Impulses Of The Uncommon Girl
by Jade
Rating: R
Disclaimer: As usual, Joss and his Mutants own every scrap of thing except
for the actual cities and songs. *points finger* Nyaaah-aaah!
Author's Notes: This was started even before I finished the Queen of Cups series. In
fact, I'm sorry to disappoint people who were interested in an ending to the
QOC series, but I don't think I can finish it. This story just took hold of
me, and it's been demanding I devote all my spare time to it. Sleeping With
Ghosts was meant to be a prologue to this. It's mostly B/F, but there is some
W/F. They just had a chemistry I couldn't deny, until cave-Buffy beat me
over the head with her stake and demanded Faith. ;P
11:45 PM Somewhere outside of Palm Desert, CA
Suffice to say, it had been a long drive.
Faith tapped her hands along with the music, her newly manicured nails hiting the steering wheel in a noise that would annoy a witch with a lesser constitution. As it was, Willow just snuggled deeper into the backseat, half open eyes observing the back of the brunette's head, which was currently bobbing exaggeratedly. Faith had offered to drive after they'd passed Palm Springs, and Willow strongly suspected it was less out of care for the redhead's beauty sleep, and more for stereo privileges.
Actually, she mused sleepily, Faith had quite a good voice, but her frequent head-bobbing left something to be desired. She closed her eyes and smiled a little as the song progressed, with Faith humming along. The lights of cars passing over the backseat had a hypnotic effect on the witch, the darkness of the night bisected by those flashes of unnatural brightness. It was oddly soothing. They stopped at a red light, and Faith turned her head to look at Willow.
"Doin' okay, Red? Am I buggin' ya?"
"No," she yawned, plumping up the brunette's jacket that she was using as a pillow, and nuzzling further in. "You have a good voice actually, it's nice to listen to. Keep going."
Willow could have sworn she saw a tinge of red on the Slayer's cheeks before she turned back to the road. "Whatever you say, boss. Go to sleep, okay? It's a long drive to L.A."
Willow obediantly closed her eyes and stretched out, getting comfortable. As she drifted off, she could hear the smoky, melodic sound of Faith's singing.
Willow woke up to the strains of Pearl Jam's 'Jeremy' and a hot desert wind blowing her hair into her face. The sun beat brilliantly down like a golden egg in a cloudless blue nest, hatching radiant streaks of light. The top of the convertible was down, and outside, she could see a strange arid land, the color of khaki and army greens. Scrub brush and the odd straggly tree whizzed by her face, aloof, hardened, a rough kind of beauty. They were on a freeway, and as Willow turned her head, she was shocked to see the polar opposite of the desert on the other side of the car. The ocean stretched like a lazy blue cat or a calm starlet, self-assured and dazzling. It was a complete contrast to the rugged desert on the left side of the car. She shook her head in wonder, yawned, and climbed into the front seat.
"G'morning!" Faith chirped cheerily, tilting her head to look at the bemused redhead. "You slept a long time."
Willow stretched her cramped muscles, and scratched her belly lazily. Then she remembered something and sat straight, looking intensely at Faith. "Oh geez, I'm so sorry Faith. Did you sleep at all?"
Faith waved her off merrily, used to the witch's little neurosis after nearly a month of driving with her. "Yeah, I'm fine. I pulled over and caught a few a couple hours ago. Besides, Slayers don't need that much sleep." She chuckled, seeing Willow's patented 'disapproving face'. "Trust me Red, I'm five by five."
"Mmmm... if you say so. Anyway, where are we? It's so bizarrely beautiful."
Faith laughed. "We're coming up on San Diego. It's gorgeous here."
Willow stared out the window, admiring the sparkling gem of an ocean. "My mom took me here once when I was a kid, to see Sea World. Other than that I don't remember much."
"It's a good place; nice beaches, cute surfers, great food, and lotsa palm trees. Spent a couple nights here on my way to Sunnydale. Too bad we can't stop if we wanna make it to L.A by nightfall."
Willow nodded, her thoughts in another place. A week ago, on their cross-country search for Tara (they both knew exactly where Buffy was, and had desperately avoided Sunnydale at all costs, for some primal reason) they'd recieved an email on Willow's laptop. Angel had discovered a new evil, and he wanted them in L.A as soon as they could be there. They had no need to ask how he knew they were travelling together; after all, he did have one of the most powerful Seers in the country under his employment. The broody vampire called them once, on Faith's cellphone (the fact that he'd gotten her unlisted number annoyed the dark-haired Slayer to no end) to say only that he missed them, and that the sooner they could be there, the better. Faith and Willow both wearily suspected that some moronic demon was trying to end the world again, which meant they'd both have to fight, and face their fears. Both worried about loosing control, about slipping back into the ever-hungry maw of the dark side again, but neither wanted their fears to stop them from averting an Apocalypse. So they headed west.
They'd been in Colorado when he had called, and the drive into California had been arduous and tiresome. However, Willow's frustration was tempered by Faith childlike enthusiasm, and her enduring mannerisms. For instance, she sang along with every song on the radio, regardless of if she knew the words. When they stopped at rest areas to sleep, she'd wander off with a pocketful of quarters and return with enormous amouts of junk food, grinning like the cat who'd eaten a canary, a fish and the entire cageful of her owner's hamsters. Sometimes she was moody and snappish, true, but only when Willow mentioned Buffy. She'd learned long ago that Faith was in denial about her love for the blonde Slayer, much like she'd been when she first met Tara.
Faith seemed to be deep in thought as well; she reached over to the CD player and wordlessly changed the CD to Nirvana's In Utero. Her fingers pressed the skip button until she reached 'All Apologies'. Having found her favorite song, she sat back and listened silently, no head bobbing or wheel-tapping. Willow glanced over at the brunette, knowing this song struck a chord with Faith, particularly because she'd once mentioned it reminded her of Buffy.
"I wish I was like you. Easily amused.
What else should I be? All apologies..."
Willow leaned closer to her new friend, and tentatively put a hand on her shoulder. Faith seemed to shake herself out of something like a trance, and glanced quickly at her. The Wiccan bowed her head slightly and rested it on Faith's shoulder. For a moment, the pose was stiff, as if they were unsure of eachother. But eventually, Faith relaxed some, and gently brushed her hand against Willow's head, in an awkwardly affectionate gesture. The redhead, feeling somehow more secure, lifted her head from Faith's shoulder and touseled the sleek brown locks tenderly. The car swerved slightly and Willow giggled at Faith's indignant look.
"Watch the hair!" She smoothed the completely unmussed tresses, reproachfully glaring at Willow, who, chuckling, refused to take her seriously. "Red, you are just begging for an ass-kicking."
"Whooo..I'm so scared. The big bad Faithy's maaaadd at meeee!"
"Silence cretin! Feel the almighty wrath of the nooooooogiiiieees!"
"Goddess above, what the fuck are you-aaaaaaa! Stop that! Stop-mrrrph! Mrrrrrpppphhh! Nnnnnnn!"
The Jag swerved abrubtly off the freeway as the grinning brunette held a struggling Willow in a one-armed headlock. She pulled onto the side of the road, gravel spraying, as the little Wiccan screeched muffled curses into the side of Faith's breast. The brunette cocked her head, as if hearing something. "What's that? You want more noogies? Hmmm? Well, ask and ye shall recieve!"
"Faith this is so not funny, you little who-Nnnnnn! Nnnnn!"
Finally, after much hair-pulling on Willow's part, the two jolted apart, laughing like they'd been friends forever. Both of them felt strangely assured, comfortably settled in eachother's presence. The awkwardness was gone, replaced by some bizarre form of friendship, based on mutual heartbreak. Loneliness and rejection tend to make odd partnerships of the most unlikely people.
San Diego passed in a blur of palm trees and glistening seashores as inviting as a naked lover beckoning to you on the bed. Faith kept up a running commentary, apparently well-versed in the sights and attractions of the seaside city. Willow insisted they stop for lunch, regardless of their schedule, upon having spotted a Wiccan-run Thai place in Balboa Park called Bangles. They sat on Indian-themed pillows on the floor, eating all-natural raw dishes and sipping on yummy non-alchoholic fruit drinks. Faith put on her tough-girl facade, telling Willow how 'fucking moronic this place is' until Willow gently told her she wasn't fooling anyone. Faith looked as if she'd been struck in the face, and Willow wondered if perhaps she'd gone too far, dabbled on the line between friendship and nagging, when she saw the dark girl smudge away a smoky, mahoghany-hued tear. They looked at eachother for long minutes, then Faith timidly said she liked the spring rolls. Willow breathed for the first time, and smiled shyly. They were still working on this friendship, building it together, dilligently laying the foundation, spreading the concrete.
7:47 AM Sunnydale, CA
I woke up this morning feeling as if she was right next to me.
I could literally feel her, see her, hear her voice that sounded so much like Mom's. Dawnie, my little sister, the one I was supposed to protect. I died to save her, but in the end, I couldn't save her from herself. What good is it being an all-powerful super human if everyone you care for dies before you could help them?
I make my breakfast; a cup of coffee, black. It's all I ever need in the mornings, now. Food just rots in my stomach, no matter what it is. Coffee, coffee is the sweet bitterness that keeps me moving, that keeps me breathing. I stare out the window, pressing my mug to my collarbone; I've had a sore throat the last few days, a sure sign that another big bad is on the way. I don't know how to face it, or even what it is, and I won't get any help. But that's the way I chose it, the way I want it to be. The 'Slayerettes' deserve to have normal lives, even if they themselves aren't normal. They deseve a shot at what I always wanted for myself, and I don't regret my choice to split us up at all.
I don't even know where Willow is anymore, or Tara. All I know is that they fought soon after they left Sunnydale, and Tara left. I don't blame her; Willow was starting to become dangerous. She was addicted to it, to the rush of being powerful. I know the feeling; and I've seen what power-hunger can do to a Slayer. I saw it firsthand, how it destroyed a woman and made her into a monster, a killing machine. Angel told me Faith killed herself in prison. She knew it had consumed her, and she didn't want to hurt anyone ever again. Sometimes I wonder how she did it; none of the methods I've used have worked.
I stopped crying a while ago. It just doesn't help me anymore, not like before when I could always go find a shoulder to dampen with my tears. I cried for my mom, I cried for my dad, and now I have cried for Dawn, Giles, and Faith. Dawn, because she was so young, and so used, Giles, because I can't go to him anymore, for help with my demons of either sort. And Faith, because she...was beautiful, and so sad. I don't like to think about how dead inside the thought of her suicide makes me. I don't think much anymore. I just go through the motions, a parody of the girl I had once been.
The Jag rolled into Sunnydale in the early afternoon, around two. Faith was uptight and edgy, snapping at the other drivers for ridiculous reasons. After she'd swerved madly at a Volkswagon who cut her off, Willow gently coaxed her into relinquishing control of the steering wheel, and took over driving for a while.
But she too felt the tension, the tightly-wound air that crackled angrily at her for coming back, for returning. She didn't belong her anymore, her life was elsewhere, in larger, more cultured places. But this, this was her childhood home, the site of her first love and first lust. The place where she'd kissed her first girl (Faith), staked numerous vampires, stopped an apocalypse more than twice, and lost her virginity. Somehow, that last one was the most important to her. This was the place.
This was her home.
Without thinking, she turned the car onto a side road that led to the cemetary where Dawn and Joyce lay in eternal rest. Faith didn't object, just made a small choking noise in her throat as they passed through the gates. Willow glanced over at her but made no move to comfort her. She was fluent in the subtle lexicon of Faith, a language Buffy had never taken the time to learn. If she had, she might not have plunged the knife into her, that night.
They walked slowly across the plush, slightly damp grass, in the same way they always walked. Faith, a little behind, chin defensive, hands in pockets. Willow, striding calm and confident, but somehow shy, respectful. A carry-over from a childhood of dorkdom.
They reached the Summers plot, where three resolute stones jutted from the earth like Neolithic obilisks. Joyce Karen, Dawn Margeret, and Buffy Anne, the latter still standing as a memento of the Slayer's true death. None of the Scoobies had wanted to tear it down, for reasons they themselves couldn't decipher. Faith saw the grave and her cocky swagger subdued to a slow walk.
"Shit." She said quietly. "You guys never took this thing down?" She touched it with her boot as if in contempt. Willow knew better.
"No. We didn't." She replied, and left it at that. Faith leaned down to trace the engraved letter 'B' and let out something like a sigh. When she turned her face to Willow, her eyes shone like the sleek coat of a seal.
"Go. I'm okay. I-I just need some time." Willow nodded, and turned on her heel to go visit her mother, the woman she could never become good enough for.
The grass was deep, the ground soft, sinking a little under her heels. Ideal conditions for newborn vampires. She shook her head, wondering when she'd stop thinking like a vampire slayer's best friend, and start thinking like a woman. Still, she wondered if Buffy ever patroled here, where her mother and sister lay. She could see that brave, beautifully curved figure, striding resolutely through the graves. Keeping watch over her family, a devoted daughter and a big sister always. The champion of the people. Did she even miss them?
She found the spot where they'd held the funeral, beside a rash of Vietnam soldiers. Sheila would have been furious at their choice of spots, and Willow could just see her flower-child specter shaking her head in yet-another disappointment from her daughter. *Fuck you, Mom.*
The Rosenburg plot was gated, signifying their seperation from the rest of Sunnydale. Everyone knew that the Rosenburgs were Jewish, and therefore 'weird'. In a predominately Lutheran/Christian community, it was like being from another planet. And everyone knew that Rosenburg girl was trouble. You can't trust the quiet ones, they whispered, as she strode past with her bookbag, they always end up being murderers. And look at who she hangs out with! Yes, the Summers, the Harrises, and the Rosenburgs were no good. Willow stifled a smirk as she remembered the town busibodies catching her and Tara in a liplock.
What a carefree youth, what a peaceful time of demons and Algebra.
She leaned down and placed the bouquet of daffodils at her mother's grave. She'd purchased them at a roadside stand with this intent. Daffodils were her mother's favorite flower, before she died of cancer. Willow remembered the hospital, and its pristine white. Those flowers, so vibrantly yellow against all that white. She sat on her heels in the wet grass, thinking. Then, she stood up, brushed herself off, and walked down the hill to collect Faith.
1:45 PM Sunnydale, CA
I go into town as rarely as possible. There are too many teenagers around, skipping class at the Espresso Pump and talking in loud, rowdy voices. Their cheery dialog hurts my ears, and makes me remember things I'd rather bury, deep, deep in the swollen earth of my subconcsious. The boys and girls of my time are men and women now, with jobs and families. Sometimes I see Scott or that guy Willow tutored. They wave, smile like they know me, and continue on. I should be one of them, a woman with a career, a husband, a dog and three kids. But I am segregated, sexless. The androgynous Slayer.
Those that remember what I am look upon me with either respect or fear. They hush their little ones as I walk past, staring at me in solemn, awed silence. But the kids smile, sometimes shakily, little smiles, all teeth and gum. I've heard one of the newer skipping rhymes about me. They sing it as they jump rope in a line, as the already-chosen 'Slayer' scowls menacingly and stalks around.
'Watch out boogie man, watch out ghoul. In Sunnydale, Slayer's coming for you!'
The game ends with one child chasing away the pre-designated 'monsters', laughing and shrieking, wielding a chip of bark or a plastic sword. They fight viciously over who gets to be the 'Slayer'. I stand at the edge of the park, by the swings, and sometimes, I smile.
The grocery store is run by the sullen teenage grandson of the man who smiled so jovially at me when I was his grandson's age. 'A Cosmopolitan and a low-fat yougart, Miss Summers?' I'd blush at his accurate guess of my weekly purchases, sliding my magazine across the counter to him. He'd occasionally sneak me a Snickers bar from the candy rack if I looked upset. Which, in the days of Angel, Scott and Faith, was often.
He died of 'mysterious neck wounds' while I was dead. Odd, that his death corresponds with the death of my innocence, my emotions, my sense of honor and justice. Now, I just Slay.
Faith looked as if she'd been crying, sitting on a nearby tombstone and smoking a cigarette. Her back was to Willow, hunched and tense, like a bear or a wolf, the smoke rising around her form like a blue shadow. The redhead crept up behind her, knowing that the Slayer had already sensed her, and began to massage her back tenderly, soothing the tightened muscles. Faith relaxed under her touch, dark curls brushing Willow's attentive hands as she lolled her head on her neck.
"Everything all right?" She asked quietly, knowing her dark companion's reply by heart.
"Five by-oohhh, keep doing that-five."
She kneaded and pressed with her hands, forcing those wired, angry muscles to calm beneath silken skin. Faith was wearing her usual outfit, a white tank top and jeans. More conservative than her younger days, but hey, didn't they all have to grow up someday? Her body felt upset and tense, and she could sense that Faith had been thinking about Dawn, wishing she could have helped. Faith often put blame on herself when she couldn't place it elsewhere.
Faith moaned softly, and Willow was suddenly, blindingly aware of the intimate position she had placed them in. Of the fact that her hands had somehow found their way under Faith's tank. Her skin was ludicrisly soft. She knew that this might be erasing the line between friendship and...who knows? Apparently Faith got the same idea, because she lept off the tombstone ridiculously fast, and turned to face Willow.
Their eyes met, and for one brief, smoldering moment, a kiss was remembered. A shiver went through Willow as she felt the soft press of phantom lips against hers, a ghost tongue welcoming her own. Faith snapped her head away from their contact, and flicked her cigarette into the wet grass. Willow tutted and leaned over to pick up the butt. Suddenly, things were back to normal again.
"Well," Faith said, shoving her hands in her back pockets. "That was an experience."
Willow inspected the cigarette butt. "Faith, it says 'no littering'."
"C'mon Wills, live dangerously."
"The last time you said that, we almost ran over a squirrel."
Faith paled noticeably. "That was an accident. And you promised me you'd never bring it up again."
Willow grinned. "Oh but I crossed my fingers. Prepare for complete and total Cordelia hell. When she finds out you nursed that old, flea-infested, mangy squirrel for weeks because you had deluded yourself into thinking it was the reincarnation of Jimi Hendrix... it'll be worse than the apocolypse."
"It bore a certain resemblence!"
"If Hendrix liked humping hands, then sure, why the hell not?"
"Oh, let's just get in the damn car."
They walked side by side, almost holding hands but not quite, down the slope to the parking lot. The sky had become cloudy and dark without their knowing it, almost in forboding. Willow pulled open the door to the driver's side unhesitatingly. Faith gave her a questioning look. "Will? D'ya want me to drive?"
Willow shook her head, wanting to get them through Sunnydale as fast as possible, but knowing that she couldn't. There was still some things to see that needed to be seen whether she liked it or not. And there were miles to go until they reached L.A, miles.
2:56 PM Sunnydale
The line for the checkout stand was excessively long. I wished I could use my Slayer powers on each and every child who ever screams 'but I waaaaant it' even though it's not likely they're ever going to get it. It's just one thing in a plethora of things you'll never get, kid. It's a rough life, get used to it.
The grocery bags are in my arms as I walked down what passes for Sunnydale's Main Street. It's cold and windy today, the sky dark with bruised-looking clouds. They look like old women of sorrow, ready to release their grief upon us. Vampires shouldn't be rampant tonight, they don't like the rain. And everything's been so quiet lately, almost sinister, the calm before the hurricane. Evil always lulls you into dumb sleep, and awakens you with a sharp blow to the head.
A car rolls past me as the first droplets land on my newly clipped hair. It's a Jaguar, an old one, a convertible with the top up. Beautiful thing, I'm not normally fond of machines, but this is like a sleek, shimmering black cat, purring along the road. I catch sight of the passenger, who matches the car. Her dark hair obscures her face, as she talks to the driver, who I can't see, but I recognize her power, her catlike body, curled in the bucket seat. How appropriate.
I catch up to the car at a stoplight that is notorious for taking forever. The town's electrical systems have gone to shit since the Mayor died, and Willow wasn't around to hack into their databases and fix the problems. I'm suddenly eager to see who is in the car, as every time I come closer, I feel a shiver of power, something old and burning strong. Smoldering like a coal filled with buzzing ancient heat. Something that feels bizarrely familiar.
I'm peering at them, two women in the car, laughing and talking merrily to eachother. All of a sudden, I recognize the driver. Willow, with her hair cut short and dyed purple, but still, Willow. Her pale hands rest easy on the wheel, confident, calm. She's still small and chirpy, bright as a dragonfly, but she's easier in her own skin now. My Wills. Who's her passenger? Can't be Tara, too dark and feline-looking, maybe it's-
And then I see her face. And I drop the bags.
Eggs are spilling onto the sidewalk, their runny entrails released from their fragile worlds. My oranges rolling into traffic, coating in the grime of the gutter. Passers-by giving me odd looks, as I stare at a ghost.
Faith is just as gorgeous as I remember, dark, flashing eyes, hair in luxurious curls, body of sin and silk. Willow laughs at something she says, slapping her lightly on the arm. The arm where her tatoo slashes across honey-colored skin like a chain holding in the beast. The cat. Why didn't I see it? Feel it? Have I lost my mind?
My heart is pumping madly in my chest, bouncing and rebounding off of the cage of my ribs like a basketball. It hurts to breathe. My skin sizzles with her energy, my Slayer senses searing me in their joy at being near her again. I will her to look up, away from Willow, at me. She can sense me, I know it, I feel her presence at the back of my mind, quick and darting like a cat. She's ignoring me, but why? Why the fuck is she not looking at me?
They are so easy together, I realize. Faith is smiling so genuinely, so happily. I've never seen that smile. She leans over and rests her head on Willow's shoulder. Oh god. Are they lovers? Have they slept together, porcelin skin melding into gold? Has Willow's fingers caressed the silk between her thighs where once was my loving touch?
Has Faith forgotten what we did?
The light turns, failing me when I desperately need it to stay red, to keep them in my vision forever. I hear the engine purr, and the Jag leaps forward. The car speeds off, faster than Willow was ever want to drive. My Willow, the Willow I knew. The Faith I thought was dead. No, no, no. God, don't leave me. Faith, why are you ignoring me? I reach out with every Slayer sense to keep her in my range, desperate to know why she blocks me from her. But the car is going faster, out of range and out of vision. I feel the last fleeting caress of her warm, vibrant energy, and I am cold again. Alone.
I stand in the fast-falling rain, staring after the car, empty and misused. Before I can cry, I start to run back to my house, not caring who stares. My calves are pumping beneath my suede pants. Angel has some explaining to do.
Willow looks back as they speed away from Sunnydale, seeing a blonde girl staring after them. She shoots a glance at Faith, huddled against the window.
"Fai? Was that...?"
Faith burrows her head into her arm. "Yes."
"Do you want to...?"
"No. I've bled all I can for her."
Willow stares for a few seconds, then turns back to the road.
Author's Notes: I don't watch Angel coz I despise spinoffs (unless it was 'Faith the Vampire Slayer', ;D), and any knowledge I have of the show is gleaned from fanfic and sporadic viewings, so forgive me if I fuck up timelines/characters/developments/your sense of the world as we know it.
6:45 PM Los Angeles, CA
The Hyperion was a welcoming figure, looming above them in the multicolored sky. It was a fabulous, melodramatic sunset, the type that should come with a soundtrack of swelling violins. As it was, the sountrack was the rap Faith blasted from the stereo as they pulled up.
Angel semi-smiled at them as they slid out of the car, wearing identical black skirt-suits, trenchcoats and shades. They certainly looked the part of a vampire-slaying duo. They even walked in unison, all business-like fluidity and style. Faith smiled at him as she came up the walk to meet him, taking off her shades. He saw the scar, and remembered the circumstances that brought it about. Remembered the pain in her eyes that day, and was glad to see only traces of pain in those brown depths now. She stalked up to his side and appraised him carefully, mock-checking him out. He allowed her scrutiny, doing the same to her on a smaller scale. Finally, she lifted her head to look at him and cocked a brow with a slightly-smarmy smile. "Fang. It's nice to see you're not dead. Well, dead*er*."
He smiled down at her; even as tall as she had gotten, he still towered over anyone else. She looked good, not as thin as the last time he'd seen her. "No, not quite. Good to see you're the same, Faith."
Any other pair would have hugged, but she never liked unnecessary physical contact, so he saved his hug for Willow, who seemed grateful for it. "Hi Angel."
"Let me get your bags." He offered, but Faith declined artfully, hefting both duffels onto her capable shoulders and leading the way. He saw the sway of her hips, and wondered if it was directed at him. Then, he saw the way Willow's eyes followed Faith's every move, and knew that it wasn't.
They entered the hotel to little fanfare. Cordelia, Wesley, Lorne, and Gunn had gone out weapons shopping, promising to return in time to greet Faith, who was a favorite among the men. Cordelia had some residual hostility towards both women, and so would probably convince the boys to stay out late with her in order to avoid seeing them. Only Fred remained at the hotel to greet them as they came in.
"Hi Faith!" She chirped merrily as they entered. "I remember you, you're the rogue Slayer who killed four people and a prison guard. Hi Willow! I remember you, too. You're the powerful Wicca who went bad and tried to end the world. Can I help you with your bags?"
Both women winced, and shook their heads. Willow's shoulders slumped forward a few degrees, and Faith's posture became unnaturally stiff. Angel mentally congratulated himself on putting the one person practically guaranteed to remind the two of past mistakes. He cleared his throat loudly in the awkward silence and gave Fred an 'I'll-talk-to-you-later' look. She glared back at him, hurt, not quite understanding what she'd done.
"Uh, why don't I show you two to your rooms? They're right upstairs." He ushered them both up the stairs, leaving the bags on the floor. Faith slipped easily from his grasp and went down to get the bags. As she picked them up, she tilted her head to look at Fred and spoke with a calm conviction.
"For the record, Blondie? It was two prison guards."
He showed them to their doors, separate rooms several feet down the hall from one another. As soon as they saw the rooms, they exchanged a look. Willow spoke up, putting her hand on Faith's shoulder. "Do you think we could have closer rooms? If possible."
Angel must have looked at her oddly, because they both spoke up at the same time.
"I get wicked bad nightmares."
"We're used to sleeping close to each other."
They glanced helplessly at each other, and then at Angel. He saw their pleading stares and smiled, just a bit. These two always made him aware of the human inside him. The human with the capacity to love, and laugh, and live. Without a word, he opened the door to the room opposite Faith's room and motioned Willow inside. She smiled gratefully and hefted her bag inside. Faith followed, and, giving him a half-smile, half-solemn glance, closed the door. Inside, his supernatral hearing could detect the soft sound of feminine laughter and the rustle of unpacking.
As he walked downstairs to get his evening mug of blood, the phone rang. He sighed, seeing that Fred was nowhere in sight (she distrusted modern machinery with a passion), and lifted the receiver.
"Hello? The Hyperion, we help the hopeless."
"You told me she was dead." Angel's two-hundred-plus year-old blood ran cold. He walked quickly into his office and shut the door, cradling the phone to his cheek.
"Buffy, good to hear from you." He tried for cheery, and it failed dismally.
"Don't even try it. Is she with you?"
He sighed, looking forlornly upstairs. "Yes. They're helping me with my problem. Which, by the way, you refused to help me with, so if you don't mind-"
"I do." The answer was curt, her tone cold. Then, abrubtly, her voice changed. "Are they....?"
Angel rubbed his forehead, which was perpetually creased in worry. "I don't know. They're friends at least." It was silent on the other end, and for a moment he worried she'd hung up. "Buffy? Are you there?"
"I'm coming." She said shortly, and a dial tone rang in his ears. He put the phone down on the table and sat at his desk, wondering what the hell he was going to do.
9:31 PM, Hyperion Hotel, L.A
Willow took a long bath to wind down from the drive, perfuming the air of her bathroom with the lavender and sage sachets she used as a relaxation tool. The air was moist and steamy as she stepped out, wrapping the silk robe Faith had bought her around herself. She looked in the mirror at her body, the fog on the glass blurring her reflection, marring it. Her skin was bruised and pale, her hair dark and slicked close to her head. Her eyes were big in the hollows of her face, their expression still innocent after all these years. A face to bruise, a face to mark with fingerprints and reddened flesh. She hated it.
She went into the hallway and knocked on Faith's door tentatively, wondering if her rogue companion wanted company. The door jerked open almost immediately, shattering her nervous thoughts. Faith was in a bra and jeans, holding a bottle of gin against her hip and a cigarette between two fingers. Her eyes were wild and lonely at once. Willow knew she wasn't the only one affected by the shivering atmosphere in L.A.
Faith motioned her in, closing the door behind her and leaning on it as Willow sat down on the bed. Her eyes closed, her hair in snake tendrils around her shoulders, smoke issuing from her fingers and the bottle poised in her grasp, she looked like a goddess of the sins. A lady of the night.
Willow leaned back and slid a cig from the pack on the nightstand. She lit it with a careless wave of her hand, and took a drag, staring at the ceiling. The air was blue with smoke and the TV ran on mute, while the city outside howled and screamed in a voice they both knew. She rolled onto her side, propping herself up on an elbow, and regarded Faith, slumped against the door.
"You feel it too?" She asked, almost conversationally. Faith opened one eye, the bottle halfway to her lips, and nodded mutely. Willow patted the space on the bed beside her, half aware that her robe was gaping open. Faith seemed unruffled by her almost-nudity and joined her, stretching her lanky limbs alongside Willow's, her head on the witch's stomach. Willow's hands came up atomatically to stroke her hair, and Faith leaned into the touch.
"What do you think it is?" Faith's husky voice rose like smoke to her ears. "A demon? Angel didn't say."
"He said it was difficult." Willow's fingers absently began to create little braids in Faith's mass of silky hair. The Slayer twisted to look at her, her head nestled more firmly into Willow's belly.
"You think he'll....?"
Willow dropped a finished braid. "Call Buffy? Why would he do that? He's got you."
Faith handed her the bottle; she put it on the nightstand. "Yeah, but...y'know."
She craned her body and kissed Faith's forehead on an impulse. "I know. But you're better than her. You always will be. You accepted your darkness and worked with it. Buffy never could do that."
Faith settled back, smiling a little.
Same time, same place
I pulled up to the hotel and got out as fast as I could, nearly leaving the car unlocked in my haste. I left my bag in the trunk, remembering it halfway up the steps, and ran back for it. My hands were shaking like high-tension wires, and I had to force myself to concentrate on getting the key in the lock. The trunk popped open and I dove for my bag, banging my head sharply on the roof of the trunk. I yelped and yanked the bag from its confines, slamming the trunk down.
I raced up the steps, lugging the bag, flinging open the doors. "Angel?" I called, my voice ringing in the room. He hurried out of his office, trenchcoat flapping behind him like a wayward bat. He was coming out to meet me, it's not the first time I caught him off guard.
"Buffy!" He sputters, eyes raking me up and down, taking in my disheveled state. "I didn't think you'd be here so soon-"
The rest of his words mumble into oblivion as the first waves of her presence hit me. I can *feel* her here, directly above this room, can smell the spice of her body. She's upstairs. She's what I came for, what I wanted and *needed* with every peice of my being to see. She has blazed a fire in me where once was only ashes, and I champ at the bit to be near her again.
I hear moving from upstairs, the heavy clunk of boots on the linoleum. They're coming downstairs, her and someone else, and I can't move, can't think. I just stand and hope I see her before she sees me.
My head whips around, my mind swinging out to feel for her, to touch the tendril tips to her thoughts and feelings. The churning maelstorm that is her mind. I normally wouldn't invade her this much, but such a strange desperation has come over me that I must know what she's thinking, what she wants from me, so I can give it to her.
The first thing I see is a slim figure, blurring into another form, equally slender. Dressed alike in black, Willow and Faith are almost indistinguishable from each other. Willow's hair is a weird shade of purple, reminiscent of her bad days. She has a scar that slashes brutally across her collarbone, pink and new. Faith is a step behind her, dark hair falling like a curtain drawn across the theatre of her face, where her emotions rehearse themselves to show exactly what she wants them to show. I try to press, to meld our minds like we used to, caressing her thoughts through our Slayer connection.
But her walls swoop down like angry birds, and I am cast out of the link, with a harshness that reverberates through my physical body. She doesn't want me here.
Dazed and blinking, I try to clear my thoughts as I realize they're all staring at me.
Willow in half-happiness, half-trepidation and dismay. Angel, with a look of sad resignation, and *she*, she looks at me like I'm a puppy who shat on her new rug.
Shit. I should have known this couldn't be easy.
Willow breaks the silence first, crossing to meet me. As soon as she leaves her side, Faith stiffens and her body becomes defensive.
"Buffy?" Willow says quietly. "Why are you here?"
I recoil inwardly as I realize that my intrusion must look as if I don't think they can handle the situation on their own. That I've come to be Big Boss Buffy again. I scrabble for the first thing that hits me. "I came to see you. And Faith."
Faith growls low in her throat and I turn to her. "Hi." I whisper, staring, still unable to believe she's here, standing not three feet from me. She nods her head coldly, her eyes trained on the far wall. I feel as if I've been slapped.
"Buffy." She states my full name as if it were a disease. *Buffy*. It's never been Buffy before, always B. Affectionate and arrogant at the same time. B.
"Well." Willow speaks up, "I guess, uh, Angel, now that we're...all here, maybe you could tell us what we need to fight?" She crosses back over to Faith, showing where her loyalties lie. Faith smiles wanly at her, welcoming. Her hand brushes against Willow's arm.
Angel's deep-furrowed brow wrinkles further. "It's complicated. I think we should discuss it in the morning with the full team." He turns to me and Faith in the same gesture. "Buffy, I'm afraid the only room left shares a bathroom with Faith's room. Is that alright with you, Faith?"
"Fine." She snaps, looking at the floor. I try to catch her eyes, but they remain elusive, slipping away from me. Why, god, why is she doing this?
At the same time I think the question, I know the answer. I know it and it burns and kills me deep down. I lower my eyes, admitting defeat. I allow Angel to take my bag and walk upstairs with it, expecting me to follow like a good little girl. Which I do. I feel her eyes boring a hole into my back, and I hear the soft murmur of Willow's voice, questioning and comforting at once.
I barely even notice that I'm inside the room, sitting on the bed, until I hear her voice as she comes up the steps. Instantly, all senses are on the alert, atuned to her every word.
"....and she just comes in here and gives us a half-assed excuse and I'm supposed to take it?! No fucking way, Wills, it ain't happening."
Willow's voice, not pleading, resolved. "We can't just get up and leave. You know that. Are you gonna let her drive you out of L.A.?"
A long pause, I hear the shifting of feet and then Willow's voice, cold and punishing.
"You fucking pussy."
"I can't do this! You don't understand-"
"No, I understand all right! You're gonna do the exact same thing you did in Sunnydale, only worse because you're abandoning your duties as a Slayer and a friend. Are you really going to make Angel handle this on his own?!"
"I can't...I can't go through this again."
Rustling, the sound of soft whimpering sobs and gentle shushing. Willow's out there, comforting Faith, helping her. Doing the things I should have done, but never bothered to do. I slump down on the bed, curling into a little ball.
PART 4: Backstabbing in Angel Land
Before I realize it, it's late night. The time when I would usually be coming home to an empty house after patrol, missing Dawn's noise and mess. I release myself from my fetal position, stretching cramped muscles that somehow never made a complaint while I was on the floor. It's time for a bath, my skin is sticky and dirty, coated with some indecipherable grime. I open the door before I even remember what Angel said about shared bathrooms, and I'm hit with a blast of moist, perfumed air straight in the face.
Faith is naked, her honey colored body bending over the sink, splashing water on her face. Her breasts brush the pocelain edge, nipples hardening into points from the cold surface. Honey brown, with rosy areoloas begging to be sucked, nibbled, tasted. Droplets of water run down her back, to the curve of her ass, above which is a new tattoo, a pentacle with flames surrounding it. I remember pressing my breasts to that back, feeling the arch of her spine, the ripple of her shoulders. The sharp intake of breath. Her hair is wet and clinging to her shoulders in ringlets, like a drenched cloud of medusa snakes.
The door bangs against its hinges, protesting my rough entrance into this steamy, feminine world of silky skin and languid movements. Faith turns, slow, deliberate, and stares at me, one hand on the curve of her hip like a bell, the other on the counter, palm flat. Her eyes are cold, and it takes all of my strength to focus on them, and not allow my eyes to wander to the juncture of her thighs. Her place of creation and slick, melting warmth, my solace.
"What do you want?" Such a chill in her voice, harsh against this humid environment.
"I-I..I wanted to..." I stammer like a fool, unable to keep my eyes on hers. She notices my indiscretion and a cruel smirk spreads across her full, dark lips. "I was going to take a bath." I manage, cursing myself for the want evident in my voice.
She gestures at the bath-shower combination. "I just finished, it'll take a while for the pipes to warm up again. It's an old hotel."
"Oh." Silence follows, as we stare at each other for an eternity of seconds. My eyes enviously follow the journey of a water droplet as it caresses her skin from her collarbone to her thigh, slipping inwards. When I finally bring my eyes up to her face, I flush red as I realize she's been watching me ogle her with a reflective look in her eyes. She turns, offering me a view of her lovely backside (is there no part of this woman that is ugly?!) and slips on a black oriental silk robe, which gapes in the chest and falls only to mid-thigh. Not that I'm complaining.
I follow her into her room, already decorated in strewn-about clothes and comic books. Typical Faith. She moves to pick up a pair of jeans, looking almost ashamed, then glance back at me and straightens herself.
"What do you *want*, Buffy?" She asks tiredly, sitting on the bed. I find my voice and manage to speak.
"To talk. We need to talk." I sound self-righteous, even to me. I try again. "I mean, I want to hear about you. What you've been doing. I-I missed you."
She ignores my last comment, tracing a dragon on her robe. "I haven't been doing much. Just traveling with Willow." Her eyes narrow at me. "What do you care?"
"I care!" My voice is hoarse from holding back tears. "I care...a lot about...you, and I...I really did miss you. Angel told me-" nearly sobbing now, "he told me you were...dead."
She snorts. "Did he? Good." Her head snaps up and I'm shocked by the anger in them. "You should suffer."
I recoil. "Faith, I-"
"You should suffer like I suffered, every fucking day." Her voice is raw with hate and anger, tears beginning to leak from the corners of those big brown eyes. I fall to my knees beside her, beseeching, pleading with my face.
"Faith, I'm sorry. I wish I could take it all away, Faith. Faith, I love-"
"Don't give me that *shit*!" She nearly screams, yanking her body away from mine. "You put me through hell and back, you found every vulnerability I had and tormented me with it! And I'm supposed to *forgive* you?!"
"No! God, no! Please, just look at me. Just look at me, kitten." That was a mistake. Instantly, she whips around and I go flying through the air from her slap. I tumble into a chair, knocking it over in a crash that would have woke the dead, and probably would, considering Angel's room is right below us. I felt blood trickle into my eyes, and the sharp pain from a broken chair arm digging into my side. A little gasp escapes me, and her expression instantly changes from a snarl to something like worry.
She surged upwards like a cat, all fluidity and liquid movement, and is at my side. Without speaking, she helps me up, brow wrinkled in concern. Her hands touch the blood on my temple tenatively, her eyes an unreadable riot of purple-brown. "I...I...I didn't....I'm sorry."
"I'm okay, just a scratch." I croak. My skin, like an army of ants, shivers in delight at her touch, which is all too brief. She fetches a wet towel from the bathroom and helps me to sit on the bed, dabbing at my cut gingerly. The proximity between us is driving me mad, setting every little hair on end, and a flood of moisture to my crotch. Her breasts brush against my arm, tantalizingly full and melon-y, ready for tasting. Oh God, I have to stop thinking about that.
Once my cut is clean, and my nerves shot to hell, she sits back from me, regarding me as if she has no idea who I am. The robe gapes open, exposing her little hard belly, and the rosy sweep of her breasts. Can she really be twenty-eight? She looks so old, so experienced and hardened. Her body is aged, older than when I knew it, but my hands still ache with the memory of each curve. She is still gorgeous, but more so now, her beauty weathered and improved by pain and loss. My hand lifts of its own accord, and drifts to her face as if pulled by some invisible tide. Caressing, stroking her jaw, watching her lean into it like a cat, reluctantly.
"I love you."
The words, pulled out of me in a hoarse whisper, mean everything that I couldn't say years ago, when she needed me to say them. Tears fill her eyes and she swats at them angrily, always the badass. She sits up, drawing her body away from mine in a fetal crouch, throwing up her walls again. "Don't say that to me. Not now. Not ever again."
"I love you." I whisper, curling closer to her, my hands on her tightened shoulders, trying to get her to face me. My head nuzzling at her neck, laying kisses below her ear where she used to go crazy for it. "I loved you then, and I love you now."
Sobs are wracking her, forcing her into a tighter ball. "God, just go away. Just go away."
Finally she turns enough, and my lips meet hers, reunited. "I love you." Against her mouth, breathing into her right before we kiss. It's fusion, wet, molten reunion. My tongue sweeps eagerly into her mouth, seeking hers and playing with it. My nose is overthrown by her scent, primal and spicy. There is no space between her tongue in my mouth and mine in hers, only sweet memories returning. Her hand slips under my shirt, sliding up and down my ribcage, fingertips brushing the undersides of breasts. I shudder internally, feeling my body's mechanics grind to a halt from her touch.
Suddenly, there's cold air on my stomach as she yanks her hand away and jerks apart from me. My eyes fly open in shock and I see her stand up, facing me.
"No." She says, with such utter finality that I feel my heart flutter in pain. "Not again, Buffy. I'm not gonna let you fuck with my head again."
I rise to face her, pissed off. "I do believe that was *your* hand on my stomach, Faith."
She shakes her head, arms crossing over her breasts. "You *always* do this to me. You fill my head with your glitter-powder words that make me feel like I'm finally home, finally free of *me*. And then you fuck me over like I'm just your little *puppy*. You did it last time, you'll do it again, but not to me. Not to me."
"And you're any better?! With your 'oh, I'm wicked sexy look at my ass in tight leather' and your 'five by five'? You drive me insane with lust and love and then you run away!" My heart is thumping wildly, not just from the anger crackling the air, but also from my fear that she'll just turn around and walk out. Maybe go over to Willow's room for some 'comfort'.
"I run away because you can't deal. Because Perfect Golden Summers' rep would be soiled if anyone caught her fucking a *girl*." She spits out the last sentence in disgust, belting her robe around her waist in a vicious motion. "You told me that it was just a 'phase you were going through' and you 'hoped we could still be friends', while all the while searching for a way to boot me out of your perfect life. To send me off to England so you could claim I had always been the bad seed. You abandoned me right when I needed you most! You make me sick!"
"Faith, you killed a man! I was trying to find a way to give you a damn get-out-of-jail free card! Not usher you off the continent! If anything, I prayed and begged that you would be able to stay."
This was only the partial truth; half of my praying and begging went towards the 'make Buffy not love Faith' fund. I was too afraid of people's reactions and their criticisms to stay with the woman I loved. I knew it wasn't the right decision, to leave Faith, but I still clung to the one semblence of normality I thought I contained. The ability to be straight, to be like all the other girls. Now I know that there is nothing on this planet capable of keeping your true nature and desires hidden. I took a deep breath and let it all come rushing to the surface.
"I loved you, but I was *eighteen*. I had gone through hell and back, literally, my boyfriend was evil yet reformed, my mother didn't trust me, and I still had to go kill the ugly undead every night. I wanted to be normal, I wanted to be just like all the other kids, and, like a typical teenager, I thought any weird, queer personality trait should be obliterated. I loved you with every fiber in my being, but I couldn't bear the thought of being the subject of the town gossip's weekly chat. I'm sorry. I honestly wish I could take it all back, could be with you without fear and love you the way you needed me to at the time, BUT I CAN'T. I *can't* change the mistakes I made, I can only try to change what happens now, in this time. I love you, Faith, I'll do whatever it takes."
Faith looked shaken, her dark eyes cast on the floor. She searched the carpet while I nervously bit my nails, waiting for a reaction. Finally, after the five-hundred-hour minute, she walked over to her dresser and lifted a pack of cigs from it. Expertly, she tapped one out of the box and lit up, filling the room with the smell of menthol and smoke. The wisps of curling smoke around her lips and mouth made her look like some sort of demonic succubi, come to seduce and destroy. She sat down next to me on the bed, the springs making no complaint against her little weight. I felt fat and old sitting next to her. I brushed off her offered cig, having quit months ago, and continued to chew anxiously on a hangnail, waiting to hear her speak. Finally, she took in a breath.
"Listen," she said in a quiet voice, as if I was capable of doing anything else, "I don't like you. In fact, I fucking hated you for a long time. You betrayed me, you destroyed me, you murdered my self-esteem. You know what you did. But despite all that," she sighed and said the words which rocked my foundations, "despite all that you did to me, I still love you, B. I've loved you before I knew your name, and I'll love you even when I forget it. You are my perfect other, the other half of my soul."
Before I could commence in rejoicing, she turned to me and held my cheek in a firm grasp. Her eyes were serious, smoke billowing around her hair. "But B," she said in a half-whisper, "B, I can't ever be with you. Never again. I....I can't...I *won't* be hurt by you again. I won't. Do you understand?"
Shaking with repressed sobs, I nodded, sure there was tears leaking from my eyes. She got up to use the bathroom, not looking at me, and I took the opportunity to flee. I threw myself on my bed like a teenage drama queen and slid down the side, trembling. I had betrayed her, and thus ruined myself, destroyed any chance of ever being happy, of feeling human. And as I sat there, shaking in my own defeat, I understood why Dante said the last level of Hell was reserved for traitors.
L.A.
Angel's face was so grim it looked as if someone had killed his puppy. He stood before us, black-garbed and ridiculously tall, and wore that expression. I felt a shiver of fear trickle down my spine.
Angel's team had been up and assembled at a horrifyingly early hour, whereas Faith, Willow and I dragged ourselves from sleep at eleven-thirty. Angel seemed unperturbed by our late arrival, but Cordelia kept sending me death stares from her position halfway across the room. Faith was her usual self and ignored the unwelcome glare from Cordelia, sprawling next to Willow on the couch. I sat on the end, as close to Faith as I could get and still look like I was obeying her mandate of the previous night, and surveyed the group.
I knew most of his group, Gunn had been introduced to me earlier along with Fred, but there was one I didn't recognize. She was seated in a straight-backed chair near Fred, skinny and unhealthily pale, shivering every now and again as if thinking of something bad. A dark purple band of bruises ringed her neck and she seemed uncomfortable with the room, her eyes constantly darting for an escape route. She had pale green eyes and hair the color of a raven's wing, but her ribs showed through her tee-shirt and her wrists had several deep sores on them. I wondered at her presence, and hoped to the PTB that Angel had not put her in this condition. At that moment, Angel cleared his throat to speak.
He wasted no time with preliminaries. "Darla's back."
The girl shuddered hard and made a whimpering noise. Fred leaned over to comfort her, while the rest of the group nodded grimly as if they already knew. Faith looked uncomfortable and Willow bit her lip. Angel continued.
"She's set up camp in an underground BDSM club for high-profile women. She's making herself easy to find, challenging us. Her club is run by vampires, and most of the women who go in human come out not. Detective Lockley" a nod to Kate seated at the far right corner "-told us that a few of these women are in high-class business rings and are spreading the word about Darla's club. It would appear that Darla intends to infect the entire wealthy female population of L.A. and is off to a good start. So far the vampire kill rate has skyrocketed among men in the city. "
"So, basically the chick's a bitchy man-hater. She and Faith will just *love* each other." Cordelia said spitefully, shooting a challenging look Faith's way. I stiffened, waiting for the inevitable attack, but the dark-haired beauty just smirked knowingly at Cordelia and settled more fully into the couch. Cordy seemed shaken and backed off, tilting her head to look at Angel as if her attention had never wavered.
Angel gave her a repremanding glare, but when he turned to the strange girl in the corner, his eyes were gentle and soothing. "Carrie? Are you...?"
He trailed off meaningfully and the girl named Carrie nodded. She stood as he turned to address us again, his eyes once again solemn. "This is Carrie Birnam, a former pet of Darla's. She managed to escape from the club and provided us with extremely useful information that she will share with you now." He nodded to the girl and she stepped up, shivering slightly.
Her voice was soft and high, like a baby bird's. Her eyes were focused on Faith as if she knew her. "I lived at the Orchid for six months, (that's Darla's club), I-I didn't know what I was getting into. In the beginning, it was just sex, and then it became sex with pain, and then just pain. I wanted to leave, but something held me there, something made me feel like I needed...her. I-I knew she was a vampire, of course, but for some reason she conned me into thinking I loved her, that she wasn't dangerous."
Willow interrupted. "Wait, I don't understand. If you knew she was a vampire, then why did you stay in the beginning? Don't get me wrong, but most people run from fangs, not dive on them."
Carrie's face reddened, and she pulled down the neck of her tee-shirt to expose several bite marks. The scars laced her collarbone and dipped lower, beyond their range of vision. It was obvious she'd been bitten several times, by several different vampires. Willow's eyes widened, and she opened her mouth to question, but Faith cut her off. "She's a junkie."
"A what?" I asked, totally confused. Faith met Carrie's eyes, then went back to mine, deep pools of solemn brown. "A vampire junkie. Someone who deliberately gets bitten."
"But why would anyone-"
Angel cut me off. "The older, more powerful vampires can release a combination aphrodesiac and amphetamine when they feed. It helps the victim not only stay calm, but increases the rate of the blood flow. Darla's over five hundred years old; I imagine she's very good at it."
Carrie nodded, readjusting her shirt. "Darla has powers that you wouldn't believe. She can get inside your head, and completely fuck it up. She's scary."
"How do we kill her?" Faith was all business now.
Carrie shook her head. "I don't know. But Angel and I think she can be killed the normal way." She smiled shyly. I knew what she was feeling, like the 'normal way' was completely the opposite of normal. I wish she could feel that way forever, but in this world, you either are smart and alive, or dead and innocent. It's better to know what lurks in the shadows before stepping outside.
"How do we get into the Orchid?" I asked, leaning forward a bit. Angel smiled grimly as if this was the point he'd been getting to all along.
"Every three months, Darla gathers the most powerful vampires in the city, and holds a sort of auction. She buys pleasure slaves to... play with, and Carrie tells us that the favorite slaves are privy to Darla's private secrets. The next auction is three days from now; we need someone to infiltrate the auction as a slave and discover what it is Darla is planning. This is most likely going to be extremely dangerous, and unpleasant. Darla likes her sex rough, rougher than most humans could withstand. But if left unchecked, Darla will populate the city with female vampires, and when finished with L.A., she will undoubtably move on to Sunnydale and open the Hellmouth. Darla is dangerous, unstable and very powerful. She is a force to be reckoned with."
Gunn, who'd been dutifully silent all this time, leaned forward. "Okay, wait. Why is Darla only vamping girls? I mean, I knew she was...uhh..a swinger, but surely this is overkill, excusing the pun?"
Willow looked perplexed. "Don't you know about girl vampires? They're deadly. More powerful than a boatload of male vamps. The first vampire ever created was a female, and every female vampire takes power from her, making them incredibly strong."
I nodded. "Drusilla was a hundred and fifty, way younger than Angel, but she had mastered her mind-powers to the point that she could hypnotise anyone. Female vampires are rare because no one wants to Sire them. It's like praying mantises; females mate, then destroy. Darla has no use for the male vampires, so she'll probably just kill them all off in one fell swoop. Imagine what kind of power she has, enough to decimate the entire male population of vampires in L.A. Now imagine that power turned against humans. Not a pretty picture, is it?"
No one met my gaze. Brazen as usual, Faith's eyes swept into mine, challenging, but with only a hint of malice. While I'm melting inwardly from the heat radiating from those eyes, I'm also wondering, with just a hint of desperation, how I'm going to prove my worth to her, make her love me again. She lets out a breath, and I feel it on my cheek, so entwined with her am I. I wish all this, this room with its apocalypse burgeoning and its problems, could conveniently disappear, just for a week or two. Just so I could make love to her, and make up to her, give her what she always wanted.
"Regardless of the risk, we need a spy in Darla's quarters. Someone who can withstand Darla, and rise to the position of favorite. I know it's too much to hope for volunteers..."
Angel's voice trails off, unimportant. Some part of me screams to pay attention, but my mind is set on one setting. Faith.
She never said it, but I knew. I knew what she wanted. She wanted a Sunday morning in bed with me, light touches and butterfly kisses. Cartoons in the paper and french toast. She wanted to spend a night wrapped close around me, and wake up with me. Not slip out the window, tears drying on her eyes as behind her I recover from the intense orgasm she just gave me.
I'm blinking back tears of my own as I look at her, in all her dark angel beauty. Her eyes know my pain, my reflection on her own struggle, and she's looking at it as if she wishes she could take me in her arms. Take all that pain away with a kiss, or a smile. A murmured reassurance.
Reality smacks me in the face as I hear voices rising in anger and discontent. Faith isn't looking at me anymore, she's looking at Carrie, whose eyes are afraid. Willow's yelling loudly, Angel's trying to persuade something, Cordelia's screaming about murder and betrayal. And all I hear is the words that just came from my love's mouth.
"I'll do it."
L.A.
(Faith's POV)
When all the protests had died down, still Buffy's voice rang out like a cry of someone desperate enough to kill to achieve their aims. She screamed about danger and what ifs? but it honestly didn't phase anyone. I'm sure almost all of them, besides Fang and Willow, had already decided if I was fool enough to take the job, I was useless anyway. I felt the same.
Somewhere in my bones I knew that Darla would pick me over Willow or Cordy, and she wouldn't pick Buffy because she knew her as the Slayer.
It had nothing to do with vanity, it all came down to power. Evil power. Willow had only had a taste of pure evil, I'd downed a whole meal. Darla would sense it and be attracted to it like a moth to a flame. I hated the idea of being a sub, since I'm usually a dominator, but I could stand it, if the sex was good. And with a five-hundred year-old vamp, the sex was practically guaranteed to be good. Lifetimes of practice.
Willow's eyes constantly roamed over me, taking their cues from my body stance. She knew better than to press me, to force me to repent a decision I was comfortable with.
She nodded her head in calm aquiesence, and told me she'd be waiting in Angel's workout room if I wanted to train. She was always there, flowing parallel to me, understanding and accepting. I may not be the brightest chickie in the pen, but I know what will last and what won't, and Willow and me will last. I went upstairs to change into my sweats, ignoring Buffy's continuous whining, and remenisced.
We spent six months in New Orleans, making names for ourselves among the demon population. Coffin Cleaner and the Black Witch, they called us, and ran. We squabbled like cats in an alleyway, but we managed not to leave each other, or to cause bodily harm. Living off cold Chinese takeout and whatever we could scrape together in a garret above Bourbon Street. Sleeping during the day like the vamps we staked, stalking the cemetaries and rioting the clubs at night. Eventually, we started smiling more and fighting less. Working as a team, a well-oiled machine. And just when I got my usual wanderlust, Willow annouced it was time to get going.
Driving through deserted roads and watching motel porn, sleeping in the same bed, first cold and awkward, then cuddled up like kittens. I felt the sexual tension, rejoiced in it. It's the only emotion I am comfortable with being directed at me, and Willow hasn't been with a woman in ages. It's only natural she would see me as prime rib. I still remember that kiss in the alley outside the Bronze, the soft texture of her virgin, unprotesting mouth. The only time she ever shut up around me.
I smiled as I opened the door to Angel's spacious workout room. It'll be weird to train somewhere other than the side of the road or in a cramped motel room, but Willow always manages to give me a good workout. Sometimes I wish she'd work me out in other ways, but not often. I worry about fucking up our friendship, the first friendship I've ever had that stayed with me, supported me when things got rough. Sometimes I wonder if Buffy and me could've been good friends, if I hadn't wanted her so badly. No, she'll never be anything to me other than the one I love, no matter how hard I try to ignore it.
Will padded into the room barefoot with a mug of tea. A thousand different Watcher cracks ran through my mind, but I held my toungue and started my warm-ups. Lift the legs, stretch the arms, arch the back, roll the neck, do twenty one-armed push ups and thrity curl-ups. As natural for a Slayer as breathing. Wills makes herself comfy on the pile of mats in the corner, and motions with her hand. Several balls of colored light appear out of nowhere, and float towards me. As they bob along, they sprout weapon-weilding appendages and small stubs that I know from experience shoot out a nasty sting. A silk blinfold unfurls from Willow’s pocket and slips snugly over my eyes. I steady my breathing and go into fighting stance.
“Ready?” She drawls, and I can hear her shift on the pads.
“Born ready.” I grin, hearing her soft chuckle. “Let ‘er rip, witchy wonder. I wanna see if I can beat my own record.”
“I’ve added a few adjustments.” I can hear her grin in her voice. “Prepare for a painful lesson.”
“School me.”
PART 7: What They Do With The Lights Out
~L.A~
Willow’s POV
It’s been two days. Time melted away like a Dali painting. I never thought the preparations and training would leave me feeling so drained. I wonder how Faith must feel. I haven’t seen her in hours; Angel’s been making her fast and meditate to keep her conscious elevated. She looked so pale and brave, nodding her head absobedly as Carrie explained the details of the club’s interactions, going through her bag excercises with all the calm of a seasoned boxer, sitting with me in my room as I worked on glamours to cover her Slaying scars. She impressed us all, except for Buffy, who spent most of the training time looking at the floor and not speaking whenever they weren’t sparring. Then, during the spars, she’d give up easily and let Faith win, until Angel took her aside and let her know that she wasn’t doing any good. Buffy stayed in her room after that.
As for my dark-eyed companion...every time Buffy entered a room she got stiff and spoke in monosyllables. I used to think it was puppy love turned to obsession, but the way she looks at Buffy....the way Buffy looks at her...it’s pure unrequited love. Or at least, semi-requited. My poor little Buffy. Never saw the freight-train of Faith Denail (tm) that was about to hit her. She thought, being the naive and romantic little fluff that she is, that one heart-wrenching love confession would end all her problems. She’s sort of stupid like that. She doesn’t know that her life isn’t a crappy romantic comedy where J-Lo gets the man of her dreams in a cute monologue. As if Faith could be won that easy. She should know better. But she doesn’t.
Sometimes Faith can be a jerk too. I should know; I shared a bathroom with her for a week. That gorgeous ‘I-just-got-out-of-bed-with-someone-aren’t-I-sexaaay-as-all-hell?’ hair takes about five hours to perfect. Faith refuses to accept that just because she went through hell to change her ways doesn’t mean everyone else didn’t. She doesn’t like to be wrong, and let’s face it, few people would argue with Slayer strength and a badass attitude. And if you’ve never seen Faith the Slayer on the rag, you haven’t seen Faith the Slayer really angry.
But I digress.
I went to Faith’s room, to check up on her and bring her something light to eat after her fast, but as I entered her room, I saw her and Buffy, apparently in the middle of an altercation.
“-your goddamn insecurities!” Buffy was in the process of yelling, fists clenched, eyes ablaze.
“Fuck you! You have no comprehension of what it’s like to be me, nor will you ever, so just go back to your pretty little Hellmouth and LEAVE US ALONE!” Faith was growling low in her throat, just as aggressive as Buffy and twice as deadly.
“Us?” Buffy sneered, but only Willow detected the unfathmobale pain in her eyes as she heard Faith’s words. “So you’ve shacked up with my best friend? Let’s just hope she doesn’t wake up one morning and remember how much of a whore you are!”
Faith struck Buffy across the face in a blow that snapped her head back. In the back of Willow’s mind, she vaguely noted that Faith hadn’t hit Buffy with her full strength. Buffy made a sound like a snarl and punched Faith’s pretty mouth in retaliation, but pulled her punch at the last second so as not to seriously wound her. Faith touched her lip; it was swelled and bleeding, but stood her ground.
“Don’t talk about me that way.” Faith’s voice was the firm resolve of someone who is trying to convince themselves of the fact. “I’m not a whore.”
“Yes you fucking are!” Buffy screamed in a barely controlled rage. “You conned me into feeling something for you, just so you could get into my panties. You made me into your little puppy, while all the while corrupting me into just another of your sluts. Just another ‘get some-get gone’, right FAITH?”
“I’m not the one that made you a slut, Buffy.” Her voice was low. Buffy’s fist shot towards her face faster than Willow’s eye could follow, but somehow Faith had expected it and caught the punch. She pulled the struggling Buffy close to her and spat on her face. “So fucking predictable, you little bitch.”
And then the fight truly began. Blows fell like stars, furniture was tossed and destroyed. Faith’s armchair splintered to peices when the dueling Slayers crashed into it. The sounds coming out of their mouths were so primitive, so primal, that they weren’t even words. Just snarls, roars and growls. Like two hellcats unleashed. Faith fell to the floor, but she surged upwards like lightening, hitting Buffy dead center in her right eye. Buffy stumbled against the edge of the dresser, clucthing her face, and a lamp wobbled precariously, then fell. Faith knocked it out of midair with a high kick, but as soon as the lamp was shattered, Buffy’s hand shot out and grabbed her ankle, twisting her to the floor.
Faith landed hard on her back with a little grunt of pain. Her legs were knocked open as Buffy slammed on top of her, grabbed her by the hair, and kissed her hard. To say Willow was shocked would have been a gross understatement. She’d assumed they’d stop fighting and kiss eventually, but not like this. It looked like just another extension of the fight, and later she would realize this was how the slayers lived. Silently, she closed the door, wanting to give them their privacy. But something inside of her ached with some hidden need, so she opened the door to Buffy’s room and slipped into her bathroom, opening the door a crack so she could watch. A part of her, the old nerdy schoolgirl part, was shocked at her voyeurism; but the other parts, namely the one between her legs, urged her to keep watching.....
...to be continued...