss, her tongue warmly slippery against his. "Yeah," she pants, her hand sliding down between them. "I noticed."
But even the best efforts of her quick fingers can't work against all that whisky and he's only half-hard, content to stand there with his eyes shut, warm water streaming over his rapidly thawing skin and have her hands on him.
"I did have rather a lot to drink," he mutters apologetically, cupping the weight of her breast in his palm and marvelling at the way her nipple hardens when he drags his thumb over it.
She bites her lip and tightens her grip, lengthening her strokes and realising that she's getting nowhere fast. "Just as well I love you, Wes," she hisses, reaching up to snag his earlobe with her teeth. "'Cause otherwise I'd make you sleep on the couch."
"But you're not going to?" It's too much effort to stand upright and Faith's doing a wonderful job of holding him up.
"Nope, guess not." She's switching off the water as he slumps forward so he can rest his head on her shoulder. "Though you totally deserve it."
He stumbles out of the shower cubicle and gropes for a towel. He seems to have lost the use of his opposable thumbs but he manages to drag the cloth round Faith, though it's a crime to cover up all that damp flesh. "I'll go down on you," he hears himself offer and his voice sounds like it's coming from a long way away. "I really want to, Faith, but I just need to lie down for a bit first."
"Yeah, yeah, Wes. Promises, promises."
If he squints over the top of her head, he can just makes out the edge of his bed. And if he takes one step forward and then another it works very well because it means he's getting nearer and nearer to his pillows. "Bed, Faith. Just for a second, please."
The room spins slightly as he hits the bed, but then Faith's wriggling free from the towel and holding his hand, anchoring him safely so he can close his eyes just for a second --
"Stupid, drunk jerk," she whispers almost tenderly and it's the last thing he can remember before he falls asleep.
Final Part
Previous parts are here
Hollow Heart
by Jane Davitt & Bit
Chapter Thirteen
He sits at his desk for hours, ignoring the phone for a while and then sighing and going back to work because it's easier and right now he needs easy, needs simple. Requisition forms for weapons, training equipment --
Finally he squints blearily at an estimate for repairs to the training room wall, where a mounting has been ripped free. That had been Anna as he recalls, short and stocky and solid muscle, leaping for it and clinging as she swept her feet around and sent Faith flying, landing with a thud, a woosh and an admiring grin.
Surely it hadn't done this much damage, though? Frowning, he decides to check it out as his final task of the day.
As he approaches the training room, he can hear muffled thumps coming from behind the double doors and he slows down. Some of the younger girls can be a little self-conscious about their scrapes and tumbles.
"Why the fuck did you come back, B?"
"Oh, was I supposed to get written permission from you first, Faith?"
And there's another muffled thud, which actually sounds more like someone's head being smacked against the wall and he's running, in time to see Buffy pin Faith's flailing body to the ground and keep her there with some considerable effort.
He's just about to get his favourite shotgun and commit first degree murder, when he realises that Buffy is holding Faith off rather than trying to finish what she started a few months ago.
"I said I was sorry," she pants, clinging on as Faith bucks viciously beneath her and tries to get her legs free. "Even offered you congratulations on your new job so why are you being such a grade one pain in the ass?"
"Fuck you," Faith growls. "And fuck your bullshit congratulations." She wriggles free after digging her knees into Buffy's ribs and in a whirlwind of black cotton, gets Buffy in a vicious headlock.
He's standing there, rooted to the spot, not sure what to do. Whether he should help Faith because even he won't be able to sweet talk Giles into forgiving this. Or whether he should help Buffy because it seems as if Faith is about to pull her head free of her neck.
Buffy doesn't need his help though. She kicks Faith's legs out from under her and down they go again, Buffy on top. "Will you just stop and tell me what the matter is?"
"You, you're the matter." Faith's voice is choked, like she's holding back sobs which simply can't be the case. "Coming back here and saying you're in love. It's not fucking fair."
And she is crying. Stretched out on her back, fists balled into her eyes as she cries like her hearts being torn out of her chest.
"'Fair'?" Buffy sounds genuinely at a loss. "I don't -- God, Faith, you and Xander -- you're not -- oh God."
"What?" Bewilderment, then disgust, does a remarkable job of calming Faith down. Her hands drop away and she sniffs comprehensively and sits up with a tentative helping hand from Buffy. "You think this is because I've got the hots for Xander?"
"What's wrong with him?" Buffy snaps back, and it's all about to start again when Faith shrugs awkwardly.
"Nothing. He's kinda sweet. So not my type, but the guy's got guts and yeah, he's nice."
She's utterly sincere and Buffy, after searching her words for some hidden slight on her honey, relaxes and shrugs as well, a decidedly dreamy smile crossing her face. "More than nice."
"Yeah. I remember those bits." Faith's mouth purses in a frankly sensual pout.
Wesley quells the urge to howl with horrified laughter but Buffy, amazingly, takes no offence. There's even a wicked gleam in her eyes as she nods slowly and raises her eyebrows.
"So how does Wesley -- ?"
"Compare?" Faith shakes her head and Wesley's rooted to the spot, his nanny's words about eavesdroppers never hearing any good about themselves loud in his head. "Sorry, Buffy. Not gonna kiss and tell."
"So you have -- ?" There's a world of insinuation in her voice and Wesley finds himself thinking grimly that Giles really does need to have a word with --
"Oh, yeah." A deliciously dirty smile lights up Faith's face but then it fades. "Not like I'm getting any now, though."
Buffy's eyes are out on stalks. "Why not? Did Giles say something?"
Wesley thinks his blood must have instantaneously freeze-dried. Faith is unpredictable to say the least and this would be the killer blow, but she's shaking her head.
"Nah, he's been wicked supportive. It's just Wes -- he's -- " she tails off and stares at her hands.
"He's a what? A jerk?" Buffy supplies helpfully. "An idiot. A wannabe badass. I mean, the gun fixation alone." He knew there was a reason why he violently disliked the woman. Well, four reasons and counting.
"Worse than that." And his nanny was right. "Won't fuck me because he has this screwed up thing about love and how we're having this relationship."
"Well, aren't you? Jeez, sometimes you need to come with flashcards."
"We're Slayers, B, you got that memo, didn't you?" Faith snaps. "We've got a sacred birthright to kill the forces of darkness. Nothing about snuggling with your honey in the small print, last time I checked."
Buffy slowly gets to her feet and stretches then gives Faith what can only be described as a pitying look. "God, you're stupid," she says feelingly.
"Say what?" Faith demands, scrambling up in an instant.
"He's a Watcher. He's your Watcher," Buffy says. "He knows all about everything you are and everything you do."
"So?"
"So he's safe."
Safe? Wesley feels vaguely insulted.
"That's not a word I'd hang on Wes," Faith says indignantly, the little darling.
"Whatever," Buffy says. "He's not going to care that you could break him and he's not going to freak if you come home bloody. If you want to die and have no one care, keep on being the loner. If you want to grab a small slice of normal, stop fighting it and admit that you're in --"
"Don't say it," Faith warns her, shoving her face forward. "Warning you, B, just don't --"
Buffy rolls her eyes and flips shining hair back out of the way. "In love. With Wesley."
"In love. With Xander," Faith snarls and Wesley's back to feeling insulted again.
The eight words hang between them and they're glaring hot enough to melt steel when suddenly they start to smile and then giggle and by the time Wesley's turned to stalk away, stiff-backed with outrage mixed with hope, they're clinging to each other, laughing helplessly and hiccupping as they try and catch their breath in between gasped words like, 'English', 'demon magnet', 'bookworm' and 'donut-lover'.
There's a light drizzle misting the air as he steps outside and he walks for hours and wonders whether she'll come to him. Or if it still counts if he goes to her? Or if neither have them make the first move, can they still meet halfway?
And as he sits in an old timber and sawdust pub somewhere off the Strand, he knows that he doesn't want halfway. He wants everything and that will always be his curse. So if Buffy can't get through to her then he'll have to -- well, he's not sure exactly how but it involves a good length of enchanted chain and strict rations until she finally comes to her senses.
Somewhere between the third and fourth glass, he remembers that she never actually confirmed Buffy's snarky little affirmation and by the time he stumbles out into the rain-soaked night, he's full of whisky and despair, but certain that he'll take whatever crumbs she throws his way.
For one moment, he contemplates standing outside her dorm window and reciting sonnets but he's not so drunk that he doesn't recognize a spectacularly bad idea. Instead he crosses over the Strand, and starts walking home through Covent Garden.
Wesley turns into his street, hunched over the bag of chips he bought on Endell Street to stop them going soggy from anything other than the liberal amounts of vinegar he doused them in and at first he thinks it's just an apparition sitting on his doorstep. If it is an apparition, then it's a very wet, very pissed off one. Faith.
She's wearing the black dress she bought for their first date, which is clinging to her shivering skin. Her hair's in rats' tails and her mascara is running down her face along with the raindrops. He doesn't think she's ever looked more beautiful.
"Where the fuck have you been?" she starts with a snarl and then looks down at the bedraggled bunch of daisies clutched in her hand. Or maybe they were daisies in a past life. It's hard to tell. "Don't you ever switch on your goddamn phone, asshole?"
"I love you so much," he says in his head but it comes out as, "Phone?"
"Yes, phone," she says. "It rings, you answer, I get to be able to tell you -- "
"Tell me what?" he murmurs, entranced by the rivulets of rain running over her like silvered fingers.
She opens her mouth and he waits, distanced by the whisky and swaying slightly. Tell me, he commands her silently. I'm your Watcher and I order you to tell me, to tell --
"Wes, you are so fucking drunk."
"Indubitably," he replies smartly. "Tell me what?"
"You're making up words!" she says accusingly.
"No, I believe you'll find that one in the dictionary between 'intractable' and 'intransigent'."
Faith snorts. "I might not know what it means but I know my fucking ABCs. It comes before them, dumbass." She nods sharply, point proved. "Drunk as a skunk."
"Oops?" he offers.
"Buffy was right," she says and so he really must be that drunk. "You're a jerk. Stupid, drunk jerk."
"I stand guilty as charged," he says because he loves the way her eyes flash when she's mad at him.
"I've been waiting for, like, hours and I put on this lame dress and I even bought you flowers. Flowers!." Faith brandishes them in his face so the petals wilt and droop like water-logged confetti. "And I'm soaked to the fucking bone and you weren't here."
"What did you want to tell me?" he reminds her because she seems to be going off-topic.
Her eyelids flutter down and she twists her lips. "Stuff. I wanted to tell you stuff but you're probably too drunk to even hear me."
It's like pulling teeth with a pair of foam pliers. "What kind of stuff?"
There's just a shadow of a smile that makes him think that she's yanking his chain and having a bloody good time of it too. "The kinda stuff that's better said inside where it's warm." She prods his chest as punctuation. "And dry. And I don't have raindrops running down my ass crack. OK?"
He imagines plump drops of water sloping down the cleft of her arse, chasing them with his tongue --
"I said OK? God, give me your keys." She holds out her hand and he dutifully starts rummaging in his jacket pocket, grimacing apologetically when she rolls her eyes.
"Sorry, it's just the wool's rather damp and -- "
"Jesus, Wes," she hisses, yanking his hand out of his pocket so she can rummage herself. "I fucking love you, you fucking idiot. There! You happy now?"
"Yes," he says. "Oh, yes." Wesley looks around for a choir of cherubim to suddenly descend from the heavens and when none appear, he reaches out to touch Faith's hair but she ducks away from him.
"Nuh-huh, not so fast, mister," she snaps without an ounce of her usual venom. "I came up with my end of the deal now it's all official and coupley, can we just fuck already?"
"You didn't just say that so you could have your wicked way with me?" Wes asks and he's not entirely joking, as he stands there, chips forgotten, rain lashing down the back of his collar.
The look she gives him is half-exasperated, half-fond. "I'm not saying it again, Wes. Not until you're fucking me and then I can pretty much guarantee that I'm going to be screaming it. Now, c'mon, let's go inside and get naked."
He thinks about that, cursing every drop he's drunk. "Tomorrow?" he says regretfully. "I've had rather a lot of whisky. I'm quite pissed, you know."
Her hand reaches out and grabs his, tugging him towards the front door. "Fuck that. We've waited long enough."
He stares down at her, raindrops caught in the streetlight, flaring into a halo. "Worth it."
"Yeah." Her lips, cold and warming instantly as they touch his, curve in a smile. "Still going to fuck me right the hell now, Wes." She fits his keys into the lock and looks over her shoulder at him.
"Make love," he corrects her as the door opens and they stumble inside. "Call it making love."
"Whatever. We can make love and shit tomorrow," she insists as she tugs him up the stairs. "Right now I want to fuck. God, Wes, it's been weeks! Girl can only take so much."
They're already on his landing and she's looks fragile and soggy. Just a girl who's inexplicably tied his heart up in knots but then she shoves him up against the door of his flat with not even a fraction of the strength she's capable of so she can cup his face in her frozen hands and kiss him.
He doesn't even know how they get inside, just one moment his arms are full of Faith; the next he's spinning through space and collapsing on the sofa as she stands in front of him with a deadly intent look on her face and slowly begins to peel off her clothes.
It's not provocative, not some grind and shimmy of a striptease, just Faith ridding herself of her clothes because they're cold and wet and preventing him from seeing her beautiful flesh. She really was the most considerate, darling girl sometimes.
"Shower," she says, tossing the wet ends of her hair back so tiny droplets of water bounce off her breasts. "Get undressed and come join me." Then she leaves him gawping at the wiggle of her arse as she walks out of the room.
By the time he's stripped, undressing with clumsy, shaking fingers, the rush of the shower is all he can hear. He walks into a bathroom fragrant with soap-tinted steam and gets in beside her, gasping as the heat scalds him part-way to sobriety.
She turns, hair plastered to her head, her face bare of everything; makeup, defences, masks. Just Faith, eying him quizzically, then wrapping her arms around him and nuzzling in close. He squeezes her to him, feeling hot slippery skin against his chest and belly and the soft soaked fuzz of hair rubbing against his thigh.
She's very real for a dream girl, for a fantasy, knocking their knees together painfully as she squirms closer still, her fingers stroking his back in frantic spiralling circles as if she's checking that he's still as she remembered him. "Missed you," she says fiercely against his throat, the words choked and hard to hear.
"Oh God, Faith," he says. "You had me. I was always there."
"Not like this," she insists, tipping her head back so that she can start to kiss him, dotting the kisses randomly over his face and neck. "Want all of you, Wes. You know that."
And if she can feel that way, it's a mystery to him why she fought so hard against his insistence that without love they weren't having it all, but he's too happy -- and drunk -- to quibble.
"You've got me," he repeats. "I'm right here -- "
Her mouth fastens onto his in a greedy kiss, her tongue warmly slippery against his. "Yeah," she pants, her hand sliding down between them. "I noticed."
But even the best efforts of her quick fingers can't work against all that whisky and he's only half-hard, content to stand there with his eyes shut, warm water streaming over his rapidly thawing skin and have her hands on him.
"I did have rather a lot to drink," he mutters apologetically, cupping the weight of her breast in his palm and marvelling at the way her nipple hardens when he drags his thumb over it.
She bites her lip and tightens her grip, lengthening her strokes and realising that she's getting nowhere fast. "Just as well I love you, Wes," she hisses, reaching up to snag his earlobe with her teeth. "'Cause otherwise I'd make you sleep on the couch."
"But you're not going to?" It's too much effort to stand upright and Faith's doing a wonderful job of holding him up.
"Nope, guess not." She's switching off the water as he slumps forward so he can rest his head on her shoulder. "Though you totally deserve it."
He stumbles out of the shower cubicle and gropes for a towel. He seems to have lost the use of his opposable thumbs but he manages to drag the cloth round Faith, though it's a crime to cover up all that damp flesh. "I'll go down on you," he hears himself offer and his voice sounds like it's coming from a long way away. "I really want to, Faith, but I just need to lie down for a bit first."
"Yeah, yeah, Wes. Promises, promises."
If he squints over the top of her head, he can just makes out the edge of his bed. And if he takes one step forward and then another it works very well because it means he's getting nearer and nearer to his pillows. "Bed, Faith. Just for a second, please."
The room spins slightly as he hits the bed, but then Faith's wriggling free from the towel and holding his hand, anchoring him safely so he can close his eyes just for a second --
"Stupid, drunk jerk," she whispers almost tenderly and it's the last thing he can remember before he falls asleep.
Final Part
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