Walk the Walk
by SwaySlayer
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I own nothing related to Buffy the Vampire Slayer nor do I own
anything relating to Poe. I live a quiet life of delusion where Faith takes
me dancing, Buffy teaches me morals and they both fight over who gets to
please me.
Author’s Notes: This was the third fic that I’ve attempted to write over the
past few weeks. I’ve had writer’s block that seems to have originated in
the depths of Hell but thanks to a triple treat of Wlfgrrl meeting Eliza
Dushku (how *fucking* amazing is that!?), sending me an autographed picture
of the Goddess as an emigration gift (you *so* rock!) and giving me Poe’s CD
“Haunted”, I’m happy to report that the creative juices are flowing.
Whether or not they’re actually still good, remains to be seen. Oh! And
this fic is based on a suggestion from Wlfgrrl in one of her magnificent
letters to me. And I took liberties editing the lyrics, purely for the sake
of time management.
Dedication:
To Wlfgrrl. You made my year. Seriously. I thank whatever deity it was that
chose to put you on this Earth. You are a Goddess in your own right.
To E. I still dispute that I’m the only writer on our show. Your mails prove
my point. Think we can sneak the next episode past the censors? I hope so…
To Kit. Because barfy love notes and yelling it from the rooftops will never
satisfy the romantic in me. You have your work cut out for you babe :)
To Miss Kitty. Because I miss you, your wit and the frenetic energy that
managed to integrate itself into every piece of writing you ever posted. I
trust you’re well.
Feedback: It’s going to be a long, hard winter without it. Warm me up, FB
style!
I step off the bus and a ray of sunlight hits me square in the eyes. I squint, trying to adjust to the unfamiliar level of brightness and curse my cheap sunglasses. UV protection my ass. I tear them off my face and throw them to the floor, crushing them beneath the heel of my boot and allowing a satisfied smirk to adorn my pale visage. I definitely look out of place. Then again, this is Sunnydale and I’m a far sight short of being sunny in any way. The grin that previously decorated my mouth quickly fades and I allow myself a glimpse of the tanned masses around me. How is it that people can be so annoyingly perky? It probably requires a great amount of energy, and while I have said energy in spades, I prefer to use it for more noble causes like sex. Or dancing. Or fighting. Life, I guess. An elderly woman struggles to pull her suitcase out from under the luggage compartment. I watch her with barely disguised fascination before surprising myself by helping her. I grab her over-sized, garishly-red case and yank it out, depositing it at her feet and forcing a smile in her direction. She places her hand on my arm and thanks me. She smells like talcum powder and home cooking, and I know that she’s waiting for her daughter to pick her up. They’ll hug each other in a way that defies any form of dysfunction and chat comfortably on the drive home. And I’ll be here; acutely aware of how my arm is still tingling from the tenderness of her touch.
I throw my duffel bag over my shoulder and search the top of my head for my sunglasses before realising that they reside on the pavement in a shattered state. Shit. That hour of meditation on the bus did sweet fuck all for my temperamental disposition. I make a mental note to use the book I was reading, as firewood. I’m about to start walking when an unidentifiable emotion tugs on my mind, forcing me to look back at the bus I’ve been sitting on for the past few hours. The seats still hold the imprints of bodies and there is a black smudge on one of the windows. I left that there after being reprimanded for having a smoke. Nothing like a solid streak of ash to make them remember me. To make them remember my window. (My mother spent 10 years sitting by a window, scared if she spoke she would die of a heart attack) The interior that was my nomadic home suddenly seems hollow and I have an innate desire to smash every window, if only to give it some semblance of humanity. It’s a beautiful sound, the sound of glass shattering. It’s audio at its purest; clear; shrill. Almost human. (She listened as her dreams silently screamed) I leave before my urge manifests itself further, passing the next load of passengers who are waiting to be taken away, or taken home. (They drowned like little dolphins caught in a fishnet) I wonder how many of them will make it, how many of them will escape the clutches of societal norms and carve a place for themselves in the world. I have faith in them. I have faith. In me.
(Dear world I’m pleased to meet you)
I find myself smiling uncontrollably. True, it’s a day that would bring a smile to even the most miserable son-of-a-bitch, but it still doesn’t explain why this air of possibilities is laced in and around my senses. I’m embracing it with every step (Hey everybody when you walk the walk) and inhaling it with every breath I take (You gotta back it all up you gotta talk the talk). To say I feel good would be a gross injustice to my state of mind. I can feel every part of my body responding to this all-encompassing atmosphere. My back is rigid, every vertebra seemingly finding its ideal resting spot, my shoulders are pulled back in a way that would make a soldier cream his army-issue pants and the strength of my stride on the charcoal asphalt will no doubt cause an earthquake at some point. Good? The person who invented the word should be shot, strung up and used as a piñata for placing this decidedly average adjective in the vocabularies of humans. I left good behind a long time ago. Good was the sandwich I ate at a pit stop. Good was the hour of sleep I had. Good was when I got onto a bus and never looked back. I scan the faces and stores on what appears to be the main street. I like that they’re oblivious to the fact that I’m wearing leather on a scorcher of a day. I like that no one leers at me. I like that I’m not provoked. This? This isn’t good. This is better. Much better.
It occurs to me that I have to find some form of accommodation. I’m taken aback by this somewhat logical thought. I was under the impression that any sense of normalcy had been whipped out from under me the day my calling was revealed. (Hey everybody when I hear the knock). Calling. Funny. ‘Calling’ suggests that there is some sort of request involved, like a parent calling a child in for dinner or a nervous teenager calling a potential date. I would even go so far as to say that it is a most polite form of visiting someone. “I think I should like to call on Mrs. Fentwhistlethorpe.” Fucking ridiculous. Calling. I wasn’t called. I was imposed upon. I received a houseguest that no one expects until the day they actually arrive, but there’s one major difference between me and everyone else: I don’t take politely to intruders. I certainly don’t plan on letting anyone, or anything, decide my fate. I pity the self-righteous moron who gives me a 25- year life expectancy and insists I ‘deal with it’. (Don’t wanna measure out my life to the tick of a clock) They assume I’ve been alive for at least seventeen years. (Hey everybody when my daddy died, he had a sad sad story written in his eyes) I haven’t.
I have many talents, however, the one I’m most proud of is my ability to shift, change, adapt. I’m a human chameleon. I may not appear to fit in, but I guarantee that within 24 hours, I will be the hottest topic in this ingratiatingly perfect town. My name will slide off lips and be licked at by tongues, swallowed with hard liquor and shoved down into pockets, inhaled with cigarette smoke and breathed out with desire. They’ll hear me from a mile away, my boots pounding the sidewalk, my lips smacking together, the single, unremitting sensation that emanates from my body: (I wanna walk to the beat of my own drum). There’s going to be a frenzy of activity when I make my presence known, and not only because I am who I am, but because I am who I say I am. (I wanna live to the beat of my own drum). It’s going to be sick, wicked, killer, cool and I’m intent on milking it for every available drop (I wanna take to the beat of my own drum). There’s no one here to stop me. I’m the be-all, the end-all and the ruler of my own destiny. I succumb to nothing, (I wanna hang ten) I bow to no one (high) and for the first time, I feel human (say pleased to meet you).
A bunch of kids run past me. ‘Kids’ in the sense that they have yet to be tainted by the ugly realities of this world, because I think they’re all older than me. A boy with chiselled features whips his head around as he runs to catch up to his friends, sending a wide, honest smile in my direction. I like him. He slots in perfectly with this euphoric mood I find myself in. I waggle my fingers at him as he rounds the corner – my practised flirtatious wave – and I have an urge to thank him for contributing something to my new life (Give to the beat of my own drum). A familiar craving announces itself and I hurriedly dig in my bag for my cigarettes. It seems clichéd but I want to capture this moment with the poignancy of a cigarette dangling from my lips, bursting into flame as I light it with the accomplished hand of a skilled smoker. I inhale and my lungs pull the smoke into the deepest available recesses, groaning slightly as the tobacco weighs heavily on their necessary functions. I exhale. (I wanna sing to the beat of my own drum). I’m a movie cliché waiting to be discovered. The broody anti-hero, arriving in a new town where a journey of self-discovery will, no doubt, occur. I’m in a Western. I’m John-fucking-Wayne, save for the fact that I have breasts and I like to fuck women. Ok. I have breasts. I have cleavage, therefore, I am. I release a primal growl, purely because I need to dispense some of this energy – the possibilities are beginning to drown my coherency (I wanna fly, cry, win, lose, live, die, take five, pleased to meet you).
I’m thankful for my cigarette. If I weren’t smoking, I definitely wouldn’t be breathing. My chest is wound tightly, like a piece of string around a finger that’s slowly turning red, similar to the hues of the sky above me. Fuck! Is it dusk already? How long have I been wandering around this Pleasantville paradise? Evidently, it’s been a substantial period of time - the darkened shop windows and the soft glow of streetlights testify to this. I’m surprised to find the streets empty. It doesn’t fit in with the Utopian society I’ve experienced since arriving. Then I remember why I’m here. It’s the Hellmouth. People tend to avoid darkness, that is, if they do not desire to end up an appetiser. A beat. I hear the low throb of a bass and I thank the heavens that teenagers don’t succumb to the same fears as their adult counterparts. They’re defiant in the face of possible death, choosing to remain ignorant in favour of having a chaotic social life. I should know. I’m one of them. I made rebellion an art form in my younger years. No one was allowed to get close (My daddy spent 10 years living on the outside looking in, he thought he would never get back) I was such a little princess, not in the sense that I was spoiled – fuck knows I had no material possessions to brag about – but because I saw what people wanted for me and I threw it back in their faces. (Watched his dream walk across a silver screen and he was standing there when the theatre went pitch black) I excelled at what I did. I still do. And now I’m ready to dance (Dear world I’m pleased to meet you)
It takes me five minutes to get into the club, throw my duffel bag and jacket to the bartender, wheedle a drink out of a hapless patron and get onto the dancefloor. It’s not the greatest club I’ve ever been in, but beneath the surface of its normal exterior, there’s an ethereal fragrance, a supernatural air that laps at my senses. In addition, I’ve apparently located Vamp Snack Central. My blood ventures towards every corner of the room, guiding me to fulfil my job, but I’m not in the mood. Not yet. I want to heat this place up to boiling point, (I wanna live to the beat of my own drum) turn the lives of Sunnydale’s youthful population upside down (I wanna laugh to the beat of my own drum), introduce them to the pleasures that come with being me (I wanna play to the beat of my own drum), show them my nurtured flaws (I wanna screw up to the beat of my own drum) and be known as the one person who, above all else, remains true to herself in the face of life (I wanna take it out of town and do it to my drum). My skin tingles. It seems that my new dance partner wants to taste me, and not in the way I’d like, but I humour him anyway, matching his horribly out-dated dance moves with the provocative bump and grind that even turns me on.
I want. I want to. Do. Something. (Scream, shout). This pressure is unbearable. The possibilities are taking over again. I feel overwhelmed. (Wipe out) I think my head is going to explode until I hear it ”…Slut-O-Rama…”. A quick glance to my left. She’s a princess. She’s going to get a good licking from me, but it’s not her I’m interested in. It’s the other one. Not the redhead. The blonde. I can feel her in my blood. I know who she is and finally, the pressure in my brain relents. I know why I’m here. (Make love to my baby). She’s the one. The Chosen One, but more than that, she’s the one who’s going to tame me, and I’m going to make her life hell until she does. I want her to see me, not like this though, this is easy. This is the mask of indifferent sexuality that I wear when I don’t want to actively use my brain. I want her to see the real me. The fighter, the lover, the woman who brings equal amount of passion to both interactions and leaves in the knowledge that she has sated herself, and her partner. So I make my move. I put on my victim veneer and draw the vamp outside, my peripheral vision informing me that I’ve captured her attention. A boy stops her. They have an awkward conversation before she smiles apologetically and resumes following me. I like that she chose me. I’ll try make that a habit.
As soon as we’re outside, it’s down to business, and I couldn’t have planned her appearance on the scene any better than if I’d actually been using her as a human puppet. Her and her cronies find me pinned against a chain-link fence, about to be snacked on by this degenerate from the disco era, and I don’t know who’s more surprised when I elbow him in the face: him or them. I toy with him a bit, showing off my agility as I leap onto a crate and deliver a perfect jumping roundhouse kick to his face. He falls to the pavement and I approach her, aware that she can smell the mixture of adrenaline and pheromones that soak my skin. My mouth opens and….
“It’s ok. I got it. You’re, uh, Buffy right?” No shit you fucking genius. Before she can reply, the vamp sneaks up behind me and I nail him in the face by snapping my head back. I look *so* cool when I do that. I’ve got a good mind to thank the vamp before I kill him, but I don’t think she’ll appreciate my strange etiquette. I don’t think she’s very impressed at all, so I go with my original instinct.
“I’m Faith.” Cue some more vamp action, with me showing off blatantly under the stares of her and her buddies, until I get bored and grab the stake out of her hand.
“Can I borrow that?” Again, question of moronic status, but for some reason, I feel indebted to ask her. Vamp. Stake. Dust. I hand her back her weapon. There’s a pause while she scrutinises me. I don’t mind. I’m used to being looked at. I’m shit hot. You’d look at me too. There are a million and one things I’d like to talk to her about. Questions that I need answered, answers that I need questioned (Hey did you ever get the feeling that it’s really a joke, you think you’ve got it figured out and then you find that you don’t) but I go with my gut again.
“Thanks B. Couldn’t have done it without you.”
She’s speechless, and I have a feeling this is a rare occurrence. I’m proud to be the one to stump her. It feels right that I be the one who makes her world just a little less tidy, leaping in from nowhere (So you say goodbye to the other world and now you’re floating in space, you got no sense of nothing not even a time or a place) to present myself as the one person who understands her. She’s confused. I can smell it. There’s nothing quite like the scent of an apprehensive Slayer. I walk past her and the pounding that I thought was a result of the club’s speakers reveals its true source (Then suddenly you hear it, it’s the beat of your heart). It’s mine. And hers. Hammering away in our chests at a speed that would kill a normal human being. (And for the first time in your life, you know your life is about to start) I know we’re linked by the extraneous factors of fate and destiny, but something that no one else will ever know, is that for that moment, when we looked at each other with eyes untainted by the past or expectations, our hearts beat a powerful rhythm of synchronicity. (I wanna walk to the beat of my own drum) I brush past her, careful to allow myself a reward of her skin against mine, and I can feel her realisation seeping into my blood.
(There’s someone knocking in the wall. Was it an echo?)