The Princess of Denial

“No Faith, don’t wear that. It’s too slutty. You don’t want to send the wrong message,” B says and I roll my eyes. This is the forth outfit that I’ve tried on and all of them have been ‘too slutty’. A couple days ago I told B she could try to hook me up with someone at the club we go to and I think it’s gone to her head. We aren’t leaving for two hours but she wants to make sure I’m not going to try to do my usual thing. Ya know, the whole get some, get gone thing. Nah, she wants me to find Mr. or Mrs. Right.


“It’s not too slutty,” I tell her and she just sighs. I can’t believe I let her talk me into this. I agreed to let her be my wing-woman. I never said I would be her personal Barbie. But then she knocked on my door and asked if she could help pick out my outfit. At first I told her hell no fuckin way, but then she fluttered her eyelashes and teared up her eyes and she knows that always gets to me. I can’t stand to see her cry, even if she’s doing it on purpose. “Besides, B, it’s not like we’re going to my arranged marriage. Unless there’s something you really need to tell me.”


“Oh please, like I’d ever try to force you to do something you don’t wanna,” she says, and I raise one of my eyebrows at her. She can see it in the mirror and she just rolls her eyes. “This doesn’t count. I need to make sure you aren’t misrepresenting yourself and what you’re wearing when you make a first impression is important.” My god, could she be any more of a girl right now? All I’ve been hearing for the past twenty minutes are the dos and don’ts of what to do on a date. Sure, some of the shit has been helpful, but not that.


“B, you know I always make a good first impression,” I say and give her a little wink. She blushes and walks back into my closet. Ok, so why does she think this dress is too slutty? She thought it was nice when I bought it a couple months ago. Sure it’s short, I have t-shirts that are longer than this, but I have great legs and wanna show ‘em off. Isn’t that how you pick people up in clubs? She totally has me confused and I hate it. I’m the one who’s supposed to get under her skin, not the other way around.


“Here, try this.” She hands me a skirt and a top and then sits down on my bed. Yeah, she’s making me change and she isn’t giving me any privacy. I guess she thinks I’ll pick out something else if she looks away. I’ve changed in front of Buffy before, especially at the mall when there’s only one changing room left and we share. It’s a tight squeeze, but it’s never been awkward or anything. But the past twenty-five minutes has been fucking awkward, and I don’t know why. Before I even get the dress off she’s up and walking towards my dresser.


“You’ll need a different bra. You can’t wear white with black it’ll totally show,” she says as if I didn’t already know that and opens up the drawer. I haven’t let her look in it but there was no stopping her this time. I just couldn’t react fast enough. Probably because she’s totally getting to me and I hate it. Mostly I hate the fact that I don’t know why she’s getting to me like this. “Woe.” She sounds a little shocked and I blush. Yeah, I’m fucking blushing, how weird is that?


“Since when do you wear stuff like this?” she asks and she sounds kinda shocked. I really wanna jump all over that, and call her out on the fact that she thinks about what kind of panties I wear. I’m kind of afraid of her response though. Since Red had that psychotic episode and told me that I’m in love with Buffy, which is total bullshit, things have been a little weird between me and B. Mostly because I can’t relax around her and it sucks like hell. Anyway, she picks up the pink lace boyshorts. There’s only one way to get her to back off.


“Who says they’re mine?” I ask all suggestively. Her eyes go wide and she instantly drops ‘em like I told her they got the plague. They are mine, but I’ll never admit that. B and everyone else think all I wear is black or red, but my wardrobe goes beyond that. Well, at least my selection of underwear is wider than just black or red. I do like wearing things that are a little more girly. Not very often, but it’s nice sometimes.


“Why would you keep someone else’s underwear?” she asks and grabs a black bra and tosses it to me. I’m surprised she’s still willing to touch anything in that drawer. I let out a little sigh it’s because now I have to change and she’s still watching me. She isn’t going back over to the bed where all she’d get is a good look at my ass. Nope, now she’s gonna get full frontal Faith. A few days ago this wouldn’t have been a problem, but now I feel like an awkward teen changing in a locker room full of older, hotter girls.


“Haven’t you ever heard of a souvenir, B? She was really fuckin hot. I wanted to keep a little reminder.” Maybe if I gross her out enough she’ll leave me alone. All she does is roll her eyes and watch me change. I really wanna call her out on it but I really don’t want to have the conversation that follows. Even though I’m friends with B I still have a hard time reading her and right now I’m too on edge to downplay anything.


“Wasn’t there something else you could have taken, a piece of jewelry, or a watch maybe? Stealing someone’s underwear is just…icky,” she says and shudders a little. She told me that Spike used to steal her clothes and the thought of it still freaks her out. I just laugh a little and shake my head. I keep my eyes down on the floor as I change into the black bra, the black top and brown leather skirt. Not the first thing I’d pick to go dancing in, but it looks pretty hot.


“It’s not like they still smell like her snatch, B. I washed ‘em,” I tell her and look up after I zip the skirt. She’s walking towards me. Her eyes are doing that whole elevator thing that get people thrown into sexual harassment seminars. I know she’s only doing it to check out the outfit though, which is a shame. I cannot believe we’re having an argument about a pair of underwear that I didn’t steal from anyone. This has got to be the dumbest situation I’ve ever put myself in.


“Do you have to be so crude all the time?” she asks and she sounds irritated. I know she isn’t really irritated. She asks me that question at least three times a day and she always says it in the same tone. We like to mess with each other, and that includes picking at each other’s supposed flaws. I don’t think being crude is a bad thing. It’s better than sugarcoating shit, that’s for fuckin sure. Sugarcoating is just another way of lying.


“Do you have to be such a prude all the time?” I ask and raise an eyebrow. Normally whenever I ask that she’ll say something about her mother raising her to be a lady, but right now she isn’t saying anything. Her cheeks turn pink in a light blush, she gets a smirk on her face and she breaks eye contact with me. That can only mean one thing: she’s thinking about Marcus. More specifically, she’s thinking about the sex she’s had with Marcus. Why do I suddenly have an urge to run my fist through a wall?


“So what do you think, B, too slutty?” I ask and pray that she won’t call me out on the subject change. On any other day I would’ve jumped all over her non-response, but right now I just don’t have the emotional control to call her out on it and not get pissed off when she answers. I’ve barely been able to keep it together as it is. It isn’t just the Marcus thing that’s throwing me off, it’s the fact that tonight she’s going to be practically pimping me out. I’m having a hard time stomaching that.


“No, I think this is the one. It’s sexy, but not too obvious. All the others either showed too much cleavage or too much leg.” She walks back into my closet and grabs a pair of shoes. I don’t have anything too girly shoe wise. I have some heels but all of them are comfortable enough to dance in. At the time, at least, the next morning is a whole different story.


“Gotta disagree with you, Twinkie. There’s no such thing as showing too much leg,” I say and I am dead fuckin serious. The more leg the better, especially if they’re as rockin as mine. Buffy just snorts a little laugh and picks out a pair of boots. She grabs the only girly boots that I have. All my other ones are a little more butch, and I wear them when I patrol. B got me these ones for my birthday last year. She said that every woman needs at least one good pair of sexy boots, and I hate to admit it but she’s right.


“Whatever, Faith. I’m trying to find you a boyfriend or girlfriend. Not someone who’s only interesting because they’re hoping to get a free lap dance.” I laugh because that was pretty good. Ok, so sometimes I dress kinda slutty. There are only so many years I have left when I can still pull it off without looking like a desperate freak, I might as well take advantage of that. I guess little miss tightly wound doesn’t think so. So walks back over to my dresser and starts going through the box I keep my makeup in.


“Uh, B, what are you doing?” I ask as I sit on the bed and slip the boots on. God these things are so comfortable. B had ‘em custom made just for me so they hug my feet just right. They’re also really grippy on the bottom. I could probably run as fast as I can on a freshly polished floor and not slip, that’s how awesome they are.


“What’s it look like I’m doing, playing soccer? I’m going to do your makeup.” Ok, the clothes I can handle, trying to find me someone she thinks I’ll connect with I can kind of handle, but her doing my makeup I cannot handle. I never let anyone touch my makeup, and Brat had to learn that the hard way. She borrowed my mascara one day and woke up the next morning screaming ‘cause I threw a bucket of ice water on her face. And before you ask, yes I let the ice melt first. I wasn’t trying to hurt her, just punish her.


“Whatever, B. I’ve been doing my own makeup since I was twelve. I don’t need your help.” She clearly doesn’t think so because she doesn’t stop what she’s doing. She keeps digging through until she finds what she’s looking for. I sigh and walk over to her, hell bent on putting everything back and kicking her out of the room.


“You don’t wear makeup, Faith. You wear a mask of eyeliner and mascara to make yourself look tough. Tonight isn’t about looking tough, it’s about meeting people and looking like a sad clown hooker isn’t going to help.” What the fuck did she just call me? Both of my eyebrows knit together, and she finally finds what she’s been looking for.


“Alright, fine. But only because that’s possibly the most original insult you’ve come up with.” A sad clown hooker, how does she think of this shit? She gets a little smile on her face and grabs onto my hand. She walks us over to the bed and we both sit down. “Please tell me you aren’t going to make me look like a regular hooker, ‘cause there’s only so much I can take tonight, B.” She scoffs and rolls her eyes.


“I’m not going to make you look like a hooker, of any kind. I just want to use some more natural colors,” she says and starts applying the foundation. I don’t know why she won’t let me do this part myself. It’s not like my arms stopped working, or I hit my head really hard and forgot how to put it on. The look on her face is pretty cute though. Her lips are parted just a little and she has this deep look of concentration. Alright, so I guess I’ll let her do this, but I’m not going to stay silent about it. That’s just not my style.


“B, I’m not deficient. Just show me what you want me to use, and I’ll put it on,” I tell her and she looks into my eyes with a look that I know all too well. She’s annoyed but she’s trying to hold it back. She does that all the time, especially when I’m being all bratty like this. I can’t just let her get her way. She might think I’m going soft or something. Faith Lehane ain’t no fuckin marshmallow, that’s for damn sure.


“I know you’re not deficient, but you’re stubborn. The problem isn’t the colors. It’s the amount you use. If I let you put it on you’ll just cake your face like you always do.” I do not cake my face in makeup. She’s totally exaggerating. Sure I used to do that shit when I was a teenager but I don’t do that anymore. Ever since I started buying my makeup instead of stealing it I try to stretch it out for as long as possible. “So will you please just let me do this and stop complaining? You’re starting to sound like Andrew.” Low fuckin blow.


“That was cold, B,” I say but she just smiles a little bit. Things go silent between us but they don’t get awkward. Well, at least they don’t get awkward at first. But having B so close to me, being able to smell her perfume and that unique Buffy smell, and her touching my face so softly is starting to do some weird shit to my body. I’m getting turned on, and normally I’m not the kinda person who gets turned on while getting a makeover. I’m normally not the kinda person who gets a makeover but that’s not the point.


“It really is a shame you wear so much makeup all the time. You’re such a natural beauty, Faith, you should show that off more often.” Great, now she’s being the pot calling the kettle black. I’m always telling her she doesn’t need to wear makeup every second of the day because she has a pretty face. But whatever. If I bring that up it’ll just start a fight, or make her think that I’m trying to start a fight. What she just said finally sinks in and I get a little…shy. Buffy thinks I’m beautiful, when did that happen?


“Whatever, B. I’m hot and sexy as fuck, but I’m not beautiful,” I say and she gives me an irritated look. At least she does at first. But then she looks into my eyes and sees that I’m not saying it just to make her made and her expression softens. She puts down the foundation and picks up the blush. Great, why did I even buy that?


“Faith, not to go all Kodak-moment on you, but you’re one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen.” I can’t help the little smirk that forces itself onto my face. I guess she just realized what she said and her eyes get kinda big. “In a totally non-gay way. Ya know, like how everyone in the world, straight and gay alike, think Angelina Jolie is the most beautiful woman on the planet.” I let her slide, mostly because she just picked up the eyeliner and I don’t want her getting all stab happy with it.


“Whatever you say, B.” The smirk won’t leave my face and she looks a little embarrassed. So Buffy thinks I’m one of the most beautiful women she’s ever seen? I have no idea what to do with that little piece of information. Normally I’d tease her about it, say maybe Red is starting to rub off on her, and milk the blush for all its worth. With the way I’ve been feeling over the last month or so, especially the last couple of days, teasing her about that just feels wrong.


“Raspberry Freeze,” she says, reading the bottom of the lipstick tube. “I will definitely be borrowing this in the near future.” We both chuckle a little bit and I part my lips a little so she can put it on. I get this weird fuckin feeling while she’s applying the lipstick. It’s like the air in the room changed. Things get really quiet and calm and it’s getting a little awkward but not like it was before. Ya know that feeling you get when you really wanna reach out and touch someone even though you don’t really know ‘em? That’s the feeling that I’m getting, but it’s weird because I know her pretty fuckin well.


She pulls the tube away from my face and I rub my lips together to make sure it’s even and all that crap. I look into her eyes and it’s like I’ve been hypnotized. I can’t look away even though the air between us is starting to get thick, like there’s electricity crackling and waiting for a weak spot to hit. The look in Buffy’s eyes changes too, and that urge to reach out and touch is starting to get a little overwhelming.


So I slowly reach out and touch her arm. The small touch snaps her out of whatever little moment we were just caught in. She stands up from the bed and clears her throat. She only does that when she’s nervous or she got caught doing something she wasn’t supposed to. What the fuck is that all about? She starts picking up the makeup from the bed and takes it back over to the dresser. If I thought things were awkward before then I clearly had no idea how tense they could get. Hindsight’s a bitch.


“We should do your hair. Curls maybe. I know you like going for the wild, unruly look, but I think maybe some soft curls would look nice,” she says and her voice sounds hella fuckin strained. So I guess it wasn’t just me who got caught up in that little…what the fuck just happened. She looks at me through the mirror and I’m trying as hard as I can to keep my breathing under control. I cannot believe this shit is happening. You know when your best friend gives you a makeover and you get really fuckin turned on, that it’s time to get laid.


“Um, nah, not tonight, B. Maybe next time though,” I tell her and she looks a little relieved. I can’t blame her. The reason I turned her down is ‘cause the thought of her running her fingers through my hair and touching me anymore tonight is unsettling. It’s not like I hate it when B touches me, but when I’m this turned on any touch is gonna get a reaction that I know she won’t want, and my scalp is super sensitive.


“Ok, well we’re leaving in…” she looks down at her watch and lets out a little sigh. I dunno if that’s a good sigh or a bad sigh. Normally I can tell but this one sounded pretty neutral. Is there such thing as a neutral sigh? “…forty-five minutes. Xander’s driving tonight, he promised to be the designated. Don’t make fun of him too much. You know how whiney he can get when you challenge his manhood.”


“Yeah, totally,” I say and she just gives me a look. I didn’t mean for that to sound so sarcastic but I couldn’t control it. I have all this fucked up energy that I need to get out of my body and until that happens some things might be a little out of my control. “I promise I’ll lay off him. No teasing of the bitch-boy tonight.” She smiles for a second but then gives me a disapproving look. Oh come on, that was kind of funny. Xander is more of a woman than half the chicks who run through this house.


“Well, I need to go get ready,” she says and there’s a really long awkward silence. I have no idea what to say to her. I have all these thoughts running through my head of what I want to say to her, but I know I shouldn’t say them. The number one being ‘hey B, it’s been a while, think you could just hold still for a sec? This shouldn’t take long’. Could I be any more of a weirdo perv? I think not. “So I guess I’ll see you downstairs.” I just nod and give her a forced smile.


She walks to the door but pauses in the doorway. She turns for a second like she’s gonna say something. I hold my breath for a few seconds and wait. I have no idea what she’s thinking and I’d give anything to know. I don’t know why it’s so important to me, but it is. She doesn’t say anything though. Her mouth opened and closed a few times, but no words came out. She turns around and leaves and shuts the door behind her. What the fuck was that all about?