Story: In Gladness, Echoes Sorrow
Disclaimer: All things Angel and Dollhouse belong to Joss Whedon.
Characters/Pairings: Echo, Wesley, Faith/Wesley
In the tub, large and full of water tinted purple and smelling like lavender, she uses the plush sea sponge to spread the lather over her arms, chest, neck. The water is scalding hot and her toes are the colour of failing marks - bright and scolding red against the purple-tinted white of the porcelain.
She rinses the sponge; she wrings the moisture over her arms, chest, neck, rinsing away sandalwood-scented suds.
He raps on the door as she pulls the stop with her failing mark toes, just to tell her they'll be late.
"Okay," she tells him as she stands, the water level easing and the pl pl pl
of purple water dripping from her into the purple bath.
She pulls the white towel from the rack, patting down her arms, and then her legs. She wraps it around herself, tucking it tightly shut at her breast as she steps from the tub.
It's only four steps to the basin sink and she picks up her toothbrush and the white tube - Whitening! Cavity Protection! Tartar Control! Oxygen Bubbles for a Deep Down Clean! She brushes the outer left and then the outer right, the fronts and then the backs of the fronts. The tops, the insides, the backs, the backs of the backs. Roof of the mouth, top of the tongue. Under the tongue, gums inside and out, inside of the cheeks and lips. Do it over again, twice, all the while humming, singing the words silently. Johnny Horton or Johnny Cash. Johnny someone.
Spit. Do it again. Spit again. Scrub the tongue. Rinse with water.
She winds the floss around her fingers. The backs first, work her way forward and start again at the backs. Repeat on top.
Rinse with water. Rinse with Scope. Look in the mirror and bare her teeth. Rub a finger on one, hear the low-tone squeak.
Deodorant, one swipe and then another. Repeat on the other side.
"Faith," he calls through the door.
She doesn't answer, tosses the towel on the commode of the toilet and picks her panties off the tank. Soft, black cotton in a feminized version of a masculine cut. Step into them, pull the up and smooth their lines. Hook fingers under the legs and, bow-legged, straighten them out.
Her bra off the tank. Soft and moulded, with the padding in the bottom for the just-right lift. Run the straps up her arms and reach behind to hook the bra. One hook, then the next. Adjust firm tits into the cups, then the cups and the straps, straighten the band, adjust the tits again. Unclip the ribbon in front, pull and clip again to turn the cleavage up to ten.
Panty hose are for chicks with bad legs. She picks her dress off of the hanger, where it lay on the back of the door. Undo the hooks, twenty tiny eyes loosing their charges. Slid into it, black silk rubbing against buffed-smooth skin. Hook the eyes, miss one and end up crooked, try again, get it right. Adjust the straps, straighten the hem and the crossed bodice.
Unclip her hair, let it fall, look at it, consider it. Clip the sides back loosely to avoid the gazpacho hair of events past.
She looks in the full length mirror, standing on one leg and then the other to slide on ruby red silk stiletto pumps over chipped, black nail paint.
A necklace, white gold with a ruby drop pendant, and the earrings to match. A swipe of black mascara, peach lip gloss. A drop of the perfume he got for her birthday, right between the breasts.
He raps on the door and she opens it again, smiling up at him. "Faith," he says, and it's slightly lost on his breath.
"Wesley," she returns. She kisses him deeply. "Now, hurry, or we'll be late."
"We're already late," he answers, grabbing her around the waist. "Maybe--"
She smiles. "We should hurry before they stop serving food? Exactly my thought." She walks around him, hips swaying as he turns to watch her.
"Besides, I'm just dying to see Angel again. It's been forever and a half."