"Painting, seashell, paper"

by the Spike

Disclaimer: BtVS is not mine

Warnings: f/f UST, swearwords

Summary: Faith writes a letter

/Hey, B,/ she begins -- blue ballpoint on white, lined, 3-hole paper. /This is therapy. /

But then she stops. She didn't really have anything planned. There was nothing really to say besides, well, everything. Which was way east of impossible and nothing to fuck with. Something that someday she would maybe have the chance to whisper right into Buffy's seashell ear, follow with her tongue. But not here and not for show. This was otherwise. The opposite of therapy. Learning to hide. Better. And writing wants more than just her hand in motion. Which is all, really that she wants. Needs right now.

She should try her hand at finger-painting maybe -- over there with the 'tards and screamers. Thick smears of blood and black and yellow onto orange construction paper, licking on the paints. but then again she doesn't have any great desire to be a Thorazine queen when the shrinks take her happy monster-killing pictures for symbolism.

God she hates this part. Yeah, it's all the good road. Yeah, she's got to follow. Yeah fucking yeah yeah yeah, she knows that. And prison on its own is... a little tame, maybe, but pretty good: almost enough sex; not quite enough violence and there are people in here who are definitely friends in what she has discovered is not just the prison way but what had been her way all along. The only part that has to wait is the healing. The real deal.

That's you, B. She smiles and doesn't write. 'Why don't you write her a letter, Faith. Tell her how you feel.' Oh yeah. That works. But, hey, I was thinking of getting out of here someday, y'know?

Pretty fucking funny, ain't it, B? she thinks. How I'm here in the good and still coming this close to honesty could fuck me so bad? Oh and by the by, how much lying do *you* do these days?

Lots and lots, she guesses or maybe none. Who knows how deep the lucky horseshoe lodged up that pretty pink little ass. Just one more thing I'll have to check in the big by and by...But she doesn't write that either. Just sits in the barred sunshine coming down on her face in the arts and crafts room and smiles. Writing wasn't a bad choice after all. She'll get her hand in motion later. And just as the bell rings she scribbles what she really feels -- as close to it as she can show:

Having a great time, B. Wish you were here.

Love 4Evah,

Faith