Damn, I hate Christmas. I guess it's a force of habit, it's not like we ever did the family holiday deal when I was growing up. Hell, we never did the family deal when I was growing up and Christmas was just one of those times of year when Mom could get drunk off her face and act like it was expected of her.

I don't know why I thought this year'd be any different. Maybe coz it's my first Christmas out of prison. Maybe coz New York was supposed to be my fresh start - okay, my *latest* fresh start - I don't know. But I guess my run of luck really hasn't changed that much coz I'm sitting here in my dirt cheap (for some wicked obvious reasons) apartment, half-empty bottle of Jack in my hand staring blankly at some old black and white film they always show around this time of year. The volume's turned right down and the only sounds are the wailing of sirens outside and the couple across the street having their regular, Sunday night domestic.

I take another swig as a passing car shines its headlights across the room. I have the lights off to save what I can on the electricity and the blue light from the tv set sends flickering shadows over the one concession I made to the holiday hype - the three foot fake, silver tree that sits in one corner, looking oddly out of place and non- festive with a small string of lights wrapped around it.

It's Christmas eve. While other people are sitting down to dinner, I'm sitting here waiting for the pizza I ordered. In millions of homes around the world, kids are being tucked in and falling asleep with the promise of Santa and presents, goodwill and peace to all men. In my world I killed three vamps tonight and I'll fall asleep with the promise of a more vamps to kill tomorrow.

Thinking of slaying makes me think of B. Hell, most things make me think of B - a passing blonde on the street, a pair of green eyes, every song I hear on the radio. She's probably cozied up somewhere in Sunnydale right now, with Beefstick or her Mom or the Scooby Gang. See she has choices like that. I used to tell myself that I didn't have any choices. I did, I just always made the wrong ones.

Until Angel, in LA. For once I was smart enough to listen to someone that tried to help me. I let him in and I didn't regret it. In prison when I didn't think I was going to make it through the day, I'd remember his advice and just concentrate on making it through the next five minutes. He taught me how to break my time down into easy- to-swallow portions and saved me from choking on it.

And he'll be spending Christmas with his Fang Gang, Cordy and Wes. Even the dark, brooding vampire with a soul has his friends with him - his family. All I have is this cold feeling in the pit of my stomach that I'm learning to live with and a bottle of Jack Daniels so that I won't have to live with it tonight.

There's a knock at the door and I get up to pay for my pizza, counting out the cash as I pull it open.

"How much do I-" I stop midsentence.

"Faith."

"B?"

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Oh god what am I doing here? This was a bad idea, I shouldn't have come, I'm not ready for this.

It seemed like such a good idea at the time. When Angel called to wish me a happy Christmas and just happened to mention that Faith had written to him from New York, and then just casually dropped in the name of the street her apartment was on, he knew he was handing me an opportunity. An opportunity to say the things I should have said long ago, to get everything into the open. To be honest with her for once and just attempt to deal with all the things we've been running from and avoiding dealing with since the night she killed Finch.

I was the one who insisted she went to jail - my call. I was also the reason she got stabbed in the gut and spent eight months in a coma. And it's not like I don't think she deserved it, but I realised there has to be a time when I stop looking to punish her and start to actually deal. I thought this could be the time, I was wrong.

I look at her and it all comes back, all the old hurt and pain. Everything about her - the look, the leather, the self-assuredness that radiates from her - it all reminds me of the past. A past I realise I'm not ready to let go of. I still want her to hurt, I still want to punish her. I shouldn't have come.

"This was a bad idea."

I turn to leave but her hand on my arm stops me. I have to fight the urge to shake it off but I turn to face her, trying to keep my expression neutral. She's lit by a backdrop of flickering blue shadows and it somehow seems to add to her darkness, to that dangerous edge. But it's contrasted by a softness in her eyes that I haven't seen before.

"You come all this way just to leave again?"

"No, I... I shouldn't have come, I'm sorry."

"B..."

I'm telling myself to leave, I have every intention of leaving. I am most definitely going to leave. This is me... leaving. Any second now.

"Buffy?"

And there it is, she hardly ever calls me by my full name. Now that softness is in her voice as well and I cave. She steps aside to let me into her apartment and knocks on the lights as I walk in. The lights come on on a small Christmas tree as well and I smile, remembering that oddly endearing touch of festivity to her motel room back in Sunnydale.

Sitting on the couch, I shift slightly as something digs into me. I pull out the bottle of whiskey and look at her quizzically.

She shrugs. "Long night."

I choose not to comment and put the bottle down on the glass coffee table, beside the remains of old take-out chinese boxes an empty pizza cartons. Casablanca's playing silently on the tv set as she sits beside me. I tear my gave away from Bogart and look up into a face I've thought about every day for the last four years - not that I'd ever admit that to anyone, especially not her.

She's looking at me half expectantly and half fearfully, like she wants to ask me what I'm doing here, but she's afraid I'll run if she does. I take a deep breath to try and calm my nerves, this was my idea after all, I might as well say what I have to say.

"You're wondering what I'm doing here, right?"

"Can't say I was expecting you."

"I... I thought about coming to see you when you got out of prison." She stays silent, waiting for me to go on. That makes a change, was a time when she'd jump in with a smart remark just for the sake of being heard. "I wasn't ready, then, to deal with... this. With us."

"You are now?" She sounds genuinely unsure. Like maybe I am, or maybe I'm just here to kick her ass and I'm warming up with a little pep talk.

"I think so. I've been angry at you for a long time, Faith. But you've spent three and a half years in jail, that was how I insisted you find justice, and that doesn't do anyone any good if we carry on exactly like before you handed yourself in."

"So... what? You wanna know if you made the right call?"

Maybe that's all it is. Maybe I'm simply curious to see if my judgement was right in insisting on jail. Maybe I want to judge for myself if she really is as rehabilitated as she should be now she's out. But it's more than that and I'm not going to pretend this time around that it isn't. If we had both been more honest with each other, with ourselves, when she first came to Sunnydale, we could have saved everyone a lot of pain all round.

"I'm just tired, Faith. I'm tired of carrying around all this history between us."

I stand up and start to pace around her small apartment, gathering my thoughts for what I want to say next.

"There were... things, that we left unsaid. Feelings I wasn't willing or able to deal with then. Angel had just come back from hell, I was trying to hold my life together and you came in and shook everything up. You brought out a whole other side of me. And it was so liberating. But after what happened with Finch I tried so hard to suppress... everything. Everything that I felt around you. Everything that I felt for you. But I couldn't... and in four years I still haven't found a way to do that."

I walk to the window and lean on the sill, staring at the snow falling outside.

"I'm here because I need to be. Because I need you."

I say this so quietly that for a moment I'm not sure if she heard me. I don't turn around and there's no sound from her, no sound at all except those of the city coming up from the street below. Then I feel a hand on my shoulder and she's turning me to face her. Those dark eyes are looking at me with an intensity, with a hunger that takes my breath away. Without saying a word she cups my chin in one hand and traces my bottom lip with her thumb. Then she leans in and kisses me with a gentleness I wouldn't have expected of her, slowly and softly but with an unmistakable passion.

At the touch of her lips on mine my heart skips a beat and then kicks back in in treble-time. When her tongue flicks across my upper lip I reach up, wrapping my arms around her neck and deepening the kiss. The taste of whiskey seems appropriate for her and she slips her arms around my waist, pulling me up tight against her.

God she feels so good, and this feels so right. Why the hell have I been running from this for so damn long?

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I don't believe this. I really don't believe this. Buffy Summers is in my apartment, in my arms, doing what I've spent practically every night for the last five years fantasising about her doing. And it's better than I ever could have imagined. And she hasn't smacked me or stabbed me... yet, at least.

Her hands start to run across my shoulders and down my back, and it all feels so good that I have to wonder for a minute if I'm dreaming, if I drank more JD than I thought and passed out on the couch. I consider pinching myself to check, but then B's hands stray to my ass and do just that and I know I'm fully awake and definitely not dreaming and oh Christ she's incredible. She hasn't taken off her jacket since she came into the apartment and now, in my considered opinion, she is wearing way too many clothes.

I mentally slap myself when I realise my hands are shaking as I untie the belt on her jacket. Get a grip girl! And oh the many things I'd like to get a grip on... damnit, focus! The belt is undone and I pull the material off her shoulders, letting it fall to the floor.

I lightly run my hands up her sides and over her breasts, barely brushing against her taut nipples as I move to unbutton her shirt. She stops me with her hands on mine and I pull back, looking at her for any sign of hesitation or uncertainty. All I see is a passion so strong that it ignites a whole new level of desire in me.

"Bedroom. Now." she growls. And I'm not inclined to argue.

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I'm lying in Faith's bed with my head pillowed on her shoulder, arm loosely draped over her waist. The silence between us is the most comfortable I can ever remember between us, and I feel more at peace than I have done in a very long time.

I really wasn't prepared for the tenderness in her lovemaking. I'd always thought of Faith in regards to the wild side of her character that she worked so hard to portray, always imagined there'd be a certain fierceness there. But the way she's holding me now, all I feel is safe, loved and protected.

The bedroom is dark and across the street, a neon sign flickers occasionally, sending pink streaks of light into the room. I start to run my hand down her arm, feeling the well defined muscles flex under my touch. That's when I notice a new addition to the tattoos and prop myself up on one elbow to get a better look. The sign flickers again, highlighting the simple heart-shaped outline that contains a single letter.

B.

I trace it with my fingertips and look down at her questioningly. She just shrugs in a way I find indescribably cute.

"Why?"

"Because I love you," she replies simply.

I bring my hand up to her face and lean in to kiss her softly. "I love you too," I murmur against her lips.

With a grin that reminds me so much of the old Faith, she pulls me back down with my head on her shoulder and wraps her arms around me, kissing me on the forehead.

"Happy Christmas, B."

By the clock on her bedside table I see that it's after midnight. It's Christmas day, and outside the snow is falling gently again, blanketing New York City in a layer of white.

"Happy Christmas, Faith."

And it is. The first of many.