Only in her head, there is only one scenario, one solution. Call it greedy, but Faith wanted a happy ending too. Even the villains and the fuckups want a good life, but Faith’s knife stuck in her own ribs like a gutted pig reworked that ending. Although, truly, maybe she fucked it up before that, past Alan, past every argument and every synchronized slaying, past Gwendolyn Post, who not only had a stick up her ass but was a general bitch, maybe even up to that first and final point where she staked the vamp and saw The Slayer. She really didn’t believe in fate, but if she ever had faith, that’s when she’d know her destiny was cemented.
It went sorta like this. Eyes scanning across the room, swiveling and stopping on four people huddled in a corner, two of them looking like they owned the damn night. One of them with a silver cross around her neck. Faith pivoted, started to strut over, but her line of sight was blocked by an all too eager vamp with greedy eyes and cheap cologne spattered on top of a copper scent. Okay, five by five, new plan, old scenario. Smile and flirt, take him outside for the most meaningful night of his undead life and boom, she’s there. You turn around. You headbutt the vamp. It now goes like this:
Hey slayer, nice enough to meet you. Meet The Slayer. She’ll have some other friends too, but they don’t really matter. Have fun trying to fuck with her and fuck her but fuck it up and just fuck yourself over. Also, try not to curse too much. You’re an idiot.
Buffy was all smiles and grins hiding metallic steel, pastel pink covering red scratches that surely were carved out by more than just demons. Probably penance for sins. She knew Buffy had to sin, nobody’s perfect right? It was like she was a supercut of everything Faith wanted and needed to be, every stereotypical dillemma ran in her mind: Want to fuck her, be her, fuck her over? Spin the needle. Just make sure you mind the ends. You can get poked too.
The first time she recognized Buffy was more than everyone gave her credit for was the Homecoming. Forget putting up with that bitch Cordelia, Buffy literally kicked ass while looking absolutely stunning, in a moment supposed to be defined by her femininity she shrugged off standards and was an overall bad-ass Slayer. Plus, she looked really hot in a tiara.
The first time she realized Buffy was truly more than what she gave her credit for was all red. Red and black, literally, in the forms of leather jackets and bruised hearts, smoky eyes and red coming out of her own waist. Half a gasp hid in the back of her throat while her tooth cracked. She grinned. Didn’t think B had it in her. This was a different solution to the equation, but maybe, if she had looked at it all back, the lines were written from the start.