give us back a taste of the way things were before they made the laws

[attitude]

A deathwish is usually made long before it's realized. Before she was ever made Valentine, Faye was the type of girl who chased after dreams and would leap off the edge of a cliff without looking down. Reckless abandon was encouraged by a pair of parents so caring and attentive that she never wanted for anything, parents who cleared the path of brambles and branches for their daughter, never letting her feel so much as a scratch. To the girl who lived a life of safety, danger and risk were intoxicating and quickened the heart in a way that not even love could, forming thoughts that persisted even when memories had long since faded and broken away.

From early on, Faye was made to be a hunter.

It shows now, in the bright red that runs down from her knee and the harsh breathing that barely manages to fill her lungs. Her gun is held still and the aim true, save for the slight rattle of the weapon that comes from hands being raised through sheer willpower alone. All around Faye, their blood painting books dusty from disuse, are the bodies of Splicers. Figures, she's murmured to herself, that they'd all be hiding out behind stacks of books. Figures, that even men who lose their minds are nothing other than cowards.

Her breath is ragged with a slight protest, an unwillingness on Faye's part to let go. She just has one more. One more Splicer, who lopes around with predatory intent, that Faye needs to put down. She can do it. She could do it. But her vision is starting to swim and adrenaline is learning to fade, replaced by fatigue as her heel grinds against tile and startles the creature, inspires a flying rage.

"Shit," she bites out, raising her voice as she stumbles back, firing a couple of shots that barely clip its shoulder. "Dammit, hold still!"

Comments

[attitude]

Quick as lightning, she slaps him across the cheek. It's not meant to injure, not intended to bruise, but instead the delivery of a wake-up call. He can't keep on doing this to her. He can't shout, yell, bully her into a corner and act like he has any sort of control over her actions. Because he doesn't. No one does, aside from Faye herself. And while she'll be one of the first to admit that sometimes, you care enough about another person that ownership of that soul and being starts blurring over fast, the underlying implication that she doesn't give a crap about her life jars.

Because sometimes she does, so much that it's been painful, so much that she can hardly even breathe. Other times, it's like someone's pulled a blanket over her senses, dulled everything down until she can't feel anything, not unless she's got her finger in front of a trigger and her heart is racing. It's never constant, and maybe that's just because her life hasn't been so in years, but to be accused of throwing her life away like Spike did isn't something Faye can easily swallow.

"Don't you dare accuse me of not caring, Dean Winchester. Don't you dare act like I came down here on a suicide mission. Walking along the beach everyday and eating muffins every morning? That's not living for me," she tells him in a raised voice, her face startlingly pale. "I need to feel something. Can you understand that?"

[weary-head.livejournal.com]

He can hear her shouting, but it's a long moment before Dean can understand her, everything between his ears white noise since she smacked him hard enough his vision burst into a sea of dancing stars. He comes back to himself with a rush of adrenaline racing down his spine, his every nerve on high alert and his heart not far behind, a lump of something sore and aching in his throat when he goes to swallow.

"Yeah," he says, not embarrassed so much as surprised to feel wetness at the corners of his eyes when he blinks. Yeah, he gets wanting to feel something, but if it feels like this, like fear and desperation and a near unstoppable need to scream, he thinks he might take it back. He should say something now, demand - or ask, what the fuck ever - that she let him get her topside, at the very least watch her back, but he can't seem to form the words. Can't seem to do much of anything, actually, but stand there, thinking about how full and dark her lips are even in the deep of Rapture.

[attitude]

Having Dean fall silent might be more unnerving than anything else. She gets, after all, what it's like to feel angry over someone being willfully reckless. And while that isn't what's happened here, because Faye hasn't come down to Rapture anticipating a brush with death, she can still understand how it looks from his end. It's not behavior that she'll tolerate from him in the long-term, but the empathy still licks there like a lazy flame, and to see all of that die out leaves an unease that curls around her like so much smoke.

Nerves still thrumming to the tips of her fingers and hand tingling in the wake of the slap, none of Faye's resolve has evaporated, even as she carefully lowers the volume of her voice. "Good. Now, unless you've got something else to say." She hefts up her Glock and rests it on her shoulder. "I need to find more ammo."

[weary-head.livejournal.com]

Dean raises a brow, cheek stinging with the movement, and holds up a fresh clip. He has no hope of her taking it, everything about Faye suggesting she means to do every last thing the hardest goddamn way possible, but it's worth a shot.

"Would you at least let me patch you up?" he asks. They're standing in filth, in blood and dust so old he can hardly stand to breathe it, and she has open wounds. "Look around you, Faye, there's no shortage of crap to infect you."

[attitude]

When he speaks up again— and that he would wasn't even a question, really— Faye sighs through her teeth, eyes falling shut as she tries to understand the source of the tension that she feels, something knotting in her gut, twisting there with more than mere irritation, and not quite unease. Again, he has a point. She's bleeding from half a dozen places, and while her constitution is pretty good, it's not something she should be taking for granted. They don't have an unlimited supply of IV drips to throw here and there to try to flush a girl's system out. She's supposed to be careful.

But it's just another snag, at the end of the day, one that turns her gaze back as quick as lightning as she throws her hand up in disbelief. "Dean," she reiterates, a slight growl of frustration under the name. "I know how to take care of myself. What can I do to convince you of that?" Taking a couple of deep breaths, her voice lowers for the next question, green eyes fixed directly on his.

"Or is there another reason why you're afraid?"

[weary-head.livejournal.com]

"I'm not afraid." It's knee jerk, the need to defend himself immediate, rising up well before Dean's had a chance to consider her words. His heart's beating too fast, too hard, it hurts him, and he's - so what if he's afraid of seeing her hurt? He's supposed to be.

"You know what?" he barks out, suddenly fed up, and with so much more than Faye. He's sick of people dying, sick of people leaving. Sick of people doing their damnedest to make both those things happen and then walking away like it doesn't leave him bleeding, so fuck it. He'll do the walking this time.

"Here." He tosses her a fresh roll of bandages from his pack, dirt crunching under his boots as he shifts to go. "Take care of yourself then."

[attitude]

This is exactly what she's asked for. Isn't it? Not wanting Dean to get all worked up over her, wanting him to go his own way, wanting him not to keep on breathing down her neck like she's some kind of kid who needs constant supervision. Yet somehow, as her hand reaches out to catch the bandages just in time, Faye's eyes are fixed on his retreating figure, and it hurts. It twists something in her chest, leaving it hard to breathe. Everyone leaves. Everyone does, and Dean's departure at the moment reminds her too heavily of Spike, until she turns around sharply and heads in the opposite direction, throwing her gun at the pipes and hitting them as she goes.

She's about ready for all of the monsters to come out of the shadows.

"I will," she mutters, just enough for her voice to carry. "Just watch."

[weary-head.livejournal.com]

He's to the hall, he's nearly out, out of earshot, out of reach, out of fucks to give, but she's making so much goddamn noise. He'd thought he'd meant it before, but now Dean's sure of it. Faye really does want to bring them all down on her.

He's half-turned to shout Stop when he sees it, a flicker of movement closing in on Faye's left flank. "Shit," Dean grunts, starting forward, but it isn't Faye the Splicer attacks, isn't either of them Dean thinks for a long, stupid moment, and then he realizes the tiny clunk he heard in front of him was the landing of a grenade.

"Shit," Dean repeats with equal fervor, and there's only time to get his hands up before the blast lifts him off the ground, propelling him sideways towards the wall. Dean squeezes his eyes closed and braces for impact, but the wall crumbles like wet paper around his shoulders, letting him straight through to the other side.

The ground there is not so kind. Dean crashes down with a force that stuns him, his ears full up with his own roaring blood and a singing pain at the back of his skull, but he can't lie here, he's supposed to be doing something, supposed to be -

"Faye!" Dean shouts, cursing when his first dizzy attempt to rise puts him right back on the ground.

[attitude]

The clang is a familiar one. Faye turns around, too late to see much movement in all of the dark, but instinct tells her to run in the opposite direction of the noise. Always in the opposite direction of the noise. Her own heels grate against the ground as she holds her Glock up in the direction of the shadows, her pulse pounding in her ears, her finger on the trigger and thumb ready to knock off the safety. Too late, however, it feels like she watches the explosion in slow-motion. She's heard of this type of thing happening before, heard of hunters mentioning how sometimes the briefest of instants can take an eternity to pass.

They say it only happens when one is about to die.

Shutting her eyes quickly, Faye quickly stumbles towards a pillar standing in the distance, letting out a cry (one that she can't even hear) as she's suddenly thrown across the path. Her eyes are the first to open, although they sting from all the dust, kicked up even further when she coughs into the crook of her elbow. Her ears ring, and a brush of her fingers against her left lobe reveals a wetness there, Faye pushing herself as quickly as she can off the ground. Coughs prevent her from getting out of the way, and a small amount of alarm lodges in the back of her neck and spreads, passes over her skin like ice.

"Dammit," she grits out, eyes watering. "Who in the world uses a grenade to— coward." Rubbing the corner of her eyes against a shoulder, she aims the gun in front of her, backing away from the debris as she looks for any movement, any unusual shadows off to the side. A tinny laugh echoes through the hall, raising hairs at the back of her neck. She can only hope that Dean got out in time.

Knowing him, though, the blast will just end up bringing him right back.

[weary-head.livejournal.com]

When Dean finds his feet, it's pure dumb luck that sets them stumbling in the right direction, the white of a pillar little more than a gray smudge in the shadows swimming before his eyes. Soon there's a body rising out of the dust in front of him, and Dean aims his Glock, realizing just in time that it's Faye. Still standing then. Well, that's just pure dumb luck, too.

"Faye," he whispers when he reaches her, setting his shoulder against the pillar. Hell, it must be the only solid thing in this room, and Dean leans hard, lets it take his weight while he reloads his gun with fingers that would tremble, but Dean's fought his way through enough concussions that they don't.

"There's two behind me," he says, eyes landing on the bolt of crimson by her ear, following it down to her jaw. "At least. You good to shoot?"

[attitude]

It's a good thing that Faye isn't the type to just shoot on sight, she thinks to herself, as soon as Dean stumbles out of the distance. Immediately, she feels relief release the vice-like hold around her chest, breathes deep as she leans her back against the pillar. The problem with relief, she quickly finds, is that adrenaline rushes out of her system and takes all of the strength with it, her hands practically shaking until she has to will everything into those fingers, gripping the Glock that suddenly feels heavy. When her eyes raise to settle on his face again, it's his lips that she finds herself drawn to, and while not all of his words register from movement alone, Faye catches her name there.

It's enough.

With a quick nod, she hefts her gun before mouthing, "On three."

But when she whips around, gun firmly in hand, the area seems empty. No sign of movement, no trace of a splicer. With sound still largely slipping past, all Faye can think as she scans the area is that both of them are at a disadvantage now. And it's all her fault.

[weary-head.livejournal.com]

Dean takes up position behind her, back to back and aiming his gun into the darkness that spreads all around them. Nothing, there's nothing, just settling dust and their own harsh breathing, until -

There's a sound so small, so shuffling and slight, that Dean could think he imagined it, but it doesn't stop. Straining his ears, Dean steps away from Faye, gun trained first right, then left, but still there's nothing, but the sound continues, seems like it's getting closer, and Dean looks up.

"Faye!" he shouts, but he can't stop the Splicer's descent, its inhuman body unfixed from the ceiling above, red hooks in hand and headed right for Faye. There's no time to warn her, no chance to shoot its body without risking hers, and Dean does the only thing he can do. He takes a running leap and barrels into Faye with enough force to shove her out of the Splicer's path, twisting as they fall to fire a round through the Splicer's chest.

[attitude]

The first thing that breaks through the white noise is Dean's shout, fuzzy in the background, all of its weight and urgency lost as Faye turns around to look for him. She has only enough time to think that they've possibly lucked out, that maybe they can make a break for the bathysphere and put all of this filth behind them, before suddenly he's leaping towards her, wrapping one arm to keep her from hitting the ground while using the other to hit the Splicer straight through the chest. If anything, that's the greatest insult to injury, that all of her attempts to show her own abilities have resulted in Dean coming around to save the day. How he'll take the fact isn't hard to guess.

Her palm is pressed to the ground, dirt and grit dragging against her skin as she heaves a breath or two, hair dragging down, a few strands clinging to the sweat of her temple. She can feel the sting where her knee meets grime, and judging by the deeper color of her thigh, her face is probably entirely covered in dust. But pride and obstinance leave her refusing to budge, and the very moment Dean's lips move again, Faye leans forward to cut his words off, pressing her lips firmly against his own. "Shut up," she murmurs when she has to pull away to catch a breath, not giving him space to talk before she crushes another kiss to his lips, free hand groping for her Glock.

Once she has a good grip, she quickly looks over her shoulder, eyes scanning over the ceiling— there's another Splicer in the corner. Backing off, she holds her left hand out to Dean to help him up, already aiming for the Splicer with the right.

[weary-head.livejournal.com]

They land sprawled together, and despite it all, Dean's first instinct is to make a joke, mouth open and headed for some throwaway lewdness to dispel the fact that they're still surrounded, but then her lips are on his. Her mouth is sweet and warm and gone almost as quick, and in the beat between Dean draws a breath, only half-gathered before she kisses him again.

God help him, the sound Dean makes is less grunt than groan, contact he's been starved for suddenly freely offered, and he doesn't care if it's meant to distract, to punish, to shut him up. It feels good, and so does she, and when they part Dean's dazed and gasping, taking the hand she offers with startled eyes that only grow wider when she dispatches the nearest Splicer with a deadly blast from her Glock.

"Okay," says Dean, swiping his forearm over his mouth before he grabs another twisted body before it can leap, drags it down and close enough that he can crack his fist over cheekbone and jaw. "That works, too."

[attitude]

She glances briefly at the body that's sprawled in front of them both, joints bent at inhuman angles, and it's all that Faye can do to keep from choking in disgust. Nausea fights her in waves as she blinks— she's gotten this far, but only because she hasn't thought too deeply about any of it, hasn't bothered looking down at the corpses strewn. Every hunter deals with death, but Faye Valentine does so in a manner consistent with how she treats everything: she runs. It's easier to think of the Splicers as roadblocks, as hurdles to pass over, rather than people that once might have been worth saving.

With a look in Dean's direction, she finds her mind at war again, eyes brushing over his lips. It'd be easier to just lose herself in it, in him, and the part of Faye Valentine that always opts for the easier way out without regard for consequence takes a step closer to him, considering. Her breath comes and goes heavily, shoulders still pulled back with the pride that she just can't shake.

Ultimately, she thinks better of it, shaking her head as she starts walking towards the nearby bathysphere station. "I'm outta here," she says at last, before quietly shooting a look over her shoulder. "You coming?"

[weary-head.livejournal.com]

For the longest moment she just stands there, looking at him like she wants to take a step closer, and god - despite the bodies lying all around, the blood on both their faces, he wants her to. He wants her to do what he's still too afraid to do and take that step, but she doesn't.

Dean's breath leaves him all at once, disappointment warring with relief that he hasn't fallen yet, is neither climbing nor slipsliding towards something he can't escape from. Never mind that what he's hiding from could save him. It could hurt him, and he's spent so long hurting already. He needs to stop being so goddamn reckless around her, needs to be careful. He believes that, too, armor almost up and settled familiar on his shoulders, right up to the moment she calls to see if he's coming, and Dean is moving at a speed that shouldn't be left in his tired limbs.

He catches up with her as the hallway expands, close at her side as they journey towards the bathysphere that will take them home. His hands won't seem to behave, almost reaching for hers before he stops them, hovering near the small of her back, little touches that are surely meant to reassure himself more than her, but after everything, Dean can't be sure that they'd be welcome. If anything, Faye's given every indication that she prefers to do things on her own, and she can climb into a bathysphere without help, can hit its buttons without Dean close by her side, but here he is, lips still tingling and eyes never straying far. Even in the faded light of Rapture, she's so goddamn beautiful, an angry flush high in her cheeks that only makes her eyes brighter, and Dean finds himself reaching despite all the ways he's tried not to, smoothing violet locks back from the cut along her hairline.

"Sorry," he says quietly, and even as he says it, he doesn't know what it's for. Everything, maybe, the things he can control and all the ones he can't, for his hands on her and the way he can't seem to make himself stop. "Faye."

[attitude]

Whether or not Dean can see the lines carefully drawn around Faye's person— and she suspects that he can after all that they've shared— he continues treading along every single one. The heat of his hand that hovers by her back draws her eyes momentarily to a close, but the plan to cut off all senses backfires, a wash of darkness highlighting the sensation of touch. She opens them, just in time to watch his hand pull close, too near for focus as his nails carefully push back strands of hair, treating her with a gentleness that she doesn't want. That she doesn't need. But most importantly, that she can't afford to grow accustomed to. Perhaps trust is what Faye Valentine is in the greatest need of now, the lack forcing her to build walls that everyone on the island seems keen on tearing down. It's a tiresome process.

Even now, with the apology being his greatest weapon of all, Faye finds herself assuming the worst. Is sorry enough? Is it sincere, or does he see the flaws and weaknesses that Faye so carefully tries to hide from the rest of the populace? She's been running for so long, in one way or another, and every muscle in her body tells her not to stop now, that it'll only result in pain and loss— but she keeps on hitting snags, and Dean Winchester is one of them. She doesn't take a single breath as his fingers brush gently by her temple, but instead settles on the color of his eyes, her own darkened with anger. She isn't even sure where she should direct any of it, isn't sure that she wants to try, so it stays contained, pounds in her ears and against her chest.

"Stop it," she murmurs, the glance towards his hand more afraid than it is angry, her breath rushing back in a quaver. "Don't apologize unless you mean it. Don't apologize to the wrong person." It strikes her then, that maybe it isn't her he really wants to apologize to. Maybe it's a flash of golden hair, maybe it's the curve of a playful smile, and even though she knows that they aren't the same person, it's Julia who shows up in Faye's memories now. Beautiful, driven, and completely out of reach.

There's a soft sound that escapes her throat as she steps back just enough to hit the last lever that'll take them back to the Welcome Center, to the pavilion that leads home. The lurch of movement proves to be the last straw, Faye's brow knitting as she rushes forward again, palm over his hip until she's pushed both of them against the bathysphere wall, a brief kiss that catches air before she deepens that too, hair whipping out of place again, to where it splays over her cheek. Whether she's angry, whether she's scared, or whether she wants this, none of that seems to matter anymore. It's all and none at once.

[weary-head.livejournal.com]

He wants to tell her he's not, that she's not the wrong person, she's the only one he's speaking to, but is that even true? Dean's lived so much in so few years, he has so much to mourn and to regret, more than he could ever fix with a one word apology. It doesn't seem fair that the same single word could invoke so much, but it does, and he reels with the lurch of the elevator, too.

Reels and just keeps falling, because she's back, warm and alive and with him, and Dean's hands are as helpless as they've ever been to stay away, spreading eagerly over the rich swell of her hips to drag her closer. His blood's been close to boiling all day, first the thrill of the fight, then anger, now this, want bubbling up and over, overtaking his senses and his good sense, too, because they're in a goddamn elevator and he wants to eat her alive, see her as bare as he feels, the quick catches of skin beneath his fingers not enough. "Faye," he says, reclaiming her mouth, kissing her with everything he has like he can will her not to stop. "Faye," he says, and then again, so at least she'll know that, despite all the ways in which Dean is fucked up, he knows who it is he's here with, who he wants.

[attitude]

It's the sound of her name on his lips that drives a shiver down her back, that slides like ice but settles in with a warmth, one much like the fingers that splay over her hip, her thigh. While Faye's outfit has always been one designed to allow easy movement, what she's grateful for now is how much it allows her to feel. His thumbs are calloused, rough, but the touch is still gentle as Faye ends up being the half that's anything but, her hips grinding roughly against his, a breath catching in her throat. "Dean," she whispers before she can fully find her voice, scared of the way it makes her heart lurch, scared of how much she wants him, of how the prospect of being alone scares her more than it has in years. Her teeth tug at his lower lip, before she deepens the kiss again, hooking her fingers around his belt and jerking it close, before her fingers work to deftly unclasp the buckle.

She manages to think better of running her teeth along his jaw, the shape of which she's practically seared into memory, and traces the bridge of her nose along the curve instead. Tugging the zipper roughly down, Faye's hand slipped under his boxers, taking his length in hand, lips momentarily curving into a wicked grin. "Hi there," she smiles, pressing a brief kiss to his lips, searching, tasting him.

[weary-head.livejournal.com]

"H-hi," Dean stutters, stupid with the hot bolt of pleasure that courses through him at her sudden touch, all the blood he might have used crafting a more eloquent reply surging downwards, hardening him in the loose circle of her hand. Even after everything, after the kiss, a part of him hadn't believed that this would happen, that she'd go for it, but she has, and Dean makes a shivery but steady effort to get his shit together. He might be a sadbastard shell of the man he used to be, but he still knows how to show a lady a good time, goddammit.

His hands shake when he lifts them, but he gets the one button of her shirt undone, nearly losing his knees all over again when it comes open just like that. "Faye," he says again, and he knows he sounds a little too eager, too desperate, but he's been alone for so long now, not wanting anyone for months, but here underground, surrounded by death and danger and Faye, Dean feels alive again.

"God," he exhales, unable to resist a moment longer, one hand curving around the heavy weight of her breast, the other at the back of her neck to steady her when Dean seals his mouth over hers, hungry for her in each and every way he can get.

[attitude]

There have been very few times in Faye's experience when she has actually regretted her specific choice in clothing, but now she finds herself conflicted. A rush of cold air hits skin, draws a sharp intake through her teeth before Dean has her in his palm, his thumb running roughly against her skin. It stalls her movement suddenly, a soft hum on her lips even through the kiss, hungry and trying to fill a void in her heart, one that she hasn't allowed to ache since Spike's departure— but as is quickly becoming a pattern, it's always Dean Winchester breaking her down, pulling her with him.

When she comes up for breath, Faye pushes away enough to try and reach for the lever and controls of the bathysphere, bringing them to another slow halt. There's a part of her, too, that finds comfort in a decision finally made, in being too far invested to step away now, her hands desperately working at his shirt, tugging with enough fervor that she can feel a few strings snap, threads woven through the buttons loosening before one falls to the floor of the bathysphere with a clatter.

"I thought I was supposed to be the one with the difficult clothing," she quips with a grin, her hands shaking as they roughly tug his shirt down, eyes lazily tracing along the tattoo partially exposed before leaning in, tracing along the ink with open-mouthed kisses and teeth lightly grazing skin.

[weary-head.livejournal.com]

"Thought I was comin' in here all business," Dean grunts before losing his voice to a groan, her teeth sharp and unexpected against his skin. He's half tangled up in machete straps and extra casings, slid from his shoulders and wrapped round his elbows, but Dean shrugs them violently off, the smallest bite of her teeth enough to having him moving rough and reckless. Surging forward, he grabs her up, hands beneath her ass and lifting until her long legs are wrapped around his waist.

"We're really doin' this," he murmurs, half to himself, and then he's lost to the soft warmth of her breasts, stubble scraping over delicate skin before he tempers himself, sets his lips to the spot and soothes with his tongue. It's been forever since he had his face between a woman's breasts, and he feels as eager as a child, but he only means to be half as clumsy.

[attitude]

While he doesn't need the help, Faye finds her hands grabbing at the straps, pushing them off Dean's shoulders as quickly as she can with an edge of desperation on her breath. It's the only way she can keep from thinking too much, preventing her from lingering on the spot, from roots taking hold, even as something starts to stir inside her chest. Every time she grows close to someone, it ends up just being a matter of time until they leave, but they've already fallen too far now, and all Faye can do is relish his hands running over her thighs, the way that her weight settles easily against him, the way she can feel his breath rise against her own and know that, for the moment, everything they do is in tandem.

Her gaze rises towards the ceiling of the bathysphere as his lips press against her breast, tongue hot against her skin. Faye honestly can't remember the last time a man paid close attention to her needs, and all she can feel now is overwhelmed, surprised, fingers desperately weaving through his hair as her breath hitches. "You'd better believe it," she breathes, eyes dark when they open again, clouded with want. "It won't be pretty if you stop now."

Legs wrapped tightly around his waist, Faye slips her feet out of her boots, each landing on the floor of the submarine with a hollow thud, before she nudges a heel against the small of Dean's back, insistent, rolling her hips with the movement.

[weary-head.livejournal.com]

She rolls against him just right, just like she's been made to fit there, and Dean washes hot all over, toes curling in his boots. He hears the thunk of her own behind him, and knows instinctively that he'll never get that far. He wants her too much, too badly, but hell. Won't be the first time he's fucked with his boots on.

It's a filthy thought, but it seems to match everything about this day - the dank and dark of Rapture, the bodies they've left behind, all the unspeakable things he wants to do to the woman wrapped around his waist. He feels a sudden need to make up for it, make it good, but he thinks he'll settle for making her scream.

Peeling her hands from him, Dean wraps her fingers around the support rail of the bathysphere, drops her legs from his waist and then drops himself to his knees. Catching her waist in his hands, Dean nuzzles at the soft skin of her belly, deft fingers pulling those little shorts she wears open and down. "Definitely not stopping," he breathes hot against her, sealing his mouth over where she's already wet through her underwear.

[attitude]

For a second, she thinks that she might really have scared him off. The way that the warmth of his hands leaves her, the way that he sets her gently down against the rail that winds around the perimeter of the bathysphere, even guides her hands and helps her find support. And the truth of the matter is, when Faye Valentine scares people away, she doesn't try to hang on. Not anymore. Sometimes, the fractures in one's heart dig too deep, and in this, Spike Spiegel is the one to blame. There's nothing more painful that Faye has experienced than losing something that someone fights hard to keep. Her breath stills, preparing for that sigh.

It never quite arrives.

There's a touch of alarm in Faye's eyes when she continues to watch Dean's movement, the panic arising from where Faye has, in her years, remained fairly inexperienced. Desire is something which isn't easy to wield. It's far simpler to lose oneself blindly in the pleasure than it is to remain considerate— or at least, Faye tries to convince herself of that fact, the only way to explain all the times she's been left rather unfulfilled in the rare evenings when loneliness turns into desperation. But this is different, the tough of rough fingers brushing gently over her skin, the bridge of his nose pressed against her side, and suddenly she feels impossibly young. No longer jaded, and instead overwhelmed.

"Oh god," she murmurs, breath hitching as her hands grip the bar tight, knuckles stretching to bone white. A whimper fights to escape from her lips even as she presses them tightly together, toes curling as a heel meets the wall with a clang of metal. "God, Dean."

Even through the haze of her mind, she can't help thinking: her cover's blown.