Terrible Thought
by SwaySlayer
Rating: R
Disclaimer: I totally ripped off the characters and the episode from Joss
and I used Poe’s song from her album ‘Haunted’ in ways that will probably
get me lynched. Suffice to say, the only things that belong to me are the
incessant ramblings in between song lyrics and the original dialogue. Don’t
let this be a deterrent.
Author’s Notes: I can’t check this. It’s just too long, it’s late and I have
to go hunt for two-dimensional trees tomorrow. Although I’m quite pedantic,
so there shouldn’t be too many mistakes. And the next one will have some
smut in it. My fairy of fornication is currently on vacation. Oh! And my
apologies for my huge paragraphs. I'm having trouble using the 'Enter'
button. I use ‘fuck’, ‘fucked’, ‘fucking’ a lot and as an added
incentive, I used the word ‘cunt’ as an adjective. It’s fun. Try it.
Dedication: Actually, this is the reason I write. To wax lyrical about
people who inspire, desire or require me, and this particular fucker of a
fic (it’s EIGHT bloody pages!), is for the pleasure of:
Wlfgrrl, who is top of the list because she gave me a copy of this CD and
consequently rocked my musical world;
Miss E, because I know that an 8 page fic (did I mention it was EIGHT
pages?) is plenty of bed-time fodder and requires at least another episode
or two;
Adena, who cried with me today after watching Tara die last night and is by
far the best and most luscious co-director known to humanity, and
Kit, to help you heal faster and to make you write me feedback, because a
picture is worth a thousand words – but that last one is already in the
millions.
Feedback: What? You think I write for enjoyment purposes? Pffft. It’s all
for the ego baby. Stroke me! *laughs at reference to the play she is
currently directing and the absurdity of it all*
“I wouldn’t use the word ‘dating’, but I am going out with somebody. Tonight, as a matter of fact.” I choose this moment to gently push the X-Man aside and squeeze in beside her, feigning ignorance as to her last comment.
“Yo. What’s up?”
I nudge her shoulder, seemingly a friendly gesture, but it gives me undiluted pleasure. I relish being able to be in such close proximity to her.
“Hey, time to motorvate.” I’m so classy when it comes to famous last words. Then again, I’m not altogether concerned with how I am perceived. I’m in. I’m the crowd favourite with the B audience, and to prove it, she drapes her arm around my shoulders and utters five words that send my brain into a monumental frenzy: “Really. We’re just good friends.” Five words by five individual thoughts that would make a nymphomaniac blush. Hell, maybe my catch phrase actually *means* something after all.
In any regard, I need to get out of here as soon as humanly possible. I’m beginning to think that…well, I’m just beginning to think, and that never bodes well for me. (A terrible thought has moved into my mind) Thinking involves some form of belief in an idea, a ‘faith’ in a concept, if you will, and I have no desire to be dragged into that elusive emotion that we refer to as ‘hope’. Why? Because it’s a bitch. (Like an unwanted room-mate drunk on wine) It makes you feel good for a short period of time. You accept it, you laugh with it, you allow it to unravel the secrets of your soul, and just as you’re about to absorb it into your soul forever, it leaves a foul taste in your mouth and disappears with a swallow. Hope is too fucking expensive to maintain – it drains and it drowns. (It feeds on my happiness won’t pay the rent) Why is everyone so accepting of it? It doesn’t do anything constructive and it sure as hell doesn’t make one’s already-tumultuous mind any less chaotic. Is it because it’s a novelty or is it a replacement for ambition? How about it being a last resort for the idealists of the world? Sick of cynicism and sarcasm, it’s a revolution being led by those who desire the by-products of expectations. Very clever. Pity I’m not in a buying mood. (I must take proper measures to evict it)
Step one is easy. Do what comes naturally. Problem with step one? Doing what comes naturally involves being with her and makes all successive steps null and void. You wouldn’t think it to look at me, or her for that matter. We’re fluid, graceful, precise and if you are allowed close enough, you can catch the scent of passion and drive diffusing from our skin. We’re being watched. Giles is taking notes, marking our moves and strategies as we engage the two vamps in combat. I’m sure he’s giving me demerits for laziness. I’m distracted. I can’t help it. She’s unfathomably close to me and I’m unable to resist sneaking glances at her as she toys with her vamp. Yes. Toys. He’s a plaything for her. She’s the Chosen One because she kicks ass and looks fucking fine doing it. She knows her shit and even though I’ll be the last one to admit it, I admire her. She’s unbelievably focussed, and I think this is where we differ. She’s got duties. I’ve got anger. The reasons escaped me long ago, but the aftertaste of vengeance remained, and this is why I get distracted and she doesn’t. And I also tend to ogle her before receiving kicks that catch me off-guard. Whoops. (A terrible thought has moved into my mind) I seriously need to stake this vamp before I start drooling on the wet, cemetery grass. Decision made, I find my opponent back-to-back with hers, and with a swift plunge of a stake, we’re high-fiving through the dust that settles around us.
“Synchronised slaying.” Her eyes are bright with life and her cheeks are flushed with energy. She’s not making this easy for me. (A giant rat that’s nibbling on my pride) I’m terrifyingly close to turning into a grovelling suitor and begging her to go out on a date with me. As quaint as it may seem, or antiquated at the most, that’s what I would like to do. Dinner, dancing – the kind that doesn’t make me want to implode – and a late night stroll through the cemeteries that have become our offices, our safe havens from the ugly realities of the days. Maybe then I wouldn’t come across as such a geek when I answer her.
“New Olympic category?” This hope thing is not good for me. I can feel it getting under my skin, inserting itself like a top-notch hit from a respected dealer and I’m blaming her. Definitely. It’s all her fault. I like her, and she has the audacity to like me back – and show it. What is the world coming to? I thought that the Hellmouth of all places, would be a veritable breeding ground of emotional retards, but no, the town motto is basically “There’s no such thing as a burden, as long as you share it with someone”. Yuck and double yuck. Sharing? The only thing I’m willing to share with anyone is my bad temper and my insatiable libido, and there’s only one person on my list I’m willing to share it with. Ok, so there’s only one person on my list, but it’s still relevant, and it’s making me a tad insane. (It’s tearing away my patience and my wit) I don’t know if I’m growing or regressing, but this can’t continue. I have to do something about it and once Giles is finished his report back, I’m going to talk to her. (I must take proper measures, set a trap for it) I just pray that hope, being a covert wench, doesn’t fuck it all up. Wait a fucking minute. Who said covert wench? My work is “sloppy”?
“Depends. Who the hell are you?” This snotty English chick appraises me with undisguised disdain as she replies. My new Watcher? Really? Funny, because I don’t remember putting in a claim for one, and as I inform her later when we’re sitting in the library: “No offense lady. I just have this problem with authority figures. They end up kind of dead.” I’ve never been fond of subtlety and B seems to have taken to my bluntness, so it stays. Mary Poppins prattles on for a while, grilling Giles who stupidly allows himself to get flustered by her questions. I’m surprised B doesn’t say something. She’s never one to sit back and watch a loved one get the third degree. I’m actually a little pissed at her for not standing up for Giles. (What a terrible thought) Oh. For. Fucks. Sake. What *is* it with me? First I’m close to begging her for a date and now I’m on the verge of defending her surrogate father? That’s it. I’m not drinking the water here anymore, only whiskey from now on. I take a seat next to B and watch the Ab Fab team battle it out, rolling my eyes at them and eliciting a small giggle from the girl beside me. I zone out and when I come to, the British chick is waiting on me. I’m guessing I have to go with her. I look at B, but I’m not sure what I should be showing. Anger? Irritation? Fear? I opt for apathy and exit, smiling internally as I catch the strand of conversation between her and Giles.
“That was bracing.” I can hear the relief in his voice.
“Interesting lady. Can we kill her?” Oh yeah. That’s my girl.
We’re patrolling and I’m spilling my sordid war stories of love, lust and of both lost. In truth, this isn’t an intentional bonding exercise - it’s more like an involuntary reaction from my honed defence mechanism. I’m trying to shock her, to make her to respond to my crafted rebellious personality. She doesn’t even click that the “Ronnie” I mention was in fact Veronica Trebell, the girl who stole my heart. And my fucking stereo. So I continue prattling on about being a “loser magnet”, not realising that by allowing my mouth to work without the consent of my brain, I’m revealing massive amounts about my psyche. She finds my cynicism endearing, if cynicism can be classified as such, and I’m not surprised. Hanging around with Rational Red and Happy Harris is enough to put anyone in a clinical coma of optimism. Hell, I’m not averse to a little ray of sunshine, but those two could find something good in a barrel full of half-decapitated monkeys. Did I mention that I’m very grateful that Slayer’s can’t read minds? I can just imagine B delving into my collection of neurons and discovering thoughts of mangled primates and a kleptomaniac lover. Or lovers. Fuck. I sure know how to attract the gems. But you know, all this talk of relationship woes doesn’t seem to perturb her. I was waiting for the inevitable slew of responses, starting with the “You poor thing, how terrible!” and finishing with the crowd favourite of “There are plenty of fish in the sea”, but she’s having none of it. She just accepts what I tell her. She accepts me, or at the very least, she doesn’t give a continental toss about what sordid details make up my past. (I don’t care what you’ve done) Break out the party pack. She’s giving me a chance.
I blow it of course. I blow it with the stupidest statement known to humanity. It’s right up there with that French chick saying: “Let them eat cake” and that dude in the 1900’s with his: “Everything that can be invented has been invented.” They were genius wordsmiths compared to what I come up with.
“I've had my share of losers, but you... you boinked the undead. What was that like?” Somebody stake me. Please. Not only have I simultaneously offended, angered and…offended her, but I’ve brought up a topic that I’ve been intent on avoiding. (I don’t care who you’ve won) I really have sweet fuck all desire to hear about the semi-tragedy known as Buffy and Angel, but the same sick, pathetic whim that urges me to pursue the possibility that she might not hate me entirely, is also forcing me to press her for answers. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a masochist. I’m just fucking stupid.
“Look, Faith, all the Angel issues are still kind of with me, so if you don't mind, I'd rather not.” Saved by the grace of B. I shrug my way out of the rest of the conversation. Oh for six, blow it off, I’ll swing by the cemetery, blah blah blah. She says she’s tired. Nice of her to spare my feelings. I can see she’s tired of me. Tired of me hassling her about love. I’m pretty surprised at myself too. I never thought *I’d* given it much thought. I definitely have to stop drinking the water here. I’m off with a nod and promise to “holler if I’m having any fun”. Right. I know that’s what she’s thinking. (I know in the end you’ll have your fun). That’s me. Just a barrelful of laughs. With half-decapitated monkeys.
So Shady Hill Cemetery it is. Highly original name. Then again, I guess the residents of the Dale grew weary of being inventive after they had to open up a twelfth. I understand weary. I also understand tired, fatigued, defeated and overwhelmed, but above all else, my favourite is….
“Son of a bitch. It’s my lucky day.” I so deserve this. I’ve been itching to get my blood pumping for the past few hours, and seeing that B isn’t exactly offering me hours of raunchy nude entertainment, I might as well get my rocks off punching this dude in the face a few hundred times – and receiving applause for capturing that glove of Finnegan. Or whatever its pseudo-gothic title is. I’m pure Faith as I launch myself at him, delivering a swift side kick to his back that would usually bring about a satisfying crunch of bone, or at the very least, one of those squelching sounds that demon flesh makes. I said usually, because this chunk of rotting meat ignores me. I mean: He. Fucking. Ignores. Me. No one ignores me in this town and I’m not going to take this. (But you can’t have it, hear?) Fuck that for a happy meal. This cunting bastard is going to watch me as I kick his scaly ass. I whip him around to face me, and it’s just as well there isn’t a mirror anywhere, because even *I* don’t want to see my distorted and definitely pissed off veneer. I backhand him in the face, follow that up with another swing, punch him in the stomach and again in the face. (And I won’t let you steer) This is my game and this oversized mutant is going to get his skanky arms handed to him on a kebab…right after he’s finished throwing me into the side of a mausoleum. Anyone else would have got the fuck out of Conflict City, but I relish the thrill of action and it’s with a whistling sound that I fly through the air after attempting to attack him again. The motherfucker knocked the wind out of me. I’m gasping like a third-rate actress who’s just woken up from a nightmare, clutching at my throat pathetically as my vocal cords attempt to unravel themselves. I’m in serious distress here, but you know what the worst part is? The only thought I have in my dizzy little head is that I failed her. (You know I don’t want you in my mind)
My motel room. Casa Faith. The epitome of décor-on-the-run, but of all the places I’ve stayed in, this one is the…least shitty. I have this thing about stains on carpets. If there’s so much as a tiny, brown mark on the floor, I’ll use every inch of my Slayer strength (and some powerful stain remover) to scrub that sucker right the fuck out. My first Watcher dubbed me “Finicky Faith”. Not exactly a title that inspires fear in the inhabitants of the underworld, but a title nonetheless. I wonder what B’s nickname is? It’s probably something noble like “Buffy the Brave” or “Buffy the Battler”, and no doubt she will forever be imbedded in the books of magic and mythology as the purest, truest warrior to ever grace the planet. I, on the other hand, will be remembered as the one who had germ issues. God. I’m so tragic it’s actually funny. Fuck! Typical. Just as I’m about to engage in some delicious digit disco dancing there’s a knock at my door. Force of habit leads me to reach for my stake and I open the door to find ‘Postal’ at my door. She’s snooty and condescending to begin with and I keep my stake near to me as a subtle reminder that I may be a girl, but I’m also the Slayer. She blabs on about some “Spart” dudes and calls me a “true fighter”. I’m finding it very hard not to laugh in her face. I probably will hate her, but I might put up with this British tight-ass if she continues to amuse me. It’s all peachy until she mentions something about Giles. I like the dude. I stick up for him, in my special nonchalant way but she shoots him down again. Now I would have defended him further, but I catch the last part of her sentence.
“…his games and secret meetings.”
“What meetings?” I don’t actually want to know the answer. It’s clear enough. I’m the outsider. Again. Always. The rest of the conversation is a blur. All I know is that when she said “yes” to my “kicking and punching and stabbing” comment, my response was: “I’m your girl.” A simple process of elimination because evidently, I’m no one else’s.
The Bronze. I spend way too much fucking time here, although it’s not like there are countless places to frequent. This is pretty much the haven for the angsty and somewhat fearful youth population, and in all honesty, they’re not too bad. The chicks are cute, the guys are relatively well-behaved and the alcohol is apparently alcoholic. I’m thinking this as I spot Xander at the pool tables. He’s five-by-five on my “List of People And Things Not To Kill” and accordingly, has been given his own nickname: X-Man. He’s cocking up at the table and he’s got some quality rage going. He’s actually kind of cute when he’s fuming. I take the obvious approach.
“You look pissed.” Ha! A doozy, even if I say so myself. I don’t really want to hear about his day, but the guy looks more upset than I was when I lost my first flick-knife in someone’s thigh. He’s taken the close-mouthed route. Not the best move, because now I *do* want to know what happened and if he doesn’t answer me, I’m bringing out the grudges.
“Rather just shoot.” And we’re welcoming grudge number one…
“Don't think I don't know what you and your pals were talking about behind my back today.” Yeah. Fuck him. He’s a goofy guy with an incessant need to prattle and yet he qualifies for the secret meetings, and gets a spanking hot girlfriend as well. This town is fucked. We chat gloves before he rams a cue into my eye. Figuratively of course.
“Angel’s still alive.” (I must stay calm you know and I must be clear) I’m going to hurt something. A lot.
“The vampire.” Not *a* vampire. *The* vampire. The one who won her heart, the one who’s always going to be my competition, whether he be solid or not, the one who got to touch her. Touch her. Fuck. (It’s gonna take a hundred thoughts to make this one disappear) I think I just traumatized myself. I’m trying to rectify it by imagining a thousand scenarios where I dust *the* vampire and Buffy runs into my arms, oblivious to anyone else as she begs me to make love to her I’ve given her a new layer of skin. But wait. He’s evil. More information and I’m wrong again.
“Buffy knew he was alive.” I could do some serious damage to her right now. “I can’t believe her.” Or can I? I don’t know this girl. I want to fuck her and I’m in love with her, but if you asked me what her favourite flavour of ice-cream was, I’d be forced to lie. I’m tired of lying.(A train like that could travel a soul for years) I want to know her favourites. I want to finish off her sentences and have her swat me on the arm for doing it. And I want to get a stake into Angel without making myself nauseous with sweet thoughts. (A terrible thought could have a terribly long career) “I say I deal with this problem right now. I say I slay.”
I hate libraries. Ok, admittedly I’ve never *been* into one, but if I had, I’m sure I’d hate it. Unless it was a library like this, because this library has weapons, and lots of them. I’m in target mode. I have a task, I’m preparing and I’m going to complete it, so when X-Man finds Giles in all states of not conscious, I choose my path. It’s littered with phrases like: “Yeah, I'm thinking. Thinking Buffy's ex-meat did this,” “Screw this waiting crap” and my personal favourite: “For what? You to grow a pair? You handle the baby-sit, and I'm gonna kill Angel.” And like I said, I don’t lie anymore. I desperately want to kill this guy. I want to kill him as badly as I want to feel her lips on me when she thanks me for saving her. Hopefully, this provides some insight as to why I don’t feel like fucking around.
I arrive at the mansion. Postal’s on the floor and he’s touching her. He’s touching another one of my women. I grit my teeth. My blood’s on fire and if this wasn’t rage, I’d think I was about to climax.
“I can't believe how much I'm gonna kill you.” And I come so close. I’m all over this dude. So fucking what if he’s had centuries to hone his fighting skills. I’m whipping him like he’s a damp shirt, and just as I’m about to plunge my stake into him, I’m stopped. By her. I’m very *fucking* confused. And it doesn’t help that she tosses me aside. Literally. This is not helping my already-foul mood. In fact, it’s bordering on the verge of beautifully homicidal, so before I get stake-happy, I give her a quick refresher course on slaying: “Vampire.” I point to him. “Slayer.” I point to myself. “Dead vampire.” I point to him again. I’m quite amused at my little explanation. And I called her a “Twinkie”. That’s gotta piss her off, so I don’t understand why she’s trying to pacify me. I want to fight. At least I think I do. Something’s not right. Buffy, Postal, Angel. I’m missing a vital piece of the situation puzzle. It drops in. Just in time for me to punch B in the face and initiate the singular most rewarding experience of my life, save for that night Ronnie made me come five times in the middle of a crowded dancefloor.
We’re fighting, and it’s oh-so good. It’s been merely seconds and already I’ve lost count of the punches, kicks and blocks that have been exchanged. It’s so fast, but at the same time, it’s the finest poetry ever written by two human bodies. I manage to get her into a choke-hold and fuck me, if she isn’t really struggling to get out of it. Why? Because I’m still angry at people who create my past for me (What minds have you shredded) and elaborate on half-assed pontifications about my future as the Chosen (I bet they regretted having ever thought you up). I lose my train of thought as she attempts to break my fingers and I release a mighty yell before engaging her further. There’s a lot of falling, coupled with a dazzling crash through some glass doors, and that’s about as glamorous as it gets. Oh. I also throw a chair - very WWF of me – and Xander. Yes. I throw him. What? He’s in the way! Kind of like her hands being in the way of my breathing. She’s got a firm grip and I think that she’ll kill me to save him. I suppose that’s why I love her. I want to see the passion, feel the heat of emotion as it’s directed at me and bask in it until I’m as pissed as an alcoholic that fell into a vat of wine. The sky’s portraying the events beautifully, until I realize that the lightning and thunder isn’t originating from the proper source. Shit! My Watcher’s seriously gone postal! What a wackjob! She’s even got that frickin’ Finnegan glove on her…fuck. B’s still got a firm grip on me, but as soon as she sees all this shit going down, she releases her hold. The batty Brit gives me the 411 as her hand fills up with light.
“Faith! A word of advice: you're an idiot.” And I am. I trusted her (Just look at you shine), and she conned me (Committing your crimes) into being her fucking sap bodyguard. Well. To quote myself: “Fuck that for a barrelful of half-decapitated monkeys.” Bolt. Lightning. Haul ass. B’s got a similar mindset, and all thoughts of kicking the crap out of each other are lost as we form a new game plan. I watch as Angel tackles Red to the ground – a bolt embedding itself in the fireplace. The game plan is simple enough. I’m bait. Why? I present the following exchange as evidence:
“Can you draw her fire?”
“You bet I can.”
“Go do it.” She doesn’t need to ask me twice. I dodge a particularly nasty-looking bolt of fire, just in time to watch B slice off Posty’s arm with a well-flung piece of glass. Some more fireworks and that’s the end of it. That’s one thing I’ll give the Dale – it’s never an anti-climax.
Dragnet in black and white. This is my life. Another knock at the door. I probably shouldn’t open it. Judging from past experience, the only things waiting for me on the other side are possible humiliation, part-time trauma and inevitable heart.
“Come in.”
“Hey.” I’m definitely psychic.
“The place looks real nice.” I barely move.
“Yeah, it’s real Spartan.” My “a” drags and I can see she’s noticed the slight accent that comes from my years in Boston.
“How are you?” (You’re breaking my stride, you poisonous vine, you’re strangling me inside)
“Five-by-five.” I know that if I look at her, I’m going to throw my magazine across the room and punch her in the face. Or kiss her. Or punch her in the face until she lets me kiss her.
“I'll interpret that as good.” It’s a free country B, you can do whatever the fuck you want. Just leave alone with my shitty magazine and take all my other thoughts with you as you leave.
“Look, Gwendolyn Post, or whoever she may be, had us all fooled. Even Giles.” So give him a fucking medal! I want to beat my chest like the earliest primates and bitch about the fact that once again, *I’m* the one who comes out looking like a fucking idiot!
“Yeah, well, you can't trust people. I should've learned that by now.” That’s much better, although my cynicism probably affects her more than any amount of swearing.
“I realize this is gonna sound funny coming from someone that just spent a lot of time kicking your face... but you can trust me.” Oh it’s funny all right. It’s funny that you expect me to trust you when you’ve done jackshit to earn that privilege. I’m sure my face shows my amusement.
“Is that right?”
“I know I kept secrets, but I didn't have a choice. I'm on your side.” Baby, you’re not even close to being the waterboy for the squad.
“*I'm* on my side, (nods) and that's enough.” Faithism. Tried, tested and true to form.
“Not always.” I’m looking at her now, my magazine long-forgotten, in awe of the honesty she has just shown me and the friendship she has evidently offered me. Of course I blow it. I shrug.
“Is that it?” I can’t ascertain whether she’s relieved or disappointed. I’m going for the former. Damage control accomplished and we’re back to being Slayer chums. Thrilling. “Yeah, I guess.”
“Alright. Well, then, I'll see you.” I go back to watching Dragnet. Not that I’m actually watching it. Anyone with half a brain could see that I’m trying not to look at her, trying to not watch her leave and trying to work up a pair of my own so I can say….
“Uh, Buffy?” Her face is full of expectation, of anticipation. (What is your greatest worry because you seem to be worried all the time)
“Yeah?” (Sometimes I can’t hear myself think) It gets too much sometimes B. When opening the curtains doesn’t take away all the darkness, when I wrap my arms around myself and I’m so angry because I know they’re mine. Because I know what I want and I can’t have it because I’ll break it like I broke everything else I loved. Because I need you to hear me…(You have to speak a little louder, I can’t understand a word you’re saying)…but you can’t.
“Nothing.” Her eyes flutter to the ground and she moves slowly, torturously grinding my guilt in deeper, opening the door and leaving. I inhale and consequently release the deep breath I’ve been holding in, wondering if she’s hurrying down the stairs or taking her time – like I am – to wonder when our thought, terrible or not, got so goddamn loud. (Sometimes I can’t hear myself think)