POV Faith

There's something about music that sets me free. I think it all comes from having a shitty home life, ya know? No matter what was going on in the next room, I could just plug into my stereo and drown out the outside world by assailing my eardrums with anything that had a crunchy guitar and bass line. Like Beyonce sings, "I think I'm in love with my radio."

Mom would come stomping down the hallway of our trailer-trash house in Southie, pounding on the door for me to turn it down. She finally let me get a lock on my bedroom door when I not-so-subtly hinted that her "boyfriends" skeeved me out. "What the hell are you listening to, firecracker?" she'd demand – that is, when she wasn't too high to actually form words.

"Garbage," I'd say, pointing to the pink CD case. You'd be surprised how easy it is to shoplift when you've got dimples like these.

"You can say that again," she'd say with a proud smirk. "Get it? Garbage?" she'd crow loudly. I'd give a fake laugh for her benefit like she didn't use that same line on me over and over again.

Music was my escape. Music was my portal. For some people, I guess books are like that. Gettin' lost and shit in other worlds. But I wasn't ever really big on school - so music was my gateway. I even once entertained the idea of joining a band. Makin' it big. Gettin' the hell outta Boston and the effing cold East Coast. See the world. Live it up. Live fast. Die young.

But I suppose there's still time for that. Especially the "dying young" part.

So it's no surprise that when I'm not kicking demon ass here in Los Angeles, I'm shakin' my finally crafted one on the dance floor of any club close enough to that night's cemetery of choice. Angel and I have a little agreement. As long as I show up at the Hyperion at a respectable hour for daily debriefing, my life is mine to do as I please – which is why most nights after patrol, I find my way back to any dance floor where the liquor's flowing and the music's loud.

Sure I'll hang out with Soulboy's gang for a laugh once in a while – you should see the kids go "wild" at demon karaoke. But really, I never was one for the group outings – my time in Sunnydale should be evidence enough of that. Angel knows how I work. He even lets me skip outta research, too. Just give me a weapon and point me in the direction of the evil thing that needs killin'. That's me. Faith the Vampire Slayer.

And yeah, I get curious once in a while wondering how She's doing in Sunnyhell. But never curious enough to go back. I'm not that much of a sado masochist. Besides…they know where to find me if they need me. But with Buffy Summers at the helm, fat chance of them ever needing Faith Lehane.

A voice shatters my internal musings and I look up from my pint long enough to admire the face that's grinning at me like she knows why I'm here: pussy and beer.

"I've seen you before."

Tonight, I'm at one of my usual haunts – some pseudo-goth LA club where they don't check my ID or stare too hard at my dark makeup and tight leather pants. Plus they're always crankin' the NIN and that's A-okay with me.

I look away from the woman's confident leer and absentmindedly run the tips of my black-polished fingernails up the side of my pint glass, collecting the condensation. I can feel her lean in a little closer, as though she's afraid her voice got lost in the din of the crowded bar. Her breath feels heavy on my skin, and her hair smells surprisingly sweet like a bar of hotel soap.

"I've seen you before," she repeats just a little more loudly this time, enunciating each word with perfect diction like she's from the Midwest.

When I finally look up and meet her surprisingly lavender eyes, she smiles with something that resembles confidence. It's slightly disarming. I usually make people nervous, not the other way around.

Her face is angular, but not in an unpleasant way. Since she's seated on a barstool like myself, I can't immediately appreciate the slight curves and dips of her boyish frame. But there will be time for that later. The various barbells and studs that travel the length of both her ears and her left eyebrow gleam against the overhead strobe lights. Her blonde hair is flat-ironed and falls just to the tops of her shoulders. Just the length I imagine…I mentally shake my head. "Stop thinking about Her, Lehane," I silently chastise myself.

"You're usually dancing," she notes, her head nodding in the direction of the dance floor. I'm mildly surprised that she hasn't taken my silence so far as rejection. I let my eyes follow her trajectory and gaze upon the mass of bodies heaving and pulsating in the small club. I'm normally at the epicenter of that growling, desperate monster – my dark eyes closed, a half-smile on my lips, letting myself get lost to the throbbing vibrations of excessive bass.

I know the girl is trying hard to impress me or at least get in my pants, so I remain silent. No need to let the regulars think that Faith Lehane is an easy catch. She's leaning in a little closer now. Ballsy this girl is; I'll give her that. Her fingertips brush against the hand that continues to hold my beer, and she rasps thickly, "I like watching the way you move your body."

I move my hand back slowly and sit up a little straighter on my barstool, so we're no longer familiarly touching. I don't jerk it back hastily though like she's electrocuted me – don't want her thinkin' I might not be Family.

I stare hard into those purple eyes and take a slow pull from my pint, looking at her feminine face over the top of my beer glass. I set the mug carefully down on the bar-top - slowly, deliberately - and pass my tongue lazily across my thick lips.

She's waiting for me to say something. Waiting for my reaction. But she'll have to wait a little longer.

The skin on the back of my neck suddenly prickles – my Slayer senses are going outta control like I just stumbled across a vamp nest. My dark eyes leave her pale, sallow face and I scan the room quickly in an attempt to pinpoint where the vampires might be hiding. It wouldn't be surprising if this place turned out to be crawlin' with the undead. These goth-types always seem to have a vampire fetish or something.

I sit up a little straighter on my bar stool and scan the darkened club for signs of the undead. When I look back on all of this one day, I'm sure I'll say it was Fate. But amongst all the dark hair, pale skin, and leather, a flash of familiar sun-bleached locks catches my eye and I stand up abruptly from my seat at the bar. I don't know how I managed to spot Her through all the chaos of the crowded club, but I do.

The lavender-eyed girl takes it as an invitation, rather than a rejection, and stands up eagerly as well. She's still got that damn cocky grin on her lips. And as much as I'd like to discover from where this confidence sprouts, I've got another blonde girl on my mind. Hell. She's the only girl whose ever been able to consume my thoughts.

"It can't be," I find myself muttering aloud. It feels like I've got magnets in my leather pants and I'm being drawn to its opposite as I'm pulled by an unknown force across the small hardwood floor. A surprisingly strong hand grasps my shoulder blade and pulls me back to reality, however.

"Where you going to so soon?" the innocuous blonde lightly teases in an attempt to reign me back in. I can tell from the look on her face that she realizes something's made me quickly lose interest in her. I effectively wriggle out of her grasp, subtly enough so she can't see how much human touch makes my skin crawl. I glance fleetingly back at the dance floor and then back into those searching purple eyes.

"Can't stay," I say gruffly, my first words to her, and I rake my fingers through my dark brunette tresses.

Her eyes narrow slightly and her bottom lip ever-so-subtly is exposed in a kind of pout. Not as well rehearsed as the Original Blonde's bratty pout, however, I muse to myself. But I can tell the woman standing before me is used to getting her way.

"I see a friend," I explain flatly, slightly shuffling away.

She grabs one of my hands in hers. It's hot, yet dry. "I could be a friend," she purrs suggestively.

Alright, so Purple-Eyes is a little needy, I've decided. What is it with women?

I can hear her monosyllabic protest as I wretch my hand free from her tight grasp and I spin on my chunky heels without offering another word of explanation or excuse. I keep moving and don't ever look back.

"It can't be her," I chant under my breath, moving nearer to the dancing masses.

I maneuver my way none-too-gently through the crowded dance floor, earning me half a dozen death stares from the club's patrons. I'm jostled by a clumsy goth couple who slam into me, so I push right back. Before I realize it, the dance floor has turned into a mosh pit. It'll be a while before I'm welcomed back to this bar. Bodies move frenetically, vibrating with energy. The raw sexuality and violence of this place is intoxicating.

But then I stop my pursuit and my breath hitches in my throat when I see her. Her.

Although she's just barely over five feet tall, she might as well be double that the way she commands the space in which she now stands. Correction. The space in which she…grinds?

She hasn't changed a bit, which is surprising to me for some reason. Her hair's a little shorter than I remember, a little blonder in this light. It's been a while – a couple of years at least – since I last saw her on top of Angel's rooftop. And since that time, she's died once more saving the world, and I suffered through prison.

"I wonder if I look any different to her," I silently muse as I continue to stare at her unnoticed. I pause and absentmindedly touch a stray lock of my wild tresses. I've let my hair grow long since Sunnydale. Not exactly high fashion hair salons in prison. I nervously smooth my palms over the front of my form-fitting red top and re-adjust the black belt and heavy metal belt-buckle that rests atop my black leather pants.

The way she's moving that small, tight frame of hers in time with the crunching music makes me almost wish I'd gone to see her in Sunnydale when I first got outta jail. Hell, I don't think she even knows I'm a free woman now. But then again, if she had ever bothered to visit me in prison, she woulda been more in the loop.

Girlfriend looks like she's learned to live it up. Or at least that stick's not jammed so far up her ass as it once was. I can't help the way my own body begins to sway in time with the music and I become drawn into her tangled web even from this distance. And of course I wouldn't be disappointed if my fist just happened to go through the thick skull of the idiot she's currently grinding on.

"Of all the clubs in the world…" I find myself muttering aloud.

A sudden surge of self-importance flushes over me. I've been out of prison for a while now. I've been fighting the good fight. Who does Blondie think she is, showin' up in my town unannounced and uninvited?

I can still feel the vibration of vampires all around us. It feels like a feeding frenzy could break out at any moment, and yet the Chosen One is seemingly obvious to everything except the beefcake holding onto her seductively swaying hips. I can't help the bitter smirk that finds its way onto my twisted lips as I stand here just a few feet from her, completely undetected. She always had a thing for those beefy-brainless types.

He's holding her possessively, moving those big beefy hands in all the wrong places. Her black skirt is dangerously short and every time she moves it threatens to reveal the bottom of her pert little ass. I can't believe I'm still standing here staring at them. My own fists are clenched tightly, my closely manicured nails biting into the palms of my hands.

I watch uselessly as Manmeat leans down, brushing a few blonde strands out of the way so he can whisper something in her ear. I strain my own Slayer-hearing, but all I can make out is one word: Outside.

She's giggling like a lunatic, and batting those thick eyelashes at him like some goddamn damsel in distress. I don't know what she's playing at, unless she finally realizes what I've known all along. Dude is a vampire.

I follow them as closely and quietly as I can without risking having her catch me as she and the Incredible Hulk lumber out the hidden back entrance to the club. I hesitate for just a moment inside with my palms flat against the metallic service entrance doors. It suddenly occurs to me that I'm not really sure why the hell I'm following her outside like this. The Great Blonde One can certainly handle herself, so why am I followin' like an overly concerned and obedient puppy dog?

When I finally push out the heavy doors, I hear scuffling and muffled cries coming from around the corner of the back alley. Maybe I should be worried, but I know Princess can handle herself.

"Ya slippin', Blondie?" I call out into the darkness. My thick boots echo against the dark pavement as I go in search of her. "Cause I could smell that vamp even over all the B.O. in that dank club," I taunt.

What I see next when I turn the corner causes me to halt in my confident and cocky swagger.

Ya see, when I first stepped out into that dark alley, I half expected to see Buffy bein' duped by some LA vamp. Ya know, like maybe they're craftier than the Sunnydale variety. The other part of me expected to see her wailin' on some unsuspectin' vamp who thought he was gettin' a free meal. Plus girlfriend's damn sexy when she's slaying the undead. I wouldn't have minded the view.

But what I see instead…what I see…her doing…I'll never be able to erase from my memory. The lighting's not so bright in the back alley, but even through the darkness I know what I see. My childhood might have been disturbing, but this is one event I'll never be able to repress.

Buffy's got her face buried in the guy's neck. And from the way his body is shaking and from the tell-tale gurglin' noises comin' outta his throat, I'm guessing girlfriend's not just leaving behind a hickey. This is a love bite of a totally different color.

Even in this lighting and from this distance I can see the jagged bumps that have morphed her normally angelic features into something indescribably evil. Seeing her like this makes me want to vomit all over my heavy boots, but I somehow manage to keep it together, albeit I'm still staring helplessly like a giant idiot.

When she's had her fill, she snaps her head up from her mangled prey and lets the lifeless, hulking form crumble soundlessly to the wet pavement. She steps over the new corpse, her high-heels clicking on the ground as she begins to narrow the distance between us. Her shoes echo against the silence of twilight. The tip of her pink tongue snakes out of her mouth to collect the excess blood that's gathered there.

"Sorry, Faithie," she purrs in an all-too-familiar voice. "But you might be the one slipping."

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TBC