Smoking

by Nikita

Copyright © 2003

death_by_garagedoor@yahoo.co.uk

Rating: R
Disclaimer: The characters belong to the great and powerful Joss.
Distribution: Forever Faith: http://mysticmuse.net/faith
The Mystic Muse: http://mysticmuse.net
All others, please ask first.
Feedback: Yes please.
Spoilers: None.
Author's Notes: Still writing big fic that actually has a point. Yay me. I haven’t written anything else in ages. I think I’ve forgotten how.
Dedication: Sway. Duh. And everyone who gives me good fb. Thank you
Pairing: Faith/Buffy

I take the long way round the room to get my cigarettes, enjoying the quickness with which she turns her head as I walk behind her. Nice to know I still effect her in some way at least.

"I'm tired." She says in her usual way. "I can't do this anymore." A statement that's only made to get an answer, just made to see my reaction. She's still keeping one eye on me, still not allowing herself to trust me. I guess I've given her no reason to.

I pick the box up and tap out a smoke with the skill of someone who's done it for years. Funny how aware she still makes me, that a simple movement can seem like an epic when she's watching. I flick open my zippo and snap it shut as the cigarette hisses into life, taking a moment to take a deep draw while I relish the burning of her eyes on my back. placing the lighter back down on the scratched wooden surface and turning back to her.

"No shit."

I see the sigh on her face even before I hear it.

"Faith..." She whispers, her face contorted into a frown, trying to scare me into begging her to stay. I'm sick of it.

Taking my cigarette from my mouth, I make a smoke ring before letting the rest of the soft gray, smoke flow from my lips. I just stand and watch her, my arms folded across my chest, and my hip cocked to one side.

I hate her.

I hate her because she makes me want to beg. There's not much I've been sure of in my life, but wanting Buffy Summers is something I've known right from the start. I want her in my life, to wake up to her every morning and brush the hair away from her face. I can't stand that she makes me want nothing else.

But mostly I hate her because she'd never beg me. She'd never get down on her knees and plead with me not to leave her. She'd never make me feel worth it. Even after all this time, she doesn't trust me, doesn't ever let me forget that every time we're together, she thinks she's doing me a fucking favor.

Maybe she is.

But she's still just sitting there, perched on the edge of the bed that she was rolling around in the night before as I fucked her with my tongue. You wouldn't know it to look at her. Those big green eyes seem so innocent, never betraying what goes on in that head. I hate the fact that knowing what's going on behind those eyes turns me on so fucking much.

I almost drop ash on the floor as I stare at her, but just in time I flick my wrist to the empty bottle beside me and escape her infuriating smirk, the one she uses when she knows she's right. When she knows more than she should.

"I don't know what to do."

Whispering now, looking at the floor and an admission of confusion to make me feel strong. Like I have some sort of power in this. Nice touch.

"I can't keep on like this," she continues quietly. "It's too hard."

I shrug, and take another draw before I speak. "I guess we're screwed then."

Her eyes shoot up at me as she takes in what I've said, bewildered that I'm not fighting her. Fighting for her. Feels strange, huh B? That someone would let you go so easily?

"I-"

Suddenly, I just want her to leave. Just so I can stop feeling like this.

"Was there anything else?" I ask as she gazes at me, her eyes filling with tears. It's been forever since I've been able to hurt someone. Still feels good. Like I count.

"No..." She says, struggling to keep her voice from breaking. "I guess not."

"Then you know where the door is." I turn from her and put my cigarette out, listening to the fizz as it hits the dregs of beer in the bottle.

It takes her a moment to break the pause, the silence in the room.

"Yeah."

I can still feel her eyes on me, waiting for me to turn and cry for her, to tell her something, anything. But there's ash on the table, and I scoop it up slowly with my hand instead.

I didn't need to tell her anything, nothing I said would have made a difference. Yeah, I would have fought for her. Done anything, I guess.

She only had to do one thing.

But I let her slip away from me, everything turning to darkness as I hear the door close quietly. No slams, so screams, just fading.

Tears feel strange, like a part of my childhood has resurfaced without my permission. But when I sink to the floor, they start quickly, scaling my cheeks and falling one by one onto my shirt.

I would have fought.

You just had to tell me that I mattered.

The End

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