Chapter One

Glasses sliding down his sweat slicked nose, Giles heaves a sigh of relief as he places the box he’s carrying down on the kitchen island. Behind him, Buffy effortlessly breezes into the room, the box  in her arms twice as big as the one he carried.

“Is that the last of them?” He asks while mopping his brow indelicately with his shirtsleeve.

“Yep,” Buffy says cheerfully, placing her load gently beside his.

“Thank the Lord,” Giles mutters.

Buffy doesn’t even have the decency to try to appear winded. She smiles and reminds him, “I told you we could handle it. You didn’t need to carry anything.”

Across the room, Xander steps down from the ladder, admiring the shelves he’s just finished hanging, before coming to join them. He slings an arm around Giles’s shoulders and grins. “Seriously, Giles, do you see me carrying boxes? That’s women’s work.”

Through the doorway, Giles spies Faith carrying half a large sofa. The other end floats in the air beside a marching Willow, her high heels clicking across the wood. “I suppose you’re right,” he admits.

Xander releases Giles so he can clutch his hands together over his heart. He turns  comically large eyes toward Buffy. “Please say you heard that too?”

“All right, all right,” Giles says grumpily, “get out of here, both of you. I’ll start on these boxes.” He rolls his eyes upward as a loud thump sounds from the floor above them.

Buffy wastes no time in turning toward the doorway. “Dawn!” She calls, heading for the stairs. “Why does it sound like you’re in my room?”

XXXXX

Dust floats free from the thick paned glass as Buffy wipes a damp cloth down its face. She looks with satisfaction at the one clear streak she’s created on the grimy surface. Her smile quickly wilts as she glances down the length of the room. She’d called dibs on this room before they’d even left the States. Peering over Willow’s shoulder at the house’s listing, she’d fallen in love with the bright space. Lined with windows on one wall, it wasn’t the biggest bedroom in the place, but it had a beautiful view of the garden and was furnished with an antique four poster bed that looked straight off the cover of a really interesting bodice ripper. It had been love at first sight.

After a round of pouting, Dawn had settled for the room across from hers. What it lacked in windows, it made up with built in bookcases. For reasons Buffy can’t quite grasp, Dawn gives Giles a run for his money in terms of who loves books more. Buffy resumes washing the first window, wondering idly if the siblings of slayers often take up a career in watching… watcherdom… being a watcher, she finishes the thought with a nod. 

Willow had established herself in one of the two first floor bedrooms. Likely servants’ quarters at one time, the rooms were diminutive, but they had the advantage of a private bathroom. They’d all insisted Giles should take the master bedroom, and he’d agreed without much fanfare. Xander and Faith had chosen the rooms at the opposite end of the house, separated from the others by a sewing room and study, which would soon be converted into Giles’s office and their research space.

Ultimately the plan is to buy a large enough property to set up a base camp to train all the newly activated slayers. Giles has a lead on a place in Scotland, a castle they could transform to fit their needs. For now, they’re renting this old house off the coast of the North Sea. It’s big and drafty, but not without charm. The property is a short drive outside a small town and large enough to house their motley little family. A greenhouse sits in some disrepair, but Willow is excited to fix it up and begin rebuilding her herb collection. The stables are in slightly better condition, and it seems the flames of Dawn’s desire to own a horse have reignited. If the look of intense exasperation on Giles’s face whenever she brings this up is any indication, she’s going to win this battle sooner rather than later.

Buffy likes the house but she’d have gone anywhere they wanted. They survived Sunnydale—not without losses—but they did survive. Being together and alive is enough for now.

Buffy finishes cleaning the last window and steps back, smiling at her handiwork. Before she has the chance to savor it, there's an inhuman screech from down the hall, accompanied by a booming crash. "What the...?" Buffy mutters, dropping her rag and darting out her bedroom door. No one else is in the hall, and Buffy quickly makes her way to the other end of the house.

A string of muttered curses is flowing from the last door on the right, and Buffy pokes her head cautiously inside. "What the hell was that?" She asks.

Faith stands in the center of the room, a towel pressed against her arm. The white fabric is dotted with blood. "I opened this trunk”—Faith kicks the antique trunk beside her for emphasis—"and that demon over there”—she gestures with her whole upper body, unable to stop pressing her wound—"jumped out and tried to maul me."

Buffy follows the direction of Faith's glare and spots an orange cat, somehow squeezed beneath the dresser and looking like he'd like to finish off the job of killing Faith. "He was in the trunk?" She asks surprised.

"Mhmm," Faith says, pulling herself away from her stare down with the cat long enough to look at her clawed arm.

"He must have gotten trapped," Buffy says. "Giles hired someone to come in and air the place out. They must have accidentally shut the lid on him."

"I'd like to shut him back inside and throw the whole thing in a lake," Faith says, looking at her arm in dismay.

Buffy doesn't even try to hide her snicker. "He was probably just scared," she says. "He had to have been in there at least a day.”

Faith prods at her wound. "Probably gonna get cat scratch fever or something," she says to herself.

Stepping into the room, Buffy holds out her hands expectantly. "Let me see, you big baby.”

When Faith glances up from her arm, Buffy reads the surprise in her face. She gets it. Buffy had invited her to come with them after they'd left Sunnydale a smoking crater, but they’re still not the best of friends. They patrol together, but they don’t typically patch each other up after. Still, Faith extends her arm.

Buffy takes her arm gently, light fingertips running between the long scratches in Faith's skin. The cuts are still slowly welling with blood. Buffy holds out her hand for the towel Faith's holding. Once she's pressed it back against the wounds, she asks, "You unpacked any of your first aid stuff yet?"

Faith shakes her head.

"Come on," Buffy says, still holding the towel against Faith's arm. "We'll use mine."

Faith allows herself to be led down the hall to Buffy's room and sits cautiously on the bed when Buffy motions for her to do so. Buffy’s already unpacked and found a home for her medical supplies, and she pulls the box from under her bed, opening it. Finding what she needs, she moves the towel from Faith’s arm.

Wincing as Buffy begins carefully cleaning the scratches, Faith says, "If that cat is still in my room when I get back, he's getting a swift boot to the ass."

Buffy smirks, knowing damned well Faith is a sucker for animals and wouldn’t hurt a fly. She ignores the idle threat and focuses on bandaging the still raw cuts. "It could be worse," she says as she tapes the last piece of gauze down. "We once had a zombie cat." She looks up to see Faith's eyebrow raised in disbelief. "Mom had a mask that raised the dead. Long story." She releases Faith's arm and stands up. "I'll help you with the cat."

Back in Faith's room, the cat seems to have recovered from the trauma of his imprisonment in the trunk. He's sprawled across Faith's dresser top, lazily flicking his tail back and forth as he watches their approach. Before they can reach him, he leaps free and darts past their legs into the hallway.

"Well," Faith says sourly, "I guess we've got a cat."

"I'll find him," Buffy sighs. "At least he's out of your room." She glances curiously at the trunk still open in the center of the room. "What was in there anyway?"

"I didn't have time to look," Faith says.

They both move to the trunk, peering inside. The interior is nearly filled to the brim. On top sit two old fashioned dresses, obviously hand stitched with care. One green and one blue, they appear to be well preserved, not a bead out of place or a stretch of lace wrinkled.

“Wow,” Buffy says, impressed by their beauty.

With somewhat less reverence, Faith scoops them out and places them on the floor. Below them, the trunk contains several more dresses, as well as soft cotton nightdresses, a small box with jewelry in it, and various toiletry items.

Faith makes a noncommittal noise and stands back up, moving to the suitcase of her own clothing that’s open on the bed.

“How old do you think this stuff is?” Buffy asks, still poking through the trunk’s contents with interest.

“No clue,” Faith says, lifting out a stack of clothing and taking it to her dresser. She glances out the window to where the sunset cloaks the front garden in shadow. “I’m starving,” she says. “Think we can convince G to drive into town and hit up a pub?”

Buffy thinks about her own only partially unpacked room, but her stomach wins out. “Yeah,” she says, gathering the dresses from the floor and placing them back in the trunk, “I bet we can.” She brushes her dusty hands on her jeans. “Let me get changed. Meet you downstairs?”

Faith nods agreeably, closing the last full drawer of her dresser.

As Buffy leaves, she realizes she probably needs to get cleaned up herself. She glances distractedly at the ornate mirror attached to the dresser top to check the status of her hair. Not that bad, she thinks. Her eyes flick away from the reflection, then draw back, startled. She sees her own face looking back, forehead wrinkled in alarm. Turning quickly, she looks around the empty room behind her. For a moment… well, her face had looked wrong somehow. Something about the eyes…

Shaking her head, Faith steps away from the mirror and strides to the old trunk. She closes the top carefully then slides it across the room to the open closet. Pushing it deep into the corner, she plucks her jacket free from the hanger it’s perched on and closes the door behind her. Another quick glance in the mirror reveals nothing out of the ordinary, and Faith tosses her jacket over her elbow. Bounding down the stairs to meet the others, the strange feeling at the mirror quickly drops from mind.

XXXXX

Faith reaches into the pantry, grabbing a small can free and popping the top as she walks to the counter. Perched on the surface, no matter how many times it’s been suggested to him that he can’t be there, is the orange cat. He’s been christened Louie by Dawn, who was struck with instant love for him, but Faith calls him by a slightly longer term of endearment. “Down, Lucifer,” she says firmly, letting the cat food plop free from the can and into a bowl.

The cat hops delicately to the floor, eagerly stuffing his face inside the bowl when she places it before him.

“You should be in the stables,” she points out mildly. “Told them you were probably going to kill us in our sleep, but no one believed it.”

The cat begins to purr while delicately eating, as though to lend support to Faith’s statements.

“Mhmm,” she says, giving him a tentative stroke down his skinny back. “Oh, you like that, hmm?” She asks when he raises his rump appreciatively. As footsteps near the doorway, Faith yanks back her hand and straightens up in time to frame a scowl on her face.

Buffy glances from the purring cat to Faith with a smirk firmly in place. “You ready to go?” She asks, tucking a stake inside her sleeve with ease.

Faith nods. It seems unlikely they’ll find much demonic activity this far out of town, but they’re both a bit stir crazy after days of nothing but shopping and organizing the house to entertain them. Faith follows Buffy out the back door and together they start down the long driveway. They’ll skirt the woods for a few miles, breaching the tree line as they get closer to the town. If there’s trouble to be had, they’ll more likely find it there.

As they start down the gravel road, Buffy stops for a moment, dropping to her knee to re-tie her shoe. Faith turns back toward the house while she waits. In the kitchen and living room, light glows cheerily through the latticed windows. She can just make out the form of Lucifer, hopping back onto the countertop and prowling along the window. It’s still sinking in—their whole living arrangement. The relationships aren’t as easy between the others as they used to be back when she first met them, but beyond the occasional awkward or tense moments, these people feel like a family. They eat together, seem to want to be around each other; they tease and mock; but they hug and comfort too. And they seem to want Faith here—that’s the biggest kicker. She’s got a home now. A real home with her own little space. She glances up to the windows she knows to be hers with a smile forming on her lips, only to frown a moment later.

In the last window, the shadows are lighter, as though something is there for the moon to reflect off. It’s a figure, Faith thinks, slight but definitely there .

“What’s wrong?” Buffy asks, standing again.

Faith glances at her, startled. “My room,” she says, pointing. But there’s nothing amiss now. All the windows look just the same.

Buffy looks where she’s pointing. “What? What’s wrong with your room?”

Faith drops her hand, puzzled. “Maybe Dawn was there. I thought I saw someone.”

Buffy searches the windows for a moment. “No, Dawn’s downstairs. Do you see her?”

“Oh,” Faith says, shifting her weight uneasily. Her eyes search the windows upstairs again, finding nothing out of the ordinary.

“It’s probably Louie,” Buffy says with a curve of her lip. “You guys seemed pretty close in the kitchen.” She steps around Faith to continue down the gravel.

Faith narrows her eyes and turns to follow Buffy. “If I catch that mangy fleabag in my room, I’m gonna have me a catskin throw rug.”

“Then Dawn’ll have Willow turn you into a newt,” Buffy says dryly.  Wet leaves squish under their feet as they walk, and Buffy takes a deep breath of the cool summer air. “Feels good to be outside,” she says. “All work and no slay makes Buffy antsy.”

Faith knows the feeling well after her time in prison and she tends to agree. “I’m sure we’ll find you something to stab,” she says. Never missing an opportunity to make Buffy blush, she adds, “What are we gonna do after though? I didn’t see any rib joints in town that’re gonna be open all night.” She raises one perfectly manicured eyebrow. “Might need to find something else to do.”

“Plenty of food in the fridge, Faith,” Buffy says, accepting her bait and somehow managing to meet Faith’s eyes. “I’m sure you know how to feed yourself.”

“I do,” Faith agrees with a mournful shake of her head. “Been feeding myself for a long time. Sometimes you just want someone else to feed you, you know what I mean?”

Buffy’s face does something very interesting, and Faith gets the feeling that she knows exactly what she means. She squares her shoulders though and asks in an innocent voice, “Just feed you? So you’re not much of a cook then?”

“Oh, I can cook,” Faith assures her, as they pass out of sight of the house and the countryside around them grows darker. “Anytime you wanna try some of my cooking, B, you just let me know.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Buffy says.

It’s dark enough that Faith can’t see if she’s blushing, but she’d bet good money that she is. “I could give you a little preview of my menu now,” she suggests, pushing Buffy a little further. “Get your taste buds watering?” Her footsteps bring her arm casually closer to Buffy’s as they walk together.

“Picked up some new skills in prison, did you?” Buffy asks lightly. She doesn’t step away as Faith expects.

The playful mood ends there. “Not really,” Faith says, her voice tight. She shrugs, feigning nonchalance. “It’s cool,” she says. “I don’t think I’d make anything you like anyway. I know you’re more into dry, aged beef.”

Buffy obviously bites back a retort and widens her step, putting distance between them. After a moment, she asks quietly, “Why do we always end up here?”

If Faith could figure that one out, she’d have done it a long time ago. “Because you want us to,” she suggests bitterly.

She can hear Buffy taking a deep breath. Then she says, “I don’t.” She steps closer again. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be an ass.”

Faith’s eyes widen in surprise, but she nods. “Me either.”

“I’m glad you’re here,” Buffy adds. “Really.” They walk along in quiet, only the gentle hum of insects in the trees around them breaking the silence. After a minute, Buffy says, “I’m sure you cook very well.”

Faith lets out a surprised laugh.

Beside her, Buffy smiles.

XXXXX

Buffy watches helplessly as Willow turns down another dirt pathway in the large, open air nursery. The owner follows her eagerly, answering questions. Each time Willow chooses another herb or flower, the man snaps his short fingers and one of his sons appears to pick up the requested item.

"Will," Buffy tries to point out, as two more plants are added to Willow’s inventory, “there’s only so much room in the greenhouse. Do you really need all of these?”

Willow somehow manages to look down her nose at Buffy, although they’re about the same height. “Did we really need to stop in three different stores to shop for clothes on the way here?”

Buffy shakes her head reluctantly, although secretly she feels it was necessary. She has to rebuild a whole wardrobe that was sucked into a giant crater! Plus, it’s not like she was selfish about it. She got really cute boots for Dawn, three button downs for Xander, the scratchiest sweater vest in the world for Giles, and she even got Faith a t-shirt. She’s like a shopping fairy, possibly an angel.

“I’m almost done,” Willow says, apparently taking pity upon her.

Startled out of the mental inventory of her purchases, Buffy gives her a bright smile. "Great!"

Scanning the rows a final time, Willow mutters to herself, seeming to be mentally crossing things off her shopping list. “Sea-buckthorn, feverfew, burdock, milk thistle, comfrey, fenugreek, gotu kola...” She trails off, her eyes lighting up. "What's that one?" She asks, pointing a few rows away.

Buffy and the proprietor both look. Buffy raises a skeptical eyebrow. This one doesn't look like it holds any magical use. It looks like nothing so much as an out of control bush—wild green stalks and pink flowers bursting all over it. It is pretty though.

"I have no idea," the owner says, sounding puzzled. "I've never seen that before." Not one to miss an opportunity for a sale, he quickly smiles. "£7," he suggests. "It'll bring some color to your garden."

"Deal," Willow says. She turns to Buffy. "Let's start loading the car."

XXXXX

Streams of water distort the outside world, making it blur together in a haze of green and blue. A vaguely humanoid figure is visible through the glass, as Dawn sprays the outside of the greenhouse down thoroughly with the hose.

“Thanks for helping me with this,” Willow says, looking away from the glass to where Faith is carrying a large bag of soil over her shoulder.

“Sure,” Faith says, plunking it down on one of the wide wooden tables. “Where should I pour?”

Willow gestures to the long boxes behind her. With any luck, they’ll soon be brimming with plants she’s chosen. Some are for magical use, some edibles, and some just because they’re pretty. They’ve spent the morning clearing out the dead plants left behind by the previous owners, sweeping up dust and muck from the floor, and replacing a few broken panes of glass. Once Dawn’s finished clearing the leaves and dirt stuck to the outer walls, the greenhouse should be operational again.

As Faith moves on to filling the second box, Willow scoops small seedlings into her hands and gently places them in the new soil. Taking care to space them evenly, she smoothes new dirt around their roots. When she’s finished, she lets her hands fall atop the soil, closes her eyes, and whispers, “Goddess Morrigan, bless this harvest. Protect them and let them flourish if it be your will.”

“You pray over all your tomatoes?” Faith asks as Willow opens her eyes.

“Yes,” Willow says, not sounding at all embarrassed. “Tara taught me.”

Ah, shit. “Sorry,” Faith says, “I didn’t mean—”

“No, it’s okay,” Willow assures her with a small smile. “She came from a long line of witches. She knew a lot about earth magic and the natural order.” She looks down at the plants with a sad smile. “I should have listened to her more.”

Faith looks at her with sympathy, not sure what to say. She didn’t really know Tara, and Willow and her aren’t exactly close.

“Anyway,” Willow says, taking the choice out of her hands, “some of these plants need to be blessed before we can use ‘em in a spell. Some of them have to be twice-blessed even. I’ll have to get Father Fraser down here,” she says, then rolls her eyes at Faith. “If my father could see me now, huh? Consorting with priests?”

Faith smirks for a second, until she has another thought. “Did your parents—I mean, were they in Sunnydale?”

Willow shakes her head. “I got them out. They’re in the Bay Area now. They seem okay.” She smiles a little sadly. “We’re not really close.”

“Yeah,” Faith says, “I remember that whole burning at the stake thing.”

“To be fair,” Willow says, “that was demonic influence.” She shrugs. “They just don’t really get me.” Transferring her attention to the next planter box, she says, “I just realized I don’t really know anything about your family.”

“Not much to know,” Faith says, helping Willow create space for the next plant. “Pops took off when I was a kid.”

Faith stoops to pick up one of the pots and a sickly sweet smell assaults her nose. She fans the air in front of her face, but the cloying scent only seems to surround her closer. Her stomach rolls over, and she grabs the table edge to steady herself. She opens her mouth to ask Willow what the hell that smell is, and it seems to rush into her lungs forcefully, making her gag. The air feels heavier. She can't speak, can't even move, and then—

"Faith? You okay?" Willow touches her back and leans toward her.

Faith sucks in a deep breath. There is nothing in the air but the scent of fresh dirt and the earthy aroma of the new plants. "Didn't you smell that?" She asks, almost surprised to find she can speak again.

Willow looks concerned. "No, what?"

Faith looks at the plants on the floor by her feet. "I don't know," she says. "I need some air."

Outside, the sun is shining high over the back garden, and she can see Dawn rolling up the hose carefully. Buffy steps out of the back door, neatly attired in a maxi skirt and baggy sweater. Their eyes meet across the yard, and she shoots Faith a dazzling grin.

The pounding in her head has receded now, and Faith manages to smile back. Buffy puts down the plates she's carrying and cuts across the patio toward her. "Willow let you out of her clutches already?" She teases, arriving at Faith's side.

Faith gives her a half smile. "I've been slaving away in here for like two hours. I think I deserve a break." She looks over her shoulder to where Willow is still happily moving around the space, seemingly not tired at all. "Is she on speed, do you think?"

"Could be," Buffy says conspiratorially. "We'll have to watch her." She looks down at Faith's dirt streaked clothes. "I got you something while we were out," she says, almost shyly. "Remind me to give it to you later."

Faith is surprised but recovers quickly. "If it's a houseplant for my room," she says, "I appreciate the thought but I'm gonna have to pass."

Buffy laughs. "Really? And here I thought you'd like a big pot of catnip right next to your bed."

Faith's eyes narrow and she pretends to think about it. "It's not a bad idea, B. Bring the little beast right to me so I can grab him by the scruff and pitch him out the window."

"Only if you've got a death wish," Buffy says, pointing over her shoulder to where Dawn is now sitting down with a lap full of purring orange cat.

"I can handle Dawn," Faith says, unconcerned.

"And how about Dawn's big sister?" Buffy asks.

"Let me get cleaned up," Faith says, displaying her dirty hands. "I'll handle you just fine." She lowers her chin so she's looking up at Buffy through her eyelashes.

In the bright light of the garden, there's no hiding the pink flush that creeps up the side of Buffy's neck. "Dinner is ready," she says, faux severely, "if you can keep your mind out of the gutter long enough to have some."

"No promises," Faith says wolfishly.

Giving her a gentle shove away, Buffy says, "Go!"

As Faith walks off, Buffy knocks cheerfully on the closed greenhouse door. She opens it, standing back to avoid the dripping water still slowly making its way down the walls. “Will, you hungry? I made dinner.”

“You made dinner?” Willow asks, sounding surprised.

Buffy puffs up her chest proudly. “Smeared the mustard on the bread all by my lonesome. Didn’t even set the kitchen on fire while putting the lunchmeat on.”

Willow chuckles. “I could eat,” she says. “Let me just finish with this one. I’ll be there in a minute.”

Buffy nods her agreement, then heads back to the kitchen to finish bringing the food out. She takes a pitcher of iced tea and some bottled water from the fridge, placing it on the counter and turning to look for a tray she can carry them on.

“Need a hand?” Faith asks, coming into the kitchen somewhat cleaner. The dirt under her nails will need more thorough cleaning, but she’s presentable enough for the moment. She walks around the island, coming to a stop at Buffy’s elbow.

“Yeah, thanks,” Buffy says. She looks over at Faith. “Oh, hang on.”

Faith steps back unconsciously when Buffy reaches toward her face, then stills when she realizes what she did.

“You got some dirt,” Buffy says quietly, not making any further move into Faith’s space.

If asked, Faith would say it was her stint in prison that made her skittish about being touched, but that’s not entirely it. She still remembers all too well the feeling of her own dagger sliding through her skin and muscle effortlessly, guided by Buffy’s hand. They’re getting better—they’re trying, damn it—but it’s still there, this thing between them. Buffy doesn’t seem to be afraid that Faith will turn against them, and Faith isn’t really afraid Buffy’s going to stab her, but there’s still more water than can be safely contained under this bridge.

“Sorry,” Faith says quietly, lifting her chin again.

Buffy slowly brings her thumb to Faith’s cheek. She gently brushes away a smudge on Faith’s skin. As she does, Faith can’t help the way her breath speeds up just slightly. She’s not sure if Buffy notices; it would be imperceptible to anyone but a slayer most likely.

“Got it?” Faith asks in a low voice, when Buffy doesn’t immediately move away.

“Yeah.” Buffy drops her hand as if burned. “You’re all good.”

“Buffy,” Dawn calls from outside. “Can you grab the fruit? I left it on the counter!”

Buffy steps back, dropping her eyes from Faith’s. “Yeah, be right out!” She calls back. She picks up the erstwhile fruit bowl, a smile easing onto her slightly flushed face. “Don’t wanna forget the fruit. Healthy goodness.”

“Right,” Faith says, amused. “After you,” she says, and pushes the door open for Buffy.

XXXXX

Buffy steps from the bathroom, her flushed skin warm and wrapped within a thin robe. Halfway down the hall and on her way to the kitchen for a midnight snack, Faith stops mid-step when she sees her. "Uh, hey," she says, from a distance of at least 12 feet. She looks at Buffy's feet when she says it.

"Hey," Buffy says, her fingers reflexively tightening on the belt to her robe.

Faith makes an awkward attempt at a smile. "Good bath?"

"We have an amazing bathtub," Buffy says. "No more squinchy knees and uncovered shoulders."

"Did you really have a problem with that?" Faith asks skeptically, breaking eye contact with Buffy's toes long enough to look at the top of her head. "You could fit in a baby pool."

Buffy bristles, drawing herself up to her full height. "I'll have you know I am at least 5'3"."

"Mhmm," Faith says, sounding skeptical. "Maybe with heels."

"Don't make me hurt you when I'm all nice and comfy from the bath, Faith." Buffy starts down the hall toward her, needing to come closer in order to reach her own room.

She notices Faith's eyes drop to her chest as she walks, her robe  doing little in the way of constraint. "Uh," Faith says, jerking her eyes away, "I think I'll give you the night off from beating me up."

"I appreciate that," Buffy says sweetly, drawing to a halt before her. "I get so tired of winning all the time."

Faith manages to meet Buffy's eyes squarely, licking her lips as she does so. "Buffy, if you wanna start sparring, just say so. Not sure how this is gonna work for you though." She reaches over, pinching the sleeve of Buffy's robe gently between her fingers. "Probably wouldn't last too long in a fight."

Faith rarely uses her full name, and Buffy thinks that's probably a good thing if the way her knees just got wobbly is any indication. No, not wobbly! She is not wobbly kneed over Faith. Definitely not. But Faith's still got her sleeve in her hand, and she presses down just a bit so her fingertips are touching Buffy's arm. Buffy's breath hitches, and then she steps back, pulling her sleeve free. "Tomorrow," she says, with bravado she doesn't quite feel.

"Tomorrow," Faith agrees with a quick smile, dropping her eyes. "Night, B."

"Night," Buffy says, stepping inside her room as Faith continues down the hall. She closes the door behind her, letting out a deep breath. Faith's always had a knack for embarrassing her, making her blush and squirm, and Buffy's always hated it, hasn't she? Hadn't she, back before they'd been on opposite sides? And yet, as the blush begins to fade from her cheeks, she feels a faint flicker of disappointment. Ruthlessly pushing it aside, she peels off her robe and hangs it on the hook behind her door. She quickly tugs on her pajamas, trying not to lose the warmth of the bath before she climbs into bed.

Pulling the covers up over herself, Buffy shoots a glare at her traitorous knees. "We do not wobble for Faith!" She says firmly. Satisfied that all her parts are once more in agreement, she turns off the bedside table lamp and closes her eyes. It's been a good day, she thinks, wiggling until she's comfortable. They've got nearly all their stuff unpacked, mostly new and acquired recently, but a few treasured things they'd taken from Sunnydale too. At the time it had seemed like bad luck to even think about the possibility of defeat, but she knew if they lost and the First's minions came forth, they'd have to run as far and as fast as they could. Buffy didn't take much. Some pictures of their family, hastily pulled from frames and stuffed into the painstaking baby books her mother had created for each of them. The deed to their home, in case the insurance company could make good on the demise of Sunnydale without going belly up. A few spare items of clothing, and a small doll her grandmother had given her, an oversize sweatshirt Joyce had worn almost into nothing, and her mother's wedding rings, carefully placed in a velvet bag and zipped in the inside pocket of her bag. Those are for Dawn someday. One small duffel's worth of items, that's all she has of her home and the entire summary of her life to date. Dawn packed a bag too. Buffy doesn't know exactly what was in it, but she's seen Dawn come to breakfast wearing a ratty bathrobe that’s Pepto Bismol pink, a hold out from six Christmases ago that their mother had never wanted to get rid of. Buffy hazards a guess that Dawn's bag was equally sentimental.

That's what's important anyway, she thinks—family and the things that remind you of them. Everything else is replaceable, no matter how dearly she loved some of her shoes. Reminded of her shopping trip, Buffy realizes she forgot to give Faith the shirt she got her. Tomorrow, she thinks, starting to drift off, I’ll give it to her tomorrow.