All Ur stuff R not belong 2 me. Wah.
Faith has always done her own laundry.
When she was younger, it was out of necessity, because sherry-sodden mothers could not be relied upon for clean clothes. It was one thing not to have the right threads in high school. It was another not to have clean
(old sleep shirt she’s had since she turned twelve, kept safe under motel pillows and in prison lockers)
When she was in Sunnydale, she was alone, and so naturally, she did everything for herself. She’d also done her laundry by herself. There had been a launderette as part of the motel’s facilities, but that creepy clerk with the wandering hands had a sixth sense for when Faith would be there. Eventually, it was easier to do things in her bathroom than sprain his wrist every other day.
(a mess of mismatched socks; her favourites have red bats on them)
In prison, everyone got a round on laundry duty, so it was nothing out of the ordinary. Just…a little more industrial, she supposes.
(wife-beaters she wears for sparring and work outs. Fuckin’ stupid name for a shirt…)
During her brief stint in England, she shared quarters with her own band of merry mini-slayers, and everyone did their own stuff, was responsible for their own shit fights and their own messes. Only the cooking of the evening meal was assigned. Faith had been careful to deliberately screw up her few turns, and so was gently discouraged from ever picking up a spatula again, unless it was as a weapon.
(apron the mini’s bought her as a joke. She uses it for weapons cleaning now)
Before England, just after Sunnydale, she’d done both her and John’s laundry in his apartment. That was after Afghanistan for him, before his time in Antarctica and the discovery that he was about to become an intergalactic adventurer. Both had been raw from the respective disasters, and took comfort in each other’s company, their physical presence (that and the sex was freaking amazing
). If Faith was by herself at night, she would slay. If she was alone during the day, she would do laundry.
(her ‘nerd-shirt’ from Andrew: All your vamps R be steakd by me
She’s not entirely sure when, but somewhere along the line, laundry went from chore to a sort of unwind time. A quiet space where things settle, are simple and steady, and she doesn’t have to think if she doesn’t want to. It’s different from sparring, from working excess energy out of her system by hitting the nearest moving body with a big stick.
(sun dress B left for her on her last visit-slash-hunt-slash-vacation)
Here, in the City’s Laundry Rooms, with the Quartermaster’s staff bustling cheerfully around her as she folds, the world is narrowed to steam rising from the ‘coppers’, the distant boom of the press-pumps and the smell of whatever the Ancients were using for detergent.
(favoured jeans, lazy pants she won’t throw out, full of holes, showing persistent multi-coloured hell-goop stains)
It feels closer here, to the soul that nearly brought her to her knees the first time she stepped through the Pegasus Stargate. The steam is the City’s breath, the beat of the presses the echoes of her massive heart. If she listens closely, Faith hears Atlantis speaking.
(BDU’s; jacket and pants, awaiting the reattachment of their badges: States’ flag, Atlantis Expedition, Slayer’s and Watcher’s International)
While she listens she builds up a gentle sort of rhythm. Lift, shake out, arrange and fold…
(silk blouse she arrived in, the Wraith blood only shadows now)
She notes the familiar footsteps behind her, how the tred becomes hesitant when he inevitably spots her. She smiles.
(t-shirt she wore while looking for Aiden)
He approaches though, and sets his basket next to hers. Her smile widens. They snatch looks at each other, and she sees one corner of his mouth turn upward.
(one of his shirts, a keepsake from when they dated)
“So,” he begins, pulling a pair of track pants out of his basket. “Come here often?”
AN: Review, mien lovelies.