Title: What You Decide to Be is What You Are
Author: Darling_Effect
Rated: NC-17
Spoilers/Setting: Takes place BtVS post-Chosen, pre-Wolfram & Hart involvement. Which, uh, makes it mildly AU I guess.
Disclaimer: Done purely for my own amusement, and for love not profit.
Summery: Wes/Faith in NYC
Notes: Sequel to What You Decide to be is What You Are. This is dedicated to my fic enabler lovesbitca, who inspired me to write this pairing in the first place.
Feedback: darling_effect @ livejournal.com

What You Decide to Be Is What You Are - Part III

The city’s a messy place. All that desperation and ugliness crammed into such a small space —if ConEd could just figure out a way to siphon it off they could power up the whole fucking city for all eternity.

But from up here it’s all different. All that chaos and noise has been distilled into something approaching beautiful. Quiet, orderly, unreal.

It’s better from up here. Much better. A spacious, well-appointed penthouse hotel suite in the best city in the whole world —a girl could get used to this sort of thing, right? Right?

When you get right down to it, though, spending the night in dumpy, neon-lit motels on endless two-lane blacktop in the middle of nowhere, or the cold, damp backseat of a Chevy Impala or Dart Duster is more her style.

Christ, she hopes she never has to sleep in the backseat of a car again.

Doesn’t want to think about all that went before. This is her very expensive, palatial home away from home, and she’s determined to enjoy it —even if she feels as though she doesn’t deserve to. She can’t shake the uneasy feeling that she’s being watched —like someone’s going to go all Truman Show on her ass any second, maybe even find the truly epic stash of Kiehl’s that she swiped off the maid’s cart. Man, she could sure as hell get used to that stuff.

She grabs another tiny Jameson’s from the mini-bar and slugs it back.

A sudden knock at the door makes her jump.

“Yeah? What?”

“Package for you, ma’am.” For one brief second she wishes this little schmuck were a vampire so she could stomp him for the “ma’am” crack. But she lets it slide —he's just lucky that she’s learned some equanimity over the years.

Doesn’t give him a tip though. She grabs the bag from him and slams the door in his face.

She’s used to getting tacky PVC outfits from her admirers, not slightly prim, beribboned packages from Barneys NY. Nestled inside are two boxes: one long and relatively flat, the other for shoes. There's a slightly brusque note attached: “Wear this tonight.” She impulsively crumples up the note in distaste, then fishes it out of the trash and smoothes it out with the flat of her palm. He does get extra points for the fancy stationery.

She doesn’t know if she’s touched or unsettled by Wes going all Henry Higgins on her. She knows full well you can dress her up but you can’t take her out. Look what happened last time. Well, OK, that was as much Wes’ fault as hers, but—

She steps gingerly into the dress, zips it up. It’s all froth and layers of chiffon falling delicately to her ankles, with a gathered bodice and shirred little cap sleeves. It’s too good for her, too expensive, too refined —too this, too that, blah blah blah; then again, she fucking deserves it, after all this time. Just once, something beautiful that’s hers. She looks slightly askance at the contents of the other box, its contents now toppled over on the floor.

She knows that he wants someone sweet and pliant, however momentary the illusion might be. Fuck that, she thinks, and smiles in the mirror. That someone ain’t her.

***

Faith’s never adopted the New York summer uniform —tottering around in Seven jeans and sky-high heels and little girly sundresses that cost a year’s salary isn’t for her, even if she had the money (which she doesn’t). She’s nothing if not practical. Her wardrobe runs more to Lip Service than Sex & the City.

So she feels like a bit of a fake as she struts down West Broadway in this ridiculous floral get-up. Amazing how the wrong clothes can take you out of yourself completely —she doesn’t feel armored, but exposed. Even her gait feels completely wrong —she’s more alley cat than catwalk. Can’t everyone see that? Can't he see it?

The things you do for …whatever the hell this qualifies as.

***

She’s meeting him at a divey tapas bar in her hood. She walks past her crappy little apartment building on the way and there’s an illicit thrill in that —it’s as though she’s playing hooky from her own life.

He’s waiting for her in front of the bar. He looks her up and down, assessing. Doesn’t say a word. At least, not until he extends his arm gallantly so she can grab hold like she’s the goddamn little missus or something.

“What’s that?” she snaps, taking his proffered arm with a marked lack of good grace.

“If you’d rather I’d left the last vestiges of chivalry back at the hotel, I might suggest you get the door for me.”

She doesn’t even respond to that, just smirks mightily when he finally opens the door so she can breeze through, hips swaying. She can feel his gaze following her.

“You’ve accessorized quite well.” Tiniest hint of a smirk as his slow-burning look of appraisal reaches her chosen footwear.

She sticks out her hip and does an insouciant little sway for him. “Thought Docs were a little improvement.”

“Why am I not surprised?” he asks, exasperatedly.

“Can’t walk in those heels, anyway,” she adds, a bit snappishly. He doesn’t say a word, just ushers her inside.

Walking into the place feels different now that she’s got Wes on her arm. He’s a cut above her usual …dinner companion. For one thing, she's reasonably sure he wouldn’t refer to jello shots as “liquid panty remover.” Actually, he probably doesn’t even know what the hell a jello shot is. Hell, maybe she’ll teach him, just for kicks. At any rate, she figures Wes’ll love the place. They have a spectacular collection of single malts and there’s an empty booth in a tantalizingly dark corner that’s got their name on it.

He gallantly offers to get her a drink. There’s a faint echo of his old prissiness as he maneuvers back to the table, trying in vain not to spill them. He eyes her margarita (rocks, salt) with more than a little distaste as he sets it down in front of her. She doesn’t even let him get settled into the booth before she speaks, the words tumbling out before she can stop them.

“Y’know, Wes, this is looking suspiciously like a date.”

“Isn’t it one?” he asks, a bit surprised. He takes a tiny, exploratory sip of his drink.

“You tell me.”

He leans back in the booth. “I suppose it is, yes. You’ll perhaps forgive me if I don’t see what’s wrong—“

“You really want to sit around and make small talk? Fine. ‘Beautiful weather we’re having isn’t it?’ ‘Why yes, it’s lovely.’” She snorts derisively. “Or we could just skip the formalities and fuck. You don’t even need to get me drunk first.” She cocks her head at him and grins.

He looks genuinely taken aback but recovers his composure quickly. “Has anyone ever told you that beneath your armored exterior there beats the heart of a true romantic?”

“No.”

“Shocking.”

She takes a big, un-lady-like gulp of her margarita. “Just telling the truth, Wes. Next you’re going to tell me you thought you could dress me up and take me out.”

“No, but clearly I was delusional in thinking we could have a relatively normal evening.”

“I’m sorry, but where does ‘nice’ and ‘normal’ factor in? Last time I checked, a nice, normal evening for me meant staking a whole buttload of vamps and somehow getting to bed before dawn. It’s a whole wacky burden-of-slayerness thing.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way. Seems to me the situation’s not as grave these days. You could take some time off. You could travel. Or you could take up Giles’ invitation to—“

She cuts him off abruptly. “I don’t have anything else, Wes. I don’t even know how to do anything else. Can you picture me kicking back on a beach somewhere, watching the goddamn surf roll in all day? Can you? ‘Cause I can’t. This job is gonna kill me someday and that’s the way it’s going to be.” She rolls her eyes and throws back the rest of the drink, slamming the empty glass back on the table with a sharp thud. “End of story.”

“It’s a pity to see you sell yourself so short, Faith. And the job’s only going to kill you if you let it.” He slumps against the overstuffed leather, looking tired and much older under the harsh, acidic glow of the neon.

“Now you’re sounding like my old Watcher. Good on ya, Wes. Love what the firewater brings out. Keep it up.” The flippancy of her tone drains away when she pauses to look at him. She traces a tentative finger slowly, even tenderly, along his jaw. He flinches at first, and then grudgingly allows it. When she speaks her voice is almost a whisper: “I don’t see this line of work doing you any favors either, you know? Take your own goddamn advice for once.”

He doesn’t reply to that at first, just sips his drink. When he speaks there’s the faintest hint of bemusement in his voice. “And what if I don’t trust my own advice?”

“Then you’re an even sadder motherfucker than I thought.”

He doesn’t even riposte, just takes another sip of his drink, his expression sour.

“Now we’re in the awkward silence portion of the evening. You know, I think I liked you better when you were totally fucking angry at me. ‘Cause, this” —she gestures towards the table— “I don’t know how to deal with.”

“I can’t say I do either, exactly.” He places his palms flat on the table, but she doesn’t touch him. It doesn’t seem like the time.

“What is this thing we’ve got, anyway? What would you call it? I mean, you think you can just tart me up for a dirty weekend here and there but that’s it? You think you can just buy your way into my life and then leave?” Her voice is rising steadily but she can’t stop the momentum of her words. “You just love slumming, don’t you? Love playing good cop/bad cop down on the wrong side of the tracks and getting back just in time for finger sandwiches and high tea. Deep down, you love the little thrill it gives you.” She leans in close. “Just like the first time I straddled you and held that piece of glass to your throat. Don’t think I didn’t feel how excited that got you. Bet you always wanted to know how good a fuck I was. That my sacred duty too? Huh?”

He turns away from her, gritting out the words tersely even as he’s breezily motioning to the waitress to bring their tab. “You seem determined to wallow in ugliness tonight, Faith. I’m not even going to justify that with a response.”

“Oh no?” She pushes him back up against the banquette and straddles him, grabbing hold of his shirt collar and forcing him to look at her. “Bet I could get a response out of you, Wes. You just sit still and let me do all the work. It’s dark enough over here…”

“I thought we were beyond all this …bullshit… by now.” The profanity sounds wrong coming from him, but she knows he’s mocking her in some way, in the way that he’s mirroring her speech. “But I see how much you like it down in the depths.”

That hits her like a punch in the gut, but she shrugs it off as best she can. “Pot, kettle, Wes. Right?”

“Because two can play that game. Do you really want to go there? Is that what you want?” A hint of still yet another Wes she’s never seen. She suspects there are a lot of Weses in there, and they’re not all people she’d want to meet, Slayer or no. If she ever paused to regret anything (which she doesn’t) it’d be her part in building this Wes from the ground up. But since she doesn’t do regret, she flushes, a bit hot under the collar at the thought of him really unleashing it. And, huh, he must be clairvoyant, because right then he wraps his arms around her, his voice dropping down low. She’s not sure which is making concentration more difficult —his hard-on pressing against her thigh, or his intense, flinty gaze. Either way, this really is her favorite form of flirtation. “I don’t have to be a gentleman at all, Faith. And certainly not the Watcher you knew, all propriety and doing the right thing. You never wanted him —he was merely beneath you, convenient—someone ineffectual to grind down under your boot-heel.” He sneers. “—your idea of a hobby.”

“Jumping to a lot of conclusions there, Wes.” She looks coy. “Maybe I did want him.”

He looks genuinely taken aback at that. “Really,” he says, flatly, abruptly.

“Yeah, a little. Why not? Wondered what he’d do if I touched him. Wondered if he’d beg me to fuck him into the floor, or want me to hurt him, just a little, just enough to pop his cork. Wouldn’t have taken much, I bet—“

He tenses up, visibly. “I think we’re going about this the wrong way, Faith.”

“No right or wrong to it. Knew we’d fuck, eventually, if we didn’t kill one another first.”

“That would’ve put a damper on things, certainly,” he mutters, ruefully. “I’m rather relieved that you’re no longer talking about me in the third person.”

“So, what now? We gonna recreate past glories or what?”

He looks intrigued. “’Past glories?’ I don’t see any past glories. Just a few paltry stabs at setting things …to right.”

“You gonna set me to right? Finish the job you started?” She wriggles against him, enjoying the ride.

Thorny bastard doesn’t even bat an eyelash. “That’s not what this is about, Faith.”

“Oh yeah? Then what? Don’t tell me you don’t want to take me in hand…”

“You haven’t the faintest idea what I want.” Flash of anger there, but his credibility is kinda shot considering that he seems to be getting exactly what he wants.

“That’s right, I don’t. So tell me. Don’t hold back. I know you want to pick me up out of the gutter and dust me off just so you can dirty me up again. Gets you off, doesn’t it?”

“On the contrary. I think it gets you off.”

“You don’t fucking know me. You can’t fucking say that—” She disengages from him, pushing herself back against the plush banquette, all defensive posture and raised hackles.

He’s infuriatingly calm. “I think I do know you, in some small but vital way.”

“You’re a smug bastard, you know that? You think a lot. Maybe I admire that. But that’s your problem —you live in your head. And I know there’s a hell of a lot of doubt in there.” She smiles. “We’re kinda alike that way, you know?”

“All too well, Faith. I think I even have the scars to prove it.”

She doesn’t need to say anything to that.

“Been a lotta what ifs in your life, haven’t there? I’m not going to be part of that. I’m not good at it. I’m a now sorta girl. You want me now? Great. We can take the rest of this bullshit up with debate class later. Or Giles. I don’t really fucking care.” She’s deeply suspicious of her sudden need for talk. It frustrates and unsettles her. She knows, deep down, that she can’t beat Wes at his own game.

Why does she always feel the need to beat him? Or that this is a game?

He cuts off her inner monologue.

“You were the one with all the caveats.”

“The whats?”

“The apparent need for qualifications and explanations.”

“Thanks for the fuckin’ SAT tutorial, Wes, but I think that was the booze talking.”

“’In vino veritas.’”

“Last time I checked you didn’t come with sub-titles, Wes.”

“’In wine, truth.’”

“Got that right.” She slumps back into booth, sighing heavily. “We’re going in circles again, aren’t we?”

“Possibly.”

“Fuck that. Just fuck it.”

“Language.” His voice is quiet, gently chiding, but the slight mocking tone gets to her. He reaches out to her, his hand brushing her arm.

It’s just a light, seemingly inconsequential touch, but she flinches away from it. “Oh, now you’re coming over all Watcher-y on me. Fuck that too.”

“I’m not here as your Watcher, Faith. You’re free to do what you like.”

She dismisses his concern with a wave of her hand. “Whatever, Wes. I’ve heard it, okay? Whatever you have to say to say to me, some other asshole’s gotten there before you. Christ, you’re exactly the same, underneath the upper crusty exterior. Which, granted, is looking a little bad boy these days, but that’s not counting for much right now.”

“Oh no?”

She laughs. “Well, maybe just a little.”

“Thank god. If I had to rely solely on my charm I might be in trouble.”

“Oh, you’re in trouble anyway.”

“That’s usually true.”

“Yeah.” She clutches her drink like it’s a life-line, gulping down the better part of it because she needs a little dutch courage. “Y’know, we’re not as different as we used to be. I mean, I get what you’ve been through and you—“

He can see her groping towards something and he interrupts: "I don’t think we harbor too many illusions about one another, if that’s what you mean.”

“Yeah, I guess.” More weighty silence as they contemplate their now-empty glasses. Suddenly there’s all this —space between them. A divide. And she’s trying to work her way back to him. Chosen One, right. —what a fucking laugh and a half that was. All the power in the world, and some things were always just out of reach. “You know, people think I’m, like, this total slut or something. But I’m not, I’m really not. I just—“

“You have nothing to apologize for, Faith, this is all my—“

“I’m not apologizing. I’m trying to tell you something. I’ve had all this chaos in my life for so fucking long. My whole fucking life. I don’t remember anything else. It’s like, I don’t know, I don’t have all this time. I just take things when they come, even if they’re just, like, momentary and I know it. I mean, you think B had a tough time with relationships? Holy shit, she’s got nothin’ on me. But you and me, we’ve got all this history, and it’s like…”

“…an inevitability? That’s damning it with faint praise, isn’t it?” Is that a concession of sorts to her? It’s hard for her to tell, since he’s what passes for the Wes version of bemused when he says it.

“Something like, that. Yeah.”

“So why all the defensiveness about this being a ‘date’ or not?”

“I’m kinda freaking out, Wes.”

“I get that.”

“Good.” She laughs nervously, then goes back to contemplating her now-empty glass. Like, if she stares at it long enough the booze will regenerate. Or not. “Fuck, I could use another margarita.”

“Will you let me get it for you? Or is that overstepping the bounds of allowable date behavior?” He takes the glass from her hand.

She jolts upright, like she’s just thought of something. “Do you know what a jello shot is?”

“A what?”

“Nothing. Forget it. I’m clearly not drunk enough.”

“For what?”

“Complications.”

“There’s no avoiding those, I’m afraid.”

She smiles wanly. “No, I guess not.” She pauses, trying to sort through all her jumbled thoughts. “A penthouse suite and a dress aren’t going to make me happy, Wes.”

“It was a gesture —perhaps more than slightly naïve. A miscalculation. But I wanted to—”

She touches his arm. “I should have thanked you. I mean, I am thanking you.”

She’s so used to a certain worn-down, grim demeanor from him that his look of genuine surprise throws her.

“Would you like to get out of here?” he asks, abruptly.

“And go where?”

“Anywhere.”

“What, like a road trip?” She laughs sharply. “I don’t have a goddamn cent to my name, Wes, and company plastic would only get us so far.” She giggles. “Although I’d love to see Giles get that bill.”

“We wouldn’t have to worry about that. I’ve done fairly well for myself, all things considered.”

She gives him a sly look. “We gonna let that hotel room go to waste?”

“There are plenty of other hotel rooms. In plenty of other cities.”

“Anywhere?”

“Anywhere.”

“You think we can just —outrun everything? That never works —I should know.”

“Not outrun. But this isn’t a place for middle ground. Maybe we need someplace …quiet. Somewhere we’re not always at war.”

“Maybe that’s what we do.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Yeah, well…” She’s trying to shrug it off, but deep down she wants to believe it too.

“Faith.” The unvarnished sincerity in his tone stops her short. Her name falls off his lips like it’s a promise, like it means something. Not so long ago she would have laughed in his face but not now —she’s listening.

“I don’t want this to end before it even begins,” he tells her quietly, cupping her chin, pulling her close enough to finally kiss her. She hadn’t been touched in so long. At least, not like that. Not like it really matters. Because when he kisses her —slowly, tentatively— everything seems possible again, even for the girl who’s never believed much in possibilities.