Payback’s a bitch, right?

Well, guess I got paid back.

How’d you like to accidentally kill someone, be tossed away like trash by your so-called friends, go batshit insane, hook up with an evil fuck who thinks he’s your daddy, do some real evil shit, and then end up stabbed in the gut by the one person you actually wanted to give a fuck about you? Then let’s top it all off by taking a dive off a building ‘cause dying’s a lot more fun than what the stab-happy bitch has in store for you.

I know, right? Well, that’s me.

It’s been five days since I took that swan dive. Slayer healing’s got me pretty much normal again, but the white hats don’t know that. The Boss put up some major mojo at the hospital, and everyone thinks I’m in a coma. It’s actually kind of funny: If B used her fucking brain for a moment, she’d figure that as nasty as my injuries were, they shouldn’t have put me out. If I’d have been a little more with it, I’d have dove head first, but hey – I’m alive, and hindsight is always twenty-twenty.

Guess she’s glad I’m gone. Sunnydale can go back to being Buffy Summers’ town, a One-Slayer-Only town, and good ol’ Faith can just lie there and rot.

It’s a good thing, though. Why? ‘Cause it showed me something I never thought was true: Mayor Richard Wilkins III, His Fucking Honor, major evil asshole extraordinaire, loved me.

Honest to fucking God, he loved me. A little selfishly, sure – he was evil. But only love works for this sitch. Nothing else makes any sense.

See, I spent these five days in a safe-house way the hell away from Sunnyhell. Got better, talked with the Boss a lot before he went off to do his Ascension thing. Buffy stopped him – had to have, since the news has been quiet. But while he was here, I learned a few things:

That I was adopted, and could use Wilkins as my last name instead of Lehane if I wanted to. Probably won’t, but there it is.

That I was legally emancipated, so I’m my own woman at seventeen.

That my criminal record’s been purged, including all the juvie shit. I also ‘graduated’ from Sunnydale High, and have a SAT score of 1300. Not bad for a girl who dropped out as a freshman and hasn’t touched a book since. Go figure. Guess one day I might try college. What’s that word? Oh, yeah: Masochist.

That the Boss was a couple hundred years old, and he had fucking billions in investments and property, to say nothing about wicked ass magic items and books and shit. He burnt a fair bit of that wealth on his Ascension, but there was still tons to go around. Most of it was piled into the property I’m at right now, and the bank info’s an inch thick.

That he left it all to me.

Mindfuck? Yeah, exactly. The white trash drop-out slut, the second rate Slayer, the backstabbing evil bitch that sold out the only people that could tolerate her presence … is now a fucking billionaire with resources the goddamned Watcher’s Council would be jealous of.

So here, I am, stuck out at a safe house with all my treasure, alone.

Yep, payback’s a bitch.

Fast forward a few days: I’m no longer sore, Sunny D’s peaceful again, and B and the Scoobs are all into their summertime plans.

Me? I’m sitting here by the wreckage of Sunnydale High, the place where the Boss tried to Ascend. Guess he did – he was a huge fucking snake, to hear some of the vamps talk about it. But he died pretty damn quick, blown to bits along with most of the school.

It’s the closest thing there is to a grave to visit. No one’s going to give the man a proper burial. No one but me.

I’m in the fucking place for an hour before I find what I want – a fang. A snake’s fang. It’s big, and it’s enough for me. It’ll give me something to bury, to remember the man I loved.

I dig a grave back at the safe house, big enough for a man, even though all I’m tossing in is the fang. I top it off with a grave stone. I don’t know what to put on it, so I leave it blank. When inspiration strikes, I’ll come back to it. Right now, all I can do is weep in front of it, saying my goodbyes to the closest thing to a father I’ll ever know.

He told me why, too. Said that I was starving for love – which I guess is true – and that he was looking for one last person to love, really love, before he lost his humanity. We kind of found each other.

He said he’d have sent me away even if everything went well. He didn’t want me around him as a heartless demon. He had tons of shit prepped for me, and now – now I guess I need to figure out what to do with it all.

I have a plan forming in my head. It’s not great shakes, but it’s enough. There’s another Hellmouth in Cleveland. If I tell the Watcher’s Council that I’m setting up shop there to be a proper Slayer again, they’ll leave me alone. Might take a bit of convincing, but I’m up for that. All that’s left is saying goodbye.

Goodbye to people the hate me.

You know what? I can come back for that. Time to put my wealth to use and get myself gone.

Fast forward another a week and a half: It’s June now, and I’m all the way across the country, signing papers and moving into my swanky new digs. Money moves things fast – only takes a couple days to set everything up. I leave most of the sensitive shit at the safe house for now. There’s still a guy who takes care of the place, and no one important knows about it – security by obscurity, right? I’ll move stuff slowly out to Cleveland; until I’m set up, it’s mostly useless.

Cleveland is one ugly fucking city. Not the city itself, I suppose, but the Hellmouth is just filthy, and it’s choking the city to death. The vamps are weak and reckless, but there’s so fucking many of them that I’m being mobbed all the time. Twenty kills a night is par for the course. I drag my ass home every night completely spent and exhausted. Fucking painful. Fucking amazing.

There ain’t anything noteworthy about my slaying nights. They’re busy, and the fighting’s pretty intense, but it’s also very one-sided. I’m a big girl now, honest. I’m also very aware that I’m alone. That means that I go in carefully and with some planning; I make all the kills as boring and anticlimactic as possible. Somewhere between the Mayor taking me in and Buffy stabbing me I kind of lost the need to showboat.

Like tonight: Every kill’s a variation on Spot, Sneak, Stab; then run like hell ‘cause there was probably witnesses. That’s what I miss most about Sunnydale: No witnesses. When I finally make it home, I collapse onto the sofa, done with life for the night. Ain’t no hungry and horny now, just tired. Once I can move again, I fire off my one-line email to Travers: ‘21 vamp kills, no events.’ Now it’s bedtime.

Oh, yeah. Travers.

Travers is an asshole, but given that the world needs Slayers I knew he’d back down. We threatened each other like we were exes; man has a sharp tongue. I’m pretty sure we’re cool, though. Still, got my head in some spell books and a couple guns around all the time now. If Travers sends people after me, I intend to pop them first. I tolerated a visit from a local Watcher and Potential for a few days to check out my story, but that’s it. Girl’s cute, and she gushed all over me, but I still sent them on their way. They patrol Pittsburgh, and that’s close enough; Cleveland’s mine.

So, a day in the life of Faith: 7 am comes too damn fast. I force myself up and into the shower as quick as I can, and get ready to work my ass off. Found this guy, Mark Preston, who’s just shy of a Tae Kwon Do grandmaster. Doesn’t have a dojang of his own yet, so I hired him on the spot to be my personal trainer from now till whenever. Does a good job of putting me through the paces. Knows his shit, too: Tae Kwon Do, Hapkido, a bunch of weapons, even archery. Probably not as varied as someone like Giles, but I don’t have the G-man and I don’t want a Watcher.

Before Mark, though, it’s workout time.

The only thing about being a Slayer that sucks is that you can’t use a public gym. None of the weight machines have a setting high enough to challenge me. Free weights work, but I can’t push that kind of weight around without drawing some serious attention. So I spent a small fortune and got a huge set for myself.

My place? Penthouse-style condo in the heart of downtown, on top of a ten story apartment building. The shipping guys hated me.

I pump 1220 on the bench press, just for an idea of how much weight we’re talking.

Let me set the picture for you: The world record for bench press and deadlifting – set by insane men with fucking enormous muscles who do nothing but train all day – is somewhere just over 1000 pounds. I am casually working out with 1220 and no spotter. My max lift is 1600-ish. Depending on the exercise and body part, the numbers can go higher than that. I fully expect these numbers to get way bigger as I focus on training.

It takes me a good hour to exhaust my muscles, then I punish myself on the treadmill. I can top 40 miles an hour right now on a 5 mile run, and can make close to 60 on a sprint. The treadmill does not like me impersonating a cheetah very much – I think I’ll be replacing it a lot.

Once I’m good and tired, it’s time to put some fruit and water down my throat and see Mark. Its 10:00 am by the time I get to his place, he’s all set up and I’m recharged and good to go.

“Good morning, Faith. What did you have for breakfast?”

I roll my eyes. “Banana, two apples, bunch of raw seeds and nuts in yogurt.” He nods appreciatively. He’s a big health nut, and he’s gung-ho about passing it on. I figure it can’t hurt – I mean, how many square meals a day have I ever had? May as well take care of myself. Got nothing better to do.

We get into things – he shows me stuff, I practice it, and then we get to sparring. We keep it light – by that, I mean that I don’t leave him as one big bruise and he lectures non-stop for me to twist my body more and fix my footing. It helps – my technique’s way better than it used to be, and it does seem like it takes less to knock a vamp out these days. Any tiny thing to make the nights go smoother is absolute gold in my book.

It’s two in the afternoon by the time we finish up. Four hours of high-intensity training is pretty much Mark’s limit, and it’ll even keep me tired for a couple hours, too. I get myself home for lunch – yay, more vegan healthy shit – and a shower. I proceed to piss away the afternoon playing video games and looking up a good club to hit up if it’s a quiet night, letting my energy build up for tonight’s patrol.

I have a small dinner as the sun sets, then I’m off: Stakes, knives, a bow, a Glock and studded gloves are my arsenal. The gun is for humans; nothing makes gangsters back off quicker than seeing that you’re carrying. I suppose it might work for some demons, but I’d rather not find out. Gunshots draw cops like flies to honey. Slaying should be quiet most of the time. Speaking of which: I do a small spell consisting of a prayer and a rather stinky pouch around my neck to keep people from noticing details. You know, sort of like a mystical ninja suit to keep people from gawking at the Rambo chick running around town killing people. Cleveland is not Sunnydale, and you better believe that when twenty-ish people a night disappear without a trace, even lowlifes and bums like a lot of vamps are, neighbors ask questions and the cops poke around.

The night is good: I call it quits around midnight. Nineteen vamps and a demon I don’t recognize; good tally for the night. Easy fights, no injuries. Too any arrow kills though; still have some energy, so I clean up and head for that club. They let the hot chick in leather through the back door, and straight to the dance floor I go.

A few drinks in, I notice this chick. Tiny little blond thing, reminds me of Buffy. I’m not getting the tingles, so she’s just a human. Not a vamp or demon anywhere near here. Not even a witch. The chick’s eyeing me up like a prize stallion, which makes me think she’s gay. Not my usual fare, but she’s pretty hot, and I’m tipsy enough to not really care who I get it on with.

Takes less than five minutes before we’re grinding against each other on the dance floor, and a half-hour later we’re a little drunker and back at her place getting naked.

She’s pretty good, too: Goes a full hour before she’s too tired to keep going. I got three orgasms out of the deal; she got five. I won’t lie, it was mostly me; not many people got skills like I do. Still, she was far from a pillow queen. Wish her tongue was a teensy bit longer, though; she kept missing the good spots.

It’s three by the time I get home. I got her name and number, too. I shove the piece of paper in the drawer by the phone. If I’m ever so desperate I need to make booty calls, I’m sure ‘Tina’ will be up for it.

4:00 am and I’m staring at the ceiling. Little Blondie got me thinking about Buffy, and how she’s doing. It’s way too early to go back to Sunny D – I’d like a few months to myself. My brain’s a different creature, though. It can’t help but put Buffy’s face on Blondie’s body, and suddenly tonight’s action seems a lot hotter. Funny thing is, I’m stone-cold sober right now.

Hmm. I didn’t think I swung that way. Interesting.

It makes some of my time with Buffy a little different in hindsight. Is it even possible to be attracted to someone without realizing it?

Meh. Deep thoughts. I’m not much for thinking. If it’s true, it’s true. One more fantasy to get off on. B ain’t exactly an ugly picture to have in my head.

Fast forward: Train, eat, slay, sleep. Repeat. Mix with a tiny bit of partying on the nights I’m not completely tanked or injured and you have the recipe of my new life.

First month trickles by. 614 vampires, 45 demons of various types. I’ve probably tripled my lifetime kill count already. My fridge and pantry is all nuts and fruits and veggies, now. Almost feels wrong to look at a McDicks sign. I’m showing the difference, too. Smoother skin, shinier hair, I think I lost a wrinkle, and my muscles are growing like crazy. I think I’m even an inch taller. Almost time for new clothes.

The health kick’s working for everything, too: Stronger and faster, of course, but my slayer senses are way sharper, too. I can smell a person from a couple blocks away, and hear things you wouldn’t believe. Eyesight’s sharper: If it’s a nice, sunny day and I squint, I can read street signs from my rooftop deck, and I’m ten floors up. This makes my life as a Slayer not just better, but completely fucking different than ever before. I know where vamps and demons are almost three city blocks from where I’m standing. That means I can scan entire apartment buildings just by walking by. It’s a damned Slayer safari now.

I can feel Buffy.

No shit, I can feel Buffy in Sunnydale from fucking Cleveland. All the way across the goddamned continent.

Is that a trip, or what?

I think I heal a bit quicker, but I’ve always healed fast, and I haven’t really taken a serious injury since I got here. Pretty sure it’s improved just the same, and I’ll probably be grateful for it. I’ve been lucky for a month now, but I’ve already been shot at a few times, and a lot of the vamps are armed – clumsy, but armed. It’s just a matter of time.

The downside to all this is the fucking Slayer dreams. They come hard and fast, and a lot of them are about B – those aren’t so fun, since they tend to revolve around her stabbing me. Some of them seem prophetic, though. Those ones I email to Travers.

There’s this nasty recurring one where death – pale horse, pale rider shit – Stalks me from the rooftops of buildings. I recognize downtown Cleveland, but seeing a horse on a building makes it surreal. Then, just as I’m walking past a jewelry store, he comes flying down at me and slashes at my head. He’s fast, too – wicked fast. There’s nothing I can do as the sword carves into my brain. I always bolt awake gasping and sweating.

Second worst nightmare ever. Still not as bad as seeing B glaring at me hatefully as the knife comes down. The tears streaming down my face and the ache in my gut tell me I’m definitely not ready for Sunny D yet.

Fast forward. By the end of month two, the penthouse is really decked out with furniture and other shit now, and I feel like it’s pretty much done. Changed out my entire wardrobe because I’m not only seriously a couple inches taller, but I’m a hell of a lot broader. Can’t help but show the muscles, now. Doesn’t take much to pop the veins on my arms, either. The six-pack is always visible; don’t even have to flex. I never thought that I’d feel sexy like this, but I really do. Still slender and curvy, but I’m a good thirty pounds heavier, and I feel fucking awesome.

I also figured out that when you have a rooftop deck, you can tan in the nude without pissing off your neighbors. I may work the graveyard shift, but I think I’m done being white as a ghost. The Cleveland sun’s strong enough to give me a damned good tan in only a couple weeks.

Speaking of Cleveland, I think it’s mostly cleaned up. The kill count is down to five or so a night, but after 1300 vamps and over 100 demons, I’m grateful for the vacation. The cops have way less of a crime issue now, and the city’s night life has picked up. Everything just looks cleaner now, even in the daylight. All that’s left now is keeping a lid on things.

Mission Accomplished. Insane kill count. Didn’t die. Saved the city from fucking imploding from the weight of so many vamps needing to feed every couple nights. To top it all off, I did it with practically no help whatsoever; just a regular human trainer that doesn’t know shit about what I do. Mail me my goddamned Medal of Honor, already.

I feel fulfilled, like I’ve paid my dues. I’ve killed two people: Sunnydale’s Deputy Mayor, Allan Finch by accident; and Professor Lester Worth from UC Sunnydale as a hit. I hurt a whole bunch of other people too, mostly B and the Scoobs. The assassination of the professor bugged me the most, though. My first Watcher, Diana Dormer, was a professor at Harvard. I called her the Prof all the time. My killing Worth made me feel like I failed Diana, no matter how much it helped out the Boss – which, in hindsight, wasn’t a hell of a lot.

Now, I feel like I’m something again – that Diana’s proud of me again. I feel like if I died tomorrow, Finch, Worth, and Diana would all line up and greet me with hugs and smiles, and welcome me home.

You ever had one of those days where you wake up and everything’s just different and better? Like you had some major epiphany or something? Yeah. That’s me right now. I don’t dream about Buffy anymore. That’s pretty much its own reward right there.

Alright, enough sappy shit.

I’ve managed a few spells in that time. A couple of stealth spells, a protection spell, a weak barrier spell. I’m no witch, but a Slayer’s energy’s good enough for the small shit, and Mark’s advocacy of health and meditation and shit have only helped. Makes slaying even easier, and makes the perceptive and hard-to-reach targets more accessible. Mostly for those pesky demons, especially ones that can work magic of their own. When your target of the night can incinerate you with a glance, best that he never sees you coming, right?

In non-slaying news, Mark’s getting married next week. His girl, Sara, has been coming to our workout sessions off and on since I hired him. She wanted to meet her man’s employer, and I think she also wanted to mark her territory. I mean hey – wicked hot single chick works out for hours one-on-one with your man almost every day? Yeah, I sympathise with her completely.

After two months, she and I are pretty solid. I even agreed to be a bridesmaid for her. The dress ain’t the prettiest I’ve ever worn, nor is mauve my color, but it’s decent. Coffee with the Prestons and their friends has worked its way into my evenings, too. Mark and Sara make Cleveland bearable for me – it’s nice to have friends of my own. I kind of wish I did that in Sunnydale. Buffy had her friends, and instead of horning in on their group, I should have found my own.

Ah, fuck it – let’s face it, I had nothing going for me in Sunnyhell. Being independently wealthy carries its privileges. Free time to make friends and money to spend on them helps. I mean hey – I met Mark by offering him more than a hundred grand a year to train me. Plus I have to thank the Mayor – the Boss is the one who clued me in on needing people.

He also got me addicted to high-rise living, thus my super-expensive penthouse condo. But fuck it, you only live once, and I couldn’t spend all my money if I tried. Having some luxury won’t hurt me. Eventually, I’m going to have to find some way to put my wealth to use. For now, though, I’m happy to be slaying full-time.

Damn; sidetracked again. So anyways: Sara was quick to induct me into her group of friends. They’re all decent people, so I don’t mind. She works as a nurse in the local hospital, so her hours suck, but all her friends are nurses, hospital techies, and doctors. It took a few get-togethers before we were all friendly, but we got there. That’s a pretty good outcome, considering that while Sara likes me, she was still doing some of this to keep me off of Mark. Smart woman, Sara. Everything’s worked out fine, though: I’m in their wedding party, and I’m pitching in to send them on their honeymoon later this year, once Sara can get time off work.

They’re the only people I’ve actually invited back to my place so far – fuck if I’d ever show off my money to the guys I fuck. It gives me a reason to use the den and my huge TV, cook a meal or two in the kitchen, and lounge on the deck. After a get together with the ladies, my place actually looks like someone lives there. It feels nice. Almost like a home.

Mark’s friends I’m less interested in, mostly ‘cause they’re guys, and I won’t fuck Mark’s buddies – I respect Mark too much for that. That makes spending time with them awkward, ‘cause I’ve never met a guy that didn’t give me the once over and grow a boner – well, excluding old folks like Giles and the Boss. Even Wes, stuck up bastard that he was, walked pretty funny around me. And Mark? Mark, too. He’s way to straight-laced to act on it, but I’m sure Sara has me to thank for a couple of wild nights.

A lesson to all boys out there: Yes, the girls always know when you’re staring, and yes, we appreciate you more if you keep it polite and discrete. But we know.  We can count every time your eyes flick down to our tits. A few times is fine; most of the conversation is not. You’d think all of you guys would know this shit, but I’m sure all the intelligent guys have girls, and I get the leftovers. I sometimes wish I had exotic eyes like Buffy; B’s eyes are captivating the way they shift colors from their normal hazel to grey when she’s pissed off, to almost green when she’s really happy. My eyes are so dark they’re almost black – not exactly riveting shit to keep your attention off my chest.

Whatever – I suppose it doesn’t matter. As long as my night’s entertainment looks good, doesn’t know me, has more than four inches and packs condoms I’m happy. Get some; get gone is still in effect.

I’ve seen Tina a couple more times, too. I keep it spaced out – don’t want her to get attached, and I really do prefer a nice, thick dick between my legs when the hornies strike. Still, being able to smell her arousal and hear her heart racing; to be able to taste multiple things when I kiss her or eat her out; and to be able to feel Buffy half a country away while we’re fucking?

Holy shit, those were some satisfying nights.

Let’s step on the fast forward. Train, eat, slay, sleep; train, eat, slay, sleep. TESS. TESS. TESS. Going to get a dog and name it Tess.

I’m happy more than disappointed when Tina calls in September to say that she’s got a steady girlfriend now. I’m just as much at risk of being addicted to that sensory overload. She’s the only person I’ve fucked more than once in this city, so her being out of the picture is probably healthier for me.

I think Tina’s legs were smaller than my arms are, now. I could so pull off a Wonder Woman costume for Halloween. Still soft and curvy, but my arms and legs are really well-defined now, and I’ve got that wide-shouldered Olympic chick thing going on. I was afraid the weights would make me huge and ugly, but apparently you have to do wicked nasty workouts for ever and ever to make that happen.

My hair’s down to my shoulder blades, and I’m debating keeping it dyed dark, or letting it go natural. I like my dark look, but Sunnydale’s on my mind, and I wonder if a new look might help with Buffy and the Scoobs.

Fuck it. I like dark. Black leather everything. Even a nice black cross on a leather choker. Why? Because I look fucking awesome. That’s why.

In other news, I got my Ohio State driver’s license, as well as the endorsement for motorcycles. If I get the chance, I’m going to take classes to get my commercial licence with as many endorsements as I can get, then look into piloting. What can I say? I like my toys.

TESS. TESS. TESS.

October comes, and with it Mark and Sara’s delayed honeymoon. They’ll be gone for a week, which gives me the perfect opening to pay Sunnyhell a visit. Everyone should be into their school year – college now, I guess – and they’ve had a few months to deal with me being gone. Time to make amends.

 

 

 

I bite the bullet and drive. If I take a plane to Cali, there’s the slightest chance someone will see my name on the flight lists and freak. Best to keep myself as anonymous as possible, just in case the Scoobs still have a hate-on for me. Besides, it gives me some time to organize my thoughts and figure out what I’m going to say. I know what I’m going to do, but getting that across without starting a fight? That’ll be hard.

I guess I shouldn’t have been worried, though. I’m as invisible as ever when I get to Sunny D, even though I can tell exactly where both Buffy and Willow are right now. I know that Red’s just a beginner at magic, but … does B ever pay attention to her senses? Ever? I’m pretty much the strongest blip on the radar short of the actual Hellmouth, but …

Whatever. Something about not looking gift horses in the mouth, right?

First stop: Willy’s Place. Best info always comes from the demon bars, and Willy the Snitch runs the only one in town.

Willy takes one look at me as I walk in and jumps back so hard he smacks into the wall. Everyone looks up at the sound of bottles smashing to the floor. Then the demons get a load of me, and it’s suddenly very, very quiet, as seven foot uglies try their best to hide behind their tiny chairs.

“F-F-F-Faith,” Willy croaks, still trying to put his eyes back into his head. “You’re … awake.”

Hell yeah. Attitude time. “Yeah. I am. And guess what, Willy? I’m pissed off. And you’re gonna start tellin’ me things to make me not pissed off. Dig?” I stroll up and lean just a touch over the bar towards him, giving him a look at the knife in my hand, and my awesome cleavage. Carrot and stick, baby.

Not surprisingly, Willy caves right away and starts talking. Mayor or no Mayor, I’m still the Bad Bitch from Boston. He’s kept good tabs on people: The Scoobs are still together; B, Red and Oz are in UC Sunnydale; Xander’s dicking around with dead-end jobs; G-man’s unemployed right now. Buffy’s mom, Joyce, still works at that art gallery. Angel and Cordy both fucked off to L.A.

Willy freaked a little ‘cause I’m apparently still in a coma. Four months. Nearly four fucking months, and everyone still thinks I’m in that damned hospital. Got to hand it to the Boss, he packed some major mojo. Guess it’s time, though. I kind of don’t want to see Buffy, but I have to. One look at me and she’ll know something’s off, but hey – what’s life without some risk, right? In the end, I want them to know that I’m not insane anymore, and that I’m on their side.

I stop by the art gallery Joyce works at to get a look at her. She seems happy, maybe a bit lonely, but happy. I keep out of her line of sight, though; Buffy comes first, then everyone else. Maybe.

It’s a quick drive to the campus, and I time it for noon so that students will be moving around. I follow my senses, driving slowly around until see her leaving one of the buildings, checking around for someone. I’m real close to her, now, so she should be feeling me nice and strong on her radar; I’m counting on that to bring her out. Just a tap of the horn gets her attention. I nearly laugh as she just stares at me, wide-eyed and gaping. It could be the cherry-red Mustang convertible, but probably not. There’s too many people to hear, but I’m sure her heart is racing.

“Come on, B! Hop in!” I jerk my head towards the car.

She slowly walks towards me, nice and careful like she’s stepping around mines. Her fists clench as she get closer. Nothing happens for a good minute; she stands awkwardly by the car and we stare at each other while our brains try to figure out words.

“Faith,” she says lightly. “Didn’t expect to see you here.” Buffy’s no brainless blonde, even though she talks like it. I can see her scoping me out. Low-cut leathers and a sleeveless high-cut top showing off my arms and midriff. Her cute little hazel eyes linger on my prominent shoulders and biceps, then sweep down to my very visible abs. I look rock solid now, nothing like the skinny little bitch that drifted into Sunny D a year ago. Four long months of eating right, training and working out, and slaying shitloads of vamps in Ohio. Does a body good.

Buffy looks pretty good, too. Can’t really see her under the leather jacket, but her legs look good through the jeans. Doesn’t look like she spends eight hours a day busting her ass, though. She’s so damned tiny… Damn, I could eat her up right now.

Focus, Faith. Get the party started.

“Didn’t expect to be here either, Blondie. Need to talk to you, though. Get in.” She just gives me this look. “C’mon, girlfriend. If we were gonna throw down, I’d be at it already. Just wanna talk before I get gone.”

Slowly, she opens the door and sits down, not bothering with the seatbelt. She’s wicked tense, primed and ready for a fight. Her eyes dart around as she tries to figure out the trap. I shake my head, trying to convey that it won’t happen. I put the car in drive, and head for downtown Sunnydale.

“So, you wanted to talk?” she asks, her voice nice and tight and unfriendly. “Well, talk.”

“Sure, okay.” I take a breath and get ready. “I’ll say the big shit in one sentence, so that you know where things stand, and we can go from there.” She nods at me, and I continue. “Here goes: You and I went through a lotta shit, and since I can’t take it back, I’m gonna give you what I can to make up for it, then I’m gone.”

There goes the eyebrow. “You’re going to give me what you can? What does that mean?”

“I could tell you a sappy story, but you don’t wanna hear it. In short, the Boss left me with everything. He’s fuckin’ rich, so I’m leavin’ you and the Scoobs with cash so you can sort out your lives.”

“You’re bribing us?” Yeah, I expected that shit.

“Nah. It ain’t a bribe, it’s … what’s the word …?” Come on, Faith. You looked this shit up for exactly this moment. “Wergild.” There we go. “I hurt you, so I owe you.”

Silence. Yay for goddamned motherfucking silence.

“S’anyways,” I carry on. “I wanna set you guys up. Five mil for you, Red and Xan. Ten for your mom. One mil for G, Oz and Cordy. I’ll talk to Soul Boy; I know he has some cash already, but whatever Angel needs, I’ll do.”

“Five – five million?” she squeaks, her eyes wide and astonished. “Each?” One heartbeat, two heartbeats – and then she gets her glare on, remembering that she shouldn’t be bought so easily.

“Yeah. Each.”

“Um. That’s … Wow.” The glare fades into confusion, then contemplation. “Why ten for my mom?”

My voice breaks a little as the memories wash over me.  “For the best Christmas I ever had.” I try to keep my eyes from tearing up, but it’s hard. Joyce Summers is a damned good woman, and I basically pissed all over her by going bad.

Now, Joyce was still a little selfish about it – I mean, she was keen on me easing B’s slaying duties to free her up for college, but she was in no way impolite or inconsiderate. She was quite willing to bribe me with free meals and shit, and she honestly did care about me. It felt good.

Like I said, B ain’t a dumb blonde. I spent that Christmas hanging with her mom while she saved Soul Boy. Two dollar gifts. No cards. No friends. No family. Just a chat with someone else’s mom over some food and coffee. That was my best Christmas ever.

Says a lot about my life, doesn’t it?

She gets it. She turns away and acts like she isn’t wiping her eyes. I act like I wasn’t paying attention and wipe my own. Just like that, her anger is gone, and her vibe switches from ‘hostile’ to ‘friendly’ on my radar.

“Faith, I …” Buffy swallows once, twice, then tries again. “You … don’t have to go, you know. We could … things could be … better.”

“I love you, too, B. You’re all heart.”

“Ass.”

I can’t keep the huge smile off my face. Even as I drum up that witty response, my heart leaps as it hears words I thought I’d never hear from her. She gives me a playful grin, and most of the tension dies off. It almost feels back to normal now. Her eyes are greener. I love her eyes.

“I need to,” I say after a moment. “I’m set up in Cleveland; y’know, th’other Hellmouth. Figured they could use a Slayer there, too.”

“Yeah, I guess.” I can’t believe she looks disappointed that I won’t stay. I mean, she ain’t exactly devastated, but I didn’t expect anything but complete satisfaction that I’d be out of her hair. Damn, those eyes…

“So … yeah,” I manage, blinking and looking away. “It’s just better that way.”

B gives me a small nod, and switches gears. “Is … how is it? Cleveland, I mean. The slaying.”

Oh, yeah. My favorite topic.

“Ha! You won’t believe me if I tell you the numbers.”

“Try me.”

“You sure?”

She gives me a thoughtful look. “Giles and I talked once about what Sunnydale would have looked like if I hadn’t come here with Mom. What it might have been if the Master got control. Cleveland must have been awful.”

“Uh huh.” I jerk my head in agreement. “I started slayin’ there the evenin’ of June 4th. As of October 2nd, which is the day I left to drive here, I’ve dusted 1702 vamps and 113 demons, assumin’ I didn’t fuck up the count.”

Those beautiful green eyes bug right out of her head. “Oh my God! You’re serious?”

“No word of a lie. It was a fuckin’ zoo.”

“1700? Wow.” She says the number silently to herself a couple more times.

“I know. Travers actually had a guy come in from Pittsburgh and follow me a few nights just to make sure I wasn’t shittin’ him. Had a Potential with him, too. Violet. Cute girl, kinda young. Not really trained yet, though. I get this funny feelin’ they’re gonna try an’ get me involved with that.”

“Probably,” she agrees with a grimace. “Any big bads?”

“Nah. No room – there were so many newborns that the city was choked an’ dyin,’ B. Everythin’ was run down an’ ugly, it was sad. Things are startin’ to look better, now.”

“I’d think so. Still can’t get over that number.”

“I know. Haven’t even had time to find the Hellmouth. No master vamps that I’ve seen, either. Just a big fuckin’ mess. Felt like mowin’ the lawn with a pair o’ scissors.”

“Yeah…” she trails off, staring down at her hands for a moment. I guess we’re going back to the serious topic.

“So… Will you meet with everyone? I mean, this isn’t something you just mail out. This is serious money. Big, life changey money. There’s probably … stuff we have to do, right?”

I shrug. “Not really. It’s just cash; the banks don’t care what kind of number they put on their checks. Long as you got an account, the money’ll move over, easy peasy. But sure. You make some calls and set it up, and I’ll meet ‘em. Only for a couple minutes, though. No point in makin’ this painful.” I hand B my cell, waving her off about long distance. I drive as she makes a few calls, trying my best not to eavesdrop.

Let’s face it, though: Those are some loud fucking calls the second she mentions my name.

All my ducks are in a row, now. Just one loose end left.

We drive to the hospital, walking all the way through to the maze of abandoned rooms at the back. It’s a shock to see my broken self just lying there, but not as bad as I imagined it. I’m way different now from that scrawny thing on the bed. B watches as I speak the words to dispel the illusion; with barely a flicker, Coma Faith vanishes. Just a dark, empty room in a forgotten wing of the hospital. We both take a moment to breathe, looking around at the dust and clutter.

“’Kay,” I say after a minute. “We’re done here. Let’s motor.”

B grabs my hands as I turn to go. “I’m so glad that wasn’t you,” she whispers, tears glistening in her eyes. “I felt so … so evil when I saw you like this. I know we had to fight, I had to save Angel. I was so angry. I knew I had to – had to … But…” She swallows and shakes her head; no more words are coming.

“Hey.” I give her hands a squeeze. “It’s over, B. I’m here an’ I’m alive. You saved the day. I was completely off my rocker. Hell, if you hadn’t done it, I’d have never gone to Cleveland an’ cleaned it up. So the way I see it, a lotta people owe you for… well, for… stabbin’ me.” Damn, now I’m tearing up. That was hard to say.

B just gathers me into a hug, crying against my shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. “Faith … I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too, B. For everythin.’ We’re gonna be okay. I promise.”

She sniffs and pulls back for a moment, cupping her hand around my bicep. “Oh my God, Faith – you’re huge!” She giggles in disbelief as I flex my arm for her. “When did this happen?”

“Hey, I finally get my hands on you, and the first thing you grope is my arm? Seriously, B – the twins’re offended.” I push my chest out a bit, and B lets go of my arm to slap it, laughing at me. I just pull her back into a hug. “Lotta training; lotta slaying. Good food. That’s about it. I-”

“I missed you, Faith.”

She squeezes tight, and that’s it, I’m done. I squeeze back, and we hold each other, silent tears dripping on both our shoulders. Minutes pass like seconds as we – I don’t know, draw comfort? Find our centre? Pick your own metaphor, it’s a moment, a good moment, and we’re having it. Eventually, we break away from each other and walk back to the car. Both of us walk a little bit taller now. I know at least for me, a huge boulder just rolled off my shoulders.

I expected hatred coming here. I expected to have to fight just to speak five words to B, never mind have a conversation. I expected her to tell me to go to hell. I expected her to try and kill me again.

I missed you, Faith. Those words are the best damn thing I’ve ever heard in my life.

A quick drive later – damn, Sunny D is so small – I walk with Buffy towards the Espresso Pump where everyone’s waiting. It’s an open-air coffee shop, so I feel a lot less claustrophobic, considering the tough crowd. I recognize pretty much everyone:

Cute carrot -top with the green eyes and freckles: Willow. Red’s got the bitchiest look on her face – then again, Willow Rosenberg has always been a bitch; her friends just don’t notice. She pings pretty damn hard on my radar, though; one day, she’ll be a real powerhouse. I just hope that she’s got the morals to back that shit up by then.

Guy with a slight tan, dark eyes and a black mop for hair: Xander. Xan’s as pissed as he should be. I fucked him and dumped him, then when shit went bad and he tried to reach out to me, I tried to choke him out.

Why? ‘Cause he fucked me once. Then, when I was screwed up form killing Finch, he tried to make it all personal. You know how many guys have tried that with me, hoping to control me? And to do it right then, when I was on the razor’s edge? Jury’s out on whether or not I’d have killed him. Personally, I vote yes. That’s how pissed off and fucked up I was. I think I’d have killed him if Angel hadn’t stopped me.

Part of what pisses him off is that he’s always kind of the victim. Xander’s the only member of the Scoobs without powers – or in G’s case, a shitload of training. Ironically, he’s probably the boldest of the bunch, which is a piss-poor combo in my opinion.

Older British dude with the glasses: Giles, B’s Watcher. Giles is smart, he sees my toned bod and the wheels are turning. I don’t have much of an opinion on the G-man. With as much training as he has, you figure he could’ve out-psyched a fucked up teenaged girl, no matter how much attitude I gave him. He could’ve saved me; he could’ve been there if he’d wanted to. He didn’t.

And Joyce, looking every bit like B will thirty years form now… Damn, that makes things awkward; she’s staring at me with that disappointed, judgemental Mom-look on her face.

There’s a couple extras there, too: A chick that Buffy calls Anya – she’s the most neutral. It’s obvious she’s here as arm candy for Xan. Then there’s Oz, Red’s werewolf boy toy. I actually expected him.

It goes without saying that no one’s happy to see me. Well, time to get it on.

“A’ight, I’m gonna make this short. No one here wants to see me-”

“Got that right,” Red mutters.

“-and I ain’t gonna stick around to be everyone’s punchin’ bag. Like I said to B: I hurt you, so I owe you.”

“We don’t want anything from you,” Xander says, trying to make it sound nice and hateful.

Dodge the punch, Faith. “S’okay, give it away if you want.” Boom. There we go: Dodged the attack and piqued their curiosity. I pull out a bunch of envelopes and hand them to B – less likely they’ll be destroyed that way. They’d never let me close enough to hand them out myself, anyways.

“No surprises in there. The Boss left me with everythin,’ and he was one rich bastard. Five mil for each of you,” I point to B, Red and Xan, “One mil for each of you,” I point to Oz and G-man, “One for Cordy when I track her down, and whatever Soul Boy wants once I hit L.A.” I turn to Joyce. “Ten mil for you, for reasons I’ve already told B.”

Go silence! Go silence! Go, go, go silence!

Giles recovers first, falling to classic British politeness. “I must say, this was unexpected.”

“S’okay, G. Everythin’ this last year was kinda unexpected to me.”

“And the hospital…?”

I shake my head. “Illusion. Was never there. Healed fully in a few days. No scar, even.” I grin at Buffy when I say this; B nods and smiles back at me.

“Well, then. Where will you be going?”

“Already gone. Set up in Cleveland to sort out the Hellmouth there. Had a nice, long chat with Travers ‘bout it, too. Just me, no Watcher. I send reports, he sends research and shit. He knows I’m loaded so it’s no big deal for the Council.”

“Paid him off, too?” Good one, Red. Real nice.

“Actually, I threatened to chop off his dick.” That gets a reaction: Eyebrows up everywhere, a couple hands over mouths. Probably ‘cause they know I’d do it. “Told him that if he sent a Tweed my way or tried that Cruciamentum shit on me, I’d introduce him to my knives up close and personal. Told him I picked up a few guns and spells just for Brits.”

Giles smirks at me. “That sounds like a lovely, productive conversation.” British sarcasm at its best.

“S’no big.” I give him a shrug. “Once we were done threatenin’ each other, he was actually wicked happy there were two active Slayers again and both Hellmouths were covered. Give ‘im a call, he’ll tell you all about it.”

B’s been passing around the envelopes. Red already has hers open. All there is inside is a cashier’s check in her name and a pretty generic letter saying why I’m doing this.

“So, that’s it?” She says once she’s read the thing. “Just ‘I’m sorry, here’s some money, goodbye?’”

“Yeah, that’s it. No sob stories, no ‘I’m a poor, misunderstood little girl,’ no mopin’ around hopin’ to be friends again – ‘cause we never were.” Yeah, that’s right. Flinch, bitch.

“No,” I cut across a whole bunch of voices. “No, this is it. I hurt you, I pay you back. I get gone. G-man has my info in his envelope. So does B. If you need a Slayer, I’ll be here. If you need cash or magic items or some other shit I can actually help with, I’ll be here. If not, I’ll be in Cleveland.”

Buffy shakes her head. “I meant what I said before, Faith: You really don’t have to go.” Oh, B. Part of me really want to take you up on that. Just don’t look at the death-stares your friends are giving you right now.

Part of me wants to read into it…

Careful, Lehane; this tiny blond chick ain’t gay, and unless you’re drunk, neither are you. Still, I can’t help the big dimples on my face when I smile at her.

“Thanks, B. Means a lot to hear you say that, but I think I do.”

“Faith?” Oh, God, here we go. Joyce is kind of the last person I want to talk to. More than even Buffy, she could say things that would rip me to sheds inside.

I turn to look at her, trying hard to keep that vulnerability off my face. She ain’t glaring at me anymore; there’s even a teensy little smile. I hope that’s a good thing.

“I can understand why you’re doing this, and thank you; but … why so much for me?”

“For caring.” I quirk my head and shoulder a little, hoping that I don’t have to find more words. I’m going to lose it if I have to explain just what she is to me.

The sad look she gives me tells that she understands completely. I think she’s about to hug me. That’s its own kind of freaky – hugs with an audience are awkward as shit for me, so I make to leave.

Now, like I said before, Alexander Harris is many things but a coward ain’t one of them. Diplomatic ain’t, either. Guess it took him a sec to process things, but the gun’s loaded now. “What about – what about the people you killed? What happens?” I owe myself five bucks. I knew Xan wouldn’t leave it be.

“The Boss destroyed all the evidence, fucked with my record and shit. Pretty sure he called in some favors and had any physical stuff destroyed, too. Not that they had much in the first place.”

“So you just … get away with murder? Literally? And – and we’re okay with this?” Xan glares around accusingly at everyone, especially me.

Fuck this. Fuck you.

“See that, Xan? That’s the shit I was waitin’ for to remind me why I’m walkin’ away. I’m squared up with B; I’d like to square up with Red, but fuck it, whatever. But I don’t give a shit ‘bout you. Keep the cash or don’t; drop dead or don’t. The resta you have fun. You know where I’ll be.”

“Xander, no.” Whatever he was going to say never makes it out. Joyce cut him off, and no matter how much he hates me, he ain’t going to mess with Mama Summers. None of them are.

In fact, as she walks toward me for that hug I don’t want, I stop and turn and let her, because I won’t mess with Mama Summers, either.

We stand there as she reaches up and pulls me into a tight Mom-hug, and I work my arms around her awkwardly. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

“I will. Thanks, Mrs. S. For everything.”

“You’re very welcome. I should have done more.”

“No, you don’t get it. I talked to you like, twice, maybe three times tops other than a buncha hi’s and bye’s. S’the only time I ever felt like I had a mom since my first Watcher. It was like someone gave a damn again…” I lose my voice as the emotion wells up. I feel like shit. I feel like I failed her. But this amazing woman who should hate me just hugs me tighter and rocks me back and forth.

She forgives me. She still cares. My heart’s so light I could fly.

I break away and pat her on the shoulder. Wipe my eyes. Again. “Thanks. I should go now.”

“Call me, Faith.” It’s a command more than a request. “Even if it’s just to talk, especially if it’s just to talk, call me.”

“I will.”

I need to get out of here. I’m all teary-eyed and the Scoobs are uncomfortable – ah fuck it, ‘uncomfortable’ is such a cop out. The Scoobs, except B, all feel like they’ve been smacked down by Joyce since she’s all forgiving, so now they’re guilty and looking at their toes. Giles just nods at me.

“Call me, too,” B says as she makes like her mom and hugs me. “It was really nice talking with you today. And what you’re doing for us – it’s ... wow. Despite everything … I’ll miss you.”

I missed you, Faith.

“Miss you, too.” The words come so easy. “I’ll call you so much you’ll get sick of me. Anythin’ you need, B. Anythin’ at all, you call. You call, and I’ll come runnin.’”

She nods at me, a slight smile on her face. Then she steps back and I’m off – back to my Faithmobile, driving for the highway, letting the wind dry my tears. That went well – really, really well. Now to finish it off. It’s time for a short drive to L.A. before my long, long drive back to Cleveland.

Heh. Short drive. Yeah, right.

Los Angeles is, was, and always will be a madhouse. Why the fuck did I drive here? Without B on the phone telling me exactly where to go I’d have been lost for days. It still takes me hours to make it to the tiny little office building. The sign at the front door says ‘Angel Investigations.’ Heh. Funny shit.

I didn’t expect to find Angel and Cordelia together, but hey – makes my life easier. After the initial shock of seeing me, and some reassurances that it’s a friendly visit, Cordy’s reaction to my offer is way better than the others.’

She bawls on my shoulder.

She’d lived her whole life with money, and having nothing really ate at her. She came to L.A. to be an actress, but that’s a pipe dream and a half, born from having her home life destroyed ‘cause of her father’s stupidity. Now here I come along, giving her back her old life, no strings attached. It’s safe to say I’ve got a new friend now.

Angel’s another matter. Easy to approach, polite and conservative, but very cautious. I offer him the same as B – five mil. He turns me down, saying something about destiny. I try a couple more times, but Soul Boy’s got it in his head that he has to really suffer to be remorseful, and being a millionaire doesn’t seem like suffering. We’re conveniently ignoring the fact that he’s a fucking old vampire and already has money.

So I give the five mil to Cordelia, too. I’m her BFF, now. Also, the money’s still there if Angel needs it. I’m mostly sure that Cordy will stick around to help him out. Mostly.

I get that somewhere in his speech, Soul Boy implied that my paying off the Scoobs was kind of a cop out. I don’t give a shit – I know how much good I’ve accomplished in Cleveland, and the fact that a 200-plus year old vampire that regrets rampaging around and killing hundreds of people is disappointed in me – that doesn’t really tug at my heart strings.

Yes, I did say exactly that to him. His pal, Doyle, laughed like hell.

Still, I do help him the best way I can: I spend a week in L.A. slaying. After an eviscerating demon scared a cop-chick he likes, he’s real keen on getting L.A. under control, and I’m the new queen of city saving.

My newly heightened Slayer senses, a pair of swords, my trusty bow, and a shadow spell mean that I do some serious Ninja-Slayer damage to the demon population, which shocks and scares Angel a bit. Seven days, roughly ten kills a night – you do the math. That’s just under 70 more to add to my count, and the whole fucking city’s in shock. Demonic activity dies right the hell off. It kind of sucks that the vamps will probably credit B for this, but all the important people know I was here.

Heh, poor Soul Boy. He’s used to Buffy being stronger than him, but still kind of predictable and one-dimensional. I think the new and improved Faith, complete with magic and senses as good or better than a vamp’s, terrifies him.

I like it.

I like it so much, I’m going to try to convince B to jump on the spiritual health and fitness bandwagon, and learn a couple spells. ‘Cause if Angel freaks at me, I can’t wait until he gets a load of a new and improved Buffy.

Alright, that’s enough fucking around. Time to haul ass back to Cleveland.

 

 

 

So, I’ve been thinking.

Clang!

“Two forty-one.”

I’ve pretty much turned my life around from the shithole it was. I have literally no material possessions to tie me to my past. None of my old clothes fit, so I gave them all to the local goodwill. I never went back to the apartment I had when I worked for the Mayor, so none of the stuff the Boss got me ever came to Cleveland. It’s probably all gone, now, with someone else moved in.

I have the Boss’ money and shit, but I see that a bit differently: That was the Boss paying me back in a way, and it was also a Father’s gift to his adopted daughter. He didn’t just give me money and toys; he gave me his heart, the last bit of his humanity.

I bet I’m the only one who really gets that. Maybe I’m the only one who ever will.

Clang!

“Two forty-two.”

I’m as even as I can be with Buffy and her crew. I’ve tested out that whole ‘phone me’ thing and to my pleasant surprise, B and Joyce actually wanted to talk to me. It was just an ‘I’m home’ call, but that whole two minutes talking about nothing special was really nice to have.

So, there’s really only one loose end left: The ugly fucking mark on my right arm. His mark. Kakistos.

Fuck him.

CLANG!

“Two forty-three.”

Of all the things a brand new Slayer had to face, I got a 1200 year old vampire who looked like a demon 100% of the time, complete with hands that looked like cloven hooves. He killed Diana right in front of me and chased me across the country.

The tattoo on my arm is – was, Lehane. The fucker’s dead now. One of my favorite memories of Sunnydale is dusting that asshole with Buffy’s help. I’d been so scared of that confrontation, so set to run, but B calmed me down just enough for us to make it.

Then the rest of the shit happened, but fuck it – we’re moving past and dealing now.

So, the tat was a way for Kakistos to track his servants. I got it while possessed, which of course makes it sound like I was set up.

Story of my life.

Clang!

“Two forty-four.”

So, I’m thinking that it’s time that this thing gets removed. I’ve been reading up on mystical markings, and rather than just surgically remove it, I could break its power by inking over it, or incorporating it into a new, different design so much that the original design is lost. Symbols of faith help, too.

I’m thinking a full-sleeve or half-sleeve tattoo, one with large cross as part of the design. I’d do darker shit – you know, pentagrams and the like – but I don't really feel the connection. I figure since I was raised – using that term very loosely – as a Catholic, and my fucking name is Faith, I should stick to what I know.

Can you see me with an inked up arm, angels and shit all over it, with a huge fucking cross curving around from front to back, going from my shoulder down to almost the elbow? Dark, solid black lines with subtle shading to make everything seem 3D…

Yeah. That’s the shit. All I got to do now is find an artist skilled enough to make it happen.

Ring!

CLANG!

“Fuck!”  

Who the fuck calls this early? Might be Mark, if he has to cancel. Might be B, since she’s got my number now. Can’t really think of anyone else. But she’s three hours behind me in Cali, so that’s what, 4:30 am? Whatever – where’s the goddamned phone? There we go.

“Lehane.”

“Is this …? Of course it is. This is Dennis Rosser, Violet’s Watcher.”

“Yeah, I remember you. What do you want?”

“I’d like to ask you a favor, if you don’t mind.”

“I kinda do. I told Travers ‘no Watchers.’ That meant stay the fuck away from Cleveland. You came. You saw. I conquered. No encores.”

“I promise that I’ll only impose on you for a few days. If it helps, I, myself, will not be in the city.”

“You’re not? Then what…?”

Oh, those fuckers…

“No. Just, no. I knew you’d fuckin’ push her on me!”

“Miss Lehane-”

“No, you cocksucker! That ain’t how it works!”

“It’s just a few days-”

“What, didya hype her all up that she can ‘bond’ with a fuckin’ Slayer, so I gotta be the bitch that tells her she can’t be here? Fuck you!”

“Please, Miss Lehane. It’s just for the Watchers’ Retreat. I’ll ensure she knows that her time with you is temporary.”

“Temporary, huh? Guess that’s the Slayer motto. Everything’s ‘temporary.’ How many friends does she have?”

“Excuse me? I’m not sure why you’ve brought that up.”

“Answer the fuckin’ question.”

“You know very well that we keep a solitary existence.”

“Where’s her family?”

“There is none. She was a ward of the state in Alabama when I found her.”

“What about school?”

“I offer her tutelage-”

“FUCK!”

“Miss-”

“You fuckin’ stole her life, asshole!”

“Miss Lehane, please!”

Silence. Recover. Breathe. Unclench.

Don’t break the phone.

Fuck.

I lost it. Got my buttons pushed. Again.

Got to stop letting that happen. That’s when I lose, every time.

Fuck, he’s still talking. Pay attention.

“… assured, I had no intention of making Violet’s life difficult. You must understand: Potentials, while not Slayers, are still slightly physically superior to normal humans and possess slightly sharper senses. This very often leads to a troubled life, as I’m sure you’re aware.”

“…Was that a shot at me?”

“I apologize, that wasn’t my intention. I only mean to say that a troubled life like yours is quite common for Potentials, as their differences – physicality, extrasensory perceptions, and innate aggression – often erode their connections to other people.”

“Somehow, I don’t think me not bein’ a Potential woulda helped my mom drink less, or her boyfriend-of-the-week enjoy me less. You get what I’m sayin?’”

“I … I had no idea. I’m so sorry.”

“Whatever. I get it. Vi’s life was fucked up, and bein’ a Potential made it worse. Right?”

“We have good reason to believe it did.”

“So I’m what, exactly, in your grand plan here? Big sis?”

“Ideally, she would benefit from your mentorship.”

“Groomin’ my own replacement, huh?”

“I’d settle for teaching her to survive. Your performance in Cleveland tells me that it will be a good long while before your death.”

“Damn straight.”

“So, may I tell Violet that she can leave for Cleveland?”

I’m being manipulated. I’m being manipulated. I’m being manipulated.

But damn it, I’m all curious now. If her life’s been shit, just like mine, I’d be a heartless bitch to turn her away.

Fuck. I’m growing an inner Joyce.

“Fine. Send her over. You know my address.”

“Than-”

I hit the ‘end’ button. That’s enough talking. I have exercises to get back to. I’m pissed off now, so I add forty pounds to each side of the barbell.

Clang!

“Two forty-five.”

w

Laughter and conversation drone on in the background, punctuated by a pop song neither girl recognize. The blonde and redhead tip their cups together before taking a small sip, kicking off their noontime mocha ritual.

Neither is willing to break the silence. So they sip again.

The redhead gathers herself first.

“So… are we going to talk, or…?”

Sip.

“Sorry. My head’s off in Buffyland.”

“I noticed.” Sip. “Is it safe to talk about Faith in Buffyland?”

“Sure, Will.” Sip. A sigh. “Look, I know you’re not ready to be all friendly with her, but-”

“Buff, she was ready to kill me. Look, I get that you’re happy. I mean, I understand completely – she’s a Slayer, just like you. She’s back fighting the good fight, she ran off and killed two thousand vampires to make up for jumping ship.”

Sip.

“And that’s great!” Willow continues quickly, nodding her head enthusiastically. “Don’t think I’m not impressed, because I totally am! Really! She basically saved Cleveland, and stopped a big apocalypse-thing from ending up on the news. Because no matter how hard everyone tries to ignore it, Cleveland dying off would have made CNN, and that would have been really bad. So that’s worth a lot of brownie points. That’s probably worth more than anything bad she did here in Sunnydale.”

Sip.

“She also gave us a lot of money – probably just about everything liquid in Wilkins’ estate.”

Sip.

“Huh? There’s a liquidy Mayor now? ‘Splainy?”

They share grins, each aware that the blonde is not quite so oblivious. But breaking up Willowbabble is something she takes great enjoyment in doing.

“You’re a goof, Buff.”

Giggle. Sip.

“But yeah, I mean most of Faith’s assets would be real estate, stocks, and bonds … that kind of thing. Having cash lying around in bank accounts isn’t smart.” They nod their heads in agreement. “Anyways, I’m not knocking that. I’ll happily take her money and move out of my parents’ house, so that I see them a whole one day less a year than I already do.”

They share a dejected look.

Sip.

“They’re still not back yet?”

Sip.

“Nope. Extended stay in Holland. Apparently they were offered a presentation spot at an upcoming Psych convention.” Willow gives a small shrug. “Didn’t ask a lot of questions. It’s normal.”

Sip.

“That sucks.”

Sip.

Buffy takes a deep breath. “Okay, let me try this again: I know that you don’t get why I forgive Faith. It’s kind of hard to explain. We already know that ‘Splainy Buffy’s having issues today.”

Quick smiles.

Sip.

Another deep breath, and Buffy continues.

“When I first saw her, my stomach dropped out. I thought ‘well, this is it. Showdown 2: Steroid Faith Edition,’ ‘cause wow, Will – Faith’s got some serious muscles now. But it wasn’t. She just talks and offers me money and says she’s leaving. Then we go straight to emotional trauma when she tells me that last Christmas was her best ever.”

Willow nods, giving her a knowing look. “Yeah. We kind of already knew she had a bad life, Buff.”

Sip.

Buffy shakes her head. “Yeah, but bad life doesn’t mean a bad mom. A bad family. Last year, after Finch, I thought she was insane. Psycho.”

“She was.”

“No, Will. She wasn’t. She was broken. I didn’t really think about it then – I should have. She had no one, no money, she probably had to steal the clothes she wore… I – I don’t know how she ate. I don’t want to know how she kept her motel room…”

“Happy motel owner?” Willow raises her eyebrows suggestively.

“Shut up! Eww!”

Giggles.

Sip.

“See, that’s what I mean. How did … why did we leave her like that?”

Willow feels Buffy’s guilt from across the table. She dials for compassion; tries to hide the exasperation.

“Buffy … She was her own person. She didn’t ask for help. She tried to hide all that from us.”

Sip.

“Not me.”

Sip.

“What do you mean?”

“Before Finch … she and I had fun together. She was getting me to try things. Some things were … not of the strictly legal sort, but she – she was showing me her life, Will. She wanted me to be a part of it. She wanted me to be her friend.”

Sip.

Sad Buffy. Incredulous Willow.

“Um, yeah. Then she slayed the Deputy Mayor.”

Irritated Buffy.

“I was right there, you know. I threw him over to her.”

Conciliatory Willow.

“I know, Buffy. I’m not saying it wasn’t an accident. Just-”

Irate Buffy.

“No, listen to me! If it was you, or – or Xander, and that had happened, I’d … I’d have helped. I’d have… I should have helped her hide the body, or – or I should have helped her go to Giles and have the whole mess cleared up. But I ran. I ran one way, she ran the other. I should have stayed with her.”

Sip.

“She thought I abandoned her, and we just drifted apart from there. Not even drifted. More like flew apart at Mach 3.”

Sip.

Introspective Buffy.

“It’s like I understand her a little more now. She told me she didn’t care – and that’s true. I mean, Finch was just a guy, we didn’t know him. We weren’t going to shed tears over him. At least, I wasn’t, and I know that I’m way more Moral Girl than Faith. So – that entire conversation was so wrong. All the words were wrong.”

Sip.

Curious Willow.

“Wrong, how?”

Sip.

“Like, she meant it as ‘Don’t think I’m weak. Don’t be disappointed in me. Don’t pity me.’ I saw it as ‘I don’t need your help. You screwed me over.’ Kind of like how she was after Gwendolyn Post.”

Disillusioned Buffy.

“Oh God, Will. Everything could have been so different…”

Encouraging Willow.

“Well…” Dial for extra positivity. “You have her now, right?”

Brooding Buffy.

“Yeah.” Sip. “After I stabbed her.” Sip. “Nearly killed her.” Sip. “For Angel.” Sip. “Who’s not here.”

“Uh-uh.” Willow displays her nearly empty cup. “There’s not enough mocha left for Angel. Next time?”

“Next time.”

“Okay … Buffy?” Willow blanks her face to something more serious than they’ve been doing. “I understand what you’re saying, and don’t be mad at me, okay?”    

“Okay.” Emo-Mocha Buffy disappears behind Business Buffy.

“Okay.”

Sip.

“Faith? She’s a loose cannon, Buff. She’s still the same girl who killed Professor Worth. That wasn’t an accident, that was,” Willow’s voice drops to a whisper, “that was an assassination, Buffy. Even if Mayor Wilkins and Faith had the most amazing, stable father-daughter relationship ever, you do not kill people just because daddy says so. You get that, right?”

“I know.”

“Okay. I’m not trying to pick a fight, Buffy. I’m just telling you how I feel.”

Sip.

“And … I feel like I can’t trust her.”

Buffy’s gaze drops to the table. “But I do.”

“I know. A-and you should.” Willow nods emphatically in agreement. “Really, you should. I can totally see that she cares about you and your mom. She gave the rest of us money because she felt she had to, or maybe just because she thought you’d want her to.”

Sip, followed by a shaking head.

“But she didn’t come back here to apologize to us, Buff. She came back here for you.”

“So – so is it wrong to like that? To get a second chance to make it right?”

Willow reaches across the table and smooths out the frown on Buffy’s face.

“No, it isn’t. It’s just fine. But she had me helpless and scared, Buffy. She had that knife on me, and I said some nasty things to her, and – and she hit me for that,” Willow grins for a second, “but I don’t really think she heard me, you know? I mean, she was angry – I was pushing her buttons – but I don’t think she cared even one second – one literal second – about what I said.”

A breath.

“Sorry, babbling again.”

Sip.

“But it’s true, Buff. I know she said she wanted to ‘square up’ with me, but that’s not really true. She wants that because she knows I’m your best friend, so we’re kind of a package deal.”

“I know, Will. I know. Look – just – she’s my friend now. My Sort-of-Evil-Friend-Who’s-Also-a-Slayer.”

Guilty grin. Sip.

“But I don’t have that many friends, especially not ones that I can relate to that well.” Sip. “And I … feel guilty for stabbing her. That was … just … not the right thing to do. Knock her out? Capture her? Convert her back to our side? All of the good.” Sip. “Stabbing was not of the good.”

Buffy closes her eyes; takes a deep breath. “Not even for Angel.” The words escape her in a painful whisper. “‘Cause your moral lesson goes for me, too, Will: If you shouldn’t kill for daddy, you shouldn’t kill for hubby.”

Willow tries desperately to devise a counter-argument; anything to avoid this dreaded comparison of Buffy to Faith.

Her gaze drops to the table in failure.

“…Yeah.”

Buffy gives her a decisive nod. “Right. So… I want this to work, okay? I have to try.”

They upend their cups for the long, final sip.

“Just – just be polite, okay? No more knives, no magic, just – just friendly, talky things. Promise? I’ll make Faith promise, too.”

“Okay, Buff. I promise.”

They stand and hug each other, before walking from the table.

w

He sips his tea carefully as he dials the long overseas number. The phone rings three times, before a voice picks up.

“Council. Pamela speaking.”

“This is Rupert Giles. Quentin Travers, please.”

The silence carries on for several minutes, until-

“I truly expected to never hear from you again, Rupert.”

“I assure you, the feeling is quite mutual.”

“I assume you’re calling regarding Miss Lehane. I can think of nothing else that would prompt a call such as this.”

“You’re right. I suppose I’m looking for reassurance on the matter.”

“Since her arrival in Cleveland, we have solid evidence that she is truthful in her reporting, and the rapid economic recovery of the city and drastically reduced crime rate is testament to her efforts. Despite last spring’s lapse into the hands of the enemy, Miss Lehane has returned to the model image of a Slayer.”

Giles scowls at the phone. “A Slayer with questionable morals and a vindictive streak. A Slayer who is now quite wealthy, thanks to that very ‘enemy’ you mentioned.”

“True, something that you’ve personally benefitted from, as I understand.”

His scowl deepens. There is no good answer he can give to that.

“There is very little to be done about that, Rupert. Miss Lehane has made her threats, and while I assure you I made quite a few in return, I cannot fathom sending an extraction team to their graves. Or two, for that matter. Or however many it might take to subdue a very angry and very dangerous Slayer. One now capable of magic, no less.”

“I agree completely. Use of force will net us nothing but a pile of bodies to clean up, if she even leaves that for us.” He pauses as he takes a sip of his tea. “But surely she merits some form of supervision?”

“Mr. Dennis Rosser, in Pittsburgh, is attempting ally himself with her. He is acting under the premise that the Potential in his care would benefit from Miss Lehane’s company and instruction. Truth be told, she very well might. Should he prove successful, all parties benefit.”

“You’ll forgive me for being skeptical of your altruism, Quentin. Your concern over Buffy was so appallingly absent that even this glimmer of care for a Potential seems out of place for you.”

“I feel no obligation to explain myself to you. You have in your care one of the world’s most powerful weapons against the darkness, and you allow her to traipse along in a mockery of normalcy. Miss Lehane has made demands of us, but she is ultimately realistic: Her role is that of the Slayer, not a normal person.

“Moreover, I have come to trust her judgement – with all due caution, mind – but she has shown remarkable insight and cunning in her methods and her self-improvement. She is quickly becoming a resource worth preserving.”

“Oh? Does this mean you’ll not come racing across the pond this December to inflict further trauma upon her?”

“Are you daft, man? Not only is the girl forewarned, but Lehane knows stealth spells. She carries an arsenal with her at all times, including firearms. Not only would I be unable to approach her, but even without her strength what vampire could possibly challenge her; save for perhaps an Ancient, such as Kakistos or the Master – both of whom are dead. I shudder to think of the resources necessary to corral another Ancient for the sake of a mere test. Kralik was headache enough.

“Also, there is her very real threat to my life should I make the attempt, considering her newfound resources. No, Rupert. Miss Lehane is far more dangerous than Miss Summers, in all the ways a Slayer should be. Resourceful and ruthless. There needs be no Cruciamentum for her. No, I have other plans for our Slayer.”

No Cruciamentum – he should be relieved. Why, then, is his stomach twisting?

“What do you mean?”

“As Miss Lehane ages, she will come to a point where her abilities might slow. Then again, perhaps not. Tell me, have you considered that the amazing regenerative capabilities of a Slayer might allow for a greatly extended lifespan?”

“I – I don’t believe I’ve ever thought about that…”

“None of us have. The sad truth is that Slayers die far too quickly. But Miss Summers’ and Miss Lehane’s recent activities suggest that we may, in fact, see how a Slayer ages. They both seem somewhat unwilling to die, after all. If our theory is correct, then it behooves us to protect and preserve the both of them at any cost, as such increasingly experienced Slayers would be impossible to replace, no matter how well-trained the waiting Potentials might be.

“Then there is another postulation – one made by our coven in Devon. The witches believe that as a Slayer ages, their abilities increase in much the same manner as a vampire. Their research indicates that the process is much faster, which is in keeping with the fact that Slayers are more potent than vampires in general. The abilities exhibited by our current Slayers pale in comparison to what they will be a mere ten years from now. Combine the two theories, and we would have the Slayer equivalent of an Ancient in only a few decades.”

“That’s … utterly remarkable.” And world-changing. But…

“A-And what if these theories are incorrect?”

“Then I hope to convince Miss Lehane to allow us to stop her heart under controlled conditions to call the next Slayer. Miss Summers’ drowning episode with the Master has proven to us that the magic involved is easily fooled. Once Miss Lehane recovers, we would encourage her to act as the new Slayer’s Watcher. If the procedure works, we could duplicate it, and have Miss Summers act in a similar capacity.”

“Dear Lord.”

“Can you think of anything more fitting, Rupert? One generation of Slayers mentoring the next?”

“I – I … I think we’ve spoken enough on the issue. I need to think on things.”

“Think all you like. Just remember that the world turns without or without your input. When your brain returns to you from the bloody American holiday it seems to be taking, call me. There is so much more at stake than the happiness of Buffy Summers. Get your head back in the game, Rupert. We’ll talk again.”

The line goes dead. Giles gulps the rest of his cooling tea, wishing it were something much, much stronger.

w

He stares at the wall, his thoughts in a near-permanent muddle. Over and over in his mind, he sees her.

Faith.

Laughing as she grinds on top of him. Pushing him out the door minutes later. Insulting him. Threatening him. Choking him.

Killing him.

‘I don’t give a shit ‘bout you,’ she said, even as she threw money at him.

She meant it.

It killed him again.

“I hate her.”

He’s learned his lesson. He mutters quietly into the pillow, lest he disturb-

“You’re doing it again.”

Oops.

“What?”

The brunette beside him rolls over to stare at him accusingly.

“Thinking about her. When you’re with me. In bed.”

“Ahn-”

“When you should be thinking about giving me orgasms, or thanking me for giving you one, you’re thinking about her!”

“Ahn-”

“Xander. There, we’ve said each other’s names. Now what?”

Silence reigns as he opens and closes his mouth, searching for words.

She beats him to it, hammering into him with her brutal, honest – and more than slightly vindictive – curiosity.

“You had sex with her before me. Did she do better? Am I preventing you from having more sex with her? Is that why you hate her?”

“What? No!”

“Then is it because she gave you your best orgasm ever and now you can’t have another one with her? Is that why you hate her?”

“No.”

“Oh. It must be that she gave you all that money, so now your human ritual of ‘getting a job’ is pointless.”

“So very no.”

She tilts her head inquisitively.

“Then why do you hate her?”

He takes one breath, then another. Thoughts; why are they so hard to collect around this woman?

“She tried to kill me, Anya.”

“Okay.” Blink. Blink. “Why?”

“Because I tried to help her. I thought, you know, since we … um, you know…” He waves his hands for emphasis.

She waves her hands to mock him. “Had sex?” she offers, to him as though he were two years old.

“Yeah …” Is he blushing? He’s blushing. Damn it. “I thought that I could reach her, keep her from going over the edge.”

“So you went to her because you thought she liked your penis. She told you she didn’t, and you pushed, and she got angry.”

She’s missing the whole ‘evil’ thing, but actually… now that he thinks about it…

“Well … yeah. Sort of.”

Anya gives a sigh of long-suffering honed over a millennium of exasperation over men.

“Xander, you do realize that women like Faith were a large portion of my clientele as a vengeance demon, right? You realize that maybe, if she wasn’t a Slayer and quite capable of her own vengeance, she might have called on a vengeance demon and you would have been wished away?”

She stares at him. Hard.

“Right?”

He looks down.

“Yeah … I guess I can see that.”

“Good.”

Anya settles back against her pillow, satisfied. Xander continues to stare at his navel.

“I guess … I guess she hates me, too.”

“Probably. I would.”

Well, isn’t that just the final nail in his guilt coffin? He blows out his breath and sinks under the covers, pulling them over his head.

“…Bummer.”

“Are you done, now? We’re both awake. We go back to having sex!”

Just like that, his thoughts change direction. A long, drawn out yawn reminds him that he’s still quite worn out from last night’s activities.

“How about coffee first?”

“Okay.”

w

Almost time to see Mark. First, though, it’s late enough now to give Sunny D a call. I could use some cheering up from the oh-so-unwanted Watcher call. Fucking assholes.

“Hello?”

“Hi, Joyce. It’s Faith.”

“Faith! Hi! It’s good to hear from you!”

“Is it?”

Dumbass – save yourself!

“Is it a good time, I mean? To call?”

That’s better.

“You can always call, dear. So, tell me how you’re doing. Is everything alright?”

“Five by five. Uh, slayin’s normal. ‘Bout three a night. Kinda have to go huntin’ all over for ‘em now. Last night I ended up six floors up in an apartment buildin.’ S’all good. Didn’t get hurt.”

“That’s good. Is it normal to have to go into buildings? I thought vampires were usually in graveyards.”

“Yeah. Those’re the newbies. If you catch ‘em when they rise, s’an easy kill. I get those, too. But the older ones’re a bit harder to track.”

“I see. Well, as long as you’re alright.”

“No worries, Joyce. Um, so how’re you? Everythin’ okay?”

“I’m good, dear. I’m thinking about wrapping up at the art gallery. With the money you’ve given me, I can certainly afford to retire early.”

“Yeah, I’d say so. You deserve it. Get out there and have fun. Enjoy life, y’know?”

“Exactly.”

“So … how’s Buffy?”

“Buffy’s fine, dear. She’s … doing well in college. I suppose she’s happy.”

“Somethin’ wrong?”

“No. No, nothing’s wrong. I just miss her. I don’t see very much of her these days.”

“Oh. Sucks.”

Don’t say it.

“Well, hey…”

Don’t say it.  It’s stupid.

“…If you find yourself with spare time…”

You’re going to get hurt, Lehane. She doesn’t like you that much.

“…you could always come visit Cleveland.”

See?

Listen to that silence.

Fuck.

“Got tons of room, y’know.”

Shut up. Shut up. Could you sound more desperate? Don’t make more of a fool of yourself. At least it’s Joyce – she’ll probably figure out a polite way to say ‘no.’ She won’t just hang up on you. Or maybe she will. Maybe phone calls is all she wants. Maybe-

“Well, I can’t make a trip like that right away, but if you give me about two weeks, I should be able to manage it. It would be so nice to see something other than Sunnydale.”

Holyshitholyshitholyshit.

“R-Really? Great! I’ll get everythin’ set up! Any special requests?”

“Just your company, Faith. Maybe some ideas for what to do while we’re there. Are you going to be available with all of your slaying?”

“Oh, sure! Don’t worry ‘bout that. It’s quiet now. It’ll be so good to see you!”

“Yes, it will. Okay, dear. I should really get my day going. Talk to you soon?”

“Sure! I’ll call again in a couple days. Thanks, y’know? For…”

“You’re very welcome. See you soon, Faith.”

“See you soon. Bye.”

“Bye.”

Right now, I’m so glad I live way up on the tenth floor. No one can see me bounce around the rooftop squealing like a ten year old. Joyce is coming to visit.

Mama’s coming to visit.

w

The man hurries toward the small fitness studio. A muttered spell reveals that there are two people inside – a male near the centre of the building and a female just inside the front doors.

Good.

The lawyer girl mentioned that the Slayer trained one-on-one.

“Bloody easy money,” he mutters as he draws forth a small urn. A quick incantation and the urn begins to glow and rattle. He leaves it sitting against the wall of the building, then hurries away.

The game’s afoot. Time to sit back and watch.

w

Mark smiles as he stretches. The footfalls approaching him are far too light to be Faith’s.

“Good morning, lovey!” he calls out.

“Morning, husband of mine,” Sara calls back. “Back to the grind?”

“Well, I guess that depends on Faith. I’m sure she’s eager to get back to it.” He glances down at his watch. “She is a little late, though.”

Sara moves around the floor, setting up mats and training dummies; she’s intimately familiar with the intense workout regime Faith prefers. Satisfied with the state of the room, she voices the question on her mind:

“Does she ever talk about why she wants to train this much? I mean, it seems rather unhealthy to go almost every single day like that.”

Mark nods – Sara’s on a roll, and he knows better than to interrupt while she’s building steam.

“I mean, she works out before she comes to you, and that’s – that’s actually kind of nuts! I mean, the body regains strength from rest. When does she rest?”

Mark shrugs, offering a smile. “I don’t know. She’s improving – by leaps and bounds, actually. I guess she takes it easy the rest of the day.”

“That shouldn’t be enough,” she mutters, shaking her head. “The human body just doesn’t work that way.”

“As long as she’s happy and healthy, I’m not worried.”

“She’s my friend,” she replies, pinning her husband with a glare. “I care about her. It’s been months now; what if she needs help, Mark?”

“Even if she did, does she seem like the type to ask?” Mark asks with a chuckle.

“Well, no. That’s what has me worried. Even when I take the girls over to her place, Faith seems … guarded. I don’t know, maybe it’s just me.”

Sara turns, frowning. What’s that ringing noise…?

“I’m really not worried, lovey. Everything will work out, you’ll see.”

The ringing is stronger. It’s physical in its intensity. Drowning out everything. Nothing but the song. Nothing but the need.

The need. The need to be out.

Out.

“Yeah… Everything will work out. Work out…”

The dreaminess in his wife’s voice startles him.

“Sara?”

“Hey Mark… let’s work out.”

Work out? His wife? Never. Not here, at least. Still… “Shouldn’t we wait for Faith?”

“I think we should work out. I really want to work out. Let’s work out.”

Mark blinks once, then twice. The look on Sara’s face is … frightening. He moves forward, reaches to her…

She strikes with sudden force, too fast to deflect, only block. Mark cries out; he can feel his radius fracture. He’s mindful of the follow-up, and Sara doesn’t disappoint. A right hook comes across. He deflects and steps back. She spins through, driving a roundhouse kick at waist height. He dances back, but not fast enough. Pain explodes across his abdomen. His knees fail.

He goes with it, dropping as he forces his leg to extend. With a twist, he sweeps Sara’s legs from underneath her. He lunges forward, grabs a flailing arm and wrenches it into a joint lock, pinning her.

“Sara!”

She stands.

Defying physics, defying the agony of the hold, she stands and lifts him effortlessly.

“Sara!”

She laughs.

“Sara, what is this?! What’s going on?!”

“We’re working out,” she cackles. “Let’s get to the out part.”

He whispers a prayer in harsh breaths. His faith wrestles against his fear as his wife – his wife – stretches abnormally to raise her good arm up to him. Her hand comes to rest above his heart.

Pain. Sucking. Pulling. Pain. Itching. Stretching. Pain.

A flurry of movement. He hits the ground hard. Groans. Struggles to regain his feet. A hand closes on his forearm, and effortlessly pulls him the rest of the way.

“Looks like I got here just in time for the fun.”

His watery eyes focus. Faith. Faith is here. But where…? His eyes trail across the room to where Sara is scrambling to her feet. How…?

“Come ON!” his wife screeches. “Let’s work OUT!”

“Uh, Mark? Sar been snortin’ coke or somethin?’”

“I … I don’t know what’s going on.”

“Well, we’re about to find out.”

“Find OUT! Work OUT!”

Sara dashes across the room at Faith – she’s so fast – but Faith’s just as fast. Faster. Unreal. He can’t track the moves. Punches, kicks, failed attempts to grab-

Sara goes flying back again as Faith winds down from a spinning back kick. How did she even set that up? Why are they moving so fast? Sara’s back again, and before he can register the action, his wife stumbles forward, clutching her stomach and Faith’s elbow slams down on the back of her head.

Sara hits the ground, out cold.

Mark’s heart hits the ground with her.

He wants to touch her.

“Don’t.” Faith holds him back, points to her hands.

Her fingers twitch in time with her heartbeat. They curl backwards, rolling neatly up in a direction physically impossible for human fingers to move.

Now he’s aware. Aware of the cold sweat on his face and chest. Aware of the hoarse, labored breath forced in and out of his lungs. Aware of his racing heart. Aware of his roiling stomach.

His stomach wins, and breakfast comes out.

He kneels, praying to his vomit that when he looks up, his wife will be okay.

He looks up.

Backward curling fingers.

Out.

“Fuck. Dammit. Fuck.” Faith paces beside him. Above him. Mark desperately wants to call to her, for whatever help she can give. His world is shattered. It’s lying there, twitching and bending in all the wrong directions.

“Listen, Mark?”

“Yeah?”

“I hope you know a priest or somethin.’ I don’t think I can do exorcisms on my own.”

“Exorcism…?” He stares again at his wife. Sara’s fingers fascinate him, but now he has a word, a definition for her problem. A potential solution.

The world rights itself a bit. Just a little. Just enough.

“Yeah, actually I do.” He moves to stand, accepting Faith’s help. “He’s not Catholic, he’s Greek Orthodox, but I think he can do the job.”

“Yeah, okay. Gotta get sleepin’ beauty here a little more secure, though.”

“How? She – she’s so strong. And fast…” Just like you, Faith. But that thought is inappropriate at the moment.

“S’okay. I come prepared.” Mark looks over, curious, as Faith saunters over to her backpack, and rummages around. She pulls out …

Duct tape. Three large, silvery rolls.

The world tips over again, and his lips twitch as he fights a giggle. Fights a chuckle. Fights the full-on laughter at the insanity.

He fails.

His howls echo around the room as tears trail down his face.

Faith shakes her head at him in pity, and proceeds to mummify Sara in layer after layer of dull silver.

Guess the quiet time’s over.

 

 

“A sword never kills anybody; it is a tool in the killer's hand.”                  

                                          Lucius Annaeus Seneca (54 BC-39 AD)

                                                 Roman Rhetorician and Writer

.

He hides in the alley behind the gym, watching the Slayer and her trainer load the unconscious girl into the car. He should be happy. He should feel the satisfaction of a job well done. The woman at the other end of the phone call stole those feelings away with her cold, callous words.

“I don’t understand this,” the man growls into his cell phone, his accent clipped and clean as only a true Englishman could manage. “My contract with you was to release the spirit on the occupants of that building to occupy the Slayer, not to specifically target the Slayer.”

“Yet you obviously understood our target. We see no reason to honor your payment if you refuse to honor your agreement. We do not pay for substandard work.”

“I have your bloody signature on this document! Tell me what invisible fine print exists here that tells me I owe you anything further!”

“Look behind you. And up. Way up.”

The man turns and glances upwards at the rooftop across the street – into the sights of the rifle aimed at him.

“Do you require further clarification on the scope of your job?”

He closes his eyes. Sighs. “No, I do not.”

“We are being very reasonable with you. We did not require you to confront the Slayer, merely to distract her while we made arrangements for her removal. We do expect, however, that you’ll actually keep her distracted. Is that clear?”

“Yes. Yes it is.”

“Good. It’s been a pleasure.”

“Of course, Ms. Morgan. Of course.”

He flips the phone closed, and walks slowly from the alleyway, off to retrieve his urn. The sniper tracks his every step.

.

I always dreaded the day I’d have to explain what I am to Mark and Sara. Even with the surprise demonstration in the gym, it’s every bit as awkward as I thought it would be. Actually worse, since I’ll have to do the whole spiel again once Sara’s back to normal.

Mark’s doing a decent job digesting everything as he drives us to his priest friend. I keep Sara company in the back seat. You know, just in case.

“So, you fight vampires for a living.”

“Ya huh.” Affirmation one hundred ninety-six.

“I don’t really know what to say about that.”

“Don’t gotta say nothin.’” I give him the best ‘shut-up’ glare I can manage. “It’s just what I do. If you need more convincin,’ I’ll take you with me a couple nights. Some close encounters’ll get you up to speed.”

“Right.” Mark’s head bobs around, like he doesn’t know if he should be nodding or shaking it. “So, Sara…”

“…Is out cold. I’m sorry I had to hit her so hard. There could be damage, but I’m hopin’ not. Where’s your priest?”

“His name is George Matsoukas. He runs a small Greek church near my area.”

“Thank fuck its daytime. Guy should be there – office hours, right? Faster we get there, the faster Sara gets back to normal. Step on it.”

.

“Come on, then,” the Warlock whispers as he slices his hand. “Let’s keep things interesting, shall we?” As the blood drips onto the urn the symbols around its base glow an angry crimson…

.

My demon radar pings hard, and I look down at Sara. Just a second ago, she was peacefully unconscious. Now it looks like she’s got her finger stuck in a wall socket.

“Out … out … out…”

“Dammit, she’s awake already?” I grab hold of her, and hope to God the tape holds.

“That’s not good,” Mark says, looking back at me. “The church is a good twenty minutes away.”

Sara’s wide awake now. She writhes like a snake, twisting around in weird shapes trying to buck me off. I much as I hate to say it: It’s working.

“Fuck! I can’t hold her!”

“OUT! NEED – OUT!”

She gets an arm free, and slams it into my face – damn, those are some pretty stars. I bring my knees up and thrust my feet into her to keep her pinned against the door. My head’s stuck on the window of my door, so I get to watch all the nice tall buildings as they go past.

Whoa.

Holy fuck, déjà vu. These buildings … I’ve seen them before… in a dream…

Death. Rushing at me from above.

I jerk away from the window and roll – too late.

The window shatters.

OW – RED – OW – FUCK – PAIN!

Something rips right through my shoulder – I scream as agony sears through my body. I finish rolling off the seat and wedge myself in against the car floor.

I glance down at the wound – big, round, bloody. I’ve been shot. Right through the shoulder blade and out through the tit. Right in line with my heart, too.

If I’d have moved a millisecond later, I’d be dead.

“FUCKIN’ FLOOR IT, MARK! GET US OUTTA HERE!”

Mark answers with squealing tires. Another shot plows in through the roof – hits my seat dead center.

Fuck.

Sara’s nearly free of the duct tape now, but I can’t do shit about that anymore. Mark’s speeding like a maniac, I’m on my ass blubbering and bleeding all over the place, and all we can do is watch Sara bust through the car window and vanish down the street.

.

Buffy’s shoulder spasms in pain. Her pen drops from her numb fingers, her head awash in alien sensations.

Pain. Fear. Love. Anger. A name on her lips.

“Faith…?”

She glances around at her classmates; up at her professor. No one notices her distress. She’s invisible. She remains invisible, even as she quietly packs her books and ducks out of the classroom.

.

Shit. Fuck. Goddammit. It hurts to breathe. I can’t stop the sobs as they tear from my throat. Nothing’s ever hurt this bad. Not even Buffy stabbing me. My arm’s useless.

I always knew I’d be shot one of these days. Never figured it to be a fucking sniper, though. Did I piss off the mob or something? Let’s hope that the Slayer healing’s as improved as everything else, or I’m right fucked. Never had anything damaged before that wasn’t squishy. My shoulder blade is probably in pieces, I’m not sure if my lung was hit or not, and if my arm so much as twitches I feel like dying. I’ve never seen my healing handle something like this, but if I can’t ‘Wolverine’ a little bit, I’m going to need surgery.

Better not fucking scar, neither. I take good care of my tits, dammit.

“Faith? Are you alright?”

“Fuck, no!” I growl through the tears. “I got hit by a fuckin’ sniper, chowderhead!”

Chowderhead. I must be delirious. I haven’t used that since I was, like, twelve. Can’t take the Boston out of the girl, I guess.

“Right! Right… I’ll call an ambu-”

“NO! Haven’t you seen enough shit today? No ambulances. It went right through. I’ll be fine by tomorrow.”

I hope.

“What? How…? Faith, that’s a serious injury. You’ll go into—”

“Mark. Please. I’m hurting, I can’t deal with your bullshit right now. Shut up for a sec. Listen to me. I. Will. Be. Fine.”

Mark swallows. Nods. He looks kind of shaky, but it’s got to be enough for now.

“We’re going back to my place. Got a spell over it – No one should be able to get near it. It’ll do us until this heals over a bit. I’m no good in a fight with one arm.”

I’m lying – my spell sucks shit, and while Sara might not be able to find my place while she’s possessed or whatever, the witch or demon that did this to her might just be able to. I also have no clue what the sniper is and what they can do. Still, can’t help that now.

It’s a long, painful car ride. Not so much for the wound – that’s itching like hell and starting to close up, making me kind of hopeful. Rather, it’s Mark prattling on nervously about shit I can’t even focus on. His voice just drones in and out, drowned out by my throbbing, aching shoulder. Got to get him on track.

“The priest, Mark. The priest. Get him on the phone. Once I’m healed up some, we’re grabbin’ him and findin’ Sara.”

“What about your sniper?”

Fuck. “Yeah. Him.” I keep my eyes on the road. “Chances are, he’ll find us. Gonna have to deal with him when that happens.”

Without anyone dying, though? I don’t know about that.

.

On the rooftop of a downtown building, the sorcerer and gunman stand, watching the Slayer’s car disappear into the afternoon traffic.

“She’s still alive,” the Warlock states. “I can feel her.”

“She won’t be for long.”

“No,” the sorcerer sighs. “You won’t be. You have no idea what you’re dealing with. Who you’re dealing with. Neither do our employers.”

The gunman raises an eyebrow at him. “I’ve done better than you.”

“As you wish.”

The sorcerer walks away, dialing his favorite travel agency on his cell. Time to skip town, lest the vengeful claws of the Slayer find him.

.

A thirty-something Englishman stands smartly dressed in Cleveland Hopkins International Airport, patiently waiting for the baggage claim to start up. The girl beside him, a tall, lanky teenaged ginger in jeans and a t-shirt, fidgets endlessly.

“What if she don’t like me?” she asks, her southern drawl quite noticeable.

“I’m certain she will. She had no issues with you the last time we were through.”

“Yeah, well… Las’ time I wa’n’t stickin’ ‘round.”

“Slower, Violet. Speak more slowly. Not everyone will understand you when you mash your words together like that.”

“Yes, dad,” she moans, with a roll of her eyes.

“When we get to Faith’s, I’m sure you’ll both compare accents and mangle the Queen’s English beyond all recognition. Until then, some of us don’t understand half-words slurred together.”

“Y’all have a class ‘specially for insultin’ Americans in Oxford?”

“Cambridge, actually.”

“Whatever.”

“Don’t say that around other graduates.”

They share a smile. Their conversation pauses a moment as Vi gathers her luggage from the now moving conveyor.

“I’m sure they’ll be right over to beat me up.”

“Indeed. Well, let’s find ourselves a rental car, shall we?”

“Sure.”

Vi falls into step behind him as he makes his way towards the exit. She first notices the stranger approaching them from the main entrance – middle-aged, straight-backed, and very Watcher-like. She assumes he’s an associate.

“Dennis! Dennis Rosser, I must say this comes as a wonderful surprise!”

Dennis’ back stiffens as he looks over, and his hand reaches down to the concealed knife he carries underneath his jacket. Only then does Vi realize this is not an associate.

“Rayne!”

And she isn’t armed.

“Come now, Dennis. Is that any way to greet an old friend?”

She can feel Dennis channeling energy for a spell, and the stranger doing the same.

She isn’t armed.

“Friend?! You’ve got a lot of nerve!”

Panic eats at the edges of her senses; she just failed a big test.

“Now, now. I’m merely on my way to England. Time to visit the family, I think.”

“Yes, I’m sure you’re just passing through.”

“Indeed. Goodbye, old friend.”

“Yes, old friend. Goodbye.”

Violet stares after the man as he walks away. Slowly, the magic in the air dies back down to nothing.

“Who was that?”

“Trouble. We have to talk to Faith.”

.

I open my eyes to the red skies of a Cleveland sunset. First thing I check is my shoulder – I can move my arm now – painfully – and the bandages didn’t bleed through, so I guess I’ll do alright for now. I got lucky. I didn’t cough up blood, so the shot must have missed my lung, and I don’t feel any bone chips floating around. My back looks pretty symmetrical in the mirror, though the hole’s pretty fucking ugly. My tit’s kind of ragged, but it’s still in one piece. Looks like everything’s closed up – just a little bit of seeping through the clots now. Well, chalk up another one for Slayer healing. Time to work myself into some clean clothes.

Mark’s pacing like a caged animal when I step into the living room, but the second he sees me he’s beside me, concerned as all hell.

“You okay?”

“Better. We should get movin,’”

“You sure you’re ready to go out?”

“It’s stopped bleedin,’ and I can move it around. That’s as good as we can hope for. C’mon – let’s get that priest. Sara’ll show up on my radar, so findin’ her ain’t hard – fixin’ her, well that’s up to your pal.”

As Mark gets his shoes on, I carefully prepare my herb pouch for my stealth spell. I’m banking on the shooter looking for me specifically. The spell is meant to be done by the person being protected, and I ain’t Willow – I have no idea how to switch it around so I can do it for Mark, and I highly doubt he’d get it right on his first ever attempt at magic, if he’d even give it a try.

Damn it, just this morning I was in heaven ‘cause Joyce said she’d visit. Now I’m playing dice with my friends’ lives. I really don’t like this.

The first roll is boxcars, ‘cause there’s no issue getting to the church or finding the priest. He’s exactly what you’d expect in a Greek Orthodox type – black getup, bushy beard, heavy bling for a cross. Then he throws me a curve ball:

His eyes go wide and he crosses himself when he sees me. “You are Slayer!” he shouts. «Τη Υπερμάχω!»

“Uh, what d’you just call me?”

“Tee EE-per-MA-ho,” he repeats slowly, sounding it out for me. “Means Champion. Mighty Warrior. Is part of hymn to Virgin Mary. I think prayer is more for Slayer, though.”

“’Kay, sure.” Don’t know what I’m supposed to say to that.

“Prayer goes like this in English: O Champion General, we your faithful inscribe to you the prize of victory as gratitude for being rescued from calamity, O Theotokos. But since you have invincible power, free us from all kinds of perils so that we may cry out to you: Rejoice, O Bride unwedded.”

Alright, I get it. It gets a laugh out of me, anyways.

“Yeah, likin’ the whole ‘Champion General’ an’ ‘invincible power’ thing, and I ain’t married, but I so ain’t no virgin girl.”

“No, no. It is suited now to Church service, but I think – we replace Theotokos, which is Virgin Mary, and ‘Bride Unwedded’ is what make me think of Slayer – no male to go with female. Female only.” He nods to himself. “I think Byzantine Empire knew who their savior was.”

“Good enough. Makes things easier that you know, anyhow. I’m Faith.”

“Father George Matsoukas.”

“Pops it is.” He chuckles at me. “Mark told you about Sara?” He nods. “Good. So: I find her, I hold her down, and you do your thing?”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s get out of here.”

The next roll ain’t exactly boxcars, but it’s still pretty good. After all, it could have been somewhere public, like a mall. Instead, I follow my nose further into suburbia, getting warmer and warmer only a few blocks away from the church.

“She’s there,” I say, pointing to a very familiar condo block.

“Our place,” Mark whispers. “Of course she’d go home.”

I reach over to turn his face to me. “Hey. We’re gonna get her back. The good guys win on this shit. Okay?”

“Okay,” he says, taking a deep breath. “I’ll be fine.”

“Good. Pops?”

“I am ready.”

“A’ight. Let’s go.”

Mark lets us into the building, and we carefully make our way up to their suite. I don’t make it two steps into their place when I’m tackled to the ground. Sara doesn’t even bother straddling me, just wails on me as hard as she can.

“OUT! OUT! GET OUT!”

It’s fucking hard to fight when I have to protect my shoulder. She’s hella strong right now – at least vamp strong. If she gets a shot in there, I’m pretty much done. After eating a half-dozen haymakers, I finally get enough distance to slam a foot home, sending her across the room.

Behind us, near the door, Mark hovers near Matsoukas, while Pops starts his praying.

“O Eternal God, Who has redeemed the race of men from the captivity of the devil, deliver Thy handmaid from all the workings of unclean spirits…”

The effect is immediate. Sara jerks around, and switches up targets, flying straight for the priest. I get myself in the way, falling into Tae Kwon Do to fight her. Kicks mean less chance of a shoulder shot. I’m a little off-balance, so it’s harder to make an opening, but Sara doesn’t have my speed or my experience, and I eventually land a front thrust straight into her solar plexus. She drops to her knees, gagging.

“…We make this great, divine, holy and awesome invocation and plea, O devil, for thine expulsion, as well as this rebuke for your utter annihilation, O apostate!”

The exorcism’s starting to have some sort of effect. Sara’s shivering, and she can’t really fight anymore. I wrap her up in a full nelson. It’s not the most effective hold since she’s a living rubber band right now and my shoulder is fucked, but whatever keeps her on me and off the priest is good enough for me.

“…Shudder, tremble, be afraid, depart, be utterly destroyed, be banished!”

All the fight’s gone out of her now. She’s just a quivering wreck in my arms, and not as bendy as she used to be. Pops comes closer, bringing a huge gold crucifix up to Sara’s face.

“…now and ever, and unto ages of ages. Amen.”

A faint gold light pulses from the cross; Sara’s eyes widen, then she faints dead away and I lower her to the floor.

Mark comes over, carefully running his hands across her face. “Is it over? Is she…”

“You should take her to hospital,” Matsoukas says, his accent heavier than ever. “Make sure she is okay.”

“Yeah.” I heft Sara up over my good shoulder and wave Mark over. “Let’s get outta here.”

I fish for my wallet. I got a few hundred bucks on me. “Yo, Pops! How much?”

“No charge for this. Never charge.”

“You sure?”

“Is my job. Also, I help my friend. And Slayer. More than enough.”

I shrug. “Your call.”

“Mark…?” Sara calls weakly. “Are you … oh my God. What – what happened to me?”

Mark shoots me a panicked look before trying to comfort Sara. I just blow out a huge sigh. Time for another long, awkward car ride.

This time I roll snake-eyes. We get Pops to his church and we’re halfway to the hospital with an exhausted and borderline hysterical Sara. I was hoping that the last thing of note tonight was my ‘I’m a Slayer’ song and dance, and maybe helping Mark with some moral support. But I know the second I take in the buildings ahead of me –from that fucking dream – that we’re fucked.

Of course we’re fucked. We’re driving out of suburbia on the one major street heading towards either the hospital or my place – same fucking route out of here. Of course he’s waiting. It’s called being set up. I should be used to it by now.

“Drive like a maniac, Mark!” I shout. “He’s around here somewhere!”

He tries – doesn’t hesitate even for a second.

But we’re too late.

The driver’s window shatters. Mark falls across the seat, screaming. Sparks fly up as the bullet plows through Mark and then through the console between the seats, hitting something that didn’t like it.

I lunge for the wheel, but we’re already bouncing along a line of parked cars and the street lamp’s too close. The front of the car sandwiches around the pole, and we’re thrown all over the place. Desperate to move, I kick my door open so hard it rips half off the hinges and haul Mark out between the seats, pulling him behind the first parked car. Sara crawls along the same path, joining me.

Just in time. Another shot punches through the car where she was sitting.

Shouldn’t this fucker be aiming at me? Hmm. Maybe he is. Maybe the stealth spell works a little bit.

Through the car, I get a glance at the gunman – a shadow on the rooftop of an office building across the street. No normal person would see him.

“Come on!” I shout, duck-walking towards a delivery truck near the end of the line of parked cars, dragging a moaning Mark behind me. “Get over to behind the truck! Hurry!”

Sara crawls quickly, her eyes never leaving Mark. The parked cars are shitty cover, but I’m banking on him not being able to aim at me properly due to my spell. As long as Sara and Mark stay close to me and we keep moving or stay in heavy cover, we should be fine.

Yeah, I’m talking out my ass, here. I really hope I’m right.

I sit Mark up against the truck’s dual tires once we’re in cover, and take a look at the gun shot, trying to slow the bleeding as Sara crowds around me, her own blood dripping from a gash on her head. Wish I still had some of that duct tape. It’s messy – in near the rib cage and out near the opposite hip.

That had to have hit the liver, along with most of his guts.

Dammit, he’s going to die. Fuck this stupid shit, my best friend in this whole goddamn city is going to die, and it’s my fucking fault.

Game face. Keep your game face on, Lehane. Cry later. Focus now.

Sara’s trying to keep Mark awake. Good girl. “Mark? Mark, honey, can you hear me? Mark, you’re going to be okay. Please, please be okay….”

Now we’re in serious trouble. Mark’s got his hands on his sides trying to hold his blood and guts in, getting paler by the second, and Sara’s close to bawling her head off. I need to get across to that other building, but how the fuck can I get the gunman’s attention off me?

What’s behind me? A jewelry store.

Got it.

A crazy idea forms in my head, and I start pulling off my jacket and pants, taking time to pull a short sword from the back of the jacket.

“Sara? Sara!” I reach over and shake the now sobbing woman, trying to get her to look at me.

“Put this on,” I throw her my clothes. “From this distance, we look alike. Your hair’s dark enough. He’ll be looking for my clothing. See that door behind us? It’s a store. Just crawl over to the car in front of the door, then run like hell and get inside the store an’ stay away from the windows. I’ll use that distraction to—”

“Wha—No!” she screams. “I can’t leave Mark! He’s dying, Faith!”

“Listen to me: If we stay here, we’re all gonna die! Mark is gonna bleed out if we can’t get help soon. Do you get that?”

“I – I…”

“Do. You. Get. That?”

She nods, finally.

“Then fuckin’ get dressed an’ get movin!’ Go, so I can kill this fucker and we can get help!”

Alright, risk time: Blood is an ingredient in my little stealth pouch. Just a drop, I guess to key it to me. Time to mess around blindly. I take a finger of the blood on Sara’s forehead and smear it on the inside of the pouch, then loop it over her head as she finishes puling my shit on and give her a shove as I struggle into her jeans. Sara bolts.

Now, I pray: Please don’t die; please don’t die; please don’t die. Plan B sucks so much worse than Plan A. If he shoots you, he’ll have to come over to confirm the kill, but he’ll take his time, and then you’ll both die.

So please, don’t die.

Crack!

Chips of brick fly everywhere as the sniper misses Sara by maybe a foot and the wall suffers. Good – the spell’s not completely ineffective, and Sara’s kind of safe. Wish I’d had it on when I met Mark this morning. I wish I’d thought of this blood thing at my apartment.

I wish a lot of things.

I also file away how close the shot was. That’s what, a 200 yard shot? More? I’m shit at math. Still, on a long shot from a rooftop to street level with a partially obstructed view and a stealth spell at whatever level of effectiveness, he almost shot Sara dead.

Hmm. A foot. Maybe two. So he really was aiming at me. He hit Mark ‘cause his aim was fucked by the spell and shooting at a moving vehicle. Still only a little off target.

Damn it, I have to take him now. This is terrifying shit. No stealth spell will help me if he gets a clean line on me. It’s just a small distraction to keep people from noticing I’m armed; I can’t make myself invisible.

I carefully, quietly slip off the other way towards the street corner, keeping low behind the cars. Once I’m around the corner of a building, I hightail it to the first sewer opening I see. I’m sure I’m quite the sight – sword-wielding chick runs out into the street, hauls a manhole cover off like it’s nothing and jumps in. Yeah, that’ll bring the cops, and if anyone snapped a photo I just might be in trouble.

Not before I pay this motherfucker back, though. Shoot me? Shoot my friends? You’re dead, pal.

All right, it’s time for the second part of the gamble: That the sniper stays put for a bit in the hopes that I go back to my friends, so I can actually get up to him before he moves.

It’s a short, stinky trek over to the next manhole, then a long, painful climb up the side of the office building. I can feel the bullet wound opening up again. There’s no sugar coating it – it feels like someone’s trying to rape the hole. I’ve got no real choice, though; I can’t use the inside, there’s a bunch of people in there I can’t explain myself to. I ain’t a sneak thief, either. I open locked doors the noisy way, which would tip off the gunman. So pain it is. That’s okay. Just makes me angrier. Stronger. Faster.

I ease myself up onto the roof and—

Score! He’s still here!

It’s all I can do to not rush. If he sees me at this point, it’s fifty-fifty if I can get to him before he shoots me, and that’s no good. But every second that ticks by, Mark’s bleeding to death, and if he gets a bead on Sara…

He’s maybe fifty paces away now. Almost there. Could throw the sword – no, not aerodynamic, no guarantee of a hit. Wish I’d have fished a stake out of my jacket before giving it to Sara. Then this would all be over. I’m screwing myself over and over by being a panicked little bitch. Got to get better than this.

I hear the sirens of an ambulance and several cop cruisers.

Fuck. Stay inside, Sara.

He lifts the rifle.

Fuck! Please just be scoping around.

He adjusts the sight.

Almost fucking there…

He settles the gun against his shoulder – shit! He must see her!

I bolt.

Be fast enough.

He turns. His eyes widen.

Be fast enough.

He brings the rife to bear.

Be fast enough.

He squeezes the trigger.

I reach for the gun; my sword swings across.

The shot echoes across the rooftops.

I’m there.

I glance at the gun – my bad arm’s up against the barrel, holding it away from me. The hilt of my sword is all the way across, resting against the butt of the rifle.

I didn’t get shot.

His head drops to the rooftop with a wet thud. His body follows after it. Blood splashes everywhere.

I catch the gun as it falls. I’m tempted to tie it into a pretzel, but… you know what? Fuck that. I just scored a sniper rifle, and one, two … three spare clips of ammo, once I wipe the blood off.

I’ll take it. I help myself to the contents of his pockets, too. What’s this? A hotel room card? And the address is printed on the side? Why, thank you. You shouldn’t have. I snap a picture with my cell phone for Travers later. Maybe he’ll have something on this guy.

I just want to sit down and weep with relief; this guy scared the living shit out of me. I’m going to have nightmares about walking down the fucking street now. Can’t rest now, though; the show’s not over. I rush back down the building and over to Mark and Sara, stashing the gun and sword in the open manhole. I find Sara near the ambulance, crying openly as they load Mark – he’s white as a sheet, but I can just make out the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

Damn, man. God be with you, for all it’s worth. I’ll miss you so fucking much if you bite it.

“It’s done,” I whisper as I take my jacket and stealth spell back from Sara. She just nods silently, her tears flowing non-stop.

I want to stay with her, but my job’s not done. I take off top speed, grab the weapons, and head for my place.

Jogging home takes a good fifteen minutes even at Slayer speed. It’s a painful run, but I need wheels. My aching shoulder thanks me for taking the Mustang to the hotel. When I get to the hotel room I find a lot of shit, but the best thing is a contract outlining a hit on me, using some Warlock to cause issues. Best of all, they name the employer:

Wolfram & Hart.

I definitely feel like I rolled high again. Now I know who I have to pay back. Naturally, my cell chooses now to ring.

“Lehane.”

“Faith? It’s Dennis. Violet and I are in town, and … I have something to tell you.”

.

I’m ready to drop dead by the time I make it to the hospital. Adrenalin’s long gone, and coffee just isn’t enough. Three info desks later, I find Sara staring at the doors of the operating room where they’re working on Mark. She’s got the thousand yard stare going, permanent tear tracks down her face.

“Hey.” Sara turns at the sound of my voice, blinking at me. “How’s he doin?’”

“Bad,” she says, sniffling. “They’re still operating. They don’t know if he’ll make it. Even if he does, he’ll need surgery to repair his bowels, and – and he’ll need a colostomy bag for at least a few months, maybe forever. It’s – oh, Faith, why? Why did this happen?”

“The guy who put that thing in you? He and the shooter were lookin’ to off me. They only got you guys ‘cause you were there.”

“You? But what did you do to them?”

“My job. I think Mark started to tell you, but … I kill evil shit all night long. That’s what I do, y’know? That’s why I train so hard. There’s things that go bump in the night for real, Sar. These two, they were workin’ for the kinda monsters I kill. Long stories later, huh? Just look after Mark. We have lotsa time to talk when he’s outta the woods.”

Sara just nods at me, her gaze moving again towards the doors of the operating room. A great wave of fear and sadness creeps over me. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“Faith? Are you …?” Sara reaches up and wipes a tear off my face. “Don’t cry, Faith. I’m doing more than enough of that. If you start, I’ll start again for sure.”

I swallow, trying to make the words form. “I’m terrified, Sar – that this’ll scare you off, or that you’ll be too pissed at me to stay friends. I – I don’t want to lose the two of you.”

“Oh, Faith,” she whispers, pulling me into a hug. “I promise we’ll be there for you. You didn’t do this, he did – and he’s dead.” She pulls back for a second. “They’re both gone, right? The other guy – that’s where you went, isn’t it?”

“He’s gone,” I say as confidently as I can. ‘Cause fuck if I know where Rayne went. Until Travers finds him, anyways.

“Good. Then it’s over. We’ll be okay, Faith. I’ll be okay.”

I nod and hug her nice and tight, praying that she’s right.

Three long hours later, Mark's still alive, lying comatose in bed. Sara’s sleeping fitfully on another bed in the room. Wasn’t hard to convince the hospital to take my money and give them a private room.

He survived the first round. So many more to go, though.

So weak. So small. Hooked up to a million different machines. Just like me in Sunnydale.

But this isn’t an illusion. This is my friend.

Cue more tears and sniffling.

“Hang in there, Mark,” I whisper. “Sara needs you. She loves you.”

I take a deep, shuddering breath.

“I love you.”

Out.

“So you can’t die, Mark. Okay? You and Sar are family to me. I can’t lose you.”

I’m answered only by the heart monitor beeping steadily away.

Alright, enough. I need food and sleep. Time to call Dennis, and pick up Vi.

.

I feel like a month has passed by the time I get home. Vi walks in timidly behind me, taking in my digs. I nudge her over to the hallway off the living room.

“You can use this room. S’not got nothin’ in it, just a bed and shit, but you need anythin,’ just let me know. We’ll make it your room, a’ight?”

“Okay.”

Vi looks a little lost. I want to help her, but I’m so fucking tired. It’ll have to wait for morning. Or afternoon - I'll probably sleep that long.

“Look, Vi. Today was hard as fuck for me, so I ain’t gonna be much company for a bit.  Hard is a Slayer’s life. If I die, there’s every chance it’ll be yours. We’re gonna go heavy on the trainin,’ you an' me. I want you to live, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good. Give me an’ hour to get my head on straight, an’ we’ll see about a late dinner.”

“Alright.” Vi steps into her room, then comes back out. “Faith?”

“Yo.”

“Thank you. For havin’ me, I mean. I…”

“Welcome.” I pat her on the shoulder. “Now go put your shit away an’ call Dennis, while I make my own calls. Got a phone?” She shakes her head, so I throw her my cell. “Use that. Talk to you in a bit.”

I find my cordless, and there’s a couple messages on it.

“Faith? It’s Buffy. Please call me back.”

Next one.

“Faith, it’s Buffy again. I felt something. I’m worried. Maybe I’ll try your cell.”

I go back to Vi and check my cell. One missed call from B, but no message.

I pick up my home phone and dial B; best to get this one over with.

“Hello?”

“B? It’s—”

“FAITH! Oh my God, I was so worried! I – I felt something! My whole shoulder went numb, and – and… Are you okay?”

“No, B. I’m not okay. You got time? ‘Cause I’ve got a helluva story for you.”

“Definitely. I’m all ears.”

“A’ight, let’s start with this mornin.’ I took off to Mark’s, high as a kite ‘cause your Mom just agreed to visit me.”

“She did?”

“Yeah. No solid plans, but soon.”

“Oh. That’s, um, nice. I – maybe I could…”

And cue knee-jerk jealousy. Seriously, can you picture B as a five year old? ‘What about me? Me, too!’ Priceless shit. B and Cordy, princesses the both of them.

“B, consider this your standin’ invitation. You never need to call ahead; just drop in whenever. You’re always welcome here.”

“Thanks. I’d really like to see you.”

“Go right ahead. If you tell me in advance, I’ll cover airfare. No sense wastin’ your cash when I have fuckin’ bottomless pockets over here.”

“You don’t have to do that, Faith.”

“You’re worth it.”

There’s this awkward little pause, and I can just imagine B blushing.

“Well… thanks.”

“Welcome. So, where was I?”

“Mark’s.”

“Right. So I get there ready to do my work out an’ shit, and here’s Mark fightin’ for his life against Sara of all people. An’ she was fucked up, B! Possessed by some demon, bendin’ all over the place like she had no bones. Scary shit.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. So I take her down and tie her up. Get Mark to drive us towards a priest he knows – ‘cause fuck if I can do exorcisms. You’re lucky you have Red an’ G, B. I’m kinda missin’ the friendly neighborhood witch over here.”

“Yeah, Willow’s great. Which reminds me, you two have to be nice to each other.”

“Bosom buddies, B. Cross my heart.”

“Okay. So, exorcism?”

“Not yet. Turns out the whole possession shit was a diversion put together by G’s old pal, Ethan Rayne.”

“No way!”

“Ya huh. Didn’t find out his name ‘till later, but yeah, it was him. Mr. Band Candy.”

“So what was the diversion for?”

“To make me an easy target for an assassin.”

“WHAT?”

“A sniper took a shot at me. I had maybe a second’s warnin’ thanks to a Slayer dream a while ago, but I couldn’t move fast enough. He got me in the shoulder.”

“That’s what I felt.”

“You felt that?”

Ouch.

“I felt – in the middle of class, my shoulder started to hurt and my arm went numb. And I knew – just knew it was you. I had – I don’t know, Faithy feelings.”

“Faithy feelin’s? Aww, B—”

“Shut up.”

“—I have feelin’s for you, too.”

“Shut up!”

“Serious as all fuck here, B. I can always feel you, even here in Cleveland. Even right now. If anythin’ big happened to you, I’d know.”

“I … really?”

“Yeah. Always. No one else goes that distance, just you. You an’ me, B, we’re connected.”

“I know. But … wow.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, leaving that for later … so … you were shot?”

“Right. It’s healin’ nicely, but it fucked me up good. Sara woke up an’ got away. I couldn’t do shit ‘bout it.”

“Well, yeah. So what happened then?”

“Got Mark to take me home and slept a bit. Let my shoulder heal some.”

“I tried calling you…”

“Saw that. Didn’t think to check the phone, sorry. Mark prolly didn’t want to pick up. Or maybe we’d already left.”

“You left? But you were shot.”

“Yeah, but who was gonna save Sara? S’anyways, we picked up the priest, tracked her down and did the exorcism. That was the easy part.”

“What was the hard part?”

“Sniper knew where we’d be, and ambushed us. Shot Mark in the gut so we crashed the car. Might have been aimin’ for me, but I had my stealth spell on, an’ I think it fucked with his aim a bit.”

“So you didn’t have it on in the morning?”

“Nah. Never do in the daytime, B. Makes socializin’ a bit hard.”

“Yeah, I guess. So, what happened then?”

“Dragged Mark out behind some parked cars. Got Sara to dress up as me to distract the sniper. Took my spell, too, so that he couldn’t shoot her.” I didn’t know it would work, but B doesn’t need that tidbit. “Then I snuck around to his buildin’ and killed the fucker ‘fore he could shoot me.”

“You … killed him?”

Here we go…

“Chopped his fuckin’ head off. What would you do, B? Say the fucker just shot you in the shoulder, shot Xander in the gut and was tryin’ to aim a shot at Willow? Sayin’ nothin’ ‘bout the fact that he was aimin’ a fuckin’ huge rifle at me as I was runnin’ at him.”

“I … don’t know, Faith. You couldn’t have knocked him out?”

“Dunno. What if he got another shot at me?”

“But then he could … I don’t know, maybe the police could get some information from him?”

“Already a step ahead o’ you, B. Took his hotel card, ransacked his room. Stole his rifle, too. Gun caused me so much pain, now it’s part of my collection.”

“Okay… Did you find anything?”

“Fuck yeah. Guy works for Wolfram & Hart, some fuckin’ demon law firm in L.A. Guess they're pissed off that I slayed there last week. Musta offed some of their boys.”

“Wow. So they sent an assassin after you?”

“Yeah, an’ Rayne. The papers mentioned a Warlock to keep me occupied.”

“Wow. Maybe you should steer clear of L.A. for a while.”

“Maybe I should go there an’ kill every fuckin’ paper pusher in the buildin.’”

“Faith, no! No killing! Promise me!”

“B…”

“I’m serious. I – I want to be friends with you, Faith. I really do, but you have to meet me halfway here. An – an assassin is one thing. I understand why you had to kill him. I don’t like it, but I can deal. But we don’t know anything about this law firm. They – they could be innocent people!”

“They deal with demons, B.”

“They might not know that. We don’t know enough.”

“Dammit, Buffy…”

“Please, Faith. Call Angel. Get help. Don’t just shoot them. Even if you have a nifty new sniper rifle. Please.”

What can I say? Who says no to B?

“Fine. No killin.’”

“Thank you.”

“Yet.”

“Faith…”

“Serious, B. If these guys are bad news, I ain’t gonna let ‘em step all over us. If they go after you, or Angel, I go head huntin.’ But I’m willin’ to wait so we can learn more.”

“Thanks. I’ll tell Giles.”

“Appreciated. I’ll give Cordy a call.”

“Okay. So, what about Mark? Is he okay?”

Mark. Fuck.

“No, B. He ain’t. He’s human. Shot went in through the ribs and out the opposite hip. If he lives, he’ll never be the same.”

“That’s horrible. I’m so sorry.”

“Can’t do nothin’ ‘bout it now, B. Maybe see if Red can cook up somethin’ to help him heal. Anythin’s better than nothin.’”

“Absolutely. I’ll get her to call you.”

“Wicked. Gotta go, B. Gotta call Travers and fax him shit.”

“Okay. Please be careful, Faith.”

“You, too. Bye.”

“Bye.”

.

In a carved stone room hundreds of feet under the city, a massive door stands sealed as it has for centuries. Twenty feet tall, carved from the purest obsidian, etched with elaborate runes and markings, no lock or handle can be seen.

The gloom lessens slightly as a small ‘XIII’ on each door flickers to life in a ghostly blue iridescence. The door shudders slightly, then falls still.

Across town, in a house near a small Greek church, Father George Matsoukas shudders in his sleep.

 

 

 

“Witnesses recall moments of abject terror as a gunman with a military-grade sniper rifle climbed to the roof of an office building and opened fire on unsuspecting shoppers, injuring at least one man. That man, Mark Preston, remains in critical condition at Metro Health Medical Centre. This tragedy took a gruesome twist, however, when police found the gunman beheaded, his rifle stolen. Officials say that they are pursuing all avenues of investigation, and are still interviewing witnesses. There were several reports of a woman with what appeared to be a sword in the nearby area, but police admit that they have no useful leads.

The mayor’s office issued a statement earlier today condemning the shooting as ‘barbaric,’ and offering his support to Mark Preston’s wife, Sara.

In other news, political activists have gathered to protest--”

One click, and the TV powers off. Two well-dressed lawyers glance at each other, each fidgeting with their clothes.

“Well, that didn’t go well,” the man whispers, seeming fearful of the walls.

“Lost a client, a valuable resource, and an expensive firearm all in one shot,” the woman murmurs. “Guess it could be worse.”

“Not really,” the man counters. “His hotel room was searched, and several documents taken. Documents with our names on them.”

The woman starts, then calms herself. “I’m sure the Slayer won’t be jumping on a plane to L.A. anytime soon,” she says with as much confidence as she can muster.

“Lilah, she’s a billionaire,” the man scoffed. “If she wanted to, she could probably just buy out our contracts and have us executed.”

“You worry too much. Besides, this Slayer is my project. You have Angel to worry about.”

“He’s hardly set up yet. I need more information before I move on him.”

“Lindsay…” Lilah shakes her head.

“What?”

“… Never mind.”

Lindsay stands, hastily adjusting his tie. “It’s almost time for the meeting. I’ve got some ideas for where to go from here if--”

“I’m sure we’ll be told exactly what to do,” Lilah snaps, cutting him off. “Last I checked, failure tends to mean bitch work for a while.”

“Well, yeah.”

“Right.” Lilah sighs as she rises to her feet. “Well, it was worth a shot. At the very least, the Slayer will know not to underestimate Wolfram & Hart.”

“Or you just focused her attention over here.”

“Maybe,” she nods, thinking. “Maybe, we can use that…”

Lindsay cocks and eyebrow as he follows Lilah out of the room. He walks a little closer as the young woman speaks, nodding as she brainstorms out loud. Slowly, plans begin to form.

~~~

Buffy pauses as she steps into Willow’s bedroom, noting the small whirlwind that must have attacked the room. No less than five pairs of panties on the floor, three bras, six tops of various designs, but only two pairs of shoes…

That settles it: She arrived precisely late enough to avoid helping. Perfect.

“All packed?” she asks, glancing at the tote on the bed.

“Yup,” the redhead nods. “Off to Cleaver-land, Ohio.”

“Will!” Buffy snaps, glaring at her friend, who waves her off.

“I know, I know.”

“You promised.”

“I know I did. I’ll behave. I’m sure we’ll get along fine.” Willow pauses, giving Buffy a considering look. “Here’s hoping she doesn’t have any more snipers after her. I don’t think she can dress me up like bait.”

The blonde rolls her eyes in response. “I’m sure Cleveland is nice and quiet now.”

“Yup. Lots and lots of rolling heads where once laughing children roamed.”

“Will!”

“Sorry!”

“Right,” Buffy laughs. “I’m sure those laughing children in Cleaver-land accept your apology.”

Willow hip checks Buffy as she moves past her, ticking items off on her hands. “Okay, got my purse, Ziploc bags full of herbs and stuff, ID, wallet, change of clothes, a couple of books… What else do I need…? Ooh! Laptop!”

Buffy giggles in amusement as Willow does her level best to cram her computer into her already bulging carry-on. “Are you sure two days is long enough?”

“Absolutely! This will either work, or … well, I hope it works.” Willow grimaces. “It might not. It’s not like I’m the Mistress of Magic or anything.”

“It can’t really make it any worse, can it?”

“Not really. Just more painful.”

Buffy winces in sympathy. “Oh. Well, try to avoid that.”

“Will do. So, call you when I get there?”

“I’ll be waiting!”

Heavy footfalls announce Xander’s arrival. “Hey Buff!” he greets as he walks in. The girls each hug him in greeting, and Xander looks expectantly at Willow. “So, ready to go to Cleaver-land?”

Will snickers at him, while Buffy pins him with a deadly glare.

“What?”

~~~

“GIMME FUEL, GIMME FIRE GIMME THAT WHICH I DESIRE! NNGH!”

As Metallica blares loudly through the room, Vi struggles to lift the barbell, pressing it painfully upwards to clock her tenth rep. Her muscles ache beautifully – Faith certainly knows how to put together a workout plan. As she brackets the bar, she takes a moment to regard the tiny weights on each end: 130lb – the heaviest weight she’s ever trained with; a little over her body weight. It’s a serious accomplishment for her. But it seems so … pathetic in light of the woman across the room.

Vi knows she’s strong – for a girl. At least as strong as any athletic guy her age might be. Fast, accurate, keen senses … Potential Slayer traits. But Watching Faith pound out sets with a staggering 1240lb on the sagging bar highlighted to her the difference between the Potential and the Actual. Faith is literally ten times her strength. Does that also make her ten times faster, ten times more accurate, ten times more durable, her senses ten times keener?

Faith’s working the heavy bag, now – the really heavy bag; the one with the steel core secured with industrial-grade chain top and bottom to keep it from flying away. Her punches rattle off with the cadence of a machine gun, jerking the bag to and fro as though it weighed next to nothing. When she fires a kick at it, the chains strain taught, and the room quivers a bit.

It’s a wonder the building tenants don’t complain.

Wait.

Faith owns the building.

Never mind.

Vi stares unabashedly at her possible future: Sweating heavily in only shorts and a sports bra, her muscles standing out proud and defined, fibrous and vascular from the intense effort exerted; her eyes dancing with power and delight as she bobs and weaves around the bag, punishing it mercilessly while she sings to the heavy metal blaring from the wall speakers.

What an amazing future.

Slowly, reality sets in as Vi’s gaze slides to the bandage across Faith’s shoulder. The punches coming from that arm don’t rock the bag quite so much, and Faith grunts painfully in time with those punches. She remembers helping Faith change her bandage, and how ugly the wound was. She remembers hearing Faith sobbing uncontrollably in bed, probably over her friend, Mark.

Maybe not so amazing.

With a sigh, Vi returns to her sets. Soon enough, it will be her turn on that bag. Her hands already ache in fearful anticipation.

~~~

I hate hospitals. They reek of fear and death, barely concealed by the stench of bleach.

I hate them for the weakness they represent. I hate them because even as a Slayer, I can be made weak enough to end up in a hospital. I never thought I’d see the inside of one, but then again I’d never considered being stabbed then trying to commit suicide. As I walk down the hall towards Mark’s room, I’m painfully reminded that this place – a hospital – is the reward for every normal human that tries to help a Slayer.

When I walk through the doorway, the sight of Mark’s broken form breaks my heart and steals my breath.

This is my fault.

I will push it down. I will lock it away and try to be the best friend I know how to be. Sara deserves it. Mark, if he makes it, will need all the support he can get.

But this is my fault. I involved them in my life, and now they have to pay the price.

I see Sara in the room and quickly pull myself together. She’s already slumped in her seat, her face in her hands. Doesn’t need to be both of us.

“So, how was the night?”

Sara doesn’t even look up at me. “Okay, I guess,” she mutters through her hands. “Mark hasn’t woken up. He won’t. The doctors are keeping him under to minimize the pain and help healing.”

“Sounds good. I’ve made some calls. A friend’s comin’ up from Cali to try an’ fix him up some. Dunno what she can do, but I figure anythin’s better than nothin.’ You gonna be okay with that?”

Sara bites her lip and finally looks up at me, her eyes bloodshot and puffy. “Um, I guess. Can I speak to her, first?”

“’Course. Her name’s Willow Rosenberg. She’s a witch.”

That gets a reaction. “A – A witch? You mean like the one that had me possessed?”

“Oh, Sar,” I laugh. “Red’s way stronger than that dude. If she’d have been here, you’d have been free in minutes, tops. She’ll help Mark, for sure.”

Sara closes her eyes and nods. I sit down beside her and she instinctively curls into me. It suddenly strikes me how much smaller she is. A tiny little thing with surprising strength, both physically and mentally – she is a nurse, after all. Once again, I seem to have forged a friendship with a girl that reminds me strongly of Buffy. Wrong hair color of course – Sara’s hair and eyes are as dark as mine – but the comparison is a good one.

How many people would have snapped from the experience of being possessed? How many people would have run screaming from me once they knew what I was, what I did? Not Sara. She’s hurting right now, and she’ll likely hurt even more if Mark kicks it. But there’s still that spark in her eyes that tells me she’s ready for round two.

She’ll need that strength. There’s almost no chance of Mark coming out of this in one piece, unless Red has some wicked miracles bottled up.

Please. Please, please, please.                                                                                                                                                                                                                             

~~~

I feel a little sluggish as I walk through the airport. The hospital visit drained my energy, and I keenly miss my four-hour stint of training with Mark. My body’s just itching for action, and it resents this sedentary shit. I’ll give myself a few more rounds on the bag later. For now, though, I make my way to the arrivals, trying not to seem anxious.

Me and Willow. No Buffy to buffer. No Joyce to keep a lid on things. Yeah, this could suck.

Knock it off, Lehane. She’s here to help you. She could have said no.

The argument in my head dies off as I spot the girl lumbering down the steps, lugging a heavy-ass tote.

“Yo! Red!”

She sees me, tries to wave, and drags her ass over. She sighs in relief when I take her bag from her.

“Um, hi.”

“Hey yourself.” I reach down, and guide her hand into mine, shaking it. “Goes like this: ‘Welcome to Cleveland, Willow. I’m glad you could make it.’ Now you go…”

“Thanks, Faith. I’m happy to be here.” She smiles a bit, and we start walking.

“Got luggage?”

“Nope. I travel light. I have everything I need right here.”

“A’ight, then.”

A very uncomfortable silence falls around us as we exit the airport. It lasts all the way to my Mustang, where I stash Red’s bag in the trunk, pushing my weapons over a bit.

“So… This is awkward,” Willow mumbles.

“Doesn’t have to be.” I shrug. “I got a room for you, unless that’s too uncomfortable. Got lots o’ space at my place.”

Willow frowns for a sec. “That’s –” More frowning and lip nibbling “—that’s fine. I’ll stay with you.”

“B give you the ‘be nice’ speech?”

That gets me a smile. “Yeah, she did. You, too?”

“Ya huh. You know B: Always tellin’ us what to do. Likes to be in charge of shit.”

“Yup. That’s Buff.”

We leave the conversation on a high note, hiding behind the rock songs on the radio.

“This is it.” I walk Red from the underground parking to the elevator. “I’ve got a key for this. For you, the code’s 364785.” I punch the code in on the keypad before hitting the penthouse button. “Just in case you need to get up there and I can’t let you in. Same code for the door.”

“Isn’t that a security risk?”

“Not really. Anyone that wants in that bad could just climb the building and break a window.”

“Is there… a spell?” Red looks around, frowning.

“Yeah, same kind of stealth thing I use for me. Keeps demons out.”

“It’s … pretty good. You did this?” Willow’s looking at me with respect. Wow, I guess miracles do happen.

I nod and try to keep the shock off my face.

“Sorry,” she says, ducking her head. I really do have a shit poker face, don’t I? “I heard from Buffy that you could do some spells, but this,” she waves her hand, “this is more than I expected.”

“Glad you like it. C’mon, let’s introduce you to Vi.”

 I let Red punch the code in to unlock the door, and we step in. Vi’s in the workout room doing cardio. It’s a piss-poor replacement for training with Mark, but needs must and all that. Vi jumps off the treadmill and walks over when she sees us. Red shakes her hand politely.

“Hi. I’m Willow.”

“Vi. You’re the witch Faith said d’ be comin’ by?”

“Yup. And you’re a Potential Slayer. Must be fun.”

“Kinda is. ‘Least, Faith makes it fun. Lots t’eat, lotsa trainin.’ My Watcher, Dennis, he’s good, but there ain’t nothin’ like a Slayer to teach you how to fight.”

“Workin’ out is my afternoon plan,” I say as I walk past them. “Gonna change and get to it. Your room’s beside mine, down the hall here.”

Willow follows as I drop her bag in the room. “I’ll need a couple of hours to get things together for Mark.”

“That works. I’ll call Sara when you’re ready, and we’ll meet at the hospital.”

Willow nods, then disappears into her room. I turn and head into mine, stripping off my street clothes and wiggling into a sports bra and bike shorts.

“C’mon, Vi!” I shout. “Time to suffer!”

~~~

Willow glances around at her room. It’s … nice. Simple. Neutral colors, a bed, dresser, night stand, and a pretty nice closet. Ooh! An ensuite! Really? Wow! Faith certainly knows how to treat a guest. Nothing says hospitality than not having to share a washroom. The witch rolls her thoughts around as she carefully unpacks her clothing into the drawers, taking her toiletries to the bathroom. She expected much, much worse than this. This was almost Cordelia-like, and Faith was polite and considerate.

It feels weird, though. Almost alien. Where was the cleavage, the leather? That choker with the crucifix was classic Faith, and her straight, dark hair reminded Willow far too much of being held at knife-point in the mayor’s office last spring. But the rest – blue jeans, t-shirt, cheap sunglasses – they were so … normal. So un-Faith that it threw her for a loop. She almost thought she was in another world until Faith had popped her trunk and moved several knives, an axe and a claymore over to make room for Willow’s bag. That’s when the familiar frission of fear ran up Willow’s spine. That’s when she knew that appearances aside this was still Faith.

She pauses as a god-awful (Goddess!) racket starts up. The girls were training. Overcome by curiosity, Willow abandons the last of her neatly folded clothing and walks back over to the training room. She peeks in – and her eyeballs fall out. She’s sure of it. They’re rolling on the ground.

Cheered on by Vi, Faith is bench-pressing the most comically oversized set of barbells Willow’s ever seen. The weights are so big, so thick, that the setup looks more like the axle of some sort of armored personnel carrier.

“C’mon, Faith!” Vi shouts. “You can do it! Just five more!”

Faith grunts, pressing the bar up over her head again. Her face is red, her features screwed up in exertion.

“Four!”

Grunt.

Willow watches through “Three!” then “Two!” then “One!” Finally, on the last press, Faith eases the bar into its enormous bracket, and sits up, rolling her shoulders.

She’s beautiful. Lean, compact muscles glistening with sweat, large breasts captured in the coils of a sports bra showing that captivating cleavage. Long, powerful legs that go from cute toenails all the way up to the most amazing ass and – nope, skipping that! Go back to the toned arms and strong shoulders, which lead back to the breasts, which lead down to the ridiculously well-defined abs, which leads down to … there.

Willow closes her eyes, swallowing. This reaction is not what she expected. Seeing Faith mostly naked, sweating from a workout (with some physically impossible weight!) is not what she expected.

“Hey, Red. All set up?”

“Yes,” she croaks, snapping her eyes up to meet Faith’s. Those brown eyes, glinting with more than a little mischief. That long, dark hair… and she’s still wearing that choker! She…

Oh, God (Goddess!).

“I just wanted to see what you were up to,” Willow hedges. “I’ll probably grab a shower—” a cold shower “—and then get to mixing. I can use the kitchen for that…?”

“Sure.” Faith waves her off. “Make yourself at home. There’s a bathrobe in there, I think. Unless you wanna walk around in your underwear. We’re all girls here.” Then those dark lips curl into that solicitous smirk, and her eyebrows rise just so…

She knows. She’s a Slayer, dammit! She can smell you!

“Right!” Willow backs out of the room quickly. “I’ll see you later!”

Vi stares at the now empty doorway. “What’s up with her?”

“Learnin’ somethin’ new about herself,” Faith answers as she stands up. “Right. Help me balance this thing so I can get some squats done.”

~~~

By the time I finish my second workout, Red’s already busy mixing her concoction in the kitchen. She’s back to smiles and politeness, so I’m assuming she’s buried her little ‘episode.’

“I’m almost done,” she announces as I come up beside her. “This should – should – help Mark out. There’s a chance it won’t, but it’s the best I could come up with on short notice.”

“I’m sure it’ll work,” I offer, trying to sound hopeful.

“I hope so,” the witch says, focused on the vials in front of her. “It’s the first time I’ve augmented this, the first time I’ve used it actually. So naturally augmenting something you have no experience with … not exactly a walk in the park. I think I’m right. I know I’m right actually, but I don’t know if it’ll work in Mark’s case. The injuries are so extensive…”

I lay a hand on her shoulder, and she trails off. Damn, but the girl can talk.

“I trust you,” I say. “If it doesn’t work, it was never gonna, and we did the best we could.”

Red blows out a huge breath. “Yeah.” She caps off her vials and places them in a small rack. “Did you talk to Sara?”

“Yeah. Askin’ for Mark’s old hair kinda wigged her out, but she said she’d get somethin’ for us.”

“Good. That’s the last bit. We’re ready.”

A couple of phone calls later, and back to the hospital we go. Joy of fucking joys.

“I hate this.” Sar starts up before I even get in the room.

“What happened?”

“Jessica showed up,” Sara sighs, talking about her best friend, another nurse. “And of course, Rob and Kathy showed up with her.” Rob’s a doctor, Kathy’s a radiology tech. “There’s no lying to them about what happened, but they’re scared, they don’t know why – they can’t know why…” Sara trails off, mumbling to herself. “This is so messed up.”

“Yeah, I know.” I share a nod with Willow. “Keepin’ secrets sucks.”

“How do you do it?” Sara asks, keeping her eyes on Mark. “It makes you so… lonely.”

“’Cause I know that as much as tellin’ people takes the loneliness and stress off me, it puts it all on them.” I gently turn her to look at me. “Look at you, Sar: You’re a fuckin’ wreck. Now you know and understand my world a little bit, so it’s swallowed you up, and you’re different. So the big stress ain’t ‘vampires and demons exist,’ it’s ‘there’s nothin’ to see here, I’m perfectly normal.’ Get it?”

“Yeah.” Sara looks past me. “Is this your friend?”

“Yup. Sara, meet Willow. Willow, Sara.”

The girls exchange muted pleasantries, and Red sets up shop while I close the door. Once she’s ready, she sits us both down, grabbing a couple pages of notes.

“So, here’s the sitch: This isn’t Final Fantasy, and you can’t buy Cure Potions at the corner store. This is a transmogrify spell that normally turns people into animals. We’re tweaking it slightly so that we’re turning Mark into Mark – only a slightly younger Mark that doesn’t have a big, nasty bullet wound. Normally this kind of thing takes a lot of mojo. In this case, since we’re only making itty-bitty changes, it only takes itty-bitty mojo.”

“Sort of like Harry Potter?” Sara asks.

Willow claps her hands and smiles. “Right! Polyjuice Potion! Except we’re using hair from last week, give or take.”

I nod, following along. “I ain’t much of a witch, but I know enough to doubt miracles. What’s the catch?”

“Well, when it wears off, the body should revert to its basic form. But the body isn’t like a computer. It doesn’t just ‘save state’ and come straight back to it. It should ‘age’ him to his natural form. But since his natural form doesn’t include a huge hole through his gut, it should leave him in one piece.”

“Wow,” Sara says, impressed. “That actually makes sense.”

“Fuckin’ A, Red. If this works, you’re gettin’ a hair collection for Christmas.”

Red gives me an impish grin. “I’m Jewish.”

“Chanukah, then. Same shit.” Try as I might, my doubts keep coming back. “That’s still too clean, though. What else can happen?”

“Well, anything that could happen will happen when it wears off. It could only get rid of some of the injury. Or it won’t get rid of any, and Mark gets to relive the pain of being shot.”

We all wince at that thought. Sara recovers first.

“But it has a good chance of working?”

“I think so.”

“Well then we do it.” Sara sweeps her hand towards the bed. “Mark’s chances of surviving to see tomorrow are seventy-thirty; his chances of seeing next week are fifty-fifty.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “They won’t talk about next month, and I think you know what that means.”

“I’ll get to work,” Willow says quietly. “I’ll just inject this straight into his IV. Keep the nurses out for a bit, okay?”

~~~

Silent as death, the grand obsidian doors slide open. A large horned demon steps through, inspecting his surroundings. Such a pathetic place, this ‘Cleveland.’ He was promised an army when he arrived. What few vampires remained here were hardly an advance force. Damn the Slayer to Hell for arriving before he did.

It was enough, though. No Slayer would defeat him in combat, even with the paltry forces at his command.

“Come to me,” he demanded, his power washing over the city above him. “Serve me and know glory beyond your wildest dreams!”

His features twist into a satisfied smirk as he senses the vampires in the city responding to his call.

“Tonight, Slayer, you die.”

Confident and powerful, the demon lumbers out of the cavern. Behind him, the ‘XII’ on the doors fade slowly to black.

~~~

Finally free from the hospital, it’s my favorite time of the evening – patrol time. I’d always intended to take Vi with me, and Willow seems eager to come along. She’s the biggest damn thing on my radar, so she must have some killer spells prepped. Something tells me that the witch doesn’t see a lot of slaying in Sunnydale, and wants to cut loose just as much as I do.

Or maybe just intimidate me a bit.

She leans against a headstone and keeps watch as I teach Vi Slaying 101. Staring with weapons, naturally.

“Bow slayin’s the strongest option for you. Crossbows pack a stronger punch an’ you can shoot prone. But gettin’ more than one shot off is sometimes a problem.” I pull a bow out of my duffle bag and toss it over. “This is a collapsible compound bow. Mine’s set to a 100lb pull – strongest I could get at the shop. That’s stupid hard for you, an’ I still don’t feel it. You set yours where you can manage. Less than 50lbs won’t always stake a vamp, though, and you need higher for tougher demons. If you can’t cut 50lbs, stick to the crossbow for slayin’ until you can.

 “Ammo is simple,” I say as I hand her a handful of arrows. “Always wood shafts, for obvious reasons. Always bodkins for vamps, ‘cause all you care about’s penetration. You want the wood shaft to reach the heart. Trust me: 50lbs and up, it will.” Next I hand her a wider-tipped bunch. “Always broadhead for demons, ‘cause you’re lookin’ for max damage.”

“Cool,” Vi says as she gives the bow a test pull, and practices her aim.

“How come you didn’t use a bow in Sunnydale?” Willow asks from the side.

“Did near the end, but I was missin’ a key ingredient.” I rub my thumb and fingers together. “Money – lots of money. Your arrows dust with vamps, and you ain’t retrievin’ a broadhead from most demons. Also, wood arrows are thicker, harder to find, and cost a bit. Still, safety’s worth a few bucks.”

“Still, there’s got to be a better choice than a stake in most cases.” Willow gives a shudder. “Too close for comfort, especially for us non-Slayers.”

“Spear’s good. Just sharpen a shovel handle. You’ll look retarded walkin’ around with it, but if you’re using a stealth spell, no one’ll notice.” I tap an arrow shaft. “Same downside as arrows, though. If you don’t pull out wicked quick, you lose your spear.”

The three of us snicker at the sexual innuendo, and then we start scouring for a vamp to shoot. It’s time Vi cut her teeth. It takes about a half hour, but the cemetery finally gives up the goods.

“There he is,” I whisper. “Perfect shot – newbie gettin’ up. Get ready.”

I watch as Vi kneels and sets herself. She’s used a bow before, that much is obvious. Now’s the real thing, though.

“Breathe. Good form, good grip. Steady. Eyes on the prize. Push and pull…”

Newbie’s just about free of the grave. The best shot is right about now, when he’s got no legs.

“Don’t jerk – just let go.”

I hear her inhale deeply, and hold… and she lets fly. Less than a second later, the vamp stares down at the fletching in his chest as his body turns to ash.

“Sweet shit! Lookit you, ace! Dustin’ a vamp on your first shot!”

“Good job, Vi!” Willow pats the girl on the shoulder.

“Thanks,” she says, blushing a bit from the attention. I see that fire in her eyes, though – the rush of a successful slay. Yeah, the girl’s got it.

“A’ight, that’s it’s for here. No vibes – time to move on.”

“No.”

~~~

The voice is deep, resonating.

And it happens. Faith gasps as the feeling hits her. Willow’s hair rises as though electrically charged. Even Vi feels the wrongness that surrounds them.

From all directions, vampires swarm.

Vi kneels near the weapon bag and fires arrow after arrow, carefully aiming at the more distant targets. Everything closer belongs to Faith.

Sword and stake in hand, Faith rushes into melee like a woman possessed. She tears into the vamps with such speed Vi thinks of the Tasmanian devil.

As vampires rush to flank the Slayer, a tree bends and impales one through the heart, dusting it. Then another, and another, while Willow smiles victoriously.

Vampire after vampire rushes in to attack, but Faith seems joyful – giddy with glee as her blade carves through arms and necks. She howls with triumphs as her stake finds their blackened hearts.

“Your strength is not enough!” the voice bellows, and an enormous crimson demon with wide horns appears in a cascade of flames.

As Faith charges the minotaur-like fiend, she stumbles, turning to stare at Vi.

“Shit! VI! DEFEND RED!”

 Vi turns and readies herself, but her heart sinks. No less than twenty vampires, all armed, rush Willow from the back cemetery entrance. She takes aim and dusts one, then grabs a sword frantically, racing to the witch’s side.

Willow turns, sees the vampires.

Her eyes darken to almost black as she reaches out.

“Incendere!”

Flames surround the witch, then explode outward. With shrieks and howls the vampires light up like cheap fireworks, fizzling away into dust. Those that remain are too injured to defend themselves as Vi swings for their heads.

‘Defend Red,’ Faith? Really?

The furious roar of the demon draws Vi’s attention back to Faith.

Faith moves like lightning, faster than Vi can track. She leaps to avoid the demon’s strike, pivoting with one hand on the monster’s shoulder to land astride its neck, plowing her sword into its back. Her stake flies into the air, forgotten, as her hunting knife gleams in the street lights.

Stab. Stab. Stab. Stab.

In less than a heartbeat, emerald-hued blood gushes from more than a dozen wounds. The monster is incoherent with pain, his mouth forming soundless words, his face showing as much confusion as fear.

For it, everything has gone so horribly, horribly wrong.

Too late. It had arrived too late.

Stab. Stab. Stab. Stab.

Lacerated shoulders prevent the beast from raising its arms fully. It flails, howling in pain, but the Slayer is firmly anchored and the knife continues to plunge home, coming away each time with a renewed spray of bright green ichor. Its strength failing, the behemoth drops to one knee, then all fours, then prone, its blood new flowing freely from mortal wounds. Wrenching her sword free, Faith swings once, twice, and the demon’s head falls away from its body.

“Fuck, yeah!” Faith howls. “That’s how it’s fuckin’ done!” She moves to offer Red a high five. To Vi’s surprise, the still dark-eyed witch slaps hands with Faith, matching the Slayer’s predatory grin with one of her own.

Less than five seconds later, they’re beside her, completely normal and in control save for the slight scorches on Willow’s clothes and the green blood on Faith.

“C’mon, Vi. Let’s motor and see if we can’t get cleaned up. Night’s young.”

Vi manages a nod, shaking from the adrenaline rush. This was – it was a fatal fight. Maybe not for Faith or Willow, but certainly for her. Both of them were … amazing. For the first time, Vi wonders if she truly belongs. Was it worth it, risking her life to fight alongside superheroes?

Faith smiles down at her. “You did good, kiddo. That was wicked shooting. I’m proud of you.”

A huge smile forms on her face. The aching in her arms is long forgotten. Hell yes, this was worth it.

~~~

 “So, the latest CT scan came back,” Sara says as we enter Mark’s room the next morning. I can already tell by the big smile on her face that we’re gone to hear good news.

“The doctor has called it a miracle. Officially, he’s listing it as ‘absurd luck’ that all the tissue and organs were close enough and in proper alignment to heal as completely as they have. Mark will need a colostomy bag for at least the next month or so, until they’re certain all the inflammation is down and his bowels are functioning properly.”

“Wow,” is all I can manage. That’s so much better than before, even if it’s permanent. Mark’s going to live.

“I know. There’s also still damage to the liver, but it’s improved, and they’re no longer worried about it failing. It’s not perfect, but it’s so, so much better than it was before.” Sara moves over to Willow and pulls the witch into a tight hug. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Red gets her arms awkwardly around Sara’s back. “I’m really happy that it worked.”

I feel Red stiffen up a bit as I pull her over to me, but I don’t care. Mark’s going to live. It’s a dream come true. “You have no idea how much this means to me,” I whisper to her.

“I-It’s… you’re welcome.” Red wheezes; I loosen up my hold a little bit. She smiles at me as she takes a breath.

“I owe you big,” I say, trying to keep from tearing up. “Anything I can do for you, you got it. Just name it.”

Willow gives me a big, genuine smile, with just a touch of naughty. “I can’t think of anything right now, but I’ll keep it in mind.”

“You do that.”

~~~

 “I like this place,” Red says, looking around my living room as I hand her a glass of wine. “It’s nice. Big, but cozy.”

“Thanks, Red. I’ve tried wicked hard to make it a home. It’s workin’ so far.”

We pause for a moment to sip our drinks, the fireplace giving some fake pops and crackles.

“Yeah. I think I’ll try something like this.”

“Make sure you buy the buildin.’ Landlords are annoyin’ little fucks.”

Willow nods, and takes another sip before putting her drink down. “So, Vi seems really happy.”

I have to agree. “She’s great.” I’ve been pleasantly surprised at how well we’ve gotten on.

“I know you’re only supposed to keep her for a few days, but—”

“Preachin’ to the choir, Red.” I hold up my hand. “Ain’t told her yet, but she can stay long as she wants. I’ll work somethin’ out with Dennis.”

~~~

From the doorway to her room, Vi tries desperately to hold in her tears, to contain her excitement.

She fails.

Willow laughs joyfully as the crying teen tackles Faith into a hug, the wine glasses long forgotten. The three spend their last night telling stories by the fireplace, all worldly concerns forgotten.

~~~

As I park my car at the airport, Willow hands me several sheets of paper. “Here. I made these for you.”

“Wicked.” I give the papers a glance – seriously dense scribbling everywhere. “What is it?”

“A step-by-step guide on how to make the potion.” Red’s all kinds of excited as she explains. “There isn’t a lot of power involved, and you shouldn’t have too much trouble with ingredients, Miss Money.”

I cock my head at her a bit. “Thought it took a lot of power to do this shit. Your friend’s still a rat, right?”

“Amy did that to herself, with a spell – no potion involved. That kind of mojo can’t be fixed like this…” Willow trails off, mumbling. “Although I’ll certainly try.”

“Here.” I interrupt her brainstorming with a nice, big book. “Got somethin’ for you, too.”

“What is … whoa.” Red backs away from the book so hard she hits the car door – kind of like I thought she would.

“Yeah. Feel that?”

“Uh huh. Major wiggins here. What’s in that book?”

“Some serious dark shit – blow someone’s intestines out their asshole, that kind of thing. Belonged to the Mayor. I can’t ever use this, but I thought maybe you’d be able to use it. Y’know, reference or whatever.” I give her a smile. “Let’s face it, Red – you have to actually use shit like this, the world’s endin.’ Period.”

“Yeah,” she nods, recovering and taking the book. “Thanks, Faith. I’ll go through it. Might have some good stuff in between the ick.”

“Also, this.” I hand her a bulging envelope. “That’s my stealth spell. Complete with the pouch.” I take Red’s hand in mine. “Teach it to B. Show her how to use it. Please.”

“I will. I promise.”

A weird moment of quiet passes before we break eye contact and she blushes cutely.

“Um… I had a good time, Faith. Thanks.”

“Glad to have you. Come back whenever, a’ight? Call me.”

“I – I just might do that.” She’s still looking down, and I’m debating whether or not to—

“Y’know what? Fuck it.”

“Wha—mmf!!”

I lean forward and kiss her firmly on the lips. Take that home with you, Red.

“There,” I say, moving back. “Now you can say you did it.”

She stares at me with the cutest little frown. “I … um…”

“Better than watchin’ you do the avoidance dance. You’ve been at it since yesterday.”

Willow struggles to find words, but then her brow unfurrows and she tilts her head, considering. Her tongue darts out and gives her lips a small lick.

“Hmm. Cherry. Not bad.”

“I aim to please.” I pop the trunk and open my door. “Now, let’s get you back to your wolf.”

As I see Willow off, I can’t help but smile – I think we’re actually friends, now.

 

 

 

The calendar on the wall says October 19th. What a fucking month. Let’s count it up: On the 4th, I hit Sunnydale and made my peace with Buffy. From the 5th to the 11th I lit up LA’s nightlife. On the 13th Mark and I were shot and Sara was possessed. On the 15th Willow came by, saved Mark’s life and helped me kick some major demon ass. Yesterday was the first day I felt one hundred percent since I was shot. Just tiny little divots on my back and boob. Sara says they’ll go away soon enough.

But seriously, if shit keeps up like this I’m going to get gray hairs.

That’s why I’m kicking it on the couch with Vi this morning, pigging on some delicious chocolate chip ice cream and watching a replay of UFC 22. Shamrock and Ortiz are putting on a damned good show, and both of us are on the edge of our seats, shouting at the TV while we spoon chocolaty goodness into our mouths.

This is the life.

Ring!

Ah, fuck.

I fumble around for the handset on the end table, still watching the fight. “Lehane,” I mumble, my mouth still half-full.

“Hi. It’s me.”

“B? S’up?”

“Um… do you have a minute?”

Sigh. Goodbye, UFC. I motion for Vi to keep watching and take my ice cream to my room.

“Sure. For you, B, anythin.’”

“Are you eating?”

“Yup. Chocolate chip ice cream.  Good fuckin’ stuff.”

“Oh! I thought you were all Health Girl now.”

“Yeah, I am. Today we were just gonna kick it in front of the set. It’s been a fuckin’ time here the last little bit, let me tell you.”

“Yeah.” There’s a pause, and then I hear a big breath. “Faith?”

“Mmm?”

“Can I ask you something? About guys?”

“Uh oh. Somethin’ happen, B?”

“Yeah. I met this guy, Parker. We – um, I really liked him, and we slept together.”

Ah, fuck. I can see where this is going.

“He kinda shooed me out of his room, said something about his mom coming to visit. He said he’d call, but I – I’m wigging, and you’ve been around more guys, and… How long…? Or…?”

“Shit, B. That fuckin’ sucks.” I blow out a breath, all sorts of memories running through my head. “Fuck, I’m so sorry you went through that.”

“What do you mean?”

“You got played, B. His excuse was fuckin’ retarded, and ‘I’ll call you’ is a classic line. Heard it more than a few times, not that I cared. Shit, used it myself a few times, too.”

“I … oh.”

“Sorry, B. I wanna tell you good things, but … You have just been subjected to ‘get some, get gone.’ Unfortunately, it wasn’t you doin’ the gettin’ and goin.’”

“No. Parker’s … he’s… no. I…”

I can hear the tears pooling already.

“Just let him go, B. If you see him again, just smile at him and keep walkin.’  Nothin’ you can do about it.”

All I hear is the sound of her crying, and my heart breaks.

What the fuck is my money good for, if not exactly this?

“I’m comin’ down, B.”

“What?” She sniffles loudly. “No, you have to do that.”

“Did I ask? I’m comin.’ I’ll call for a flight, be there by mid-afternoon. Don’t do nothin’ ‘bout that tool till I get there, dig?”

“Faith…”

“Promise me, B. Don’t fall for his shit. Wait till I get there.”

“Okay.”

I get off the call with B, and then call the airlines, hoping that there’s an opening that won’t make a liar out of me. Turns out money talks and I have exactly one hour to get to the airport. I throw some clothes into a backpack and get my shit together in five minutes flat.

“Vi, you be okay for a couple days?”

“Sure. You go be a friend, I promise I’ll keep workin’ out.”

“Cool. No heavy weights, A’ight? Don’t get hurt.”

“I won’t.”

“Cool. Call me or Dennis if somethin’ comes up. Don’t patrol.”

~~~

 

I guess this is how rock stars do it? Grab one of the first class or business class seats that are for sure open, haul ass from city to city, sometimes more than once a day? Fuck, I’m going to have jet lag.

Clock strikes 1:00pm by the time I hit LA, and 2:45 by the time I drive my shitty rental to Sunnydale. The entire time I’m yacking on the phone with B. As things go, I’m apparently in time to go Spike-hunting, so my trip isn’t entirely for girly-girl reasons. This Gem of Amarra sounds pretty hardcore.

After a quick meet-and-greet, I spend the rest of the afternoon on campus with B as we try to track down Harmony, figuring that she’ll lead us to Spike. Our scavenger hunt is interrupted, however, as Buffy tugs at my arm.

“There,” she says, pointing. “That’s Parker. He’s … not alone.” Her voice falters.

I look over and sure as shit, there’s Mr. Congeniality chatting up another girl. Gotta say, his lines are pretty good. One look at B’s face tells me she’s heard them before, too.

“This fuckin’ guy…” I mutter as I take it in. “This tool’s who you’re mooning over, B? Seriously?”

“He’s … he’s a nice guy, Faith.” Nice guy. Yeah. Pray a little harder, B.

“See that? That’s game, girlfriend. Nothin’ more, nothin’ less. Now, stand right here.”

Buffy gives me a concerned glance. “What’re you going to do?”

“Defend your honor, and save that other girl some pain. Trust me.”

Buffy hesitates a couple of times, but she more or less stays put while I walk over. Damn, it’s been about a year since I broke this shit out for Scott Hope. The words are already on the tip of my tongue, dying for release.

I’m wicked sexy, and I wore my leathers for just this occasion. Suddenly, I have his undivided attention. But he ain’t getting the first word.

“Parker? There you are, honey!” I touch his shoulder all lovey-dovey – and the fucking sleaze bag doesn’t even jump a little like Scott did – no, he thinks he’s about to score, the prick.

“Hey, good news: The doctor says that the itching and the swelling and the burning should clear up, but we gotta keep using the ointment.” I give him a real sympathetic look. Then I pretend to just notice his girl. “Hi. Sorry, I’m interrupting. I’ll talk to you later, P.”

With a wave, I leave him gawking in horror. His new girl’s already walking away with a disgusted look on her face.

Buffy’s looking at me like I’m insane.

“Are you insane?”

See?

“Nah. Just vindictive.”

“Uh, yeah. You definitely win the award for Revenge Girl – well, actually Anya does, but that’s different. But that… Wow. Ouch.”

“Hey, it’s nothin.” I lean in and wrap my arm around her shoulders. “If you want the truth, I used that exact same line on Scott when he dumped you.”

“Scott…? Scott Hope? Really? When?”

“Homecomin,’ while you were off with Cordy.”

“You … for me? Really?”

Right now, I’m the happiest I could be. Buffy’s looking at me with surprise and gratitude, and I love every second I can make her smile.

Second’s up.

I’m grabbed roughly from behind and pulled away from B. Buffy gets punched in the face hard enough to send her to the ground.

Strong grip. Crypt smell. Vampire. A fucking vampire, in broad daylight, and I can’t feel him!

“Friend of yours?” he mocks, eyes still on Buffy. “Thanks for bringing a snack, luv.”

Without looking back at me, he grabs for my neck. I grab his arm and twist it into a joint lock, savouring the sweet, sweet shock on his face. Bleached blond hair, ratty old duster … must be Spike.

“Hi. Haven’t had the chance to meet you yet. I’m Faith.” I slam him with a straight punch, twisting nearly 180 for extra oomph. The lightweight fucker flies into the wall of the building, cracking the brickwork. He falls in a shower of stone and mortar before scrambling to his feet.

“You’re the other one, aren’t you? The mayor’s old lapdog.”

All I give him is a big, wide grin. “Slayer Two, at your service.”

That’s all he gets as Buffy brings the pain, slamming him hard in the face and gut before sweeping his legs out. Spike kips up, straight into B’s stake.

But he doesn’t dust.

Well, shit.

“Oh, do it again,” he mocks. “It tickles.”

“The gem,” Buffy says flatly.

Spike holds up his hand, displaying his ring for us. “The Gem of Amarra. My ticket to killing you.”

B’s distracted by the ring, and Spike knocks the stake form Buffy’s hand and then knocks B flying. I take up the fight, deflecting his lunge and shoving him back a good ten feet.

“Careful, Faith,” Buffy tells me from behind. “He can’t be killed with that ring on.”

“Wanna bet?”

“Do your worst, luv. You want to add to your list of failures? I’ve already notched two slayers, bint. I can notch two more.”

Ooh. I’m so scared. William-the-fucking-Bloody thinks he’s good at pushing buttons?

Watch me talk out my ass like a pro.

“Boss always wanted that ring, you know.” I walk calmly towards him. “He was always afraid that the Master woulda got his hands on it. Or Angel. Funny thing, though, he never gave a damn ‘bout you, Spike. You were always too small time for him to care about.”

Buttons pushed.

“I’ll show you small time!”

He rushes me, snarling, and I’ll give him credit – he’s fast. But I’ve been training and fighting non-stop for months, and he’s more than a bit rusty. Worse, he’s cocky. He expects another Buffy.

I’m Faith.

The horrified look growing on his face as I slap away his attacks makes me grin even harder. I slam a low roundhouse into his knee, driving him down, then punt his sorry ass back into the wall. He doesn’t stay down, though, so I gotta give him props.

Time for some real Wilkins-inspired intimidation.

“You know, the Boss knew some shit ‘bout dealin’ the more powerful vamps out there. Left me a whole buncha notes on how to kill ’em. Nothin’ worse than an immortal fucker too stubborn to be staked.” I pull a knife out. “Easiest solution? Cut the body into itty, bitty little pieces and burn ‘em all separately. Tell me, Billy boy: If I rip your head off and light it up, you think that ring’ll grow you a new one?”

Now the fucker’s worried, but that wasn’t my real goal. Spike’s focused on me and my shiny knife and B’s making use of it, moving to flank him. I can see him figuring out an escape plan – smart little shit – so I give him one. I rush him slightly to one side and kick high, leaving him an opening to roll out and run –

Straight into B.

Her boot meets his balls, staggering him. Spike throws a few wild punches to keep Buffy away, but B minds her distance. Quick as lightning she grabs his ring hand, twisting it into a lock and driving Spike to his knees. She exerts more and more pressure until the fucker’s fingers unclench, then she rips the ring off.

Spike’s no pushover, though – he drops, twisting, and arcs a leg up to nail B right in the face. He yanks his arm free from the lock, howling as his wrist snaps. I lunge in to stake him, but he whips his coat up like a cape, catching the stake and throwing me wide. Fast as hell, he rolls clear and runs top speed for the sewer grate, smoking all the way. I’m right behind him—

“Faith! Let him go!”

I hold up. “What gives? I can take his ass.”

“He’s not important. We have this.” She holds up the ring. “Getting it safe is the big thing. Spike’s … Spike. He’ll lay low for a while.”

I take one last look at the open grate. Fuck, he’s long gone now. I can feel him now, but he’s fading off fast.

Fuck. Whatever. It’s B’s town, she’s in charge.

“A’ight, then. Let’s motor.”

We’re sitting in G-man’s apartment, staring at the ring. It’s cool to see Red again, and Oz has always been a mellow dude. Xander, though – he’s doing his best to ignore the fact that I’m here. Giles is polite and British.

I’m not really following the conversation, zoned out in my own little happy place. Today’s been a good day. I dealt with B’s loser boy toy, B and I kicked Spike’s sorry ass, and now we’re plus one cool magical toy.

“… and we’re destroying it.”

That gets my attention. “Hey!”

Everyone stares at me.

“Don’t break cool magic toys,” I say, shaking my head. “You never know when it might be useful.”

“Going to add it to your treasure hoard?” Willow jokes, smirking at me.

“I always knew Faith was a dragon,” Xander quips from his spot on the floor.

“Roar, bitch.”

Xander chuckles, giving me a half-grin.

Fuck me – Xander smiled at me. An actual smile. Holy shit!

“We don’t destroy it,” Buffy says quietly form across the table. She catches my eyes, and I get right away what she wants done. I give her a small nod, and she smiles a bit.

Giles starts in on why it’s a bad idea, but a couple of seconds in he gets it, too. Then Willow. Then Oz, who volunteers to be a courier.

Willow has to explain it to Xander, though. “She’s giving the ring to Angel; don’t make a fuss.”

I can see that Xander and G-man have serious issues with it, so I offer a tidbit.

“If it makes any difference, what I told Spike was true. There’s nothin’ that survives bein’ chopped up and burnt. ‘Sides, we saw the ring’s greatest weakness – take it off and it’s done. So, Angel has a bad day? Chop his hand off, or his head. He ain’t un-killable, G. Just a bit more of a challenge. Nothin’ that B or I couldn’t handle, and especially the both of us together.”

“If you’re sure,” he says, his head still hung low. “I don’t like it, but I’ll abide by Buffy’s choice.”

“Thanks,” Buffy says, standing.

“Tell you what,” I say, turning to Oz. “Let me take it. I had to fly to LA to make it here on time, so I gotta return my rental and I wanna check up on Cordy anyways.”

Wolf-boy shrugs. “Sure.”

Pocketing the ring, I walk over to Buffy. “Got plans?”

“Well, not really. I guess … Bronze?”

“Sure. Red? Oz?”

“Practice,” Oz replies with a shake of his head.

“I’ll come,” Willow says, smiling.

“Cool. Xan?”

He hesitates, then shakes his head. “Nah. Not tonight.” I just nod at him. Didn’t really expect him to be up to hanging out with me yet. Already surprised at how well he took my being here.

“Alright,” Buffy says, grabbing her jacket. “Let’s go.”

~~~

“No.”

“Yes.”

“So no.”

“So yes.”

“Faith…”

“B. Get the fuck up.”

“No.”

“Dammit. Red, help me.”

“Look, I don’t want to—”

“Buffy, maybe you should…”

“Just get up, fuck!”

“Fine!”

With a growl, Buffy finally gets her ass out of that seat and follows me onto the dance floor. Willow’s minding the table, though she really should let loose a bit, too.

One fight at a time though, and this fight’s more important.

I fall into my groove with the bass line, and get my sexy on about ten seconds in. B’s rigid as all hell, but I’m nothing if not persuasive. Little by little, her moves get smoother, riskier.

The crowd of guys around us gets a bit thicker.

By the time the DJ fades into the next track, B’s lost in the dancing just like me. It’s a healthy, powerful dance we’re doing. Dancing for ourselves, not opening to the guys around us at all. The months peel back, back before all the shit happened, back to when we were having fun, just the two of us.

The Chosen Two.

Her eyes meet mine, and she smiles. I’m smiling back before I even know it, and something hits me – something that, if I wasn’t deep in the groove, would probably plant me right on my ass.

Buffy’s dancing for me.

She’s dancing for me, and I’m dancing for her.

Our body language, our closeness, the way we let ourselves bump into each other, the little touches…

Fuck, she’s sexy.

Right. Need to turn this down a notch, before I do something stupid. Wrong place, very wrong time.

When Buffy turns a bit, I glance back at Willow, who’s staring at us with undisguised lust. I give her a wink and a smile, and motion for her to join us. Takes her all of about five seconds to do just that. Buffy smiles at her, and the two of us instinctively tone down our dancing. Now there’s three of us, all friends, and the dance is less sexual.

Though I do move up on Red just a bit. The blush and smiles I get are so worth it.

All too soon, we’re back in my piece of shit rental driving back to their dorm.

“So, you feelin’ better, B?”

“Are you kidding?” she laughs. “Of course I am! You came all this way for me! We got to kick Spike around, and we danced – and you two are all friendly! My best friends are friends! I couldn’t be happier!”

Willow smiles at me. “Yeah, we are.”

I just grin like the village idiot.

“Did you hear what Faith did to Parker for me?”

“Only about five times now,” Red sighs, rolling her eyes.

“Sorry,” B chirps, not sorry at all. “I’m just happy about it. You know, payback.”

“Yup,” I nod. “I’m all about the payback.” I give B a questioning look. “So tell me: Was the sex good, at least?”

“Faith!”

“C’mon, B; it’s worth it if you at least got somethin’ decent outta the whole thing.”

“I …” she purses her lips, considering. “I think so…? I mean, that was, like, the second time I’ve done anything.”

“Did he ring your bell?”

Buffy blushes like mad, but nods.

“There you go,” I say, nodding with her. “That’s what matters. You had a good night, we put the loser in his place, and on you go. Just like that.”

Eager to move on to other things, I switch topics. “So, did Red here tell you just how badass she was in Cleveland?”

Now Willow’s the bashful one, and the remainder of the car ride is filled with my graphic description of murderous trees and fireballs.

I turn down the offer to bunk with them. Sharing a bed with B or Red would be wicked weird. I think they’re both hot, especially B, but B’s still straight and recovering from being played, and while snuggling with Red might be fun for both of us, she’s taken.

Besides, I’ve made alternative arrangements. Strangely, it doesn’t involve motels and sex, but there’s one more person I want to visit.

~~~

I knock politely on the door. About four seconds later, it opens to a smiling Joyce.

“Hey. Sorry I’m late.”

“That’s fine. I know you girls and your night life pretty well by now. “Well –” you can tell she’s biting her tongue, trying not to say the words ‘come in,’ “—let’s get you some coffee, shall we?”

We’re quiet while the coffee brews. I’m still kind of nervous around Joyce – I mean, she’s not my mother, but in the last couple of weeks she’s tried to be. Phone calls aren’t the same thing as face-to-face, though.

“Here you go.” She slides the mug to me across the table, and I murmur my thanks through my first mouthful of coffee. Pretty good.

“So,” she says as she sits down, “Tell me what insanity my daughter’s been up to.”

“Well, this little adventure started before I got here. You see…”

~~~

My eyes blink open. I frown for a sec at the familiar but unfamiliar room – right. B’s old room. I stayed the night at Joyce’s. That’s cool. As my senses come to life, I can hear her puttering around the kitchen, making more coffee and cooking.

I make Buffy’s bed, then I hit the shower and change clothes. The smell of food beckons me, and my tummy’s rumbling like an old Chevy.

“Mornin,” I say as I take the coffee she’s holding out to me. “Mm, thanks.”

“Good morning, Faith; and you’re welcome. Did you sleep well?”

“Like the dead.” We share a smirk, and she goes back to cooking.

Soon enough a huge plate of eggs, bacon, hash browns and sausages is in front of me, and life couldn’t be sweeter. Mark would probably smack me with his colostomy bag for pigging out like this, but fuck it – I’ll eat my rabbit food once I get back to Cleveland.

“So I’ve arranged for a week off,” Joyce says in between bites. “November 1st work for you?”

“You serious?” I’m bouncing in my seat. “That’s wicked awesome! We’re gonna have so much fun!”

I spend the rest of the meal babbling like an idiot about Cleveland, while Joyce smiles gently at me the way that only a mother can. I’m actually kind of bummed when I hug her goodbye; I could spend weeks just hanging out with her, doing nothing but talking.

Now I can’t wait for November. Hurry up and get here!

~~~

Finding Angel’s place is much easier this time around. 

“Yo, Cordy!”

“Faith? FAITH!” Cordy shoots up from the desk and fucking glomps me, giggling like a school girl. Doyle just waves at me from near the desk.

“Gotta say, I didn’t really expect you to still be slummin’ around here with Soul Boy.”

“Well, you know …” Cordy glances at Doyle. “Good people and all that. Besides, we’re fighting the good fight! Right?”

“Cool.”

“Good to see ya again, Faith.” Doyle’s Irish accent automatically makes me grin.

“Doyle, what’s the what?”

“Oh, you know – blindin’ headaches, mind-splittin’ visions. Just another day.”

“So?” Cordy prods me in the side. “Tell me about all things Cleveland.”

“Lotsa time to catch up. First things first, though. Got a prezzie for the big guy, courtesy of B.”

“Oh.” Cordy steps back. “Is it a bomb?”

“Nah, she’s cool. Sorta. Been tryin’ to teach her proper revenge on boyfriends.”

I entertain Cordy with my shaming of Scott and Parker as we make our way down to Angel’s apartment. Cor’s laughing up a storm by the time we get down – mostly at a couple jokes about B’s complete cluelessness about guys.

“Faith!” Angel says as he walks up, clearly surprised to see me.

“Hey, big guy. I’m here to fuck up your town again.”

“Great.” He rolls his eyes. “Just what the doctor ordered.”

“So, I got somethin’ for you from B. Prolly the best gift ever.”

His eyes never leave the ring as I pull it out.

“The Gem of Amarra,” he whispers.

“Yeah. Remember that old Hercules cartoon from the 60’s? Here’s your ring, Herc.”

He stares at the ring, then me, but he doesn’t take it. Eventually, I lower my arm. Doyle’s busy explaining the ring to Cordy behind us while Angel and I confirm that deep, soulful staring does not, in fact, lead to mind-reading.

“So, how’re you dealing?” he asks, once the silence gets awkward.

“Me? I’m good, big guy. Got friends; hell, almost got a family. Gettin’ on good with B an’ Red. Got somethin’ like a mom in Joyce. Trainin’ a Potential Slayer, and I even tolerate her Watcher. Saved a city. Kinda still savin’ it, I guess.” I shrug. “I’m feelin’ good, Angel. You know that.”

There’s that little half-smile he’s famous for. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

“I bet, somewhere in there, you’re wonderin’ if you’ll ever feel that way.”

“Well … yeah.” He swallows once, then twice. “I’m wondering, actually, if I’ll be allowed to.”

Suddenly, I get where Angel’s going. “Right. Y’know, I forgot about that. That your soul’s on loan.” I look down at the ring. “And here I am, handin’ you a time bomb.”

He gives me a pained smile. Doyle and Cordy kind of shuffle their feet and look down.

“Tell you what.” I pull his hand up and place the ring there, closing his fingers. “You take it. You think on it. You do what you wanna do. I don’t really wanna destroy it, but at the same time, there ain’t a vamp I trust more with this thing. It’s you or nobody.”

With that, I make my way upstairs. Cordy mentioned a drink, and I’m so down with that. Might even snag a couple beers, if I can get away with it.

Turns out Doyle’s wicked fun when he’s drunk. I’d have taken advantage, but I get the feeling it would have pissed Cordy off. It’s also a wicked pisser making fun of Doyle when he’s hung over the next morning. Cordy and I are at it so hardcore that I don’t even notice the extra vamp feeling until we hear the fighting outside.

As we get near the door, I start feeling the vamp more clearly, and hold back a bit. I stay inside while Cordy and Doyle head out to help Angel. I have a funny feeling I know exactly who that vampire is.

~~~

“This is the second time I’ve been roped into Spike huntin' in two days. It’s kinda gettin’ old, y’know?”

“Yeah, I know,” Angel says tiredly. “I’ve had decades and decades of experience doing it.”

“This the place?”

“Underground poker game for criminals? Looks like it.”

“Cool. Let’s go.”

We bust in the door; Angel goes directly for the boss, while I knock out the help.

The last guy pulls a revolver on me, thinking he’s all tough shit. It’s out of his hands about the same time he goes flying into the wall.

“Thanks for the piece, dipshit.” I turn to Angel. “So?”

“He says Spike’s outside.”

“A’ight, careful. There’s more than one vamp out there. I’m goin’ up.”

Angel moves towards the back entrance, while I find the stairs to the roof. If we’re lucky, Spike hasn’t caught on that I’m here. Might work to our advantage. If not… Whatever.

From the talking I hear once I’m on the roof, Angel obviously got to him first. Problem is, Spike’s got help. I get to the edge just in time to see another vamp wrap a thick chain around Angel’s neck, yanking him to the ground and pinning him while Spike gloats from the chain link fence where he was cornered.

“… but eventually I catch on.” Look at that fucker, so damned pleased with himself. Also so damned obvious he wanted Angel alone. Still, a note to make – Spike is a good actor, and a good planner.

So … Great. Angel’s down, which means I’ve got fuckin’ round two with Spike. Intentionally. At night. Without my bow, swords and anything besides a stake and the gun I took. And he’s just fed. Damn, I feel stupid and unprepared. Like, Sunnydale-level unprepared.

Oh, well. Too bad. This is your life, Faithy.

I drop down and rush in. Spike goes game face the second he sees me.

“Bloody hell. Slayer.” He rushes me, his first moves putting him between me an Angel.

Spike’s vicious this time, trying his level best to kill me. I can tell he’s right in the game – he takes a punch to get close, and throws me as hard as he can into the wall. This time the bricks rain down on me.

One on one, I’d say I’ve got this – just takes a little longer to set up the stake shot. On his own, Spike ain’t nothing special. But Chain Dude’s got Angel pretty wrapped up now. It’s about three seconds till I’m two-on-one, and I ain’t stupid enough to give Spike those odds.

So fuck it.

Coming back from my wall trip, I shove Spike away with a front thrust kick, then move in. Soon as he throws a punch, I yank his arm down and pull the gun, emptying all six shots into his head point-blank.

Guns suck against vamps. None of the bullets will penetrate very far, or do much more than fugly him up for a while, but a fucked up face is a hell of a disadvantage when you’re fighting a Slayer.

Also tends to bring cops.

Spike roars in pain, and I get a glance – tattered skin hanging everywhere, glimpses of metal gray and the bone white, and one of his eyes is pouring blood. He twists into a sweep that takes me off my feet and stomps down hard, forcing me to roll. As I kip to my feet he's running, easily vaulting the fence. I turn my attention to the guy with the chain – who, by the way, can’t fight nearly as well as Spike can.

One thousand-one, one thousand-two, one thousand-dust. Even saved the stake.

I brush the ashes off, then get the chain off Angel. “C’mon, big guy. Let’s get outta here before the boys show up.”

While we’re walking, he keeps shooting me this amused grin.

“What?”

“You shot Spike.”

“Yeah. What about it?”

He shrugs. “It’s just funny, that’s all.”

“How so?”

“Well…” He frowns. “No offense, right?”

“Sure.”

“I was just thinking about Buffy, and how much she hates guns. If there’s one thing that proves that you’re very different from her, this was it.”

I give him a baby pout. “Aww. And here I thought it was my distinct lack of necrophilia.”

“God, Faith!” he roars, laughing. “Did you have to put it that way?”

“For a two hundred – wait, how old are you now?”

“Two hundred seventy-two.”

“Holy fuck.”

Another shrug. “Yeah, time flies.”

“Well, for someone nearly three hundred fuckin’ years old, you sure embarrass easily.”

“Hey, come on now – necrophilia? You make it sound like I was stiff as a corpse when Buffy I made love.”

“You’d better have been.”

“Faith!” he groaned. “That wasn’t what I meant!”

I chuckle at his expense, but Angel loses his smile quickly. Guess the memories aren’t the greatest.

“Sorry, big guy.”

“No. No, it’s fine. I just … just wish it could have all gone better.”

“Hey – what’s done is done, right?”

“Yeah.”

I keep my mouth firmly shut from here on. Angel doesn’t need more shit to brood over. I also happen to be rather attracted to Buffy, and the less I have to hear Angel angst over her, the happier I’ll be. Besides, should the planets align and I get my shot, Soul Boy ain’t going to sing my praises.

With Spike tucking tail, I spend the night at Cordy’s before I fly out. I’d love to actually hang with her a bit, but now that I’ve done my girly duties with Buffy and beat the shit out of Spike twice, it’s high time I get my ass back to Vi.

Besides, I have Joyce’s visit to plan for.

~~~

I get in to my place to see Dennis and VI chatting as they eat. Dennis seems timid, and Vi looks apologetic.

“Sorry,” she starts. “I – um, I wanted some company, and Dennis said—”

“Don’t care,” I interrupt. “D-man, you’re welcome to stay for a bit. I’ve told Vi she can stay with me for good. If you like, we’ll work on setting you up in this buildin.’ Might as well have you on hand.”

Vi hoots excitedly, while Dennis stares at me in confusion.

“I thought you were very much against my being here.”

“I was. But you’re important to Vi, and Vi’s important to me. Dig?” I wander over to the table, stealing some fries from his plate. “

“Err … I suppose…”

“No sweat. Buildin’ a condo takes serious time. You get your shit in order, and we’ll talk timelines.”

“Very well.” Dennis tugs and his collar a bit, before looking back at me. “Faith… how will this work for us? You’re a Slayer as well…”

“I’m sure Travers is just dyin’ to have a Watcher in charge, ain’t he?”

“Not as such, no… but he would be relieved to know that you were under advisement, at the very least.”

“Sure. Whatever. You know your shit. I do the field tactics. When we’re actually out doin’ shit, unless we’re about to die, you follow my lead.”

“Of course. Will you allow me access for your training sessions?”

“Well that’s the thing, D. With Mark outta commission for now, I’m in need of a damn good combat instructor. If we’re lucky, Mark’ll let us use his place.”

“I see.” A smile grows on his face. “So I might actually get to perform my Watcher’s duties after all?”

“Yeah, yeah.” I wave him off, still munching on fries as I make my way to my room. It’s time for a nice long bath, then I’ll make myself something green to force myself back into healthier habits. After that, I have an appointment with the internet, planning stuff for me and Joyce to do.

~~~

“That’s right, Faith! Keep your back straight! Extend completely!”

I almost have to bite my tongue as Dennis urges me on. I so want to tell him to fuck off, but I have a fucking big mouth and told him he could be my Watcher, didn’t I?

Ah, fuck. I knew this shit would happen eventually. At least he’s decent. He’s actually joined us in working out the last few days, and he’s willing to tutor me in magic, so I guess I get something out of it.

Maybe we’ll end up getting along.

“Faith, why do you persist with that roundhouse? The opening is horrifically telegraphed, and spinning kicks leave you so open and vulnerable…”

Maybe not. Mark, hurry the fuck up and get better.

~~~

The week flies like nothing. I’m standing here at the airport again. Waiting on a visitor from Sunnydale … again. But this ain’t Willow, who I was only a little nervous about.

It’s Joyce.

No matter how much I assure myself that she cares, I can’t make sense in my mind why she’d go so far out of her way to visit me. What the hell do I have to offer? I can’t help but think that whatever illusion of me she has, it’ll shatter the second she sees my place; the second I have to slay something. Something will remind her that this is the girl who just recently took a man’s head off. This is the girl training another teenager to fight and die for the cause, one she could rightly walk away from, at least for now.

Something will remind her that this is the girl who hurt her daughter. It doesn’t matter how much money I threw at her. One look at the real me, the weapons in my trunk, the magic books and insane exercise room at my place and she’ll leave. She’ll leave and take my heart with her.

If she even comes.

How can I tell her how sorry I am? How can I tell her that I love her? How am I worthy to even—

Oh God. She’s here.

~~~

Doris Greenwich fancies herself a happy woman. At ninety two years of age and relatively good health, she enjoys watching the people around her mingle. No matter what age, it’s heartwarming to see friends and family reconnect at the airport. She would know, waiting for her own daughter to arrive. Her son-in-law sits patiently beside her, keeping her company while they wait for the plane to land.

The dark-haired girl in front of her paces to and fro nervously, her eyebrows bent into a perpetual frown. Her anxiety written all over her body. Perhaps an estranged loved one? A soldier returning from overseas? Those were always the loveliest reunions.

Suddenly, the girl looks up. Doris follows her gaze to an older woman with curly blond hair; perhaps an aunt?

The girl is rigid; she makes no move forward, though her arms shake with exertion. The blonde slowly walks over, a careful smile on her face. The younger girl turns her face a little as they meet, and Doris can make out the thick trail of tears on her face.

“Faith, honey…?”

“You came.”

“Honey, of course I did.”

“You came.”

“Honey…”

Finally the girl moves forward, gathering the woman into a tight hug. She whispers “you came” over and over while the woman rocks them gently.

A painful sob erupts from the girl. Then a second, and a third. Like a damn bursting, she howls her pain and joy into the woman’s shoulder, her knees giving out. The woman carefully guides them to the floor, and holds the girl tightly as she cries unabashedly; like a baby in her mother’s arms.

Doris smiles and wipes her own tear away. Sights like this are why she pesters her boy to bring her early so she can sit. Nothing could be sweeter than watching a broken heart heal. She remains captivated by the tearful embrace until finally the girl pulls away with a sniffle and directs the blonde to the luggage claim. Some minutes later, the two walk towards the exit, the girl talking a mile an hour with an enormous smile on her face.

Uplifted by the emotional reunion, Doris turns her attention to the doors, waiting now for her own daughter to come back to her. She couldn’t wait to take her home, and share stories over pie.

 

 

 

Buffy slowly opens the door to the sound of Genie in a Bottle. Across the dorm she sees Willow dancing away with reckless abandon. Buffy immediately bites her lip to keep her from laughing at Willow as every sexy move Faith taught her fails to outshine her natural Willowy cuteness.

Feeling happy and sneaky, Buffy creeps up behind Willow and starts to dance, too. Willow gasps as they make contact, whipping her head around.

Buffy keeps dancing.

With a growing smile, Will takes up the dance again, adding cute to Buffy’s sexy, until the song ends. Then they both collapse on Willow’s bed, giggling like little girls. The giggles give way to silence as they grin stupidly at each other.

Faith did this, Buffy thinks.

Reading her perfectly, Willow murmurs “Tonight’s silliness was brought to you by the letter ‘F.’”

Yes, Buffy decides as they explode into giggles again. It really was.

“Hey Buff – let’s go to the Bronze! Oz’ll be there, and Veruca’s on tonight. She’s really good!”

“Sure,” Buffy said with a shrug. “Always a good night to avoid homework and hang with friends.”

As she decides on what to wear, she can’t help but sing:

“Can you tell me how to get, how to get to Sesame Street…”

~~~

In the silent hours of the morning, Angel stares at the ring in front of him. The jade stone and crude brass design belie the seductive power it holds, power to make him virtually unstoppable. The Gem of Amarra. What a nightmare Angelus would be if he had access to the ring. What horrors he could wreak.

But what good Angel could accomplish by being active during the day. How many more people he could reach. How much more exposure he could gain for Angel Investigations.

So tempting. So utterly captivating.

Buffy.

He blinks, turning from the ring to the fridge, grabbing the large container of pig’s blood. With effort, he prevents his demonic visage from emerging as he drinks, keeping his fangs retracted. It took him years to develop that level of control. Even now, it wasn’t completely there, especially with human blood, the potent aroma rousing the demon beyond his ability to contain it.

Did he truly deserve to wear the Gem? Did he dare?

Buffy.

Everything led back to her. Would he seek her out, being able to see her during the day? Would he give in to his greatest temptation, and run back to her side?

No. No, he couldn’t.

The promise of the ring is an illusion – at the end of the day, he is still a vampire. He’s still dangerous. He’s still Angelus in Angel’s clothing. Faith was right. The ring is a time bomb – a time bomb he would disarm.

That evening Angel smashes the Gem under a brick while Doyle looks on sadly.

~~~

“’Kay, make way! “B’daydahs comin’ through!”

Everyone snickers at me – be it for laying it on thick with the Boston accent or my current housewifishness as I serve dinner; take your pick. I’m going all out for Joyce. Everyone’s over to visit: Mark, Sara, Vi, Dennis and, of course, Joyce herself.

Joyce easily finds herself the centre of attention. Nearly four years of dealing with Buffy’s Slayer life gives her plenty of stories to tell without any need for embellishment. In between glasses of wine we’re entertained with all manner of stories; from simple things like finding bone chips and purple mystery goo in Buffy’s laundry to heroic moments like Joyce planting an axe in Spike’s back.

Sara’s attached herself to Joyce, hanging on every word. She’s still shaken over recent events and desperate to find her balance. Joyce embodies everything she wants to be right now, and her stories of life in spite of the Hellmouth are a balm to Sara’s soul. I’m damn sure that those two will be calling each other a lot.

Mark and Dennis are talking shop, hammering out all the things they’d like to teach me and Vi. They have some disagreements, naturally. Dennis, like all Watchers, is a jack-of-all-trades – skilled at many things, but a master of nothing.  Mark, on the other hand, is a specialist with amazing knowledge and insight within his chosen martial styles.  They’re more or less on the same page when it comes to Vi, since she’s still learning. Me, on the other hand...

Vi fades in and out of that conversation, bending my ear whenever I’m near enough to the table. It’s a little harder on her, being a teenager at a table full of adults. I shouldn’t talk, being only seventeen myself, but I honestly feel like I’m forty some days. Then there’s the fact that I’m everyone’s friend, the reason that they’re all gathering in one place, and my age doesn’t really matter.

But Vi’s fourteen compared to Sara and Mark, who are mid-thirties, and Joyce and Dennis, who are even older. Other than the Slayer stories and shop talk, there isn’t a lot of common ground. Mostly she hangs in Dennis’ shadow. Mark and Dennis try to keep her engaged, but it’s a losing battle, especially once they move their conversation from training to philosophy.

I’ll let her escape to her room once dinner’s out of the way. For now, Vi has to suffer at the table just like every other teenager on the continent.

~~~

“It was great meeting you!”

“You, too! I promise I’ll call.”

“Goodnight!”

“Night!”

With much waving and fanfare, Mark and Sara bid us goodnight. Dennis quietly excuses himself for the evening, and Vi retreats to her room and whatever video game has her attention at the moment.

“So?” I ask, looking to Joyce.

“You have some wonderful friends,” she says. “Mark and Sara are a lovely couple; I’m very impressed with the both of them. Dennis reminds me of Giles – for obvious reasons, I guess.”

“Yeah. They’re kinda the same, but G-man’s better at it.”

“Violet seems like a nice girl.”

I nod emphatically at that. “She’s great.”

“She really looks up to you, Faith.”

I scoff, trying to hide my blush at Joyce’s look of pride. “I’ll cure her of that notion, don’t you worry.”

“I don’t know; you seem very much the role model, I think.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

The phone interrupts our conversation, the ring tone making me smile. “Sunnydale calling,” I sing, grabbing the handset and hitting ‘speakerphone.’

“You’re on, B.”

“Hi, mom! Hi, Faith!”

“Hi, sweetie. How are you doing?”

“Not bad. Just typical Sunnydale Hellmouthyness. A barkeeper spiked his beer and turned a bunch of guys into cavemen. It was harder to keep them from killing themselves fighting a pair of vamps than it was to clean up the whole mess! Oh, and Faith?”

“Yeah?”

“I saw Parker again. He saw me – and literally spun around and ran away! It was great!”

“Glad to hear it.”

“Other than that freaky Halloween thing at the frat house, nothing much has been going on.”

“I’m happy to hear that. How’s your homework coming?”

“Mom! I’ll have you know I’m perfectly caught up.”

“B? Can I ask you somethin?’”

“Sure.”

“If catchin’ up means you were behind, how can it be in any way perfect?”

“Well – um, I … it’s … dammit, Faith!”

“What?”

“It’s … it’s the return to perfectness! The … perfecty-perfect goodness of no homework!”

“Give it up, B. You’re tryin’ too hard. Your mom’s gonna bust a gut.”

“Ha, ha. Thanks, you two.”

“Anytime, sweetie.”

“Mom!” Buffy huffs loudly over the line. “Fine, abuse me, see if I care!”

I walk away laughing, and quickly hit the washroom while mom and daughter chat. By the time I get back, they sound like they’re wrapping up. I grab the remains of a beer and drink it slowly.

“So I’ll call again in a couple days, okay?”

“Alright, sweetie. It’ll be good to hear from you.”

“’Kay! Love you, mom! Love you, Faith!”

What. The. Fuck?

OW! Beer up the nose fucking hurts!

“Love you too, sweetie.” Joyce prods me in the side.

I quickly blow my nose into a napkin, coughing. “Yeah. Love ya, B. See you soon.”

“Bye!”

The phone goes dead. Joyce and I look at each other.

She snorts.

I snigger.

Then we both lose it.

“You should have seen your face!” she stammers, holding her sides.

“Yeah, well I wasn’t expecting that!” I manage after I recover a bit. “Damn B and her surprise ‘love you’s.’ Scarier than a vamp. Who does she think I am; Willow?”

Joyce slaps me lightly on the shoulder. “Oh, stop grouching, Oscar. At least you know she cares.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Before Joyce can poke more fun at me, the phone rings yet again.

“Lehane.”

“Faith? Thank God! I have to talk to you. You have time, right?”

“Cordy? Uh—”

“Perfect! Listen – you won’t believe what just happened to me! I just found this perfect apartment and – guess what? It’s haunted! Of course it is! I mean, seriously, when does the sucking stop, you know? Anyways, Doyle and Angel…”

I wave Joyce over to the living room, and wander into the kitchen. Once Queen C starts talking, she’ll keep it up for ages. Definitely going to need a snack.

An hour later I make it to the living room, where I turn on my gas fireplace and switch the TV to a quiet music channel.  Joyce makes herself comfy while I get us each a glass of wine.

“Thank you,” she says, taking her glass. “I suppose I shouldn’t ask how a minor has wine and beer in her home…?”

“Fake ID. Been rockin’ one since ’94 in Boston. Why stop now?”

“That would make you what, thirteen?” Joyce looks somewhere between confused and horrified.

“Yup. My chest popped early, and I looked plenty old enough. I bat my eyes, flash the girls a little … you get the idea.”

“Will you tell me about it?” she asks quietly. “About Boston?”

I look away as my throat tightens a bit. “My life ain’t a picnic to talk about. I’m ashamed of a lot of it. Got used and abused, no real family, got put through the system…”

“It’s alright to only talk about a little bit at a time,” Joyce offers, “but I want to hear the stories. Not just the summary.”

“Okay… Okay.”

Deep breaths. This is Joyce. You can do this.

“Alright, here we go. Picture this: You’re in South Boston, the shitty part of town. Your house ain’t the worst on the block, but you don’t have to go far to find better. Your dad works a decent job that keeps food on the table, and your mom’s unemployed. Both mom and dad drink a lot, and dad hangs with a bad crowd, but you still get barbeques on the 4th of July, clean clothes, and money for the bus.”

That was the easy part. My throat’s closing up again.

“Dad used to hit me when I did somethin’ bad – not spankin’ or nothin,’ but flat-out, full-tilt slaps and punches. Never to the face, or arms, though, ‘cause those show up and tip off the teachers. Mom was actually worse about it, but she couldn’t hurt me as much. Potential Slayers are pretty tough I guess, even as kids.

“Now, let’s fast-forward to ’89. Dad gets arrested for murder. Turns out the people he hangs with? Irish Mob. He did a hit for them. Open and shut case. Thirty years, parole in fifteen. I won’t see him again till 2004 sometime, if he’s been good. Don’t really know if I wanna.”

I take a glance at Joyce and quickly look away. The tears in her eyes ain’t going to make my telling this story any easier.

“So… there goes the family breadwinner. My mom couldn’t hold a job, and drank away what money we had left. Somewhere in there, the drugs and the pimps and the ‘boyfriends’ started comin’ ’round. When she was sober, mom did the best she could for me, and tried to keep me outta the house while she ‘entertained.’ When she was drunk or stoned… Well, I could run fast. Learned to stay out of the house as much as possible.

“Fast forward to ’93 or so: I was twelve and startin’ to look like a woman. My chest and hips popped out, and suddenly my mom was gettin’ offers for me. Good money compared to what she normally got. She held out for a while, but … well, I turned my share of tricks as a teen. Can we leave it at that?”

“Oh my God, Faith…” I start talking right away, scooting away from her. If she holds me now, I’ll lose it.

“K, in ’95 my mom was finally busted for drugs and prostitution. That threw me into the system. First foster house I had, they kept their vampire son up in the attic and fed him children like me. I got lucky and pulled the drapes on him during the day. My first slay and I didn’t even know it. Ran away, lived on the streets. Learned a few things.”

Whoa, Lehane. Rewind. She asked for details, and you’re giving them, right?

“I ran with a gang; jacked cars; stole stuff for cash; stole food to eat; whored myself out if I had to… You kind of get numb to it all, y’know? Ever since I was twelve, I learned that if you took charge and controlled who got to fuck you, you didn’t get fucked over as much. Guys are pretty easy like that; long as they know they’re gettin’ some action, they’re nice as can be. Always remembered to carry condoms with me.

“So, early ’97 mom got out and I went to her. She was back whorin’ herself around and doin’ drugs. Her pimp was a real dick and hurt her. I ambushed the fucker and beat the shit outta him. He actually died in the hospital. Testicular shock. Heat attack. Turns out you actually can kill a guy if you kick ‘em in the nuts hard enough.”

Right. So not looking at Joyce right now.

“Got arrested for that, but was found not criminally responsible. Lawyers and psych’s got me diagnosed with PTSD and some other psycho-babble bullshit. I got to spend some time in the loony bin. Learned not to talk about the kid vamp, but otherwise they treated me fine. The way I see it, they wanted to keep my record clean. No one ever gave me shit for killin’ that guy. Guess the cops hated him. In my defense, though, I didn’t think hoofin’ him in the nuts a few times would get him dead.

“Diana … My first Watcher, Diana Dormer – she was a professor at Harvard, and she … she was the best. I loved her. She took me from the loony bin, trained me, taught me… I loved her so much. I had her for two, three months. Then she died. I – I can’t talk about that.”

Deep breaths. Almost there.

“From there, I just ran. I went from place to place, always moving towards Sunnydale and B. I was way too scared to try and fight Kakistos by myself. I killed a lotta vamps on the way, but never him. Then I got to Sunnydale, and I assume you know the rest. ‘Cept for the Mayor, but I ain’t ready to talk about him, either.”

I’m curled into a tight ball on the couch now, staring at the floor. I can’t look at Joyce. She’ll hate me, or she’ll pity me. Maybe she’ll laugh at me and tell me to quit being such a loser. Maybe she’ll just walk to her room without saying anything and ignore me. Maybe she’ll just leave…

I cringe as I hear her moving to sit next to me. I flinch as her arm reaches around my shoulders. She pulls me to her, wrapping me in her warmth and my breath catches. She can’t still care…

“It’s okay, Faith,” she whispers. “You aren’t there anymore. Everything’s okay…”

Over and over she says these words, she kisses the top of my head. I lean into her shoulder, my tears and snot running down my face. My guts slowly uncoil as I finally allow myself to accept that Joyce is still here, and not going anywhere. Even though I’m crying, I can’t help but smile at that and snuggle a little closer, wanting just a little more of this TLC before I suck it all up again. Just a few more minutes…

~~~

Joyce smiles as she sips her wine, watching a movie with the volume on low. Faith snores quietly beside her, the brunette’s head still resting lightly against Joyce’s shoulder.

She seems so young, so fragile. Yet she is a Slayer – if Joyce moved more than an inch, Faith’s eyes would pop open just like a cat. She knows from her experience with Buffy that there is no transition between sleeping and waking for a Slayer.

A pleasant sensation thrums in her heart and head as she lowers the volume yet another notch. Faith must trust her immensely to sleep like this. Oh, how she aches that she didn’t reach out more to the girl last year. All the pain and misunderstanding could have been avoided.

When she gets back to Sunnydale, Rupert is so getting a piece of her mind.

“Wha—?” Faith’s eyes pop open and her head rises. Dammit, she must have moved. “Sorry, didn’t mean to sleep on you.”

“That’s fine, honey,” Joyce soothes, “I was quite comfortable.”

“Still,” Faith protests. “I should get to bed. Workout happens tomorrow whether I’m tired or not. May as well be not.”

“Alright. Goodnight, Faith.”

The girl stands into a full body stretch, and shuffles off toward her room. “Night, Joyce. Thanks for listenin.’ Was a good day.”

“It was; and you’re welcome.”

~~~

The noise draws Joyce quickly from her slumber. The girls’ chatter wafts down the hall along with some rather crude rock music. Joyce dresses herself as the clank of the weights begins, and pads her way to the kitchen. She has a good two hours to prepare breakfast, and Faith’s decidedly healthy food options take no more than fifteen minutes.

She takes in the morning news and the weather channel while the coffee brews, and gazes out the large windows at the bustling city. Despite the nature of Faith’s work, a certain peace exists in this place. Joyce feels none of the stress that normally accompanies her day. Part of that is her imminent exit from the workforce to a life of leisure and taking care of Buffy; another part is this time, spent with the prodigal daughter she’d never invested enough time with.

Damn Rupert for not paying her enough attention. It was their job, after all – the adults, not the children – to ensure that no one fell through the cracks. Yet Rupert’s constant avoidance of the girl all but shoved her into the abyss. Well, it’s high time that someone offered her a hand out. Offered her the love that she craved. Faith saw Richard Wilkins as a distorted father-figure of sorts.

But the position of mother was open, and Joyce wanted to claim it.

The coffee maker announces its completion, and Joyce quickly makes herself a cup. Smiling as the first sip sends a flood of warmth throughout her body, she walks towards the workout room to say her good mornings and sit for a minute, watching.

Violet is in good shape, every bit a star athlete. Faith lifts immense weights with superhuman ease, demonstrating to Joyce more thoroughly and completely than ever that Faith – and Buffy – are much more than meets the eye.

Her curiosity overcomes her distaste for the music and the noise of the equipment. She watches as Faith runs so fast on the treadmill that her legs are a blur. The smell of burning rubber accompanies the feat, signalling the dying gasps of the machine. The girl finally breaks a sweat around fifteen minutes in. When Faith moves to the heavy bag and begins her drills, the room shakes, forcing Joyce to keep her coffee in hand. The ear-splitting rattle of the chains and the lingering stench of the overworked treadmill finally force her out of the room, exchanging good mornings and reminders for breakfast as she goes.

She settles back into the kitchen with an ease only a mother could possess, whipping up fruit bowls with nuts, cottage cheese and yogurt in quantities fit for a Slayer and growing teen. If only she could keep Buffy eating this healthy all the time.

“See, vamps wanna feed,” Faith lectures as she and Vi walk into the kitchen. “Everythin’ they do to you’ll be in the name of gettin’ their bite on. Vamps only fight for real if they feel threatened – which, let’s face it, ain’t all that often.”

“So, what does that all mean t’me?” Vi asks, her head cocked as she pays rapt attention.

“Means that nine times outta ten, you’ll get the first shot in. Maybe even some small talk. S’why you gotta have your stake-thrust perfected – ‘cause most of the time, you can one-shot ‘em right off the bat, and save yourself a fight.”

The shop talk fades off as Joyce joins them at the small kitchen table, food in hand. Interspersed between the girls noisily sating their appetites are Faith’s ideas of day trips and Vi grouching about whatever lesson Dennis has planned for her.

It sounds like the bickering of a normal family.

It sounds like a home.

~~~

Joyce feels the near-permanent smile on her face as she walks along the sidewalk. Faith practically dances around her, extolling the wonders of Cleveland while the season’s first snowfall creates wispy white trails along the street. The girl certainly knew her well enough: Their first day trip took them to the Cleveland Museum of Art, which was magnificent. The Museum of Contemporary Art and the Great Lakes Science Center are tomorrow’s attractions.

Now they walk along in the brisk weather looking for a reasonably healthy pit stop for lunch. As they walk Faith quietly inserts stories that have nothing to do with tourism.

“See that building over there?” she asks, pointing to a skyscraper. “First month I was here, the thirty-ninth floor was one big vamp nest. Security wouldn’t let me in, so I wanted to break in – stealth spell, right? But I was lucky – window washers were set up. So I waited ‘till night, pulled myself up there and smashed in through the window. Scared the hell outta them. Netted seventeen that night. I think one or two got away.”

“Well done, honey.” Joyce does her best to offer a genuine smile. The thought of one girl taking on so many monsters alone, no matter how strong that girl be, turned her stomach. Faith was proud of her accomplishments – and so she should be – but Joyce knows that for every story Faith boasts about, there is a story Buffy hides from her.

That thought opens up a wound that steals Joyce’s smile. Her eyes drop to the sidewalk. As a mother, she bases her success largely on the health and happiness of her daughter. How is a mother supposed to take the fact that her daughter will die before her? How can she protect and nurture Buffy when every night sees her risk her life?

She raises her head again, staring at the lively brunette in front of her nattering away, happier than Joyce could ever remember seeing her.

How can she protect and nurture Faith?

“Joyce?” Faith stops, peering back at her in worry. “You okay? Did I say somethin’ wrong?”

“No, honey. Everything’s okay.” Taking two strides forward, Joyce pulls the surprised girl into a fierce embrace, squeezing tightly. Faith’s powerful arms wrap around her, offering comfort and reminding Joyce that this is no ordinary girl. She’s special – a gift to this world, used horribly by people who deserved to go to Hell.

“I love you,” she whispers. Faith tenses, but Joyce holds her even tighter. “You’re mine, just as much as Buffy is. I want you to remember that.”

Silence stretches for long breaths as Faith burrows her face into Joyce’s neck.

“I love you, Mama,” the girl whispers quietly. “I wish I’d spent more time with you last year. That would’ve been enough.”

“You were always welcome, you know.”

“I know. I was too proud to ask, though. I should have.”

The pair break apart, and quickly wipe their eyes.

“C’mon,” Faith calls, bounding in front once more. “It’s time for food! And stop makin’ me cry in public!”

“Coming, dear,” Joyce laughs, resuming her walk. Her permanent smile reappears as they bicker over lunch. Faith called her ‘Mama.’ It really doesn’t get much better than that.

~~~

Senses wide, I cruise along the streets for vamps. The Mustang just isn’t a winter vehicle. As the snow starts up, I’m going to need something with more teeth to it. Not to mention more cargo room, and a little more durability just in case. Meh – one thing at a time.

I’m trying to keep my patrols short and sweet to maximize my time with Joyce, but I can’t leave off completely. Cleveland’s too big to leave unattended for a week solid. Still, I haven’t even got a single slay in tonight, and that sucks.

I haven’t gotten laid in a month. That sucks.

Not that I’m looking. Having Vi living with me has curbed my desire a bit. I mean, how sleazy would it be to come back home to a teen that idolizes you at 3am smelling of booze and sex? Yeah, even I have my limits. So it’s carpal tunnel for now, until Vi stays a night with Dennis.

Ping.

There we go. I turn off onto a side street, making my way into a fairly quiet neighborhood. My radar heats up as I get closer, going red hot as I drive past a young couple walking. They’re pressed so closely together that it’s hard to make out which one’s setting me off. Money’s on the guy being the vamp, though that isn’t always the case. I park the car at the side of the street with the 4-ways on. This shouldn’t take more than a moment.

“’Scuse me,” I say as I walk up. “You guys know where I can score some weed? Lookin’ to stock up for a party.”

The dude gives me a disgusted face, but the girl rattles off directions to the nearest 7-Eleven and a guy named ‘Freddie.’ Muttering something about druggies, the guy shoves the girl playfully – which gets them far enough away that I’m completely sure it’s the guy. I give him the old one-two:  A snap kick to the nuts followed by a stake through the back while he keels over.

The girl screams as his ashes fall to the ground.

“Gotta choose your boyfriends better,” I say as I pocket the stake.

“You bitch!” she shrieks at me. “I loved him! He was gonna make me like him!”

Now it’s my turn to have a disgusted face. “Seriously, girlfriend? Be glad you ain’t gonna end up on the other side of the stake, a’ight?”

“I’m so calling the cops on you!”

“For what? Killin’ a demon?”

“He wasn’t a demon! His name was Carl!”

“Whatever lets you sleep at night, babe. No body, no crime.”

Her legs bend a bit and I read the charge way before it comes. Time to nip this in the bud.

“Hold.” The power flows.

The girl’s eyes bug out as she tries to move and can’t. Try as she might, she’s frozen in place.

“You listen to me, girl. You don’t ever, ever want to find yourself in my world, dig? You put one foot in front of the other, go home to mommy and daddy and give ‘em a nice, big hug. Then you eat some fuckin’ cheesecake and get over your deadhead boyfriend and stay the fuck inside at night! You hear me?!”

Tears and the faint smell of urine are my only answer.

I release her and she take off top speed, sobbing all the way. I get back into the car and drive by that Sev just in case, but everyone’s human, so I take off for home. I saved one ungrateful bitch tonight, and that’s enough for me.

~~~

Across the street from the lingering pile of ash, two men in military fatigues sit in an unmarked sedan, checking a video camera.

“Did you get that?”

“Yes sir. All on video, sir. Playback looks good.”

“Good. Girl’s back in her home, too. We missed the Hostile, but we netted ourselves a mystery. Fair exchange, I’m thinking. Alright, that’s it: Back to base, Corporal. Step on it.”

“Yes sir.”

The engine of the sedan growls to life, and disappears quickly towards downtown.

~~~

Willow follows Buffy to their dorm, images of Oz and Veruca assaulting her. Them lying together in the cage, naked; post coitus. Veruca’s superior stare dismissing her as unworthy.

Veruca was a werewolf. Oz knew about it. Oz took Veruca into his cage. Oz and Veruca had sex.

Betrayal.

Buffy settled her in their dorm, promising to catcher Veruca, whispering her love before she left and urging her to put the blame where it should me, not on herself.

What a wonderful idea.

~~~

Buffy runs fast as the wind away from the downed soldier – what was he doing there? Why did he fight her? What would any soldier want in Sunnydale?

Willow! Think about Willow! She’s in danger!

Buffy sprints faster, praying that Oz makes it to her before Veruca does.

~~~

Willow drops Oz’s picture, unable to complete her curse. Unable to harm the man she loves, even after his painful betrayal. There had to be a way to make this better. To keep him, rather than—

“Wow. For a minute there, I thought you were going to play rough.”

Willow spins around to see Veruca at the doorway, smirking at her. Staring at her with a predator’s gaze she closes and locks the door to the chemistry lab, sealing them in.

Once upon a time, Willow would have frozen. Willow would have felt fear. Willow would have cowered or ran. Willow would have waited for Buffy. Or Oz. Or Xander. Or Giles.

But this is not once upon a time. Willow had caused a dying man to thrive, she had immolated a crowd of vampires all at once. She had kept up with a Slayer in pitched battle – kept up with Faith. Willow remembers standing up to Faith. Dancing with Faith. Kissing Faith.

Willow remembers the high five; the thrill of battle – the taste of power.

Willow would never be ‘once upon a time’ ever again.

Her eyes darken as the power flows.

“Ooh!” Veruca mocks as she walks closer. “I guess the little witch does have teeth after all.”

“Leave,” Willow growls, gathering her energy to strike.

“Make me.”

And Willow grins. Wide and sinister as the Cheshire Cat.

~~~

Oz tears down the hallway, reaching for the door—

Which explodes outward, Veruca flying from the room to smash a crater into the opposite wall of the hall.

Oz takes in the door, lying in pieces around him. He takes in Veruca’s unconscious form, bleeding and covered in splinters. He takes in Willow, standing in the door frame, enraged and crackling with energy. The stench of ozone permeates the air.

He stares into her darkened eyes for a small eternity, coming to a realization that he does not know Willow as completely as he thought.

Buffy runs up behind him and gasps lightly as she surveys the devastation.

“Leave,” Willow says coldly to Oz. “Get to the crypt and stay there. Buffy, follow him. You might have to tranq him.”

“Right.” Buffy nudges Oz into motion before looking back to Willow. “I’ll take—”

Veruca’s body floats up off the ground.

“I’ve got her,” Willow says with a smirk. “And I know just what to do with her.”

~~~

Veruca blinks, coming awake slowly. She stands on shaky legs listening to the sound of Oz leaving the cage. Outside the cage Oz, Buffy and Willow stand staring at her angrily.

“You’re a monster,” Willow says with false calmness, “but Buffy says we can’t kill you because you’re still human.”

“So where does that leave us?” Veruca asks, her wild, mocking eyes dancing with malice. “Going to leave me in here forever?”

“No.” The smile on Willow’s face sends shocks of fear down her spine. “I’ve got a much better idea.”

The witch raises her hands, and her eyes darken again.

“Today’s lesson in girlfriend revenge is inspired by the letter ‘F’ and brought to you by the letters ‘A’ and ‘W.’”

Veruca backs away as Willow begins her chant. Her eyes dart left and right, searching for an escape, but there is done. She meets the gaze of Oz and Buffy, neither of whom show compassion or remorse.

“Goddess Hecate, work thy will; before you let the unclean thing crawl!”

And then they’re all bigger. Much, much bigger, and she feels herself fading into darkness…

Buffy picks up the rat, puckering her lips in distaste. “Well, that’s as good as a cage, I think. At least for now. So, I guess Amy’s getting a new roommate?”

“Or we could just give her away,” Willow offers unapologetically. “Hey, maybe Faith would like a rat-wolf for Christmas!”

Buffy chuckles, more at Oz’s discomfort than Willow’s joke. Because as much as she applauds Willow for her newfound confidence, she feels more than a bit uneasy about this newfound vindictiveness. She knows the source, too; the same source as their earlier carefree happiness.

Faith did this.

~~~

So here I am, back at the airport. I can’t believe how fast this week has gone. I hate to see Joyce go, and I hope she forgives me for being a bit clingy as we say goodbye.

“I really enjoyed myself,” she says into my shoulder as we hug – again.

“I’m glad. You’ll come back?”

“Of course! I’ll see you for Thanksgiving though, right?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for anythin,’” I promise her.

“Good. I love you, Faith.”

“Love you too, Mama. Have a good flight!”

“I’ll call when I get in.”

“I’ll be waiting!”

I sniffle a little as I watch her line up for security. After a final wave, I head out to the car and try not to think too much about heading back to Sunnydale. I have friends here, but I’m starting to feel like my family is back in Cali.

Ah, fuck it. Distraction time! I’ll give Mark a call and see how he’s doing. Maybe pay him a visit. Thanksgiving will come soon enough.

~~~

“What is this?!” The officer shouts. The soldier across the desk from him flinches, sweating as he watches the images on the TV.

“The video was taken across the street from a handheld camera, sir. There could have been a reduction in quality–”

“Do you see the victim’s face, Sergeant? Do you?”

“Yes sir.”

“Nice and defined, isn’t it. Perfectly admissible in court for identification.”

“Yes sir.”

“Yet on our mystery Jedi’s face, we have distortion and blurring. All across her body, we have discoloration. I can’t tell if she’s blonde or brunette. I can’t see if that’s leather, denim or a goddamned sports jacket! Her voice raises and lowers in pitch, for god’s sake!”

“Yes sir.”

“Get a team together, Sergeant. Get looking. I need more info on this woman.”

“Yes sir!”

“Dismissed.”

As the soldier leaves the office, the officer grabs the phone, punching in a short number. “Finn? This is McNamara. Get me Walsh. I have something she might be interested in.”

 

 

Willow stares sullenly at the floor as Oz packs his belongings. She’d hoped that once Veruca was out of the way, she and Oz would make up and move on. Apparently not.

 

“How long are you going to be away?”

 

“As long as it takes,” Oz replies, not pausing a beat in his packing.

 

“What does that mean?” she asks, her anger flaring up again – just as much for his casual dismissal as his answer.

 

“I need – Veruca was right about one thing. I’m the wolf all the time. I can’t tell anymore where the wolf ends and I begin.”

 

“Does that really matter, Oz? I love you – I love all of you.”

 

“I know.” Oz finally puts down his clothes to steps over and hold her lightly. “I love you, too. That’s why I have to do this.”

 

“You won’t hurt me.” She shakes her head against his chest, inhaling deeply. He can’t leave. This warmth, this safety, this smell—

 

“I don’t know that.”

 

“Damn it, Oz—”

 

“I’m scared.”

 

The admission pulls her up short, and quenches much of her fire.

 

“I’m scared,” he continues, “I don’t … I thought I was in control, but I’m not. I did … things … that I didn’t want to do.”

 

“And you liked them.” The venom in her voice surprises her, but she feels the truth as the words leave her lips.

 

I’m not enough for you. Not adventurous enough, not reckless enough. You can’t let go with me, because I don’t want you to. I want safe. I want sappy, squishy, lovey-dovey things that you don’t.

 

Her thoughts derail as Oz flinches back with a pained look. “How can I like something that makes me feel awful?”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

Yes, I do.

 

“I don’t want to fight,” Oz offers, going back to his packing. “I need to do this.”

 

“Oz…” Willow swallows, her breath coming in short gasps as she summons the courage to speak the most painful words she’s ever spoken. Her thoughts carry on to their painful conclusion, something she hates and loves all at once:

 

I need someone else. We won’t be happy together.

 

The werewolf stops to look at her, a shirt still clutched in his hands.

 

I’m dumping you. Right now. But saying that out loud takes strength she doesn’t have:

 

“Oz… I can’t wait for you.” There. The safe answer. The cop out. Make it his fault, not your choice. That’s right, Rosenberg. Coward.

 

The shirt drops from his hands as the rest of the speech flies off her tongue.

 

“It’s not fair to make me wait. I can’t sit here and mope around while you – while you find yourself.”

 

There. It’s done. A tear trails down her face and falls, hitting her shoe with an audible smack.

 

Oz sits carefully on his bed, staring down at nothing.

 

“I know,” he whispers.

 

The silence broken, Willow rushes to him, kissing him desperately as he clutches at her with all his strength.

 

“Don’t go,” she begs. “Don’t do this. I love you. I love you. Please, I love you…”

 

“Willow…”

 

No further words are exchanged and Oz holds her as she sobs in his arms. Minutes pass as they both collect themselves. Then Oz goes back to his packing, while Willow gathers her own belongings and takes them back to her dorm.

 

She meets him back at his van as he throws in the last of the bags.

 

“Here,” she says, handing him a small cage. “Take Veruca with you. If you find someone to help you, they can help her, too.”

 

Oz frowns at the rat. “Don’t know if they can help her like that.”

 

“That’s what this is for.” Willow produces a small pouch. “A pinch of this dust sprinkled on her will change her back and forth. I’ve already tested it.”

 

“Okay…” Oz cocks his head.

 

“I tried it on Amy,” Willow says, answering the unspoken question. “It didn’t work. I talked with Giles and Faith, and we all agree that it’s because Amy cursed herself of her own free will. All the transmogrifications I know are Hecate’s invocations and it’s pretty obvious now that I can’t call on the same Goddess Amy did to undo the spell. I have to find something different. Until I do, she’s stuck.”

 

Oz gives a sideways nod, signalling his understanding and acceptance. “Alright. I’ll take her.”

 

“Good.”

 

“Okay.” Oz turns to leave, then turns quickly back. “Willow—”

 

No more.

 

“You should go, Oz.”

 

“I’ll be back.”

 

The words come easier now. “Don’t expect me to be single. I won’t – I’m not going to run out there and replace you, I can’t. But—”

 

“I know. I get it.”

 

“I’ll always love you, Oz.”

 

“Love you, too. Bye.”

 

Willow watches the van trail off until it’s out of sight. No more tears would come, no matter how much she wants them to. All that’s left is the pain.

 

 

 

~~~

 

 

 

“Fan out! Don’t let the Hostile focus its attention!”

 

“Sir!”

 

The soldiers spread apart as the lumbering demon approaches, its thick claws swiping clumsily at them. It misses, taking out a tree instead. He’d never seen it’s like before: Large, bipedal and ugly as sin. Despite its bulk, the creature had been lucky twice now – two dead soldiers; two letters to grieving families. The only good they’d done so far is to keep the monster away from a more populated area. With the number of trees felled and the horrific noise, it’s a wonder half of Cleveland wasn’t watching right now, along with every news station on the planet.

 

McNamara considers himself a hard man; you don’t make Colonel by hesitating or showing fear. But this… He steadies the prototype blaster against his shoulder, firing a stream of electricity straight into the beast. It staggers—

 

For a second.

 

Then it swivels and guts the nearest marine, a brave boy hoping to capitalize on the Colonel’s shot with a tranq.

 

Dammit. Three letters.

 

Why did he sign on to this ridiculous project? What could Walsh hope to accomplish by dealing with these Hostiles? They couldn’t even name the damned things! ‘Hostile Subterranean’ was such a crock of—

 

“Shit! Stevens! Not the leg! Flank, boy! Flank—!”

 

Four letters.

 

“Fall back!” he cries, a touch of desperation in his voice. They couldn’t deal with this monstrosity. It’s too big, too strong, too tough to injure…

 

“Holy shit!”

 

He turns instinctively to the soldier that cried out, and watches as he’s shoved clear of the monster’s grasp, flying a good ten feet through the air. In a blur of motion his savior, a young woman in dark clothing, rushes the beast and leaps atop of it.

 

The Jedi.

 

The beast swivels and thrashes to unseat her, and succeeds – but not before she’s buried a sword into its back at least three times. She barely hits the ground before she’s in-between the monster’s feet, hacking and slashing with uncanny speed and precision. The abomination dances comically around, trying to pin her down, but she’s too fast, always one step ahead, always behind or between the creature’s legs.

 

One thousand five; one thousand six…

 

He hears the snap as the monster’s Achilles tendon – or whatever the hell it has – gives way, sending the behemoth to the ground. The girl wastes no time leaping onto its back, her attacks now aimed at its neck.

 

One thousand ten; one thousand eleven…

 

She cartwheels away just in time to avoid the massive arms reaching for her, then she’s right back at that neck, hacking away until the beast lies still. She continues unabated until the head rolls away from the body.

 

One thousand fourteen; one thousand fifteen.

 

Fifteen seconds.

 

“Hold your fire,” he barks, though it’s more for show. He has three men still standing, and none of them are remotely brave enough to aim their blasters at the girl.

 

Neither is he.

 

The girl throws him a mock salute with her sword. “I think I’ll leave clean-up to you, Chief. Have fun!”

 

“Wait—!”

 

But she’s gone, running at a clip that would net her a speeding ticket.

 

What did she look like? Darker hair, sure, but what style? He couldn’t remember. What was she wearing? It was dark, but that’s all he could say. She certainly sounded like a young woman, but…

 

Dammit!

 

Damn it all to hell!

 

“Gather the bodies,” he orders, fatigue clouding his voice. “We’ll tend to our own first. I’ll get another crew out for this corpse.”

 

“Sir!”

 

The boys each grab a fallen friend, and he grabs the last. With heavy hearts, they load their comrades into their vehicles and move back to base.

 

Four letters he had to write. Four funerals for a stupid monster that Jedi Girl took out in fifteen seconds flat.

 

She wasn’t a vigilante, she was a professional; that much was very obvious. So why in God’s name would the President sign off on this venture when there were already trained professionals – unknown or not – containing the problem? Why not outsource to them; for training if nothing else?

 

Fuck it. Fuck it all. His men are the important thing right now. This entire mess is way too far above his pay grade.

 

~~~

 

First thing’s first: After a big, messy kill like that, it’s shower time. Cleanliness is godliness, and the pulse setting on the showerhead will help take care of the horniness. Vi’s asleep, so it’s just a quiet one-timer tonight. Not nearly enough to satisfy, though. Still, there’s business to deal with before bed. It’s 4am here, so it should be late enough in London that Quincy’s in his office. Running into military guys hunting a demon needs more than an email. The phone dials away while I plop my damp ass on the couch, adjusting the towel on my head and body just in case Vi wakes up.

 

“Council. Patricia Speaking.”

 

“Hey. This is Faith Lehane for Quentin Travers.”

 

“Certainly, Miss Lehane. One moment.”

 

Heh. ‘Certainly Miss Lehane.’ We’ve come a long way in a few months, I see.

 

It’s not long before the phone picks up again. “Faith, good to hear from you.”

 

“You might not think that in a sec, Quincy.”

 

“Oh? Why is that?”

 

“Found US military huntin’ a demon. They had cool toys, too – zappin’ it with lightning.”

 

“Indeed?”

 

“Yeah. Didn’t do much to the demon, though. Just pissed it off. It killed four of ‘em ‘fore I got there.”

 

“You dispatched it, then?”

 

“Yeah. Snapped a couple photos of the demon and the soldiers, but I had to be quick about it. I dunno if they’re any good. I’ll send ‘em anyways.”

 

“Very good. I’ll see what I can find out about this military group. Are you certain they’re not a private company?”

 

“Not sure, honestly. But if they’re rockin’ Humvees and fancy toys on US soil, I’m pretty sure they’re official, y’know?”

 

“Fair enough. I’ll get back to you.”

 

“Bye.”

 

And that’s my relationship with Quincy in a heartbeat. Now, for a few hours of sleep before my morning workout. I think I’ll visit Mark today and see how he’s doing. It’s been awhile.

 

~~~

 

Mark seems completely normal if you take him from the shoulders up. He’s happy, healthy and full of smiles. He spouts philosophy with the same kindness that he always has. It’s only when you look down that you see the difference. He’s lost a lot of muscle tone, and he’s skinny to the point of bony. His gi bulges with the colostomy bag, and he still has to walk fairly slowly. We’re supposed to be meditating, but I can’t make myself look away or close my eyes.

 

“Are you ogling me again?” Mark jokes, cracking an eye open.

 

“Caught me,” I say. I dial for my trademark saucy grin, but the look on his face tells me I came up short.

 

“I’m okay, Faith. Really.”

 

“No, you ain’t.” I shake my head, jumping to my feet and walking over. “I wish you were, but you really ain’t, and I feel like shit for it.”

 

“And I wish I had the right words to take away your pain,” he says as he scoots over so we can share his floor mat. “We’ve had this discussion a million times now. You aren’t to blame.”

 

“It might not be my fault, but it’s my responsibility.” I pull him into a one-armed hug. “I just want you better, dude. I want to see you up and active again without the gut sack.”

 

“Me too,” he chuckles. “Sara’s starting to hover around me again.”

 

“Yeah. She’ll do that.” A moment passes, and I address the elephant in the room. “So, any updates from the docs?”

 

“Not really,” he mutters, his smile slipping. I raise an eyebrow, and he blows out a sigh before continuing. “I was in a couple days ago because of some odd pains around the injury. The doctors are concerned that my bowels might rupture again, so I’m on a liquid diet for the moment, which absolutely sucks.”

 

No food? Hell no! “Uh, yeah. That’s evil.”

 

“It’s also got Sara paranoid that the whole magic thing might not be enough to put it right.”

 

“You think maybe you need another shot?” I ask, ready to go back and brew one up. “I’ve still got hair and shit.”

 

Mark gives me his best rueful grin and points to his gut. “If I drink that, will it leave the holes for the bag?”

 

Fuck.

 

“No.” Shit. Goddammit. “It won’t.” Motherfucking son of a motherfucking bitch! “They’d have to put a whole new one in and ask a bunch of questions.”

 

“Right, that’s what I thought.”

 

More uncomfortable silence. No fucking way I’m meditating now.

 

“So? What now, then?”

 

“For me?” Mark taps his chin. “Sara and I have wills made out already. I should see that they’re updated, just in case. I’d also like to get my sperm on ice so that if Sara wants a child, she can have one.”

 

“Hey, wait a sec—!”

 

“I might die, Faith.”

 

Those words kill me. They tear at my heart and make my eyes sting. I want to scream at him that he can’t die; that he can’t leave Sara. That he can’t leave me. But my lungs aren’t taking orders right now.

 

“I might die,” he repeats, and it hurts just as much the second time. “I’d be stupid not to plan for it. I might recover, but reading in between the lines, the doctors are expecting me to get worse. At best, I think I’ll be like this forever.”

 

“You’re set for life,” I rasp, finally able to speak through the lump in my chest. “I don’t care if we just meet for coffee, or if I have to come visit you at home. Even if you’ve only got five minutes for me. Even if you can’t do that, I’ll never stop payin’ you. I’ll never – you’re my friend, Mark. You’re my – my older brother or some shit. I – I love you.” Somewhere in the middle of the tears, my head ends up against his shoulder, and he puts an arm around me.

 

And it’s so weak. His embrace is so fucking weak, and it hurts. It just hurts.

 

“You can’t leave me,” I whisper through the pain. “Don’t even say it. Don’t scare me with these fuckin’ plans and this shit talk that you’re doin.’ You ain’t goin’ nowhere. You ain’t.”

 

I wait for the soothing words, but they don’t come. Just his steady breath and his arm squeezing me as much as he can.

 

~~~

 

I head straight home from Mark’s gym, my mood for doing anything but sleeping completely ruined. I know I should visit Sara, but just can’t right now. I need to be more centred for that, because she’ll be off her rocker for sure.

 

Fuck.

 

How do I tell Red that her mojo might be wearing off? Or that it just wasn’t enough to begin with?

 

Fuck.

 

I need – something. Something to hurt. Something to kill. That’s what I do, right? I’m a Slayer. I kill shit and make people’s lives better. Except that I made Mark’s life worse.

 

Fuck!

 

I fumble my keys trying to get the door open, and end up using the code instead. Maybe a couple rounds on the bag will calm me down, exhaust me enough that my mind will shut up. Hopefully Vi’s out. Hell, there’s another one, right? What if I fuck her up, too? Potential killed before her time because Faith Fucking Lehane is too stupid—

 

“Faith? What’re you doin’ home so early?”

 

I don’t even feel myself as I about face and grab the girl into a hug. Guess I’m needy today.

 

“Uh, Faith?”

 

“Sorry,” I mumble. Funny thing is that I can’t let go yet.

 

“You alright?”

 

“No.” I squeeze a bit tighter. “Mark’s gettin’ worse.”

 

Vi’s arms tighten into a proper hug, and she buries her head into my shoulder.

 

“I’m gonna take care of you, okay?” Why the fuck I’m saying this to her, I don’t really get right now. Maybe she does?

 

“Okay…?” Didn’t think so.

 

“You’re mine,” I whisper, squeezing just a bit harder. “You can’t go nowhere, you hear me?” Still not what I’m feeling, but I guess my brain’s not in high gear right now.

 

“It’s okay, Faith,” she murmurs from my shoulder. It’s not okay, but she’s cool for trying. “I won’t leave you. Never.”

 

There. That’s it. That’s what I wanted to hear. That makes my heart ache less, and like steam vents, my tension begins to ease.

 

“Good.” I force myself to let go after a moment, finally back in control of myself. Damn, I got to call Joyce. I need to vent this before I hurt myself. First though, exercise.

 

Ring!

 

Or not. The area code’s Sunnydale, so I slap my face a couple of times and clear my throat. Here’s hoping I sound normal.

 

“Lehane.”

 

“Hi, Faith.”

 

“Red? Hey, s’up?”

 

“Um… stuff. Bad stuff.”

 

Join the fucking club, Red.

 

“Oh. Well, can I help?”

 

“I don’t know… I think… maybe…”

 

“Just ask, Red. Anythin.’”

 

“Um… Oz cheated on me.”

 

What the fuck? But also: Perfect distraction for Faith! Thanks, Red!

 

“Fuck! No way!”

 

“Way. With another werewolf, way.”

 

“Goddamned son of a bitch!”

 

“He … he’s leaving. Says he has to figure out where the wolf ends and he begins.”

 

“He better leave, or I’ll break his fuckin’ arms and legs! Shit, Red…”

 

“I … when Buffy had problems a couple weeks ago, you came. Will you … will you come…?”

 

Even better. I can talk to Joyce in person.

 

“Don’t even gotta ask. I’ll be there quick as I can.”

 

“You don’t have to rush. I mean, catch a flight to Sunnydale this time, okay? Or maybe even drive? You like driving, right?”

 

“Sure. Got a new rig I’d love to put some miles on, too. I’ll see you in a couple days, then.”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Willow?”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“I know you loved him. But you deserve better. Remember that.”

 

“I … thanks, Faith.”

 

“Welcome. See you soon.”

 

“Bye.”

 

I set the phone down with a smile on my lips. Sunnydale is a great reason to ignore Cleveland for a bit.

 

“Gotta go save the day again?” Vi asks from the couch.

 

“Ya huh. Least I don’t have to splurge for a plane this time. City’s yours, kiddo – don’t die.”

 

Less than two hours later, I’m packed and good to go with my favorite weapons in the back seat of my new beastie. Time to see if I got my money’s worth for this thing.

 

~~~

 

At just a touch over the speed limit, it’s a thirty-five hour trip from Cleveland to Sunnydale. That’s basically three twelve-hour stints with two hotel stops before the end. I love the endless road with the wind roaring in my face; it gives me time to reflect, with just enough focus to keep me from losing my shit.

 

It’s kind of nuts, how massively things have changed for me in just six months. I suppose in retrospect –a big Joyce-word – my life hasn’t stopped changing massively since I got called as a Slayer. Hell, even before that, there was never a period of peace. I’ve never known peace longer than a week or so at a time.

 

Like Mark: His condition threw me. I guess I still believe in fairy tales and miracles, because I figured that Red’s fix would be the end of things. He’d just get stronger and stronger and they’d take away the bag, and that would be it. But it doesn’t look that way, and moping around about it takes away from what I should be, which is grateful. Grateful for having met Mark and having him as a friend. Grateful for Mark introducing me to Sara. Most importantly, I should be grateful for being a Slayer, which allowed me to pretty much shrug off a sniper shot that, if I were human, would have killed me – either quickly or slowly.

 

Looking back, there are a lot of things I should have been grateful for. Hindsight is perfect, right?

 

I’m pretty sure Mark gets this all. I’ll have to have a better talk with him when I get back. I still hope that everything works out, but I’ll take the time I have left with him and be as happy as I can.

 

~~~

 

Buffy rushes her goodbyes to classmates as she tears off campus towards her home as fast as she can; a pink and white blur barely keeping to the shadows. Faith should be at her mom’s any minute now, and she definitely wants in on the bonding time.

 

As she rounds the corner onto Revello Drive, she stops short at the sight of the big black monster truck in front of her house. That is most definitely not Faith’s Mustang. Walking around to the rear, she discovers that it’s a Ford Excursion; with the suspension raised and six doors instead of four, it seems more like a tank than a SUV. The Ohio licence plate, however – ‘CHOSEN2’ – gives it away as Faith’s immediately.

 

A Slayermobile. Faith bought a Slayermobile!

 

Satisfied and excited all at once, Buffy fumbles with her keys before throwing the front door open.

 

“Mom? Faith?”

 

“In the kitchen, B!”

 

Buffy jogs through the house, pouncing on Faith as soon as she can.

 

“Hi!” she chirps as Faith grunts, taking her weight.

 

“Hey, B. Good to see you.”

 

“You, too.”

 

The world pauses a moment as Buffy settles into Faith’s strong embrace. For just a moment, everything in her life is perfect.

 

 “Dinner will be ready in about a half-hour,” her mom says from near the stove. “I’m sure you girls have some catching up to do!”

 

Buffy leads Faith up to her room, where she drops unceremoniously across her bed. Buffy sits on the edge near Faith’s head, so she can see her.

 

“How long are you staying?”

 

Faith shrugs, her eyes flicking up to Buffy’s. “Joyce wants me here for Thanksgiving, and that’s only a few days off. Figure I’d just hang around, if it’s alright with you.”

 

“Yes! That’s great!” Buffy kicks against the side of the bed excitedly.

 

“So what’s the deal, B? Red was in a hell of a snit when she called.”

 

Oh. Buzz-kill topic. “Snit’s a good word. We’ll see a lot of Snitty-Will, I think. Did she tell you about Oz?”

 

“Only that the asshole cheated on her,” Faith growls. “Found another furry and went at it, then gave her some sob story.”

 

“Yeah, that’s not the whole story.” Boy, is it not the whole story.

 

“Well?” Faith’s eyebrow arches up.

 

“Um… Will beat the other werewolf up. A lot. With her mind.”

 

“Sweet shit! Good for her!” Faith’s wide smile slowly shrinks as Buffy turns to look at her. “What happened, B? C’mon, spill.”

 

“Will wanted some revenge, I guess… and I suppose to keep a killer off the streets. So she turned the girl into a rat.”

 

The satisfied smirk starts to grow again. “I’m likin’ what I’m hearin’ so far…”

 

Buffy sighs, dropping her gaze to the ground. “Maybe you had to be there, but… it was scary, watching Will do that. Her eyes, Faith… they were dark and … kinda evil.”

 

“Yeah, I’ve seen that.” Faith sits up, swivelling around to end up beside the blonde. “She was like that when she came to Cleveland. Guess that happens when she gets into the groove.”

 

Another sigh fights its way out, and Buffy wills her mouth to close. It was a given that Faith would support Willow’s actions. She knew that already. Didn’t she? There’s no real point in arguing, right?

 

“What’s buggin’ you about it, B?” Faith scooted closer, wrapping an arm around her. “I mean, Red used to be kinda mousy and weak. Now she ain’t. That’s a good thing, right?”

 

“She also played Goddess with someone’s life.”

 

“Nah.”

 

“Um, yeah? What else would you call life as a rat?”

 

“B, look at me.” Faith’s fingers reach her chin and gently turn her so that their gazes lock. “What would you or I have done with her?”

 

“We’d have…” She trails off, her eyes suddenly finding the brighter highlights of her blond hair fascinating.

 

“Say it, B.”

 

“I don’t know.”

 

“Yes, you do. Say it.”

 

“Faith—”

 

“C’mon, B. This ain’t hard. Remember Pete? No one cried over him.”

 

“He was a monster. He did that to himself.”

 

“Pretty much the same thing here.”

 

“No! She’s human almost all the time!”

 

“Big deal. Some humans are the worst monsters out there.”

 

“We can’t deal with them!”

 

“Sure we can.” A spark of anger flares to life in Faith’s eyes, but dims immediately. “That’s a conversation for another day. This girl wasn’t normal. She was a werewolf.”

 

“Still.”

 

“No. We would have killed her, Buffy.”

 

“I’m not you.”

 

Faith’s arm falls away, and she pulls back as if struck – and suddenly Buffy knows exactly what her foot tastes like.

 

“You would have killed her,” Faith says, her voice harsher. “We kill monsters all the time, B. The only exceptions so far are Oz and Angel. And you know why? ‘Cause a Scooby fell in love with ‘em, that’s why!”

 

“I’m sorry—”

 

“Shut up! Tell me the truth, B. Tell me that if it had been me with the monster boyfriend last year, tell me that you wouldn’t have killed him and told me off for bein’ stupid!”

 

“I wouldn’t—!”

 

“Stop lyin’ to me!” Faith roars, and Buffy shrinks back, worried for the first time that a real fight might break out. “You, Willow, Xander, Giles, even fuckin’ Cordelia would’ve shit all over me while I cried over his fuckin’ corpse! ‘Cause I was an outsider!”

 

The moment stretches endlessly as the Slayers stare at each other, Faith’s rapid breathing the only noise. Buffy wants desperately to end this, but how?

 

“Angel lived ‘cause you wouldn’t kill him,” Faith continued, her voice quieter but no less hostile. “Oz lived ‘cause you’d never hurt Willow. That’s it.”

 

Why is she going on about this? Buffy belts out the apology that’s burning her throat. “Faith, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

 

And now Faith’s looking at her like she’s retarded. “I fuckin’ know that, B. I ain’t stupid.” Then what’s with the anger? Huge Air Faith planes are soaring over Buffy’s head. Faith talks slower, adopting a childish tone. “How many werewolves do you think I’ve killed, B? Hmm?”

 

“I don’t know…?” But Faith simply motioned upwards with her hand. “Three?” Upwards. “Four?” Much upwards. “Seven? Eight?”

 

“Eleven, B. From the days of Boston to Cleveland, I’ve killed eleven werewolves.” Buffy blinks, not comprehending. Faith nods. “Exactly: So what, right? I mean, I’m a Slayer. Job done, right?”

 

“Yeah. Okay…”

 

“So those eleven people I killed, that are only ‘dangerous once a month,’ even though they’re assholes twenty-four seven – that’s okay, right?”

 

Buffy winces as the mental anvil strikes home. “I get it.”

 

“Good. But we ain’t done.”

 

Really? This sucks! “Why not?”

 

“’Cause you managed to deflect our conversation from Red to me. Good job on that, by the way.”

 

“I… Okay. You’ve lost me. I’m lost.”

 

“I’ll spell it out for you: If it’s cool for Slayers to off a werewolf, why isn’t it okay for Red?”

 

And there it was.

 

Buffy sways, dizzy as the situation strikes home: Above and beyond any thoughts of who was right or wrong, Faith – Faith, of all people – had caught her fully and completely in a logic trap. Veruca was an uncontrolled werewolf, so Veruca had to die, so it didn’t really matter what Willow did to her. Never mind that Oz taking her along was actually a mercy. So what was her problem?

 

“Are we there, yet?” A look of impatience marred Faith’s features.

 

Buffy shakes her head. “I get it. Veruca needed to die. No more argument here. Whatever Willow did is – but … but it’s not the same, Faith!”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because—!” Because why? What the hell was Faith looking for?

 

“’Cause Red’s not a Slayer?” Faith prods, and Buffy shakes her head. “Maybe ‘cause she didn’t make it a clean kill?”

 

“That’s not it. In a way, she did way more because Veruca’s travelling with Oz now – as a rat, that is. I think she gave him a way to change her back, too. If Oz gets help, she will too. We hope.”

 

“See? Even better. So what’s buggin’ you, B?”

 

“I don’t know,” she mumbles, looking down. She didn’t need to look at Faith to feel the shit-eating grin on the other Slayer’s face. But Buffy really didn’t know, so why…?

 

“Maybe…” Faith leans forward, whispering like she’s telling a dirty secret, “…it’s ‘cause she went ahead and did it without your say-so, B.”

 

Buffy’s gaze snaps back to Faith, emotions warring: Indignation, anger, and … and…

 

Once, twice, three times Buffy opens her mouth, ready to deny, only to stop herself. Once, twice, three times Faith’s shark-like smile widens.

 

“See, B? See how different the problem really is?”

 

All Buffy can do is shake her head.

 

“Now, don’t get me wrong: I’m on your side in this.” There’s a side? “See, this is your town. You’re the Slayer. Notice how I didn’t second-guess you about Spike or Angel with that Gem of Amarra shit? You and G-man have the low-down on what needs to live and die, and how ass-kickin’ and second chances are handed out. You. Not Red. Not Xander. Not even Giles, when it comes down to it. You. Angel lived ‘cause of you. Oz lived ‘cause of you. All the other baddies died ‘cause of you. Anythin’ that escaped had a hell of a fight to do it. And now Red comes along and steals your kill, givin’ out her own brand of justice. In your town.”

 

All sorts of arguments form in Buffy’s head, but none of them make it to her lips, which stay sealed. All the while she sees the Slayer across from her on the bed. Not Faith, but the Slayer: Her peer, Ruler of the Cleveland Hellmouth, just as she is Ruler of the Sunnydale Hellmouth. And though she would never badmouth her best friend, the Slayer that is Buffy growls in agreement.

 

“See, B? Your problem with Red is the same problem you had with me last year: It ain’t power or morals or choices or whatever other shit; it’s insubordination. What you got is a wicked powerful witch that might not always do what you tell her to do. That’s bad.”

 

After a moment, Buffy nods her acceptance to Faith. Maybe her issue with Willow really is that simple. In the end, Buffy never did like surprises, and an independent, powerful Willow is more than a little surprising. Still, that leaves the other stuff that was said; stuff Buffy really, really wants to take back.

 

So she does: “Can I apologize now for saying stupid things?”

 

Faith waves her off. “We’re good, B. We both have thicker skin than that.”

 

Tentatively, Buffy reaches out and gathers Faith into a hug. “I mean it, though. I want us to be okay. Always.”

 

“We are.” Faith tightens her arms around her, and the feeling of contentment slowly returns. 

 

~~~

 

Spike wheezes and pants as he dashes across the campus towards the dorms. Those bloody soldiers are far too good at tracking him, and he really, really needs some blood. With any luck, maybe he’ll catch a girl out alone, or …

 

Or that.

 

Willow’s silhouette stands out starkly against the lit window, and Spike feels his mouth water. Nothing quite as appetizing as a Scooby, after all. Especially after those Slayer cunts cost him the Gem of Amarra.

 

And shot him in the face.

 

And got him captured by a sodding military Frankenstein project!

 

But they’d learn respect, oh yes. One dead friend at a time, the Slayers would both learn why you did not fuck with William the Bloody.

 

Getting to the dorm room is child’s play. He knocks lightly, and sure enough he hears a muffled ‘come in!’

 

So naïve. So predictable. The door opens—

 

The witch locks eyes with him, a spark of shock quickly turning to burning anger.

 

Her eyes go black as night.

 

“You!” she snarls, fire erupting in her hands and around her shoulders.

 

So great bloody balls of fire!

 

“Right, never mind!” he shouts, scrambling out of the way as flames burst through the doorway. “Wrong room! Leaving now! Like, right now!”

 

He ducks two more shots, his duster well on fire as he drops out a window and rolls heavily on the ground. He’s borderline starving now, but he forces himself to superhuman speed, worried much more about losing the witch than losing the soldiers.

 

~~~

 

Halle-fucking-llujah, Buffy sees the light! Thank you, God!

 

We keep the rest of our chatting light and pointless while we get ready. Buffy’s figuring to take Red to the Bronze, then do some sort of sleepover at the dorms. I’m cool with that, I guess. Willow ain’t a Slayer, and she’s going to need a different sort of TLC than we will. Joyce stuffs us full of pasta, chicken and veggies before we leave, and we thank her with kisses and hugs.

 

“Bye, Mom!”

 

“See ya, Mama!”

 

B gives me a look, but Joyce is beaming nice and wide, so it’s all worth it.

 

“Mama, huh?” B asks, poking my shoulder.

 

I shrug. “Hey, she told me I was ‘hers as much as you were.’ Her words. I’m cool with that. She’s awesome.”

 

B’s mouth does this little ‘O’ thing, then she gives me this small, weird smile. “Yeah. She is.”

 

On anyone else, that smile would have been creepy. But Buffy… I just want her to smile at me all the time, so I’ll take it as a win. Especially after that shitty conversation.

 

“So…” B gestures to my ride. “Slayermobile?”

 

“Damn straight. Hop in.” And hop is definitely the right word; the beastie’s a little bit tall for us. Buffy ogles the leather interior and stereo while I rev her up. “Before you ask, I didn’t order this or nothin.’ Found a guy sellin’ it and picked it up right away. Awesome winter vehicle, and great for road trips.”

 

“Yeah. I bet.” Buffy’s still distracted in that ‘new car’ way, so I let her poke around and play with the radio while I drive to the campus. I can just imagine what a road trip with B might be like. Heh, one day…

 

“Hey, Faith?”

 

“Yo.”

 

“Have you had any weird army guys around Cleveland? I ran into a couple here, and they were kinda wiggy.”

 

Well, shit. Point to the soldier boys.

 

“Hell yeah. Got an entire fuckin’ platoon or some shit. Guess the government’s not as blind as we thought, huh?”

 

“I guess.” Buffy doesn’t seem concerned, so I don’t press for details.

 

“I sent my info to the Council. We’ll see what Quincy has for me.”

 

“Quincy?” B giggles. “He lets you call him ‘Quincy?’”

 

“You ‘let’ me call you B?”

 

“Good point.”

 

Just like that, we’re at UC Sunnydale. I don’t take one step out of the truck before Willow glomps me.

 

“Hey, Red.”

 

“I’m so glad you’re here.” She mumbles. “I mean, I used to have Xander, but he’s in a relationship, and it’s different now – I mean, after last year and all. I have Buffy, but she’s kind of this big plush toy, you know? I needed a different opinion, too. Something more, I don’t know … Practical, I guess.”

 

Babble away, Red. Babble away. “I’m here, Willow. Don’t have to justify it, okay? You called; I’m here.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

I smirk over at B. “Hey, Plush-toy. How’s things?”

 

“Ha, ha. Very funny.” Buffy joins the hug-fest, and Willow sighs in relief. “I’m glad we’re doing this. Will’s losing it a bit.”

 

“Well, we’ll just have to find it, then!”

 

They both look at me funny. “What are we finding?”

 

“The fun, of course!”

 

As we pile into the newly-dubbed Slayermobile, Willow gives us a smirk. “Did you know that Spike dropped by tonight?”

 

As Red regales us on fire and fleeing vamps, B catches my eye and nods grimly. Boy, do I hope I’m back in Cleveland before she sits Red down for that talk.

 

~~~

 

An intense night of dancing and drinking follows as I put my fake ID to good use. Willow’s too chicken to get more than buzzed, but Buffy’s somewhere between buzzed and hammered. I’m not really feeling it yet, which is probably a good thing since I’m driving. But holy shit, the dancing! Red’s off in her own world, bouncing away to the beat. A couple guys are dancing with her, and I know that’s making her night right there. There’s nothing like attention to make you feel awesome about yourself. I’d put good money down that she’s not thinking about Oz at all.

 

But Buffy… I swear I’m going to cream my fucking leathers the way she’s dancing up on me. Hell, screw that, we ain’t really ‘dancing’ anymore. She’s up against me so hard that we’re basically riding each other’s thighs. I have a hand squeezing her ass as much to keep her skirt from riding up and mooning everyone as to cop a feel. She’s looking up at me through her lashes, giving me that ‘fuck me’ stare, biting her lip… Every thought besides ‘dance’ and ‘fuck’ is gone. Just gone.

 

Stop. Stop, Faith. Stop. Fucking stop. You need to stop.

 

It’s hard as hell pulling myself back from the edge. It’s even harder to stop dancing when B gives me that pout of hers. But it can’t go down this way. A drunk Buffy might love me tonight, but the sober Buffy will hate me tomorrow.

 

I herd us out of the club maybe twenty minutes later, both girls protesting the whole way. The drink gives them temporary ADHD, though, and they’re talking all about boys and sleepovers and god knows what else as I concentrate hard on the road.

 

“Na-na na-na na-na na-na, na-na na-na na-na na-na, Slay-man! Na-na na-na na-na na, Slay-man!”

 

B pulls her head back inside the window to stare at me while a slightly inebriated Red sings in the back seat. “Slay-man?” she mouths incredulously. “When did we grow dicks?”

 

All I can do is shrug.

 

“Slay-man! Slay-man! Slay-man!”

 

I demand a shower when we finally get to their dorm. By the time I’m both clean and satisfied, the water’s ice cold. I have never, ever shared a bed with anyone that I wasn’t going to fuck, so this whole ‘sleepover’ thing is brand-new territory for me. Add to that B’s little standing lap-dance, and I’m actually nervous about this. By the time I get back to the room, everything’s been rearranged, and the girls are working on the bed.

 

“How do we do this?”

 

“Push the beds together, turn the mattresses sideways?”

 

“That should work.”

 

I listen to them chatter as they get everything ready. I shouldn’t be this awkward, but let’s face facts: I didn’t get to do girly things as a kid. While Red and B spent nights with their friends talking about boys and doing each other’s hair, I spent those nights with my legs spread for whoever paid Mom, or hanging out on the streets.

 

Part of me wonders if I even know how to do anything else.

 

“Faith?” B’s voice brings me back to the present. “Everything okay?”

 

“Yeah – yeah, it is. You guys finished settin’ up?”

 

“More or less. You ready?”

 

I take a look at their full-body PJ’s and scoff. “If you’re expectin’ me to sleep in somethin’ other than a thong and a tank top, you’re nuts.”  The girls shrug, and I jump onto the bed, claiming the right side. “C’mon, B – it’s Slayer Sandwich time! Slayers-and-witch.”

 

They both groan at me. “That was horrible, Faith!”

 

“Yeah, yeah; budge over!” We all pile onto the now kinda-queen size bed, rolling and squirming to get comfy. Willow moves to the middle, while Buffy takes the left.

 

“Um, where do I put my arm?” Willow asks, probably because her right arm’s wedged between my girls right now.

 

“I can suggest a few places…” I wink at her. “But where you’ve got it’s good for me.”

 

Naturally, Red turns about the same colour as her hair. “Faith! Where can I put my arm so it isn’t buried in your boobs?!”

 

“What? They not good enough for you?”

 

“That’s not what I meant! I – uurgh!”

 

“Be nice, Faith.” Buffy reaches over Willow to swat my shoulder.

 

“I’m all about the nice, B. See? I’m bein’ all cuddly and shit.”

 

We trail off as everyone goes through one last squirm to get comfy. Willow ends up with both her arms around our shoulders, which is really the only comfy choice there is.

 

“Thanks, guys.”

 

“S’no problem, Red.”

 

“You never have to ask, Will. I know things suck right now, but they’ll get better. I’m sure of it.”

 

“We’ll take care of you.”

 

“I know.” Willow pulls us both closer, wriggling contentedly. “I feel safe.”

 

I listen as her breathing evens out and she drifts off. Glancing up, I lock eyes with Buffy, who smiles at me from over top Willow’s head. Our arms are linked across Willow, and behind her head. I can’t say that I’ve ever been quite as comfortable as this. The freakiest thing is that after all the buildup and this fucked-up idea of sleeping on top of each other, I’m not really horny right now. I’m just … happy.

 

Damn.