Rating: R
Summary: It was the quiet that was killing her now. Post Chosen.
Author's Note: Written for monanotlisa, for being generally awesome in making me graphics, though she had no idea who I was. :D YAY!

-corvidae9

It Always Is

Buffy sat in the center of the over-large motel bed for once in utter silence, or what passes for it in motels, covers pulled up over her knees, over her elbows and hands and tucked under her chin. It wasn't the dark or monsters or bad men or even the end of the world that she was afraid of-- hell. Been there, done that, had her favorite slaying top all bloodied to show for it, too.

No, tonight, weeks after the cataclysm, it was the quiet that was eating at her and though everyone decided she should get a room to herself after the mess with the demon masquerading as a rental office, she very much wished she was crammed into a room with five other girls (or Andrew). Still, she was a big girl and even without Mr. Gordo (rest his soul), she could sleep just fine, thanks.

Aaaany second now.

She was staring at the wall so intently, the knock at the window didn't even phase her. True, she was still on her feet in a matter of seconds, stake in hand out of pure muscle memory, but there was no fear behind it. As she pulled the blinds, she rolled her eyes and tossed the stake away; the only danger here was too-dark lipstick (because apparently 'redeemed' didn't include color sense). Shoving open the window, she deadpanned, "Hi. You missed the door by about five feet."

Faith grinned, though her insouciance was obviously forced and that alone made Buffy stand back and hold the blinds open without further commentary. "Hey B. Brought a midnight snack. Got a little loud what with the blubbering down the hall. Thought I'd crash with you instead."

Buffy cocked an eyebrow as Faith dusted off her low-slung pajama pants, clearly bra-less in her trademark wife beater and holding out a bottle of... something clearly alcoholic. This was Faith, after all -- it wasn't very well apple juice. "Of course. Because it makes sense that I'd have a room to myself because I wanted company."

Nevertheless, she turned to shut the window, dropping the blinds back in place, stepping back to find that Faith (because who else would it be?) was standing right behind her, hand creeping around her middle, her wicked, wicked mouth creeping up her shoulder, tongue slipping under the flimsy strap of her own pajama top.

Buffy's fingers threaded though those splayed on her stomach, head turning to bump Faith's, eyes half-shut.

"I'm not him, Faith."

Without missing a beat, Faith murmured, "I know. He was way darker, had about a foot and a half on you and my god, you should have seen the cock on that man. Porno cock, I swear. Fucking waste. Should have shared him with you when I had the chance." Her lips moved to kiss the scars on Buffy's throat, licking along and around them, rewarded by a shudder and the teensiest of whimpers that said she didn't need any more convincing, but Faith kept talking anyway. "Just to remind you, I'm also not English, bottle-blond or undead, but you seem to like me just fine."

Maybe Buffy would have stiffened a little at that if Faith hadn't been practically gnawing on her neck at the time; working her way up to her ear, oblivious to the thud of the bottle hitting the carpet and rolling into the discarded stake with a clink.

Maybe she shouldn't have let Faith spin on her heel and push her onto the bed, hands moving down her back and kneading the curve of her spine and the firm swell of her ass and back to her shoulder blades, but she did. She even muttered her name as Faith's hands slipped under and around her, breath warm on her ear as she leaned in to whisper, "Is it me you're thinking of, B?" her voice a little more desperate around the edges than she hoped would show through.

Buffy's hands covered hers again; fixing Faith in her peripheral vision from where her cheek was pressed into the mattress, her words rang raw and impossibly honest into the silence surrounding them.

"It always is."

***