“Being a slayer isn’t the same as being a killer!”
A killer. Is that who I am to you Buffy: a killer?
“Faith, please don’t shut me out here,” she continues, “Sooner or later, we’re both going to have to deal.”
But you couldn’t open up to me when it came to your vamp boyfriend, could you? And the way you’re looking at me right now makes it pretty clear that I’m the only one that’s going to have to deal.
“Wrong.” I reply flatly, maybe not entirely convincingly.
“We can help each other,” she offers, her voice getting more animated as she replies. But then why, even if she’s shorter, does it seem like she’s looking down on me? Why doesn’t it seem like she’s here to listen to me, but just to tell me what to do?
“I don’t need it.” What else can I say? I don’t need her help. I need her.
“Yeah? Who’s wrong now?,” she snaps back, challenging me. “Faith, you can shut off all the emotions that you want. But eventually, they’re going to find a body.”
I want to Buffy, I want to. I can tell you how I feel about this fucked up mess we’re in, I can tell you how I feel about you. I want to tell you everything, but it’s not fair. You’re the only one I can tell everything to, but you’re the only one who could break my heart. And so I need to be tough. For both of us. I need to be able to make the hard decisions, and I need you to trust me.
“Okay, this is the last time we’re going to have this conversation,” I reply, my voice rising as it struggles to get through to her, “and we’re not even having it now, you understand me? There is no body. I took it, weighed it, and dumped it. The body doesn’t exist.”
Now she’s really looking at me, her mouth open in shock. “Getting rid of the evidence doesn’t make the problem go away,” she manages to say.
Then what will, goddamit? I thought you were here to help me, B, not to lecture me. You’re not supposed to be my boss, you’re supposed to be my fellow slayer, my friend, my… Oh god, Buffy, I just want things to go back to the way they were between us. To where they were going. We.. We just need to move past this. To get rid of this tension.
“It does for me.” Is all I can say. We gotta look out for each other, right? That’s all I want Buffy. Give me a chance. I can handle things. Or am I not good enough for you? The big, good slayer, looking down on poor little Faith, telling me what to do. How to be more like her.
“Faith, you don’t get it: you killed a man,” she shouts at me, eyes hard and wide.
There it is. That word again: a killer. Why does she keep saying that? Why doesn’t she get it? Get me? Why doesn’t she… No. You know what, forget it. I don’t have to spend my time questioning myself. Questioning the only damn thing I have in life. It’s just me, B, and maybe for once, I don’t have to give a damn.
“No, B, you don’t get it. I don’t care.” I shout back pointedly, a frustrated grin appearing on my face. Enjoying the shocked look on her face. That look that quickly turns hard. “I.. I can’t do this Faith,” she says flatly, her voice trembling a little. “Fine, B. Don’t,” I grin back darkly, my voice rising slightly, “You can’t tell me how to feel!”
She stares at me for a few seconds after that, a thin trace of dampness at the bottom of her eyes, before answering softly, “No, Faith, I can’t.” And so she turns, clutching her own hands as she walks out, shutting the door a little too quickly. All I can do is glare at the door as I hear the sound of her pace quickening away from the motel. Away from me.
“That’s right, B, get out. See if I care,” I mutter to myself angrily, as I pull my arms tighter around myself. Now that that self-righteous stuck-up teacher’s pet bitch is gone, I can get back to living my life, to saving lives one slay at a time.
So then why isn’t she gone? Why is it that all I can think about is that last look she gave me? The utter regret in her eyes. The hating, pointed words held back, but meant for me. The small twitch as she tries not to let a tear fall. The fear of what happens next. Of me.
My mouth opens to say something, but my eyes get there first and let a tear fall from my eyes, following me as I stumble backwards into my bed, grasping the sheets as I find myself sitting down.
“Buffy?”
No one answers, not even the faintest echo off the thin walls of the small cheap motel room. There’s just me. Alone. Again. As always. Just me, and that awful emptiness that fills my stomach, that numbs me and stills the small shake in my hands.
I don’t care. I can’t care. God, I can’t even convince myself. Maybe that’s the problem: maybe I do care, even care for it.
Maybe she’s right. Maybe I am just a killer.