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The woman in the mirror might have been a stranger. An alien, come down from fuck knows what star to probe and experiment. A hallucination, conjured up from the deepest darkest depths of her crazed subconscious. A painting, drawn up by an inmate with too much imagination and way too much free time. Or just a stranger. Just someone who she had never met before and never would meet again.
But, damn, she looked good.
Faith wasn’t the most humble slayer in the world (never had been), so she wasn’t afraid to admit that she looked really fucking hot in that mirror. The sleek black dress showed off her tits perfectly, made her legs stretch on for miles, fit just right to bring out the colours of her eyes, and that was before she put any makeup on. It was hot. She was hot.
But, she was still a stranger.
It wasn’t because she had never seen herself in a dress before - she had. Not very often, but she had. And it definitely wasn’t because she was opposed to wearing a dress – it wasn’t what she would wear for some stake-penetrating action in the graveyard, but every once in a while, for a special occasion, dressing up was fun, right? Especially when she dressed up so damn well.
The strangeness, the stranger, was more because... because she had never really thought she’d ever wear a dress again. She had looked alright in a prison uniform (which is more than she could say for some of her blockmates), but she had also looked the same every day. There hadn’t been a lot of occasions to be all fancy and there hadn’t supposed to be any occasions for her to leave (and then occasions for her to stay out...).
Maybe it was also because when she looked at herself in the mirror, all she thought about was how hot it made her. Like, she was judging herself based solely off how sexy other people would think she is, and not how comfortable she felt herself. Like, she was objectifying herself. Or something. Whatever that stupid therapist that Angel made her say had said (Angel hadn’t been convinced by her argument that if he had managed to sort through his issues by brooding alone in a dark corner for a hundred years, so could she).
Or maybe it was just because she almost never seen herself in a dress before. She could probably count the number of times she had worn one on one hand. There was a couple times when she was tiny which she couldn’t remember, but her perpetually drunk mother had managed to tell her about between commands to pass her another bottle. There was once she could vaguely remember for something school related (a play? A visit from the mayor? Because she had managed to tear her clothes to shreds in the playground?). Once on her very first date, desperate to impress the biggest sleezeball who had bothered to notice her. And once to...
She could count it on one hand. Five fingers. Easy. She...
And once to impress Buffy. She wasn’t bitter about that. The fact that Buffy had even said yes to the whole dance go together thing was enough. It had been fun, too – she had danced a bit, drank a bit, terrorised Buffy’s loser ex, all the normal stuff a normal teenage girl would do. She had had all that for one night. So, even if Buffy had shown up way late with Cordelia (of all people) and had fucked off early with Cordelia (of all people!) when she had... Faith wasn’t bitter about that anymore.
(Faith had also never been the most honest of slayers. Literally – even when there had just been two of them, there had been another slayer who was more honest, less arrogant, more sensible, kinder, better...)
How long ago had that homecoming dance been by now?
And where the hell was Will?
This whole ‘let’s buy dresses’ thing was her idea, so where was she? This whole ‘let’s sneak into a fancy demonic dinner party to steal an evil artefact that’s a key piece in an apocalyptic prophecy’ thing was her idea, so... (it was always an apocalyptic prophecy, wasn’t it?) She had been in that changing room for... for fucking hours.
Part of the ‘let’s buy dresses’ thing was supposed to be the ‘let’s,’ right? As in: together. As in: both of us. As in: don’t leave your neurotic teammate with a history of murder stranded by herself in a dress in front of a fucking mirror. Or else. Just because Faith had decided to redeem herself didn’t mean she had to stick with the decision.
Plus, she was bored of staring at her own dress. At probably her own dress. Or possibly – was she really sure this was the one she wanted to wear to the evil dinner party? She could pick a different one, or wear a suit, or go prancing in completely naked. And she did want to see Will’s dress – Will liked to wear dresses and she knew that Will could rock them.
See? Redemption. Being a good teammate. Cheering each other one. Totally taking the chance to check out the way the dress hugged her teammate’s curves. Maybe not entirely redeemed just yet.
Or maybe that was why she was staring at a stranger in the mirror: redemption. Because that person in the mirror was someone who was free and working for redemption and Faith didn’t really believe that she could work for redemption. That she could do good in the world and have teammates and partners and friends and... and all that.
On the other hand, it could just be that she didn’t believe that she was going to face an apocalypse dressed like this.
Where was Willow?
Where?
Where...
There. Finally. At fucking last. At long...
Wow. “Fuck me,” Faith went right for the swear words. In her defence, what else was she supposed to say? Will had picked out white dress, almost translucent, almost ethereal, light red vines curling down and around, that really did hug her figure, really fucking fantastically. Really, really fucking fantastically. “Fuck.”
“I think you’re supposed to buy me dinner first,” Red took Faith’s eloquence in full stride (she was probably used to it by now – had it really been a couple of years already since they had teamed after Sunnydale got flipped inside out?). “Unfortunately for you, I’ve already got a date for dinner tonight.”
Funny. A date. Very funny. Infiltrating a party that would probably get them killed (or badly wounded) wasn’t much of a date (unless you were taking a slayer on that sort of party, since slayers loved that sort of thing, and the danger and the adrenaline and... it wasn’t a date, anyways, because it wasn’t like Faith thought about Will that way, because that would be wrong and... fuck her). “You, uh... look good?”
Will laughed, incredibly amused. “That question mark would be convincing if you weren’t staring.”
“I’m not staring,” Faith shot back, probably (definitely) too quickly. God, when had this happened to her? Getting all... flustered. Around Willow fucking Rosenberg! Fuck her. You see, this was why brooding by herself in a dark corner for a hundred years was a good idea. This was why, sometimes, Faith missed prison. “You’re the one who’s staring.”
Great. Amazing. Brilliant comeback. Was it obvious that Faith had never graduated high school? And had never graduated prison, either. But, at least it was true: Will was staring at her. Will was totally staring at her. And Will shrugged at the accusation, way too happily. “What can I say? You look good. And I don’t need a question mark.”
Yeah, yeah. Faith didn’t bother to stop herself from rolling her eyes. Which was a sign of personal growth: a few years back, and she would’ve answered that much more aggressively. Much more violently. “Fuck you.”
Willow just shrugged again, even happier. “If you want to try some more ones on, I wouldn’t mind staring a little longer.”
Did she?
And was this just friendly, playful flirting or was it... Because this was definitely flirting. And Faith knew that Will swung her way and she knew that Will knew that she swung both ways and they both knew they were both single and they both had to know they were doing this a lot and doing it more and more.
Shit.
She did look good in this dress. Add in some makeup later, and she’d look smouldering, deadly good. Not to brag. And the dress fit her well – it was comfortable, she could move her legs and her arms properly, she could swing a good punch if she had to. It even had a pocket, small and discreet, but she could fit a backup knife in there.
Why not pick this one?
Plus, Will said she looked good in it. And if Will picked that dress she had on now, they’d pair well with each other. They’d pair well anyways – they were a good team (and the more Faith worked with her, the more Faith discovered that she liked working with her – Faith could only imagine her reaction if she went back in time and told her evil seventeen year-old self that).
But... would they really pair well? Did they really pair well? Will was a lot of things that Faith wasn’t. She was way smarter, she was nicer, she had different talents (she could do magic and computers and science and... and Faith could really only punch things), she was handling her path to redemption with a lot less brooding than Faith was.
Maybe Faith should double-check if this shop had a dress that was in the same colour as her old prison uniform. Or just wear whatever and ask Will to Cinderella her up for the night. If it was Cinderella the right story she was thinking about. That was the one with the glass slipper and giant pumpkin on wheels, right?
Whatever. If Willow shrugged happily, Faith could shrug dismissively. Darkly. Broodingly. “I don’t think slayers are meant for dresses.”
“You don’t have to wear one if you don’t want to. We can find something else.” We. That word shouldn’t have been able to play on Faith’s stupid heartstrings the way it did. Thinking that they were a good team shouldn’t have been able to either. God, redemption was turning Faith into a sap. “But you do look good.”
She did, but... “Haven’t worn a dress since Sunnydale homecoming.”
...but, she wasn’t sure why she had said that. Or why she had said it as... vulnerably as she had. But, as soon as she said it, Will’s eyes lit up. “Oh, I remember.”
That.. that was surprising. Why the fuck would Will remember? They hadn’t hung out much during the dance – Will had been too busy being a dork with Oz and Faith had been too busy toying with the guy who dumped Buffy (at first – after Buffy showed up and showed out with Cordelia, Faith had muttered something along the lines of ‘fuck this’ to herself). “You do?”
“Course I do.” Will grinned mischievously at her (fuck, it was cute as hell when she got like that). “I stared. Didn’t exactly realise why then, but I stared.”
Well, fuck. If Faith had noticed her staring then... it wouldn’t have helped. It would’ve made things worse – it would’ve been just one more thing that she would’ve used to twist the knife in a little deeper (Faith remembered the first and only time she had ever met Tara every night, tried to find a new way to apologise better every night).
Did it help knowing it now? That was the question that mattered for redemption, right? Or was it? How the fuck was she supposed to know? What... what would Angel say? He’d give her a speech about it, whatever he said, and it would be full of wisdom and... and he’d probably say that this was a good thing. That Will was good for her, and that it was good that they had each other. That it helped.
And if Will stared at her if she wore this dress to the evil dinner party...
“If you get distracted tonight because I’m wearing this, and I have to save you...” Faith gestured at the dress, at the bit where it really showed her off, and leaned in closer to Willow. She wasn’t the only one who could be mischievous. Wasn’t the only who could flirt. “You’ll owe me.”