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doyleSome oddness for the Wes/Faith ficathon.
Title: Science Fiction Double Feature
Author: Doyle
Pairing: Wes/Faith/Illyria
Rating: R
Notes: For![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
gwynnega for the Wes/Faith ficathon. Wishverse, kind of.
Wes used to be a Watcher. Illyria used to be a god. Faith used to be a girl in Boston, making money in bars when she could, hiding from the factory sweep teams. One day last year she woke up Supergirl. She figures that out of the three of them she got the best deal.
The knife across her palm hurts like a bitch, but she's done this a million times. Lifts her hand high above her head, lets the blood-smell get into the air. Lots of hungry vamps around, and even if Wes thinks it's bullshit (he used a bigger word), she still says they can smell the fresh, human blood. She bleeds and she counts ten seconds, ten times, and then she runs.
Five of them after her before she's gone a block: two of them civilians, the other three uniformed boys, Master's goons. Uniforms mean tazers, and she takes the Stooges out first. The other two, she can take her time. Make it last. Make it fun.
**
Wesley patches up her hand and the gash on her head and reams her out for going on patrol by herself.
"What were you doing?" he asks later, when she's turned to face the headboard, holding tight to it and he's behind her, inside her. "Were you trying to get yourself killed?"
Arches backwards, bites her tongue, doesn't let go her grip because she's learned that lesson at least, and she wishes he wouldn't ask her questions when she can't think straight.
He comes. She doesn't. "Stay there," he says and she does, sweating and arms trembling and her clit telling her that Wes can fuck himself. But she stays till Illyria comes to say "Wesley releases you", and Illyria fucks her face to face, never speaking, never blinking her eyes.
**
Their motel room's filled with newspapers. Books. Calendars covered with Wes's notes. Lots of notes, lots of calendars, diaries; that pile gets bigger every week.
She gets back one night and finds Wesley sitting in the dark, calendar page crumpled in his hand.
"Birthday?" Faith guesses. "Hit the big four-oh?" She drops into his lap, legs either side of his hips: "Should've told, Wes, we coulda had a party."
"Is that how old you think I am?" Sharp-edged smile. "And it's not my birthday. It's hers."
"This was the day I returned to this world," Illyria says, and Wesley says, "It wasn't this world," and she says, "Human semantics."
**
"Hell with this." Faith spins the knife on the point of its blade, catching the handle before it falls. "When'm I gonna take down the Master?"
"You're not," Wesley says. "He's far too powerful."
She examines the crisscross of white scars on her hands. "Thought I was supposed to be the Slayer."
"He's killed Slayers. He killed this world's Buffy when he had barely a fraction of his current power."
Power. They're a state away and she can feel the Hellmouth's power, surging out of California and across the continent. Even inside, it gets onto her skin.
"What are we gonna do," she says, "stay here forever? It's been a month, Wes. You're too pussy to face the Master, that's okay, but I'm going."
Wesley says, "No, you're not. We're not discussing it. Go and find Illyria."
The knife misses his head. Just. Lands closer than she means it to.
Wesley smiles and says, "Faith, go and find Illyria, please."
**
Illyria presses the button on the ice machine and says, "He is unstable. You are aware of this." Sounds like her mom, if Faith could remember her mom.
And tell her something she doesn't know. She worked out early in the roadtrip that Wes is insane. He's thousand-percent looney tunes, rats in the attic, head so fucked it's almost pretty. Faith's cool with that. Him and Illyria, his crazy and her ego, they make more sense than most people she's known.
Illyria tips an ice cube into her hand. The palm's flat, held out in front of her eyes. When the ice melts, she does it again.
She took Illyria and Wesley dancing one time, before the vampires took over this town and the clubs closed. Neither of them could dance for shit, but they could move with Faith, Wes's hands on her hips, Illyria behind her shouting "is this ritual?" over the music.
That night was okay.
Faith kicks the wall. "You tell him. Tell him we gotta go to Sunnydale."
"The last world was much like this one," Illyria says. "The timeline branched at the same moment, Buffy Summers' choice of one Hellmouth over another. Here, as there, we will go to Sunnydale. This is inevitable. Wesley has not yet accepted it."
She doesn't pretend to get all this stuff about time and universes. She hears Sunnydale and she's happy to have Illyria on her side.
"You are merely one form," Illyria says. "One of a multitude. Different in each universe. Faiths, Buffys, Connors, Angels. There have been many Faiths. There will be many more. Wesley hopes to find one whom he can save." The ice in her hand glitters, pretty and melting.
Title: Science Fiction Double Feature
Author: Doyle
Pairing: Wes/Faith/Illyria
Rating: R
Notes: For
gwynnega for the Wes/Faith ficathon. Wishverse, kind of.Wes used to be a Watcher. Illyria used to be a god. Faith used to be a girl in Boston, making money in bars when she could, hiding from the factory sweep teams. One day last year she woke up Supergirl. She figures that out of the three of them she got the best deal.
The knife across her palm hurts like a bitch, but she's done this a million times. Lifts her hand high above her head, lets the blood-smell get into the air. Lots of hungry vamps around, and even if Wes thinks it's bullshit (he used a bigger word), she still says they can smell the fresh, human blood. She bleeds and she counts ten seconds, ten times, and then she runs.
Five of them after her before she's gone a block: two of them civilians, the other three uniformed boys, Master's goons. Uniforms mean tazers, and she takes the Stooges out first. The other two, she can take her time. Make it last. Make it fun.
**
Wesley patches up her hand and the gash on her head and reams her out for going on patrol by herself.
"What were you doing?" he asks later, when she's turned to face the headboard, holding tight to it and he's behind her, inside her. "Were you trying to get yourself killed?"
Arches backwards, bites her tongue, doesn't let go her grip because she's learned that lesson at least, and she wishes he wouldn't ask her questions when she can't think straight.
He comes. She doesn't. "Stay there," he says and she does, sweating and arms trembling and her clit telling her that Wes can fuck himself. But she stays till Illyria comes to say "Wesley releases you", and Illyria fucks her face to face, never speaking, never blinking her eyes.
**
Their motel room's filled with newspapers. Books. Calendars covered with Wes's notes. Lots of notes, lots of calendars, diaries; that pile gets bigger every week.
She gets back one night and finds Wesley sitting in the dark, calendar page crumpled in his hand.
"Birthday?" Faith guesses. "Hit the big four-oh?" She drops into his lap, legs either side of his hips: "Should've told, Wes, we coulda had a party."
"Is that how old you think I am?" Sharp-edged smile. "And it's not my birthday. It's hers."
"This was the day I returned to this world," Illyria says, and Wesley says, "It wasn't this world," and she says, "Human semantics."
**
"Hell with this." Faith spins the knife on the point of its blade, catching the handle before it falls. "When'm I gonna take down the Master?"
"You're not," Wesley says. "He's far too powerful."
She examines the crisscross of white scars on her hands. "Thought I was supposed to be the Slayer."
"He's killed Slayers. He killed this world's Buffy when he had barely a fraction of his current power."
Power. They're a state away and she can feel the Hellmouth's power, surging out of California and across the continent. Even inside, it gets onto her skin.
"What are we gonna do," she says, "stay here forever? It's been a month, Wes. You're too pussy to face the Master, that's okay, but I'm going."
Wesley says, "No, you're not. We're not discussing it. Go and find Illyria."
The knife misses his head. Just. Lands closer than she means it to.
Wesley smiles and says, "Faith, go and find Illyria, please."
**
Illyria presses the button on the ice machine and says, "He is unstable. You are aware of this." Sounds like her mom, if Faith could remember her mom.
And tell her something she doesn't know. She worked out early in the roadtrip that Wes is insane. He's thousand-percent looney tunes, rats in the attic, head so fucked it's almost pretty. Faith's cool with that. Him and Illyria, his crazy and her ego, they make more sense than most people she's known.
Illyria tips an ice cube into her hand. The palm's flat, held out in front of her eyes. When the ice melts, she does it again.
She took Illyria and Wesley dancing one time, before the vampires took over this town and the clubs closed. Neither of them could dance for shit, but they could move with Faith, Wes's hands on her hips, Illyria behind her shouting "is this ritual?" over the music.
That night was okay.
Faith kicks the wall. "You tell him. Tell him we gotta go to Sunnydale."
"The last world was much like this one," Illyria says. "The timeline branched at the same moment, Buffy Summers' choice of one Hellmouth over another. Here, as there, we will go to Sunnydale. This is inevitable. Wesley has not yet accepted it."
She doesn't pretend to get all this stuff about time and universes. She hears Sunnydale and she's happy to have Illyria on her side.
"You are merely one form," Illyria says. "One of a multitude. Different in each universe. Faiths, Buffys, Connors, Angels. There have been many Faiths. There will be many more. Wesley hopes to find one whom he can save." The ice in her hand glitters, pretty and melting.