Buffy, Faith and any homoerotic contexts are the creation and property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy Productions and Fox.

Hey kids!  Girl/girl stuff ahead!  Use your judgement, okay?

"Buffy…"

Half-awake in my little cell, I stir and catch the tail-end of a dream.

I dream of her.  It seems like I've always dreamt of her.  Even the eight months I spent in the darkness were spent dreaming of her.  Buffy.  B.  My sister/friend/enemy.  The object of lust and hatred.

The Slayer.

I remember meeting her outside their shitty little club, fighting off that vamp.  The adrenaline that came from the fight, and the adrenaline that came from having an audience.  The others were all impressed, but *she* just looked unconvinced.  And I wanted to win her over, prove myself … she'd died and come back to life, creating me in the process.

What had I done?  Gotten my Watcher killed.  Run away.

Fuck, Faith, you sure know how to impress people.

The guys, at least, were impressed.  But impressing guys is easy.  Buffy, though … she just looked at me.  Like I was nothing.  The second Slayer.  'Buffy's new sidekick from the wrong side of the tracks.'  And for the first time, I wanted to impress someone.  I wanted her to see me as her equal.  I wanted her to see me as strong, and capable, and *smart*.  I never wanted to be smart before.

Mostly, though, I wanted *her*.  Her taste, her smell, her body moving with mine, her voice calling my name, her hands in my hair, her mouth on me …

I'm wet, and warm.  My fingers wander down and explore.

I remember what it was like in her body, the steam of the bathroom mixing with the bath oils and the scent of her body.  Different, yet the same.  I'd never been with a woman before, and I guess that doesn't really count either, but *damn* it was good.  But it wouldn't be the same with anyone else.  I only want B.  Any other woman would be too weak, too – wrong.

I muffle a sound between a laugh and a groan in my pillow.  I guess I'm a one Slayer woman.  Pity the Slayer in question isn't interested.  Damn, Buffy, why'd you have to be so tame?  You *kill* *vampires* for fuck's sake!  You're a Slayer.  You don't need to follow the rules like any other college girl.  You're a Slayer, and you fuck your Iowa boy and pretend Angel was a mistake.  You're in fucking denial.  And you think *I'm* crazy.

God, B, you could be so much more.  *We* could be so much more.

Buffy.  Sister/friend/enemy.  My beautiful not-lover.  Fucking *bitch*, afraid of herself and her own identity.  Afraid of *me*.  As if I were no more than some fucking demon out to destroy Sunnydale and the Buffy Way of Life.  I'm the Slayer.  I'm *more*.

I'm the Slayer.  But I was created through her death, and I guess that makes me hers.  Like a piece of artwork that hasn’t turned out right.  Shoved to the back of the shelf and ignored.  Except for Angel, who looks at me and sees more than the flaws.  But then, Angel and I have the same disease.  Buffy, pumping through our veins and dominating our minds.  And she runs away from both of us, when we belong to her.  Mind, body and soul.

For a while, her body at least was mine.  I imagine having her for real, skin and hair and sweat and strength.  The thought is too much, and I come, my cries muffled by my pillow.  Oh, Buffy, how I hate you, how I love you, how I want you … how I wish you'd understand.

I'd try anything once, but you always run away.

END

Copyright © 2000 Elizabeth M. Barr

Buffy ® is the property of Mutant Enemy (grr, arrgh) and Twentieth Century Fox.  No profit is derived from this fan fiction.