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.