"Well, we don't really have any clients, but hey, this place being all empty and echo-y is kind of crazy-making, and seeing as it's been three weeks with no word from Angel or Cordelia, we could probably use a little help. What is it exactly that you do?"

"I'm a Slayer. I also know my way around the laundry room and make a killer license plate, but I just don't see those last two as career paths."

I must have looked a bit clueless, because she filled me in pretty quickly. "I'm fresh out of jail. Turns out there were some technicalities that weren't handled quite right. Like my whole confession. Some bleeding heart with an axe to grind took on the system, so here I am."

She smiled a little. I think I was expecting something mean and feral, what with that whole prison thing, something like a stray dog grinning a warning. What I got was kind of rusty, but sweet.

"We have a bunch of rooms, although some of them are still a little damaged from the earthquake. You can take your pick."

The rusty smile turned into a big old grin. "Got any with a bathtub?"

I showed her up to a suite with a huge tub. "Gimme a sec, I'll get you some soap and towels."

There was still some Mister Bubble with Connor's baby things, so I put it on top of the stack of towels next to the bars of Ivory. "Here you go," I told her as I handed off the bundle. "I'll be down in the lobby if you need anything."

After a couple of hours, I started to get a little worried. I mean, call me paranoid and all, but with everybody and his uncle disappearing around here, it never hurts to check and make sure a body is where you put him or her last. I've suggested to Charles that we might want to look into microchips with some sort of GPS--it'd be easy enough to put together--but he's not too keen on the idea. Says it's a little too "X-Files" for him.

I guess I'd forgotten just how good a bath feels when you haven't had one in a few years. I knocked on the door, waited a sec, then just walked in when I didn't hear anything from the room.

"Faith? Are you okay in there?" I called out.

The sound of water splashing reassured me, but not as much as the sound of her voice. "Yeah, five-by-five. Hey--while you're here, could you bring me a towel? I left them on the bed."

She was sprawled in the tub, one leg up against the tile surround, and covered in bubbles. Even her hair, which was piled up all wet and dark and bubbly and kind of Bride of Frankenstein-y. I couldn't look away; my first sexual dream may have been about the Mouse King, but the second was all about Elsa Lancaster.

"Here's your towel... sorry to bug ya." I held it out and she stood up, not bothering to rinse the bubbles. It was kind of like the Botticelli Birth of Venus, only dark and without the shell or the wind or the roses. And with me and a towel instead of the nymph with the cloak.

I had a feeling that I wasn't going to be dreaming about the Mouse King or Elsa next time I had a chance to get some shut-eye.

"So, you hungry?" I asked. When in doubt, food's good, and Charles wasn't due back for another few hours. Besides which, prison food's the butt of enough jokes that I figured there had to be a grain of truth to them.

"I'm starved." She finished toweling off and pulled on her clothes. "What have you got?"

"Well, nothing here really, but there's a great taco stand just down the street, that is, if you like tacos, and who doesn't like tacos? I mean, I guess some people probably don't like tacos, but--"

"Tacos are cool. Got anything to drink with 'em?"

In hindsight, which, as everyone knows, is always 20/20, I probably should have said "no" or "just water" or "I could pick up some root beer while I get the food", but like I said, I'd hit my head pretty hard when she walked in, so I thought tequila'd be a good idea. And anyone can tell you that tequila's pretty much never a good idea, especially if you're having the kind of thoughts you really should scrub right out of your brain before you're tempted to act on them in spite of having a sweet, wonderful, loving boyfriend who happens to be gone for the night, but I made the suggestion before watching her eat.

Again in hindsight, maybe I should have suggested some innocuous food, like burgers or cous-cous. Or at least eaten somewhere with a table instead of sitting on top of the bed.

"You were right," she said from around a mouthful of taco. "These are damn good." The tip of her tongue darted out to catch some sauce before it could escape, and I took another hasty shot of Cuervo as she polished off the last bites. "Gotta admit, though, they're kinda messy."

I handed her a napkin from the stack and refilled both our shotglasses. "Pass the lime?"

She wiped her mouth and grabbed a couple of citrus wedges from the plate I'd set out, handing me one and spearing one so it was kind of upside down on the top of her glass. "Wanna see a neat trick? You've seen that Molly Ringwald movie with the lipstick?"

I nodded, because who hasn't seen _The Breakfast Club_? She grinned at me, put the shot glass in her cleavage (lime side out), sorta scooted her shoulders together, dipped her head, and did the shot hands-free. When she raised her head, she was still grinning, but her teeth had been replaced by the bright green of the lime rind.

"What about the salt?" I asked.

Okay, probably a dumb question. She spit out the rind and--quicker than my booze-befuddled brain could react--licked me. Charles, I reminded myself, I should be thinking about Charles. Who wasn't there, and who hadn't just decided that my clavicle was an acceptable substitute for a tongueful of NaCl. I don't exactly have the filled-out up-front to duplicate her trick, so I kind of improvised by shooting, skipping the lime, and going right for the lick.

She tasted like the Mister Bubble, which sounds like it should have been gross, but instead made me think back to my second year of college when I got really, really baked and somehow ended up playing naked hairdresser with Caroline Pierce, only we couldn't find any hairgel, so we used shampoo instead, which lead to showering. Ever since then, soap's tasted a lot like sex.

"My mouth's saltier." She pulled me up before I could answer.

It was. It was also soft, hot, and sorta spicy from the dinner and the drinking, and the edges of her lips burned a little from the combination of tequila and the lime juice. I hadn't kissed a girl since grad school. Turns out that, like taking a bath, it feels even better when it's been a while.

"Wow." Faith sounded a little dazed. "That's some mouth you've got on you."

"Thanks. Likewise." I made a nervous giggle, which I hate, but it's one of those nervous reactions you can't seem to help, and if ever there was a situation that was nervous-making, this was it.

Well, nervous-making for me. I'm not sure Faith knows what nervous is. Or subtle, either, but it's not like I was complaining when she pulled off my shirt.

"Not much meat on you, is there?"

"Sorry. Puberty kinda didn't do as much for me as it did for the rest of you all."

"I like it. Trust me, after getting stuck in a place where the best lookers were Big Bertha and Bigger Bertha, it's nice. Besides--" she licked me again, this time from the top of my pants all the way up to my ear "--I know I could take you."

It was getting hard to talk while her lips and hands were doing things that made my brain short out, but I think I might have pointed out the double meaning in what she'd just said. It came out of my mouth as "okay", which explains how my pants and undies ended up on the floor.

"You've got the littlest stomach," she said. "I like the way it dips in." Faith grabbed the bottle from the nightstand and poured some on my belly button. "Functional, too," she observed before dropping her head and using me as a shot glass.

"I'm Andrew. Hey, aren't you that guy who used to hang out in the library with Giles?"

I can hear this; I can see Andrew cock his head as he says 'Hey'. You've got his voice down. Especially the way you make this into questions? I really like that?

"You looked really good in that tux on prom night. Like Pierce Brosnan."

At this point I almost expect a comment about which Bond he liked best... Was he the Timothy Dalton Bond lover? Because that would be funny.

It was Wesley's turn to blush. This had to be revenge for something, perhaps everything.

BWAH!

Deena there's supposed to be an "and" between "starlight" and "citylight". I figured it was too early in the evening for the moon to be up yet, then I caught myself beginning to obsess again about what phase the moon might be in, then the phone rang and I didn't have to worry about it.

Edit: Oh, and I got a request to archive "Reflections" on the Buffy Guild's Giles site, ficbitch.com/wishicouldstay. I'm pleased.

Plei, you're breaking me. Damn but that's good Fred. Better than we usually get on the show. Dare I hope there's a taser in the future of this fic?

Plei, you give good mouth scenes, honey.

Faith grabbed the bottle from the nightstand and poured some on my belly button. "Functional, too," she observed before dropping her head and using me as a shot glass.

GAH.

Got Fred's voice perfect, Plei. Faith's nearly as good, but Fred had more to do this bit. I have faith in your ability. Um. As it were.

Connie, I thought that was the case, either that or you were fuzzled between which word to use and then left them both in by accident.

I agree with Elena -- some play on the "which bond" question would be really great right there, maybe, if not the "my favorite bond" thing, an explanation that he means the brosnan bond rather than the dalton bond, since no chin dimple, or something. (insent, Elena, tiara pic!)

Plei, I've always thought Fred was kind of attractive when she's quiet, but, dang, she's a lot more attractive when you make her talk. I also never really liked Faith, honestly, but I like your Faith, too -- and she sounds right. I'm debating letting Greg read this. I'm betting he'll have trouble sleeping afterward *g*.

Deb, I've been thinking about Amanda (again!), Remember the first part you posted where you asked if it sounded too lyrical? I'm thinking she sounds the same age there as she does later, and she doesn't seem to make any mistakes, other than that she's always right and that can be annoying to those who are wrong. Even if she didn't really like her mother, she doesn't seem to miss her. Could she cry herself to sleep or whine a little, or ... something that makes her seem more vulnerable at the younger age? Also, maybe "too lyrical" isn't quite it, but, maybe less aware? or less able to describe what resonates for her? I've been reading this as all hindsight from an adult narrator perspective, but, I still think a touch of younger Amanda there might make it even better.