Sons of Anarchy/BtVS Fic: Gonna Fade Away, Gemma Teller Morrow and Faith Lehane
Title: Gonna Fade Away
Author: escritoireazul
Acknowledgements: This is a work of transformative fiction inspired by the television shows Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Sons of Anarchy. The title and summary are from the song “Gimme Shelter,” particularly the Paul Brady and the Forest Rangers cover.
Setting: Post-Buffy season seven and Sons of Anarchy season two.
Rating: 13+
Written for: theantijoss for comment_fic to the prompt: Buffy the Vampire Slayer/Sons of Anarchy, Faith Lehane/Gemma Teller Morrow, "If there was one thing she knew, it was the feeling of being hunted."
Author's Note: This is not the sexy story I set out to write. There will likely be a sequel.
Summary: If I don't get some shelter, oh, yeah, I'm gonna fade away.
If there was one thing she knew, it was the feeling of being hunted, and that woman in the corner, as far as she can get from the windows, slumped in the booth, baseball cap pulled low over her forehead, looked like she knew how it felt too.
Faith curled her hands around her cup of coffee and glanced at her again, careful not to look too long. No sense in scaring her off. A cup of coffee sat in front of her too, but she left it untouched. Instead she fiddled with a cell phone, one that looked cheap and plain. Pre-pay, Faith would bet if she had anyone around to take it. Sometimes she opened and closed it, sometimes she turned it over and over, but mostly she clutched it between her palms and bent her head.
A prayer to the communication gods.
Faith took a drink of her coffee and set the cup back in place. Shoved the last big bite of burger into her mouth, chewed, swallowed, wiped grease from her lips with a napkin, not the back of her hand. Took another drink of coffee.
Finally she let herself look again.
Her hands were wrinkled, veined. She was old enough to be marked by time.
Slayers died young, even in a world full of slayers. Faith looked down at her own hands, splayed her fingers wide. These were the hands of the second oldest slayer in all the world.
Her skin started to crawl. Someone watched her. Couple ways she could handle it, subtle and smooth -- toss back her hair, take a drink, sneak a peak -- or not. Probably it was better to be subtle, slayer on her own like she was.
Faith chose not.
Head up, hands flat on the table so she could launch herself up into a fight if it came down to that, she looked at the door first, but no one stood there. Second she checked out the woman in the corner and sure enough, this time, she was looking back. Staring back.
She jerked her chin forward, just a hint of movement, but Faith got her meaning. That was acknowledgment. That was offering Faith a spot at her booth. Faith thumbed the edge of the table, gave it some thought.
Then she picked up her coffee cup and headed over.
Sitting down put her back to the room. Faith didn’t like that much, but she was curious and she was bored. Hell, maybe she was a little lonely, too, stuck all the way out here in Oregon in the middle of nowhere while everywhere else, slayers worked together in teams.
Penance paid or not, they still didn’t trust her much. Not enough to give her a squad of slayers to run. Not that she wanted one. She wasn’t really into being a leader and all the shit that came with it. Not really. No matter how she’d handled it back in Sunnydale.
Those were pointless thoughts. Nothing she could do about them. So she drained the last of her coffee and set her mug at the edge of the table, waiting for the waitress to come by again.
Hunted women aren’t all that forthcoming with information, but Faith gave it a try.
“Faith.” So she didn’t try that hard, so what?
Was that a flinch? But when Faith looked close, her expression was even, though her eyes wary. They looked at each other for a moment, giving Faith time to notice the crows feet in the corners of her pretty hazel eyes and the scar hidden in the shadow between her breasts, just barely revealed by the v-neck shirt she wore.
“You need more coffee.” She looked past Faith, caught someone’s eye, and motioned to her cup. Faith turned to look, too.
“Let me get that, sweetheart.” The man at the counter plucked the coffee pot from the waitress’s hands. She laughed and swatted at him, but let him carry it over. He topped up the other cup first, then filled Faith’s. He gave her a long once over, too, lingering at her breasts.
Couple years ago, that might have cost him an eye, a little blood at least, but she was more careful these days. She bared her teeth at him in a wolf’s grin instead, and he got the warning behind it. Not totally stupid then.
“Thanks.” Her voice was low and sorta rough. Faith liked it.
He nodded. “You okay?”
“We’re fine.” She turned back to Faith, clearly dismissing him. Faith kept watching him, just in case. Hot coffee pots made pretty good weapons. He shrugged and headed back to the counter, whispering something that made the waitress cackle with laughter.
Faith grabbed a couple sugar packets, tore them open, dumped them into the coffee. Then a couple more for good measure. Her body burned calories so fast, especially after a patrol, she had a hard time keeping up.
“I’m Gemma,” she said at last.
Mostly when people tried to pick her up, they talked about how Faith shouldn’t be out so late on her own, mentioned bad neighborhoods and giving her a ride home so she’d be safe and all sorts of bullshit like that.
Gemma said none of it. They sat in silence awhile instead, sipping their coffee and looking at each other. After awhile, Faith found the cracks in that mask of calm. She might have looked normal, just a woman in a diner with her coffee, but she was definitely on the run from something.
Worn out, too, worn out and worn down. Probably lonely.
If she got all that, Faith wondered what Gemma got from her. She finished her coffee but didn’t set it aside. Instead she twisted the cup into the table, pressing it down hard. Something gritty scraped the bottom. Spilled salt, or maybe she dropped some sugar.
“You want to talk about it?” Gemma asked suddenly.
Faith shrugged. “Not a lot I can say.” And wasn’t that the truth. Even if she did want to spill her guts, where the hell could she even begin? Oh, yeah, vampires are real and I hunt them. I swear I’m not high. Cross my heart.
She realized she was baring her teeth again, but Gemma didn’t back down. She reached out and put one hand on Faith’s. Her fingers were warm from holding her coffee and callused. She knew about hard work.
“You want to tell me what you can,” Gemma took a big breath, “I can be a good listener.”
She shrugged again, and Gemma started to pull away. Fast as thought, Faith caught her hand, holding it gently.
“Hey,” she said, then hesitated. Finally, “Thanks.”
This entry was original posted at http://escritoireazul.dreamwidth.org/306953.html with
comments. Reply here or there.
Author: escritoireazul
Acknowledgements: This is a work of transformative fiction inspired by the television shows Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Sons of Anarchy. The title and summary are from the song “Gimme Shelter,” particularly the Paul Brady and the Forest Rangers cover.
Setting: Post-Buffy season seven and Sons of Anarchy season two.
Rating: 13+
Written for: theantijoss for comment_fic to the prompt: Buffy the Vampire Slayer/Sons of Anarchy, Faith Lehane/Gemma Teller Morrow, "If there was one thing she knew, it was the feeling of being hunted."
Author's Note: This is not the sexy story I set out to write. There will likely be a sequel.
Summary: If I don't get some shelter, oh, yeah, I'm gonna fade away.
If there was one thing she knew, it was the feeling of being hunted, and that woman in the corner, as far as she can get from the windows, slumped in the booth, baseball cap pulled low over her forehead, looked like she knew how it felt too.
Faith curled her hands around her cup of coffee and glanced at her again, careful not to look too long. No sense in scaring her off. A cup of coffee sat in front of her too, but she left it untouched. Instead she fiddled with a cell phone, one that looked cheap and plain. Pre-pay, Faith would bet if she had anyone around to take it. Sometimes she opened and closed it, sometimes she turned it over and over, but mostly she clutched it between her palms and bent her head.
A prayer to the communication gods.
Faith took a drink of her coffee and set the cup back in place. Shoved the last big bite of burger into her mouth, chewed, swallowed, wiped grease from her lips with a napkin, not the back of her hand. Took another drink of coffee.
Finally she let herself look again.
Her hands were wrinkled, veined. She was old enough to be marked by time.
Slayers died young, even in a world full of slayers. Faith looked down at her own hands, splayed her fingers wide. These were the hands of the second oldest slayer in all the world.
Her skin started to crawl. Someone watched her. Couple ways she could handle it, subtle and smooth -- toss back her hair, take a drink, sneak a peak -- or not. Probably it was better to be subtle, slayer on her own like she was.
Faith chose not.
Head up, hands flat on the table so she could launch herself up into a fight if it came down to that, she looked at the door first, but no one stood there. Second she checked out the woman in the corner and sure enough, this time, she was looking back. Staring back.
She jerked her chin forward, just a hint of movement, but Faith got her meaning. That was acknowledgment. That was offering Faith a spot at her booth. Faith thumbed the edge of the table, gave it some thought.
Then she picked up her coffee cup and headed over.
Sitting down put her back to the room. Faith didn’t like that much, but she was curious and she was bored. Hell, maybe she was a little lonely, too, stuck all the way out here in Oregon in the middle of nowhere while everywhere else, slayers worked together in teams.
Penance paid or not, they still didn’t trust her much. Not enough to give her a squad of slayers to run. Not that she wanted one. She wasn’t really into being a leader and all the shit that came with it. Not really. No matter how she’d handled it back in Sunnydale.
Those were pointless thoughts. Nothing she could do about them. So she drained the last of her coffee and set her mug at the edge of the table, waiting for the waitress to come by again.
Hunted women aren’t all that forthcoming with information, but Faith gave it a try.
“Faith.” So she didn’t try that hard, so what?
Was that a flinch? But when Faith looked close, her expression was even, though her eyes wary. They looked at each other for a moment, giving Faith time to notice the crows feet in the corners of her pretty hazel eyes and the scar hidden in the shadow between her breasts, just barely revealed by the v-neck shirt she wore.
“You need more coffee.” She looked past Faith, caught someone’s eye, and motioned to her cup. Faith turned to look, too.
“Let me get that, sweetheart.” The man at the counter plucked the coffee pot from the waitress’s hands. She laughed and swatted at him, but let him carry it over. He topped up the other cup first, then filled Faith’s. He gave her a long once over, too, lingering at her breasts.
Couple years ago, that might have cost him an eye, a little blood at least, but she was more careful these days. She bared her teeth at him in a wolf’s grin instead, and he got the warning behind it. Not totally stupid then.
“Thanks.” Her voice was low and sorta rough. Faith liked it.
He nodded. “You okay?”
“We’re fine.” She turned back to Faith, clearly dismissing him. Faith kept watching him, just in case. Hot coffee pots made pretty good weapons. He shrugged and headed back to the counter, whispering something that made the waitress cackle with laughter.
Faith grabbed a couple sugar packets, tore them open, dumped them into the coffee. Then a couple more for good measure. Her body burned calories so fast, especially after a patrol, she had a hard time keeping up.
“I’m Gemma,” she said at last.
Mostly when people tried to pick her up, they talked about how Faith shouldn’t be out so late on her own, mentioned bad neighborhoods and giving her a ride home so she’d be safe and all sorts of bullshit like that.
Gemma said none of it. They sat in silence awhile instead, sipping their coffee and looking at each other. After awhile, Faith found the cracks in that mask of calm. She might have looked normal, just a woman in a diner with her coffee, but she was definitely on the run from something.
Worn out, too, worn out and worn down. Probably lonely.
If she got all that, Faith wondered what Gemma got from her. She finished her coffee but didn’t set it aside. Instead she twisted the cup into the table, pressing it down hard. Something gritty scraped the bottom. Spilled salt, or maybe she dropped some sugar.
“You want to talk about it?” Gemma asked suddenly.
Faith shrugged. “Not a lot I can say.” And wasn’t that the truth. Even if she did want to spill her guts, where the hell could she even begin? Oh, yeah, vampires are real and I hunt them. I swear I’m not high. Cross my heart.
She realized she was baring her teeth again, but Gemma didn’t back down. She reached out and put one hand on Faith’s. Her fingers were warm from holding her coffee and callused. She knew about hard work.
“You want to tell me what you can,” Gemma took a big breath, “I can be a good listener.”
She shrugged again, and Gemma started to pull away. Fast as thought, Faith caught her hand, holding it gently.
“Hey,” she said, then hesitated. Finally, “Thanks.”
This entry was original posted at http://escritoireazul.dreamwidth.org/306953.html with
comments. Reply here or there.