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Entry tags:
Crossover fic: Hitching a Ride (Buffy/SPN), Jo/Faith, R
Disclaimer: not mine
Fandoms: Buffy: the Vampire Slayer, Supernatural
Characters: Faith, Jo (Faith/Jo, a bit), references: Jo/Dean
Rating: R/hard PG13, violence, mostly-off-screen-sex, language
Length: 1400 words
Notes: for this prompt at the Women Ficathon. not a style I normally use.
Summary: Jo picks up a stray.
Hitching a Ride
by ALC Punk!
You meet her with the taste of ashes in your mouth, struggling out of a grave. She says something you can't hear, then is gone, diving at the ghost whose bones you're planning on burning. Leaving her to it, you turn away, lighter fluid, salt and matches in hand.
The night goes up like a bonfire, and you wipe a hand across your face and spit. "Thanks for the distraction."
"What the fuck was that?" She's wiping her hands off on her leather pants and looking un-bruised despite being thrown into more than a few tomb stones.
"Ghost." It's a short reply, but it's all you have. The matches and lighter fluid go back in your bag, and you ignore the pulled muscle in your shoulder as you hitch it up. "I need coffee."
You don't ask if she's following you.
-=-
She pats the hood of your battered station wagon and slides into the passenger side without being asked. You consider objecting, but she looks like she could use a bathroom to wash her hands and face, and you've gotten tired of fending off truckers and drunks while you just want a cup of crappy coffee.
Linda's is beat-up, stripped-down, and less impressive than the roadhouse, but the bleached-blonde on duty gives you a cheery wave and snaps her gum while you order.
"Faith," hot stuff says, dropping into the booth on other side, her hands and face clean.
You raise an eyebrow, "Order for yourself," you suggest, on your feet and already moving towards the restroom. There's something about the way Faith is wriggling just a little that makes you nervous. "And it's Jo."
-=-
Over coffee and pie, you tell her a little about you (college, mom, road trip), she tells you a little about her (no college, no parents, road trip on a thumb-raise). You both dance around things like supernatural, vampires and ghosts, like they'll get you both in trouble with something. Instead, she asks about the shotgun in your car, and you give a long lie about an uncle who used to take you hunting.
You both leave money on the table for the waitress and head back out.
"Anywhere I can drop you?" You're not sure what she's gonna say as you lean casually against your car. A part of you wonders if this is so bright, letting her get close enough to touch.
"Caffeine's gonna keep you up for a while. Want company?" There's layers to what she's asking, her eyes dark and her lips bright and red in the light spilling out from the diner.
You think about moonlight and silver crosses, but she doesn't seem worried about the crucifix around your neck, and there's only so many ways to burn off the adrenaline still coursing through you. Sure, you've learned to sleep in the worst circumstances, but you don't want to sleep.
Her hand moves to the doorframe, idle, like she's testing, and you realize she's closer than you thought.
Throat closing, you think about shoving her away, and don't. "Get in the car." The words are an order, and defiance slides across her face before she's moving.
Showing off, she jumps onto the hood, sliding over and landing neatly on the gravel. Something feral is in her eyes as she smiles over the roof, "Sure you can handle that?"
"Shut up," you suggest, yanking your door open and popping the automatic locks, "Or I'm leaving you behind."
-=-
You remember how the first time you saw Dean Winchester, you wanted to climb him like a tree (ok, after you'd punched him in the face and held him at gun-point), suck in that bad boy edge and feel your skin prickle with excitement and pleasure.
That was before you knew him well, before you'd faced demons and monsters and moved on. Bad boys never really did it for you, it was just the idea.
Faith makes you think of Dean: all angles and bragadoccio, fists and flashing eyes that rake you like she wants to know how you taste. The thought isn't unwelcome, you have energy to get rid of before you can sleep.
You've been keyed-up since climbing out of the grave, and pie and driving just made it worse. You're not really surprised when walking into the motel room (cheap, plastic, crappy) leads to Faith's hands on your waist, her mouth hot on your neck.
The sex isn't that great, but it's all right. You both need the release and when Faith loses it before you, you feel smug until you fall asleep, limp with exhaustion.
-=-
She's awake before you are, and you think of all the ways it could have ended badly and don't care. Faith's lazily flopped in the uncomfortable-looking chair, playing with a bullet from the unregistered .44 under the floorboards of the station wagon. You raise an eyebrow and sit up, hand running through your hair.
"Thought you'd be gone by now."
Faith shrugs, eyes distant as she slouches, fingers slowing before they spin the bullet onto the bed. "You're just human." Her voice sounds odd.
There's no point in taking offense: it's not the same voice you've heard from male hunters over and over again just a girl, and being human is something you enjoy. "No shit," you offer, getting out of bed and heading for the bathroom. There's soap and water, and you duck your head to splash your face with the door open.
Joining you, leaning in the doorway, Faith is staring at you in the mirror that stretches behind the sink. It's annoying, and you glare back before turning and putting your hand on her chest. "I'm taking a shower. Out."
"Out?" Her eyebrows go up, her lips twist a little.
"Yes." You relent a little, mouth turning up, "Breakfast when I'm clean?"
Faith doesn't answer before you've closed the door in her face. The shower is tepid at best, but it's better than feeling like there's sand and ash everywhere. Your hair smells like barbecue before the orange-tangerine stock shampoo smothers the stench.
-=-
Back at the diner, there's a different bleached-blonde on duty. You drag your notebook in and use a pen to make note of the ghost you nailed. One less thing to cross off the list.
Faith orders coffee, milk and toast; you need scrambled eggs if you're going to keep your strength up for the drive to come.
"So, where to next?" Faith asks, a glass of milk half-empty in her hand.
She looks relaxed, like you plan your days together every morning like this. Just another page in the calendar. You shake your head, "I'll drop you at the interstate, there's a good truck stop about twenty miles down the road. You can go anywhere from there."
"What if I'm going the same place as you?" There's something there, an offer of help.
You find yourself wondering if Faith offers people her help all that often. A shiver travels up your spine, as you remember her fingers leaving bruises on your hips. Maybe she's not a vampire, but she's something. You don't know what, and your instincts tell you that traveling together is a bad idea.
"What if I'm not?"
Faith sets her empty glass down and leans forwards, "What if you end up dead?"
"Life of a hunter." It's the closest thing to the truth that you know, and your heart clenches for an instant on the ancient hurt of Daddy's not coming home again, baby, I'm sorry.
You should have punched Dean more than once, made his daddy feel it, even in death.
"C'mon, I'm good help. Quick, fast--"
"Strong?" You turn your arm so she can see the marks on the inside of your elbow (you don't even remember her doing it). "Don't know your own strength, huh?"
Something like guilt flashes over her face, then it's gone. "Yeah." No platitudes. You respect that, a little.
You nod and lean back, something uncoiling in your gut. Relief, maybe. You're not sure yet. "All right. But you cause me trouble, I'll shoot you and leave you in an unmarked grave on consecrated ground."
The grin doesn't reach her eyes, but she looks like she might know you're joking. "You won't regret it."
You already do.
-f-
Fandoms: Buffy: the Vampire Slayer, Supernatural
Characters: Faith, Jo (Faith/Jo, a bit), references: Jo/Dean
Rating: R/hard PG13, violence, mostly-off-screen-sex, language
Length: 1400 words
Notes: for this prompt at the Women Ficathon. not a style I normally use.
Summary: Jo picks up a stray.
Hitching a Ride
by ALC Punk!
You meet her with the taste of ashes in your mouth, struggling out of a grave. She says something you can't hear, then is gone, diving at the ghost whose bones you're planning on burning. Leaving her to it, you turn away, lighter fluid, salt and matches in hand.
The night goes up like a bonfire, and you wipe a hand across your face and spit. "Thanks for the distraction."
"What the fuck was that?" She's wiping her hands off on her leather pants and looking un-bruised despite being thrown into more than a few tomb stones.
"Ghost." It's a short reply, but it's all you have. The matches and lighter fluid go back in your bag, and you ignore the pulled muscle in your shoulder as you hitch it up. "I need coffee."
You don't ask if she's following you.
-=-
She pats the hood of your battered station wagon and slides into the passenger side without being asked. You consider objecting, but she looks like she could use a bathroom to wash her hands and face, and you've gotten tired of fending off truckers and drunks while you just want a cup of crappy coffee.
Linda's is beat-up, stripped-down, and less impressive than the roadhouse, but the bleached-blonde on duty gives you a cheery wave and snaps her gum while you order.
"Faith," hot stuff says, dropping into the booth on other side, her hands and face clean.
You raise an eyebrow, "Order for yourself," you suggest, on your feet and already moving towards the restroom. There's something about the way Faith is wriggling just a little that makes you nervous. "And it's Jo."
-=-
Over coffee and pie, you tell her a little about you (college, mom, road trip), she tells you a little about her (no college, no parents, road trip on a thumb-raise). You both dance around things like supernatural, vampires and ghosts, like they'll get you both in trouble with something. Instead, she asks about the shotgun in your car, and you give a long lie about an uncle who used to take you hunting.
You both leave money on the table for the waitress and head back out.
"Anywhere I can drop you?" You're not sure what she's gonna say as you lean casually against your car. A part of you wonders if this is so bright, letting her get close enough to touch.
"Caffeine's gonna keep you up for a while. Want company?" There's layers to what she's asking, her eyes dark and her lips bright and red in the light spilling out from the diner.
You think about moonlight and silver crosses, but she doesn't seem worried about the crucifix around your neck, and there's only so many ways to burn off the adrenaline still coursing through you. Sure, you've learned to sleep in the worst circumstances, but you don't want to sleep.
Her hand moves to the doorframe, idle, like she's testing, and you realize she's closer than you thought.
Throat closing, you think about shoving her away, and don't. "Get in the car." The words are an order, and defiance slides across her face before she's moving.
Showing off, she jumps onto the hood, sliding over and landing neatly on the gravel. Something feral is in her eyes as she smiles over the roof, "Sure you can handle that?"
"Shut up," you suggest, yanking your door open and popping the automatic locks, "Or I'm leaving you behind."
-=-
You remember how the first time you saw Dean Winchester, you wanted to climb him like a tree (ok, after you'd punched him in the face and held him at gun-point), suck in that bad boy edge and feel your skin prickle with excitement and pleasure.
That was before you knew him well, before you'd faced demons and monsters and moved on. Bad boys never really did it for you, it was just the idea.
Faith makes you think of Dean: all angles and bragadoccio, fists and flashing eyes that rake you like she wants to know how you taste. The thought isn't unwelcome, you have energy to get rid of before you can sleep.
You've been keyed-up since climbing out of the grave, and pie and driving just made it worse. You're not really surprised when walking into the motel room (cheap, plastic, crappy) leads to Faith's hands on your waist, her mouth hot on your neck.
The sex isn't that great, but it's all right. You both need the release and when Faith loses it before you, you feel smug until you fall asleep, limp with exhaustion.
-=-
She's awake before you are, and you think of all the ways it could have ended badly and don't care. Faith's lazily flopped in the uncomfortable-looking chair, playing with a bullet from the unregistered .44 under the floorboards of the station wagon. You raise an eyebrow and sit up, hand running through your hair.
"Thought you'd be gone by now."
Faith shrugs, eyes distant as she slouches, fingers slowing before they spin the bullet onto the bed. "You're just human." Her voice sounds odd.
There's no point in taking offense: it's not the same voice you've heard from male hunters over and over again just a girl, and being human is something you enjoy. "No shit," you offer, getting out of bed and heading for the bathroom. There's soap and water, and you duck your head to splash your face with the door open.
Joining you, leaning in the doorway, Faith is staring at you in the mirror that stretches behind the sink. It's annoying, and you glare back before turning and putting your hand on her chest. "I'm taking a shower. Out."
"Out?" Her eyebrows go up, her lips twist a little.
"Yes." You relent a little, mouth turning up, "Breakfast when I'm clean?"
Faith doesn't answer before you've closed the door in her face. The shower is tepid at best, but it's better than feeling like there's sand and ash everywhere. Your hair smells like barbecue before the orange-tangerine stock shampoo smothers the stench.
-=-
Back at the diner, there's a different bleached-blonde on duty. You drag your notebook in and use a pen to make note of the ghost you nailed. One less thing to cross off the list.
Faith orders coffee, milk and toast; you need scrambled eggs if you're going to keep your strength up for the drive to come.
"So, where to next?" Faith asks, a glass of milk half-empty in her hand.
She looks relaxed, like you plan your days together every morning like this. Just another page in the calendar. You shake your head, "I'll drop you at the interstate, there's a good truck stop about twenty miles down the road. You can go anywhere from there."
"What if I'm going the same place as you?" There's something there, an offer of help.
You find yourself wondering if Faith offers people her help all that often. A shiver travels up your spine, as you remember her fingers leaving bruises on your hips. Maybe she's not a vampire, but she's something. You don't know what, and your instincts tell you that traveling together is a bad idea.
"What if I'm not?"
Faith sets her empty glass down and leans forwards, "What if you end up dead?"
"Life of a hunter." It's the closest thing to the truth that you know, and your heart clenches for an instant on the ancient hurt of Daddy's not coming home again, baby, I'm sorry.
You should have punched Dean more than once, made his daddy feel it, even in death.
"C'mon, I'm good help. Quick, fast--"
"Strong?" You turn your arm so she can see the marks on the inside of your elbow (you don't even remember her doing it). "Don't know your own strength, huh?"
Something like guilt flashes over her face, then it's gone. "Yeah." No platitudes. You respect that, a little.
You nod and lean back, something uncoiling in your gut. Relief, maybe. You're not sure yet. "All right. But you cause me trouble, I'll shoot you and leave you in an unmarked grave on consecrated ground."
The grin doesn't reach her eyes, but she looks like she might know you're joking. "You won't regret it."
You already do.
-f-
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I sort of figure that Faith subconsciously assumed Jo was a Slayer, so she wasn't as gentle as she could have been (I don't think Jo was gentle, either. Apparently, road-tripping, survivalist Jo is a bit rough around the edges)
THE FACT THAT THE SEX ISN'T THAT GOOD.
I couldn't resist making it bad. First times aren't always great, after all =D
Thank you, I'm going to make a note to re-read your feedback when I'm staring at a blank screen, lamenting the lack of words.
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