"I was just wondering what your face looks like when you come," says Faith, her voice shockingly soft. "If you get that anguished expression, or kind of blissed-out, or dumb, or – I was just wondering, you know. How you look." Willow, for once, has absolutely no words. She gapes. Faith is looking at her with the sort of focus normally reserved for sword-toting demons. "I bet you're beautiful."
"I don't – I – that isn't – okay, having difficulty finding words for how very much not your business that is," Willow manages at last. She is wet now, and trembling. Her pulse is jumping. She has never liked Faith very much, but she has always noticed her, because how could anyone possibly not notice her? Faith was like a slap in the face. Stealing Buffy. Stealing Xander. So painfully beautiful in her trashy clothes that nobody could take their eyes off her when she strutted into a room, vibrating with energy and careless desire – and maybe, just maybe, Willow has a little more idea of what it might feel like to make the wrong choices now, and to give in to rage and despair.
"I'd like to make it my business, Red." Faith is very close now. Her breath is sweet. "Where's the harm in that? Don't tell me you're not ready to pop, because we both know you are. 'Sides, I've always had a bit of a thing for you." The chupa chup, temporarily exiled, slides back into Faith's mouth.
"You've always had a thing for Buffy," snaps Willow, because they both know it, and it has always been their big, unspoken rivalry. It strikes her, a moment too late, that what she should be saying is that Faith has a sort-of boyfriend, and that she definitely has a girlfriend, so it doesn't matter a bit whether Faith has any kind of thing for her. She swallows, dry-mouthed.
Faith smiles. It's a huge shit-eating grin that Willow has seen before too many times, the sort of fuck-you-very-much smile that Faith would undoubtedly wear under torture. She withdraws her candy again with a wet popping sound and gestures with it, not meeting Willow's eyes. Willow knows she should be watching the road – it would be too damned stupid for both of them to die in a car crash after all this time – but she can't stop looking at Faith.
"Well, yeah. So that's another thing we've got in common, hey? Little Miss Straighter-than-thou fucking with our psyches." She sounds brassily cheerful, even amused, and Willow isn't fooled for a minute. The pain is so raw that Willow almost feels ashamed. "Guess you win there, though. You were always the one she cared about, even if she wasn't trying to jump your bones." Her voice hitches slightly. "She's always loved you."
Willow finds, once again, that she doesn't know what to say. She stares at the road in front of them as a new song fills the car. This time the song sounds more like something she would expect Faith to listen to. Something by VAST, but Willow can't place it. Oz would know. Tara probably wouldn't. Kennedy probably would. She thinks about Kennedy, and manages to squash her momentary rush of sympathy for Faith.
"If she does love me, maybe it's because I didn't go all psycho killer on her – " Willow falters, and then resumes. "Or Single White Slayer, or whatever. And, and at least – I was always there for Buffy. I wasn't trying to get into her boyfriend's pants, I wasn't trying to get into her pants, I wasn't trying to make her act all skanky cool bad girl and mess up her life. Lie about her. Steal her *body* from her. So, yes, I guess I won the big Be-Buffy's-Best-Friend contest. Go me." There is an uncomfortable pause. Willow draws a deep breath. "Do you really think it's made my life happier or less complicated?" She is back on familiar ground, scrabbling away from the disconcerting sense of kinship Faith had briefly forced upon her. "And okay, yes, I may be feeling lonely without my girlfriend right now, but hello? Earth to Faith? I wouldn't sleep with you if you were the last girl on the planet."
"Phew. You really have embraced your inner Cordelia, haven't you?" Willow is conscious that she has said too much. She can feel herself reddening. Faith licks her lollipop thoughtfully, and then leans right over to whisper in her ear. "So how come you're banging Faith-lite now, if you've never had the hots for me at all?"
Willow presses down on the brakes too hard, but she checks her mirrors automatically before doing so. The car comes to a halt. Willow sits quite still for a moment, both hands clasping the steering wheel, knuckles whitening, and then she turns and glares at Faith. She can feel the darkness welling up in her head and damps it down fiercely.
"Fuck. You."
Faith hasn't flinched at all. She is looking straight into Willow's pitch coloured eyes with an expression of frank fascination. Of course. Faith isn't about to be scared away by anyone else's dark streak. "That's what I'm talking about, dummy," Faith says, and she smiles like a kid with a brand new toy.
Faith's mouth is sweeter than sin and her unpierced tongue slides inside Willow's mouth like the wickedest kind of candy imaginable. Yes, Willow thinks, startling herself, and then there is only the crumple of discarded groceries hitting the back seat and the scramble of limbs against limbs whilst fingers clasp and grasp and squeeze and bruise, and zippers slither and fabric tears. There is some undignified scrabbling to unfasten and unpeel, moments during which she could have stopped, could have rethought, but Willow is too far gone in this already. (And it's true, of course. Part of Kennedy's attraction is that she is a Slayer. That she is, in fact, who Faith might have been, with a different hand of cards.) Soon Willow is straddling Faith's thighs, kissing her hard enough to sprain something, and her hands are shoving aside cotton to reach Faith's warm flesh, to pinch and squeeze and own. Faith's hands are busy too