Two Words
by SwaySlayer
Rating: NC-17

Disclaimer: The characters in this story do not belong to me but to the great and glorious man-child Joss Whedon who my friend Carla is intent on marrying. The fact that Eliza visits me regularly in my dreams has nothing at all to do with copyright.
Spoilers: Zip. This is circa season three, around the time of “Revelations” before it all went to shit.
Author’s Note: To Melbourne and its three 36-degree days I say a big “thank you” and a prolific “fuck you”. 26 degrees at 1:00am is just not normal.
Dedication: To Adena, my muse for every piece of writing I’ve done since you kissed me 16 months ago. We can’t get smutty as often as Buffy and Faith, but when we do, we undoubtedly have Slayer stamina. Take it easy though. Remember, I’m injured.
Feedback: I have a broken collarbone. No stronger painkiller than that of the Ego Boost.

I got two words. Fucking. Hot. Or goddamn hot. Or any other profane term to accompany hot. It’s not warm and it’s not balmy. It’s nowhere near the “pleasant” nature of the weather that the oily newscaster on my static TV says it is. It’s tepid and humid without so much as a mousefart of a breeze to lift this veil of heat. The windows of my motel room are seeping water, mirroring the droplets that have gathered on my forehead, cheeks and upper lip. I run my tongue over the crease in my top lips and taste salt-tinged water, laced with the remnants of the previous night’s tequila consumption. Some fat demon biker challenged me to a drinking contest last night and paid dearly for it. The stupid fuck didn’t recognise me. Serves him right. You’d think these guys would pay a little more attention to who was staking vamps in their town, but then again, their only concern has blonde hair and a self-righteous-superior-morality complex. Not that I’m bitter. Hell, I couldn’t be happier that I’m me. Being that responsible must severely bum out her id, and god knows my inner moppet loves being let loose. Not that I’m irresponsible. I like to think of myself as following a different moral high ground, one that allows for instincts, intuition and the occasional bouts of larceny and sexual deviancy. Girl’s gotta eat, right?

She is kind of nice though. Fuck. I think the heat’s melting what’s left of my brain. What I should be doing is breaking into some swanky hotel and taking a bare-assed dip in their pool. I’m sure the pool boy wouldn’t complain. However, that action does involve moving and I’ve finally found a position where I’m not actively shedding litres of water, so I think I’ll stick with that for a while. I settle down to watching the heat move through the room. It wilts the solitary plant on my windowsill and further fades the sun patches on the previously green carpets. It caresses the hole-filled curtain netting and plays peek-a-boo with rays of sunlight. It blankets my body and wraps itself around me slowly, a sly boa constrictor suffocating its prey. My eyes, dry and lethargic cease staring into the distance and sweep over the length of my body, taking in the blue cotton shorts and the dirty white vest. Gangly legs stretch out for eons until they hit feet that were too big for a 12 year-old five years ago. I seriously need to take off the polish on my toes. I think I put that on when I was still in Boston. Once again my plan deteriorates without having taken much shape. The acetone resides in my bathroom. The room that is not where I am presently. Thus, the plan dies in the ass.

A sob is stifled in my chest. I don’t even notice it until my face starts to quiver in a way that means only one thing is going to happen. I feel stupid. What the fuck am I about to cry for? I put it down to the heat. It’s messing with my mind, making me feel weak. Every time I get a shiver of heat down my back I feel nauseous, like there’s something festering inside my gut. I reach over for the can of soda next to the bed and drink it even though it’s warm and flat. The manufactured sweetness bites against my teeth but it’s succeeded in suppressing whatever Oprah moment I was about to have. I feel restless and listless and uncomfortable and lazy and sad and futile and stupid and useless and so unbelievably utterly confused and I fucking hate this heat. I hate Sunnydale and I hate this stupid fucking motel room with its stupid fucking puke-coloured carpets and its stupid fucking butt-ugly pictures on the wall. Another sob threatens to rise up and this one escapes, the sound waves hitting the air with a small punch. I cannot begin to imagine how pathetic I look: a pitiful, skinny teenager sitting on sweat-stained sheets and staining gossip magazines with her irrational tears. I miss my mom.

There’s a fly buzzing around the room unenthusiastically. I know buddy. I’m feeling it too. It flies up against the window, struggling to find a way out of this stifling box, but only succeeds in confusing itself further. My eyes follow it three or four times more as it repeats the unsuccessful movements, until finally, it finds its way to an air vent and disappears. My companions tend to do that. I wipe at my eyes with the back of my hand. I now have tears on my hand and sweat in my eyes. I’m half expecting the sound of ice-cream chimes to save me but I doubt the guy in the white hat travels through this part of town. I do hear a knocking though. Strong enough to catch my attention but soft enough for me to know that the person on the other end is suffering the weather just as I am. I move towards the door, grimacing as my body immediately heats up in response to the activity. I grasp the handle and pull the door open slowly.

A small gust of wind precedes her entrance and my eyes flutter closed momentarily, enjoying the short-term relief. She’s dressed remarkably similarly to me, except both her shorts and her vest are white. Her hair is tied up in a messy ponytail and her right hand is attached to the back of her neck in a futile attempt to release the tension the heat is generating.

“Hi.” It’s too hot to talk. I merely grunt in reply. “I brought ice-cream but unless you’ve got an iceberg hidden in the corner of the room I’m guessing I brought milkshakes.” A half-smile creeps onto my face as I gesture for her to enter. I can see her scanning the surroundings and for the first time today I’m glad it’s hot. The embarrassed flush that sneaks up on me is easily excusable. “So…”

“If you ask me if it’s hot enough for me I will be forced to dress you in snow clothes.” My voice sounds alien to me. I can’t remember the last time I spoke out loud save for wheedling my way out of a week’s rent three days earlier. I’ve been a recluse. A hermit who hunts vampires and then locks herself away until the sky bleeds into night again.

“You give me very little credit. Besides, I’m original. I was going to ask if it was warm enough for you.” I attempt a lethargic swat at her arm but she’s already dumping the contents of a paper bag on my bed. A tub of ice cream rolls out and begins to sweat on the sheets, followed by a pack of cigarettes and a bottle of water. I eye the collection sceptically. “The cancer sticks are for you, although I do not condone smoking.” Always the moralist critic. The girl can’t even get me a pack of smokes without giving me a lecture.

“Thanks, but the thought of a room filled with heat and smoke ain’t exactly my idea of a swinging time.” She looks surprised. Probably thinks I can’t go a second without indulging in some form of a vice. Fuck it. She can think what she likes. I take the pack anyway.

I resume my position on the bed and pick up the tub of ice cream, pressing it against the exposed parts of my body that are in desperate need of cooling down. My neck, my arms, my chest. I’m melting this tub faster than any other source of heat. The bed shifts slightly and I watch as she assumes her place. She laces her fingers together, puts her hands behind her head and then politely kicks offs her sandals before placing her feet on the bed. I’ve ripped these sheets to shreds from the buckles of my boots catching on them. We’re different like that.

We sit in silence, gulping down heat-filled breaths. I open the ice cream and see, just as she predicted, that we have a large, vanilla milkshake inside. Just as well. I’m spoon-less at the moment. Not that I was ever spoon-full. I look at her questioningly and she shrugs, giving me the go ahead. I raise the tub to my lips and take a gulp. I make a yummy noise as the cool liquid slides down my throat and rapidly follow it with another long swig. I swear my body temperature just dropped a few degrees. I hand the tub over to her. She sits up as she takes it from me and I can’t help but notice the imprint her body has left on the sheets. Her legs are shorter than mine and her shoulders aren’t as broad. Funny. I never thought of her as small. She drinks from the tub but neglects to do it slowly, allowing the ice cream to run out where her mouth does not cover. I stifle a laugh.

“Oh for…!” She’s not impressed. I wouldn’t be either if I looked like the inside of a soft serve machine. “Do you have a towel?”

“In the bathroom.” She looks at me and pouts slightly. I’m suddenly very hot again.

“But that’s like, a whole other room, with a whole other door to go through and much movement required.”

“Well I’m not getting it.”

“Then you’ll just have to live with having ice-cream all over your bed.”

“I’ve put up with worse.”

“Like what?” The tone in her voice suggests she’s genuinely interested, but I ask anyway.

“You really want to know? Coz let me tell you B, nine out of ten times the story ends in violence, alcohol or violence.”

“Lucky for me that’s my job description. Except for the alcohol.”

“Maybe another time, when I have the energy and quite possibly the alcohol.”

“Ok.” Some more silence. The world outside is beginning to darken however the heat does not abate. Night is not yet upon us but I secretly will it on, anxiously anticipating the rush of wind and speed as I hunt down an opponent and make him fairy dust. I glance over at her and instinctively know that she’s thinking the same thing. I close my eyes and slowly sink into an uneasy afternoon nap.

When I wake up, her hand is on my cheek, her tapered index finger following the path of what appears to be a tear. I can feel it, hot and ambitious as it slides down to her. My voice is slightly sleep-drenched and gruff.

“What are you doing?” She shrugs but doesn’t look me in the eye. She continues to follow the path of the tear. I wait a while before speaking again. There’s something palpable happening and I’m not sure how to handle it. I play it safe. “B?” She exhales by way of reply. I wait. I try again. “Buffy?” Her eyes flicker up to catch my gaze; the flecks of green dotted with unshed tears. I’m frozen, locked in a trance with my discarded tears and her empathetic ones. I can feel the proximity of her body. We’ve never been this close. I’m not talking about the closeness of high fives, or the celebratory hugs or the casual slinging of arms around each other’s shoulders, but close, like how I can feel the heat of her body radiating on to mine. I know that if she blinks she’ll let a tear loose and in that moment I know that I never want this girl to cry, even if she’s happy. My hand moves and I watch it with detached fascination as it reaches up to brush gently against her cheek. Her eyes close briefly and when they open again, they are streaming with tears. They wet my hand and I draw back to put it to my mouth, my lips pressed against it, as I taste the sadness of this girl who cries for no reason. My lips part as I speak again. “What is this?” She shakes her head softly.

“Do you want me to say I don’t know?” I think for a moment.

“No. I want you to say what you think you do know.” She releases a gentle laugh.

“The further we go, the more cryptic it gets.” I take a breath before replying.

“It’s always been cryptic.” I pause. I’ve either completely misread the situation or…no. I haven’t misread anything. I’m not hesitant or confused. I’m not apprehensive or concerned about consequences. I know what I feel. A connection. And I know how I feel. And I show her.

My hand goes back to her cheek and I gently pull her face towards mine. There is no resistance from her side. We look into each other’s eyes up until the point where our vision of each other begins to blur, and then we close our eyes. I know what to expect. Lips, mouths, tongues, teeth-knocking together with uncontrollable passion. But I’ve never kissed this girl before. I know nothing. The moment our lips touch the temperature of the room increases by at least a hundred. That first contact sends the most incredible sensations through my body, like a wave of endorphins coupled with massive doses of inexplicable bliss. Our mouths are barely connected, but then she presses her lips firmly against mine and kisses me. To an outside observer, it may have appeared chaste, conservative even, but I knew no one had ever kissed me like that, and no one ever would. So I kiss her back. And she kisses me again, and I kiss her and we kiss each other until the roaring in my ears tells me I need air. I watch her chest rise and fall as she inhales deeply, her hand now resting on my stomach and her fingers fiddling with the hem of my shirt. I don’t care if I ever breathe again just as long as she continues kissing me. I sit up slowly, half expecting her to run if I make any sudden movements, but she just looks at me, and unlike anyone else who has ever been in my life, she sees me.

I thread my arm around her waist and pull her toward me. I can feel the sweat through the back of her shirt and it makes me want to lick every inch of her body. I kiss the exposed skin of her shoulder and run my tongue over it. She sighs and buries her face in my neck, breathing warm air onto me until my body is rife with goose bumps. I slide my hand up the back of her shirt. Making contact with her skin makes my fingertips burn and I gently unclasp her bra. She stops. I withdraw my hand and wait. Her face is unreadable at first, but then she removes her shirt. And her bra. And I’m immobile. I’m just staring at her, unabashedly drinking in the sight of this beautiful woman who is half-naked on my bed. Now she smiles, but the intensity is still there as she removes my shirt. I’m not wearing a bra and as soon as she sees this, her hands reach out to me, cupping my breasts and running her thumbs over my nipples. I’m sure I hear fireworks. It’s either that or my brain exploding but I have to touch her. I crush my lips against hers and push her onto her back, allowing my fingers to explore every available inch of her skin. For her part, she rakes her nails down my back and slides her tongue into my mouth. I meet hers halfway and we discover every crevice of each other’s mouths. When our lips are bruised from each other I move my mouth to her chest, licking a path between her breasts and grazing the palm of my hand over her nipples. I take one into my mouth and gently tug on it, eliciting a small gasp from her throat. I circle it with my tongue and take it between my teeth, pulling on it quickly before switching my attention to the pair of white shorts that adorn her lower half.

I doubt I need to explain why I tear them, and her underwear, off. She’s naked and so unbelievably gorgeous beneath me that I run my hands over the entirety of her body. I run my thumb over her mouth, I trace the hollow at the base of her neck, I kiss my way down her abdomen, and I slide my thigh between her legs and grind into her in an achingly slow manner. I want her to feel me everywhere; I want to cover her skin like the light sheen of sweat that covers it now. I kiss her hipbone and without any further warning, slide two fingers inside her. She cries out my name as if she’s done it a thousand times before and immediately begins to move her hips with the rhythm of my fingers. She grabs the back of my neck and crushes her mouth against mine, her ragged breaths heating up the already sweltering room. I use my thumb to press down on her clit and she bites down on my bottom lip. I yelp, mainly out of surprise, but her face quickly clouds over with concern.

“Did I hurt you?” I run my tongue over my lip and taste blood.

“Just a little.”

It’s the first time we’ve spoken since our lips met. It should sound strange but it doesn’t. She is warm around my fingers, soaking my hand with her wetness. I watch her closely as I begin to move my fingers inside her again. Her eyes close and she grabs fistfuls of sheets while making slow, steady moans. Her brow is furrowed as she focuses on the strokes of my fingers, every muscle inside her urging me on faster and deeper. I comply by thrusting my fingers deep inside her and bending my head down to press my tongue down on her swollen centre. She cries out my name again and it only inspires me further. I begin stroking her with my tongue, matching it with the rhythm of my fingers, pushing her further to the edge of climax. I have no concept of time at this point but I make love to her for at least an hour before she comes. I don’t know what it is that finally brings about her climax. Maybe I push into her a little deeper, or maybe I kiss her a little bit harder, or maybe it’s what I whisper into her ear. She presses me to her chest as convulsions hurtle through her body so I feel every one of them. When they finally stop there is no oxygen in the room. My head is resting on her chest, my hair matted and streaked with sweat and I feel beautiful.

She strokes the top of my head and I raise my eyes to meet hers. She gestures to the side table where the ice-cream tub sits in a pool of melted water. I shrug and am about to nestle back into her when I feel something cold on my back. I look at her quizzically, only to receive a sly smile in return.

“What? You said you’d put up with worse.” She rolls me over onto my back, straddles me and reties her hair. I grin widely. “What?”

“I’m guessing things are about to get messy?” She licks her lips in a most lascivious manner.

“I love smart girls.”

She drips ice cream onto my stomach in small drops, licking them up as quickly as they fall. When she gets to my breasts she dips her fingers into the tub and traces my nipples with the creamy liquid. I raise an eyebrow at her before she goes to work on my breasts, licking, sucking, biting and teasing me into a wild state of oblivion. This, in addition to the previous hour, has created a wealth of moisture between my legs and I shift slightly to relieve some of the pressure. She is cleaning up the last of the ice cream when I do this, and if sensing my discomfort, decides to add to it by pressing her palm against my sopping shorts. I hiss slightly and bite down on my lip, grinding my hips against her hand. She makes a soft noise of appreciation and puts the tub back on the table. Her nimble fingers rid me of my shorts quickly and she takes the same courtesy as I did earlier by staring at every centimetre of my naked form. Her hand creeps up my body and she runs a finger over my lips. I open my mouth and she slides it in. The vanilla tingles in my mouth, mimicking a tingling beginning elsewhere. She withdraws slowly and traces the finger from my mouth, down my chest, to my stomach and then makes it disappear inside me. I’ve been ready for hours, days, months even and she has to slide two more inside me to relieve the pressure. Once she does, I take control, guiding her to where I want to be touched, teaching her how to please me, moaning her name when my body aches for her. I lose all concept of time. I don’t know if it’s minutes or hours but when I open my eyes and see her watching me with nothing but tenderness, my body lets go and I come with tears in my eyes.

I’d never cried in front of anyone except for my mom. Then I came to Sunnydale and cried over my dead Watcher in front of a girl I’d just met. And now I cry in front of that same girl because I feel alive.

It’s dark outside. I don’t know whether or not the heat has dissipated and for the first time today, I don’t give a shit. Strands of blonde hair are tickling my nose as my lover rests her head on my shoulder and our bodies are sticky with sex and melted ice cream. Our conversation has been minimal. I haven’t asked her why she cried for me and she hasn’t asked me why I was crying in my sleep. I’ve gotten used to the nightmares and there usually isn’t anybody else around to witness them. I’ve got a feeling that’s all about to change.

“Faith?” It’s the first time I’ve heard my name from her lips without it being a scream. It sounds oddly familiar.

“Yeah?”

“Do you know what this is?” It should be a rhetorical question, but I know it isn’t.

“Yeah.”

“And?”

“And what?” She lifts her head until we’re almost nose-to-nose.

“And that’s all you have to say?” I plant a kiss on her nose.

“I thought I’d pretty much said it all.”

“You’re not exactly Miss Conversationalist 2003.”

“Bear with me babe, I let my fingers do the talking.” Her eyes crinkle up and she laughs.

“That was quite possibly the cheesiest line of all time.”

“Stick around then, because I ain’t even started yet.” She traces the outline of my mouth.

“I think I will.” We kiss like old 1940’s style lovers, except we’re both women, with superpowers and a destiny to rid the world of vampires, demons and the forces of darkness. And I think we’re kind of in love. I got two words for that.

Hell yeah.

The End