*
here's to opening and upward, to leaf and to sap
and to your(in my arms flowering so new)
self whose eyes smell of the sound of rain
*
She's been here before. The crowding of familiar, famous buildings brushes
against the edges of her consciousness wherever she turns, and it's almost
comforting. It was an eighth grade trip, on a bus down from Boston, noisy
with the hyperactivity of thirteen-year-olds approaching summer vacation.
She got here by bus today too, this one full of sleeping, worn-looking
men. Silent as it wove its way eastward across the face of the entire
country, the belated mirror-image of a trip made when she was much younger
and much more afraid.
Now she's managed to work her way from the dingy Greyhound station over to
the Mall, enjoying the swing of her limbs, cramped after two and a half
days on a bus. Stone buildings line these sidewalks, working hard to be
imposing and important. East coast pretentiousness, but if she's honest
she'll admit that it's reassuring to be somewhere which isn't all palm
trees and stucco and plasticine people. She feels like she can finally
breathe again, without the buzzing voice in the back of her head telling
her to get the hell out of California. Away from all the shit it's given
her from the moment she arrived. Three days out of jail and she was on the
bus headed here, with Angel to thank.
It's almost unreal, being away from the stale hum of the bus or the cold
cement walls of jail, like maybe she's died or is back in a coma, dreaming
those godforsaken Slayer dreams. She's had enough of those, thank you very
much, and enough of everything to do with them, of LA and Sunnydale and
always being in someone's fucking shadow. Which is why she told Angel she
needed to leave and ended up here. She's got some local vamp fighter's
name and number in her pocket, an old friend of Gunn's who's apparently
having a bit of a demon problem and would be more than glad to have the
help of a Slayer.
Faith stops walking and sits on the long steps of one of the buildings,
swinging her backpack off to rest between her legs. She rummages inside
and finds the ice cream sandwich from the bus station's tiny snack
bar. It's perfectly melted now, and she tears off the paper absently. It
was dawn when the bus driver bellowed their approach to the city, the early
June sun peeking over the north Virginia trees, glistening across the
Potomac and generally making Washington look a whole hell of a lot nicer
than Faith knows it is. She doesn't let herself be taken in by such
niceties, but she does let herself relax into the warmth of the now
fully-risen sun, feeling her muscles unknot and the cool stone of the steps
start to heat beneath her.
She watches the joggers lazily, vaguely amazed at their number. Nothing
else to do in a city like this, she figures, at least for people like
them. Most of them are middle-aged men, hairy and wearing a little too
little, sweating profusely. She's still slightly overwhelmed by all this
freedom and space and the people filling both. She counts them, idly, as
they come into view, feeling her fingers getting sticky with chocolate.
And then there's this woman. Young, a little older than Faith. She comes
around the corner, jogging like the rest, but there's something in the way
she runs, like she could do it forever and be completely happy. She knows
what she's doing, too, unlike the rest of the middle-aged yuppies puffing
along, and Faith pauses to admire the rhythm of her arms and legs as she
weaves between the others on the path. She's angled in Faith's direction,
making her way straight toward the building where she's camped out, slowing
until she paces her way up the steps. She stops somewhere above Faith's
left shoulder and starts to stretch out. From the corner of her eye, Faith
watches firm girl muscles moving under sweat-sheened skin, feels cool ice
cream sliding down her throat. Smiles a little to herself.
The woman is sitting now, a few steps above her, and Faith reaches into her
bag, rummaging for her last unopened water bottle, which she tosses over to
her. She catches it easily and quirks an eyebrow at Faith.
"Thanks."
Faith shakes her head dismissively. "What's your name?"
"Gina," she says, twisting open the plastic bottle top.
"Gina," Faith repeats, rolling the name appreciatively around in
her
mouth. She can feel the woman watching her with something of a
professional air, sizing her up a little too knowingly. She gives her most
winning smile, cocking her head ever so slightly to one side. "I'm
Faith. Do you work for the government, Gina?"
The muscles in Gina's neck flutter in synchronized motion as she relaxes a
little and breaks Faith's gaze to drain half the water bottle. "Who
doesn't?" she says, when she brings it away from her lips, which shine
now
with moisture.
FBI, Faith thinks, or maybe CIA. Something intimately acquainted with
fighting the official Good Fight. She is too self-possessed, her limbs too
well toned for any kind of office job. Then again, if the Mayor taught her
anything at all, it was respect for the unpredictability of politicians.
Faith finishes the last of her ice cream, neatly licking the cold whiteness
of vanilla off the wrapper, then turns her attention to sucking her fingers
clean. Not obscenely, just -- lingering. Enough so that when she turns to
glance up at Gina, she catches the other woman regarding her again, with a
far less objective gaze. Gina grins at being caught, glancing away. She
has the kind of sweet smile which makes Faith go soft and wet in ways she'd
rather not examine too closely. She doesn't like to admit her own
fascination with people so much her opposite. B and Angel and Riley and
even Xander -- the good ones. Something about them makes her purr deep
inside, ache to understand the distance between their controlled, proper
meet-the-world faces and what they're like twisting underneath her against
rumpled bedsheets. She's never figured out how to fake her way through,
how to show the world anything but what she is, and just maybe if she
trails her lips along enough salty-smooth bodies she'll find the key to
fitting in somehow.
"It's gonna be a hot one," Gina says, with an accent which hints
at the
South, and it's definite now, she's looking at Faith much less like someone
who's invaded part of her daily routine and much more like a
possibility. She's got to be a good several inches taller than Faith, who
thinks she could really like that, could get used to the feel of a long,
lean body curling around her own. If anyone asked her, she'd never say
anything about how tall and brunette and eastcoast is so perfectly opposite
to petite and blonde and Californian that it could be exactly what's needed
for her plan for a fresh start, a whole new life. But Gina acts like she
won't take any shit, like she can handle whatever might be thrown at her,
and Faith likes that too.
It's been a long night, but the pale rays of sunlight streaming over the
treetops have given her a second wind, and there are a lot of hours to kill
between now and evening.
She wants to follow this high-browed, dark-haired girl back to whatever
Spartan apartment she calls home, shrugging an agreement to the
carefully-coaxed offer of a shower. Wants to undress her, discover the
soft, cotton panties girls like this wear, bikini-cut and dark, like wine,
dipping low between the pale curves of stomach and thighs. To watch the
way her legs fall apart when she touches the bones of her hips. Faith
wants to push her tongue inside Gina until she learns six new ways to
scream, maybe tie her up and be part of whatever secret fantasy she's never
let herself give in to, or perhaps just suck on her fingers until she's
begging for more. She'll play the bad girl in exchange for the chance to
press her mouth against the soft skin on the inside of Gina's elbow, to
trace her fingers over the long expanse of her back and try to discover the
secrets contained between the molecules of unscarred flesh, behind the
smiles of good girls.
Gina's still holding the water bottle, and her fingers, when Faith reaches
for it, are warm in the sunshine.