A short trail of gravel and uprooted tufts of grass are left in Buffy's wake before she skids to a stop; face down, grazed and hurting. Sometimes she really hates her job. She feels entirely drained of energy. The adrenaline pumping through her body seems suddenly harsh and unwelcome. She's rapidly losing the will to do anything except stay where she is; close her eyes and sleep, with the hope that when she wakes up things will be...different, better somehow. Ignore the gravel under her cheek, the jagged stone digging into her hipbone, the rising dread she feels for Zoe Jane, with her terrified, lunatic-happy face. Can a correctly applied band-aid fix a broken heart? Sure it can. Screw destiny. Screw the mission. I need my beauty sleep. And she's on her feet and moving forwards before the thought is even finished. But the train has arrived right on time, cutting between Buffy and Zoe Jane as she reaches the tracks, and Buffy has to fling herself backwards to avoid being crushed by tons of metal moving at high velocity. A few of the passengers observe the night with idle curiosity from the brightly lit windows; their faces passing in a blur. Buffy can only watch, cursing silently, as she catches glimpses of Zoe Jane's receding form through the gaps between carriages, flickering like an old home movie, until the reel ends and it flickers out.
Lamb of God. Isabelle opens her arms wide as she rushes over the rubble strewn waste ground. The air feels miraculous playing hide and seek across the smoothness of her skin. She could fly like this forever, in this perfect freedom. But it must pass. It is an illusion, a trap; it is only flesh. The priest's hands are roving across the smooth surface of her skin, finding their way into her secret places, prodding, fondling, defiling. Father, please, what are you doing? Please -- stop. Her skirts are tearing as she tries to push him away. Lamb of God, who takest away the sins of the world. Pain is ripping her apart as he rams himself into her, grunting, fast and brutal; cold tiles under her; the scent of tallow and her own blood; his hand over her mouth, smothering her screams. She screams for centuries, while he sings to gentle her, and builds all his perversions upon the visions she cannot keep from spilling out. Yet through it all she almost pities him. No more. She has reached the river bank, and without pausing, without regret, she jumps. Lamb of God, who takest away the sins of the world, grant us peace. This is it; the end of it all, as it was in the beginning; the river, the river rushing over her head; carrying, embracing, welcoming.
No fear now.
"Zoe!" Buffy slip-slides along the muddy river bank, staring in wild disbelief at the eddying water where the girl must have sunk. "Zoe! Oh Jesus. No way, no way, oh shit."
For a moment Buffy is paralysed. She does not want to go in there. The water looks black, fathomless, and the few lights glistening on the tops of the ripples only accentuate the effect. She lets out a rather un-heroic squeak of fear and helpless frustration; looks around on the off chance a life guard might have considerately chosen this spot for a little late night stroll -- no such luck -- then takes a long breath, and dives after Zoe Jane. The river is deep; sluggish but strong as she goes under. She twists and kicks, hands groping out, trying to find the girl, trying not to panic as the freezing water surges around her, into her, dragging her down, down, choking her. She's being carried downstream in a tide of refuse and motor oil. No sign of a lost Slayer, not unless she counts herself. Something thick and plastic-y feeling smacks into her legs and wraps around them, sending her into an underwater spin. She struggles to rip it and free herself; she is almost out of air -- not a helpful thought. Think about the girl, saving the girl. She has to stay calm and everything will be fine, but the damn thing won't let her go and the current is pulling her deeper. Oh god. She reminds herself she's faced down hoards of Turok-han, a psychotic Hellgod with a shoe fetish, and literally thousands of assorted demons and vamps, so she's not about to get hysterical when attacked by a super-tough garbage bag. But Buffy really doesn't want to drown. She wriggles franticly and this time manages to tear whatever is binding her, surfaces gasping for air; then immediately dives again. She's blind, desperate, forcing herself to stay down, keep searching for as long as there is any chance at all of finding Zoe Jane alive. It is starting to seem entirely hopeless when she nudges against something that feels like a drifting human body, and grabs hold.
Clouds are scudding over a full, sulphur-yellow, moon, hanging low in the sky; as Buffy half carries, half drags Zoe Jane's limp body to a patch of level ground, and gently lays her down. There is no pulse. CPR was never Buffy's strongest suit; she is generally more about the slaying than the reviving; but whatever skills she can remember are just going to have to be good enough. There is no way in hell she's letting this girl die now, not after everything, not after meeting her mom. If only Xander was here. As she turns Zoe Jane onto her back Buffy takes a greedy gulp of air and is racked by a coughing fit which leaves her weak and shivering. Hurry up you dope. Tilt back the head, check for obstructions, pinch the nose closed, and blow into the mouth, yeah, like that, well done, full marks. Okay, now measure up three fingers from the bottom of the rib cage, X marks the spot for heart massage. Push. Careful not to break anything. Push. One more time. Push. And so it goes on -- one breath, followed by three heartbeats, followed by another breath. A car horn blares somewhere in the distance. At some point the rain stops falling. Buffy has no idea how long she has been here; her entire focus is on the possible flicker of life she is attempting to fan into a fire. Nothing. Zoe Jane's eyes remain glassy, she feels terribly cold under Buffy's hands. Buffy simply carries on working. She isn't dead, she can't be dead, she's just playing dead, little scamp. God -- I'm not stupid. This Slayer is deceased, no more, has ceased to be; has shuffled off this mortal coil. Gone to join the choir eternal. This is an ex Slayer. Shut the fuck up. Buffy pumps harder, feels a rib snap, winces in sympathy. "Come on, wake up." Without thinking, she slaps the girl's face, her head simply flops, unresisting, to one side. "Sorry. Sorry; come on, please don't do this, please wake up..." She draws in another breath, but she knows now that it's hopeless; Zoe Jane is dead, extremely, and Buffy is responsible, just as surely as if she'd held her under and waited for the bubbles to rise herself. Groaning, she closes Zoe Jane's vacant, accusing eyes, which of course spring open again. Buffy always forgets that part; the part where the dead won't stop looking at her, no matter how sorry she is. She rocks back on her heels, and simply gazes up into the vast, indifferent darkness above them. The stars look very cold and far away.
Seconds, or hours later, Willow's voice cuts through Buffy's wretched blankness. Buffy jumps, wondering how the hell she managed to creep up on her, before she realizes the sound is inside her mind. A telepathic S.O.S, faint but clear; her friends are in trouble, and they need her back at the church -- now.
All for nothing, Crevecour thinks, as he unleashes a Pandocrine curse on the increasingly pallid little witch. He can feel no pleasure at the sight of her struggling with an enveloping cloud of acidic purple gas; or of her pathetically devoted companion finally buried under a heaving pile of his followers; no, all he can feel is his heart shattering, the fragments piercing him through and through with the knowledge that Isabelle is dead. And so is he. This time he knows he cannot cheat the natural order of things to bring her back. His Lady has deserted him; everything is over. Jean-Baptiste, that insipid fool who wasted so many years in pining for the Lord and grovelling in prayer, died centuries ago; and now Crevecour has joined him in the mouldering wastes of whatever comes after. So what is he -- this thing that is left standing, this mockery, this remnant of the being he created with so much care? The bitter aftertaste of stale blood and wine. Crevecour summons up all the empty hatred he can still muster and strides towards the witch. There is still destruction, he can be that if nothing else -- perfect destruction. But inside him, the voice of a man who was once a priest says, 'I am nothing but dust and ashes.'
On Halloween Paulie always ferreted out his long black cape and plastic fangs from the closet under the stairs, slicked back his hair, whitened his face, and he and Zoe Jane went trick or treating. It was the one night of the year he actually thought he looked pretty cool; and she arched her eyebrows at him and squealed in gleeful terror when he pretended to bite her. Being the real thing goes way beyond cool; or at least it did until just now, when Paulie got struck with an odd feeling that they are going to lose. He starts sneaking towards the back exit of the church, and is passing the altar, when he finds himself staring at the Head -- Our Lady Of Perpetual Riddles -- only it isn't, not any more; it's Zoe Jane trapped in there, and she's staring back at him. Awake. And the noise she starts making, it sounds like she's crying out to him, crying for help. His chest cramps up painfully, and he realizes he can't leave her. He needs her. What, in the name of all that's unholy, has he done? The game has suddenly stopped being fun. He makes a mad dash for the Head and runs into an unexpected veil of dust, and on the other side a blond haired Slayer wearing an expression that would make Darth Vader himself, soil his pants. Paulie snarls as menacingly as he can, but it is a wasted effort, the Slayer is already laying into Sebastian, who had been making with the stealthy attack from behind. This would be a great opportunity to escape, but Paulie is full of the creeping certainty that he cannot abandon his Lady, though he doesn't really know why. So he hides himself, way down amongst the pews, and he watches, and he waits for his chance.
Faith is at the back of the church, fighting two vamps with a kind of white-hot fury so intense that it has almost transmuted into calm. All she cares about now, all she knows is that she must get to Crevecour, and kill him. But it will have to be soon, she is vaguely aware, through the red mist filling her brain, that even her body will not take much more of this kind of punishment. As one of the vamps takes a sloppy swing at her, she feints left, sneers as the sucker falls for it, and stakes him while his guard is down. The other vamp is trying to get Faith cornered. Not gonna happen. She leaps three pews, landing precariously on the narrow backrest of the fourth, and nearly falls; the dead weight of her injured arm throwing her off balance. She simply lets the forward momentum carry her, hurtling recklessly along the backs of the pews, towards the spectral figure of Crevecour looming over Red. Time seems to slow and bend as Faith drops from the last pew, landing directly behind him. The fraction of a second left before Crevecour realizes she is there, and they get it on, stretches for infinity. Slow tickle of sweat trickling between her breasts. Sticky ooze of blood on her palm, where she gripped the improvised stake so tight it cut into her flesh. The subtle animal tingle of having B close by. Faith is desperately trying to calculate where his heart will be. She knows that his apparent position is an illusion, so somehow she has to allow for that, or kiss her ass goodbye. This is her chance to do something right, probably the only chance she has. Crevecour wheels round to fight her, his face a twisted mask of contempt and pain, eyes burning dull yellow, thin lips drawn back, fangs glinting cruelly with the promise of death. And Faith does a crazy thing -- she closes her eyes, breathes deep, deep into her centre, and blindly trusts her instincts to sense where she should strike. Stillness. Earth below, sky above, and Faith, a pulse connected with it all. Now. She lunges and thrusts her stake out with all her remaining strength, feels the hiss of it moving through the air, then the jolt in her arm muscles as it meets flesh and bone with a wet crunch. There is a strange and terrible sound, Crevecour is laughing, the son of a bitch is laughing at her; she must have missed the heart. Screw it. So much for mystical Slayer senses. Faith pulls out the stake and opens her eyes, just in time to see Crevecour crumble into dust.
"Holy shit!"
Buffy finishes off the last vampire clinging to Kennedy, helps her to her feet, and glares around for more, but the bumpy forehead crowd are suddenly conspicuous by their absence. She turns at the sound of Faith's words, and sees her standing protectively over Willow, who is slumped low against the wall.
"Crevecour?" Buffy asks, pitching her voice above the distressing wailing noise coming from the direction of the altar.
Faith grins fiercely and indicates the film of fresh, grey ash covering her left arm and boots. "I'm wearing him. Guess that means we win, huh. Don't really think he does much for my complexion though." Her grin wavers when she catches Buffy's expression. "Er, B, last time I checked, us winning was a happy thing, what's with the gloom?" She scans the church. "Where's our newest little Slayer?"
"I...Zoe..." Buffy feels absolutely wrecked. She surveys her exhausted, battle worn friends and doesn't know how to make herself tell them that she has failed. Tiny drops of water are dripping from her hair, which is hanging in rat's tails over her eyes. She pushes it back roughly, and says, all in a rush, "Zoe Jane ran to the river, she must have been scared out of her mind, and I jumped in after her, and I searched, and I found her but it was too late. I was too late. She drowned. She's...she's dead. The body's still out there. I have to --"
"No, she isn't," Willow says, sounding cold and distant.
"What?" Kennedy asks, frowning in confusion as she holds Willow close.
Willow sits up as far as she can, though it makes her groan with pain, and points towards the head. "Crevecour did a switch."
Dead silence, apart from the unearthly wailing. Wailing that is bordering on screaming. Buffy can barely stay on her feet. This is a nightmare. She watches fixedly as Faith wanders over to the nearest wall, noticing that one of her arms is hanging limp and useless; she knows what's coming next, and finds the familiarity bizarrely comforting in the midst if all this horror. Faith leans into the wall, braces herself, and grunts as she bashes her shoulder against it, far harder than strictly necessary, to pop it back into its socket. Buffy remembers it was always a weak point, thinks she would have offered to help if Faith had asked; but she didn't, she never does.
Buffy squats down on the floor in front of Willow and Kennedy. She has to take charge of the situation. Do something. Think it through. Ask the important questions. She can't allow herself to fall apart now. "Will; are you okay?"
Willow has been muttering quietly to herself, and she looks at Buffy with frightening incomprehension before nodding jerkily.
"Will," Buffy says, gently laying her hand on her friend's knee, to reassure herself that Willow really is alive, and not at all go throughable, "how do we help Zoe Jane? I mean it's magic, right? And-and you're our serious mojo gal, so do you know how to, you know, fix this?"
"Hmm. Major problem -- dead body. I can't do a body swap spell with a d-dead body, and...oh God." Willow's head whips back against Kennedy's chest, and she whimpers. "Sorry, I-I-I can feel...her."
Inky blackness is beginning to spread out from Willow's pupils. Buffy doesn't want to consider what that might signal. All they can do is deal with the situation as fast as possible. She grabs hold of a passing thought, though it makes her queasy. "What about a resurrection spell?" She says very quietly.
Willow lays her clammy hand over Buffy's. "Even...even if I could; that kind of spell is almost impossible to get right. There are so many risks. Consequences." She grips Buffy's hand tighter. "There's always a p-price, we may not be ready to pay. As it is, I can't do a resurrection spell without switching the bodies back; which I can't do; which means I can't do anything."
Right now Kennedy would like to be in Greenwich Village, in a little club called Ja Ja's, chillin' to some excellent music, and tickling Will under the table to make her start giggling and blushing. She's cute when she's embarrassed, and the blushing makes her freckles stand out, which is a bonus. Or there's this place in Santa Cruz that she would probably fall in love with, near the pier, there are sea lions, and Kennedy has to take her there one day, she should ask her about that. Yeah, they should go soon. Will looks awful. Her darkening eyes are staring at nothing, and she is shuddering and feverish.
"Can't do anything," Willow repeats.
Kennedy looks from Will to the Head, and back again, and feels like she's about to toss her cookies. "We can't just leave her like that."
"No," Buffy says grimly, "we can't."
"So there has to be another way; someone we could..."
"No," Willow says, her voice sounds stretched to breaking point. "There is only one thing we can do for her now."
There's a slow trickle of blood from Willow's nose, it bubbles out slightly when she breathes. Kennedy wishes she had one of those stupid mini packs of tissues her mom obsessively carries everywhere, something to wipe it with, make it stop doing that. For a second she's not processing the information, she doesn't understand what the hell Will is talking about. Then the realization hits her, they have to kill Zoe Jane. This could well be the worst day ever.
Faith straightens up from the place in the corner where she's been slouching against the wall. "I'll do it." It's practically a whisper, reluctant words; Kennedy has to strain to hear it.
"Faith. No, I will," Buffy says a little too quickly, darting a wary, desperate glance at Faith. She stands up stiffly, reclaims her axe from the nearby pillar it's embedded in, and walks slowly towards the Head.
The skinny homeless guy smells like vodka and piss and old newspaper, but Paulie is ravenously hungry and doesn't much care. He crouches on top of him, in the derelict warehouse where he found him sleeping, and drinks greedily. Paulie knows he is a coward. First he gave Zoe Jane to his sire, when he had a chance to take her for himself. Then when he saw what the Slayer meant to do to his Lady, he should have attacked; he should have stormed out there and torn her, and her friends, limb from limb. Instead he bit his own arm in order to stay mute, and hid until they had gone. He sits up, straddling the slack body beneath him, and wipes his chin. His fingers automatically find the almost healed scratch marks, running down both sides of his face. Now he has nothing, is nothing, he isn't even Paulie anymore. Being a 'Lost Boy' is nothing like the movie. He should demand a refund. He doesn't have a biker jacket, he doesn't have a bike. Maybe that's the problem. He'll have to steal one.
There are still a few hours left before sunrise, and he has no desire to spend them here, snuggling with a dead wino. He walks swiftly to the entrance, pauses a moment trying to decide which direction to take; then turns right and heads for the docks.
'You are going home this night to your home of winter; to your home of autumn, of spring, of summer. You are going home this night to your lasting home; to your unending rest, to your lasting bed.'
Homework notes, files and text books, are strewn all over the kitchen table. Tara peeks, playfully serious, at Willow over the top of her book, her hair and skin lit up with the warm, golden light filtering through the open window. She is trying to teach Willow something, something important, but Willow can't understand a word she's singing. Tara sighs and comes to pull Willow out of her chair, twirls her around till she's dizzy. They are dancing, deliciously slow and close, as if they are attempting to melt into each other's skin. Tara's laughing like the taste of strawberries sprinkled with salt. It makes Willow's mouth water, and she wants her, oh god, how badly she wants her. Tara spirits out of her hungry embrace. She's teasing, pleading, lying dead and bleeding on the carpet.
Kennedy is marching briskly through a Grimm's fairytale forest made of entirely charred matchsticks; swinging an axe at her own head, with admirable enthusiasm. No, she's bound to the bedposts, flayed alive and grinning, while Willow hovers above her, magic hissing and crackling from her hands; she's finally ripe. No, she's holding Willow, quieting her as they both burn.
A woman is hugging a young girl tightly, as they crouch down on a pier somewhere. The sun is setting. This moment is beautiful. It feels like the alpha and omega of everything, yet it is the last gasp before the end of the world. Willow tries to call to them, but her cry echoes harsh and lonely as the voices of gulls swooping far out at sea. There is no humanity in it. When the child looks up, her eyes are empty and bleeding.
Tara is singing again, soft, like a mother. Not Willow's mother of course, but mothers the way she sometimes secretly imagined they could be. She is holding Willow, rocking her, watching a rosette of blood expanding from the bullet hole in her chest, soaking her top. Willow wants to say, 'I love you. Remember, I always love you.' But all that comes out is a choking gurgle in her throat, flecks of red on Tara's shirt. The world, Tara's face, the feel of the carpet under her hand, are all fading away, turning to snakes and flashes of light behind her eyes. White, then red, then only black. She is voiceless, dying, and none of it matters. None of it really matters at all.
There is a map of the world the size of a billboard painted on one wall of the old library at Sunnydale High. Giles is not going to be pleased. He'll probably start making that funny, strangulated, 'hmmph,' noise when he sees it. Kennedy is standing in front of the map, holding an instructor's stick, and pointing out all the different locations where Slayers are still to be found. She taps the map at a certain point and it lights up and bleeps insistently. She looks stern. But Willow is frustrated and fidgeting in the campus Wicca group when she looks up and...An hour before dawn she's tending the ovens in the expectant chill of an autumn morning, when she sees...She's perched nervously on the edge of an unmade bed, beside a boy with spikey purple hair, when he leans over and...Kennedy is still tapping and talking, but she doesn't want to pay attention anymore. She closes her eyes and watches Zoe Jane rise up from the pier. The girl is grown now, and her hands are overflowing with flowers. Zoe Jane looks at Willow with Tara's eyes; a long, searching look; wise and sad. Finally she nods and says, with quiet understanding, 'It hurts.' Then she turns and walks away.
"Imm-hmn." The burly male nurse, Clyde according to his name tag, finishes checking Willow's IV and chart then smiles kindly at Kennedy. "Y'know hon, maybe you should go stretch your legs. Get some sleep even. She probably won't be waking up for a while. Ain't nothin' bad gonna happen to her here. I'll be looking out for you both. I'm on all night."
"Yeah, thanks. I probably should." Kennedy watches the nurse give her and Will one more sympathetic glance before leaving. Never trust a guy whose neck is thicker than his head. Clyde can indulge his mother hen tendencies all he wants; she has no intention of going anywhere. Anyone who tries to make her will have to have the, sadistically un-comfy, chair she's slumped on surgically removed from their nether regions.
The bleary eyed, ER doc had assured them that Willow would be okay. Kennedy had made him repeat it three times just to be certain, and would probably have asked again, if Buffy hadn't given her a look to shut her up. Even so, she's still pretty shaken. Willow is sleeping the innocent sleep of a woman full of painkillers, looking small and lifeless, trapped under the stark white sheets. The minute rise and fall of her breathing is the only indication that she's not dead; and Kennedy finds herself holding her own breath each time it takes longer than expected for Will's chest to begin rising again.
"I'm in trouble," Kennedy whispers, surprised that she said it aloud; and that it's true.
There was a time -- Kennedy can vaguely remember it -- when she didn't spend most of her waking hours thinking about Willow. Life was simpler then. Falling in love is a whole lot like developing some weird obsessive-compulsive disorder. Only instead of avoiding treading on the cracks in the sidewalk in case the bogeyman comes to get her; or washing her hands with anti-bacterial soap exactly twenty-eight times a day; she's living for the feeling of Will's hands surreptitiously finding their way under her shirt, brushing lightly over her hot, naked skin. Or the quizzical frown Will gives her when she asks her about the workings of an obscure spell, that she wouldn't have a hope of understanding, even if she actually wanted to. Anything Willow in fact. And Kennedy is a grade A schmuck for falling for a woman who does not, possibly cannot love her. Care for, need, desire, but not love. Not that she has ever said so, and Kennedy won't ask. Willow is a bad liar, and Kennedy doesn't want to hear the words.
She lets her head sink into her hands, beyond weary, but she doesn't close her eyes, because every time she does she sees it again. Will, her eyes rolled back, black as pitch. Buffy with an axe, talking to the screaming Head, saying, 'Zoe Jane,' and then a bunch of other stuff, before she...before. She's freaked now just thinking about it. Then she thinks how much worse it must have been for Willow, and she can't bear it. It makes her want to kill things with her bare hands. Luckily that's one of her job requirements.
Clock ticking. Buzz-saw snoring of the patient in the next bed, practically making the thin, dividing curtain billow. The fang wounds on Kennedy's neck are itching, she's sorely tempted to rip the dressing off and scratch them till they bleed. But Willow begins twitching; then tossing and turning so much that Kennedy is forced to go and hold her down, as gently as she can, in case she hurts herself.
"Will...Willow."
"Please," Willow says hoarsely as she wakes. She licks her dry lips and begins talking rapidly. "There's an-another new Slayer. South from here. I, um, yeah, I've got a pretty good idea where she is. We have to..."
"Shhh. Shhh. It's okay." Kennedy holds Willow as she struggles, weakly attempting to get out of bed. "You were dreaming. Shhh. It's okay Will, it's me. I've got you."
Willow opens her eyes. After a few moments they clear, and focus on Kennedy's face. "Oh. Hey." She lets her head flop back onto the pillow. "Wu-What happened?"
"You were about to go Slayer hunting in your sleep. I think that could count as over-working." Kennedy strokes Willow's hair. "You had me kinda worried."
Willow smiles apologetically. "I mean before. My brain's all candy floss-y. I remember the church, and Buffy, and, and...guh." She stares at the ceiling, images playing out behind her eyes. "And then it's all blank. Where is Buffy? Is she..."
"Buffy's fine. She went to get a drink or something."
"And Faith?"
Kennedy settles herself more comfortably on the edge of the bed. "Faith drove us and Zoe Jane's...body to the hospital. Then she took off in a major hurry, said she had a job to do." She wonders if that job involves high tailing it to the Canadian border. She wouldn't really blame Faith. In fact, judging by the stories she's heard, she's a little surprised the infamous rogue Slayer has stuck around for this long. Still, she would be sorry to see her go.
"The rest of the gang," Kennedy says, anticipating the next question, "caught a Greyhound. They should be hitting town in a few hours."
"Hmm. What else?"
"Well, you weren't very cooperative with the charming police officers, due to being unconscious. Buffy and I dealt with them."
"What did you tell them?"
"I have no idea; but they seemed satisfied in the end. They went away, and none of us are accessorizing with handcuffs this season, so we must have been fairly convincing."
"Y' think?" Willow almost grins; then looks suddenly desolate. "Zoe Jane. Mrs Marquette. Does she know? Oh. Oh God. Did anyone call her?"
"Yeah. She was here earlier. Buffy talked with her." Kennedy looks away; remembering the low murmur of voices in the corridor outside. Then Mrs Marquette shouting -- shrill, almost hysterical -- and Buffy trying to calm her. And finally, broken, gut wrenching sobbing, and a hasty exit. When Buffy returned, Kennedy thought she had never seen her looking so upset. Not even when she was getting kicked out of her own house.
"Kennedy, baby." Willow trails her fingertips down Kennedy's forearm in a way that makes her heart flip over. "Thank you."
Kennedy sighs and looks up. "What for?"
"Everything."
Kennedy knows she should leave it at that. Enjoy basking in the glow of Will's gratitude, and hope it might drive away some of the horrors of the night. But instead she asks as casually as she can, "So, do you wanna tell me about this dream?"
Willow instantly gets that tight, closed off look she always gets when something is off limits, and says, "I, um...it doesn't really matter now. It was kinda...it just...I'm really tired. I'll tell you later, when my brain isn't so fuzzy. 'Kay."
"Sorry. It can wait. You should rest." Kennedy leans in and kisses Willow lightly on the forehead, lingering for a moment before she pulls away. She knows Willow will never tell her; it's just another one of those dreams that she can't share, not with her. Eventually she'll learn to stop asking.
"Are you gonna be here?" Willow asks; a slight tremor in her voice.
"Yeah," Kennedy says, slumping back into her chair. "I'll be here."
Finest ground Columbian; or instant lighter fluid from Wal-mart. Deep black and bitter as...as, well as bitter as Buffy's so called fucking life. Or latte with more sugar than the human body can handle. She doesn't care as long as it's coffee. Buffy is out in the waiting room, trying to get the drinks machine to work, and barely holding herself together. Right now coffee is the most important thing in the world. If she can just get coffee she knows she will survive the night. Unfortunately, the machine has other plans. It insists on giving her hot orange juice; then eats her money and refuses to give her anything else. She bangs it on the side, swearing under her breath. No reaction. She hits it harder. "Give me coffee you worthless piece of shit!" A passing nurse regards her disapprovingly. Buffy turns back to the machine; she can feel tears forcing their way out of her eyes. This is ridiculous. She is pulling back to hit it again, when Faith steps in front of her; clutching two Starbuck's and a full, brown paper bag.
"Y'know, I don't think it understands threats and violence; but I feel pretty intimidated." Faith holds out one of the cardboard cups. "Will this help? It's the way you like it; I think. Sorry it's not that hot anymore, I had to wait for the pigs to clear out. Thought they'd never leave."
Buffy thankfully accepts the coffee, removes the plastic lid, fumbles and drops it.
"Also," Faith says, putting her own cup on the floor, opening the bag and offering it to Buffy, at arm's length. Obviously trying not to notice the waterworks. "I got us some munchies, sandwiches and stuff. You want?"
Buffy shakes her head. She thinks she'd probably choke on food.
Faith shrugs and fishes in the bag herself, leans against the wall and begins unwrapping a chocolate bar. She's feigning relaxation, but she looks haggard and twitchy as hell. There are some impressive bruises blooming under the skin of her arms. One, dark purple, bruise seems to spread out from the ink of her tattoo, as if the design of thorns had run in the damp. Faith fingers the place absent mindedly, like she can feel Buffy looking. "Is Willow gonna be okay?"
"They said she should be able to go home in the morning. I mean, she'll be...oh God." Buffy sips her coffee, concentrating her best efforts on not spilling it all over her ruined shirt. Fat tears are rolling down her cheeks. She doesn't want to cry in front of Faith, which of course just makes her cry harder. Her shoulders are heaving with muffled sobs. It's humiliating, this loss of control.
Faith becomes tactfully fascinated by the opposite wall; the floor; and her boots, in turn. Faith. Tact. What parallel universe is this? She swallows the last chunk of her chocolate, crumples up the wrapper and drops it back into the bag. "I always hated these places," she mutters, pushing off from the wall and coming to stand in front of Buffy; close enough for Buffy to feel the heat from her body. There are track marks running through the smudges of dirt on Faith's face. Buffy wonders if she's been crying too, but decides sweat or rain, are more likely explanations. Even so, she has a strange urge to trace those lines with the tips of her fingers, see where they lead. See if...
"B."
"Huh. What?" Buffy pauses with her hand half raised towards Faith's face, and rubs roughly at her own stinging, eyes, as if that had been her intention all along. Clearly she's going insane.
"I said is there anything else we can do here tonight, except bitch-slap the vending machine, and sit on our butts?"
"No. No, I don't think that..." finishing sentences suddenly seems way too much like work, and Buffy simply shakes her head.
Faith drains the dregs of her coffee, and sends the empty cup arcing towards the nearest garbage can. It bounces off the rim. "Damn." She paces up and down a few times, scuffing the toes of her boots along the linoleum, apparently deep in thought. Right when Buffy is about to tell her to quit it before she wears a hole in the floor, she stops and says, "So, how about we get out of here?"
The hotel room costs $30 a night; though Faith is well aware that in this kind of place you can pay by the hour. Not exactly the Ritz, but even after she and Buffy pool their, rather pulpy, cash, it's all they can afford. They need somewhere to sleep; or at least to be alone for a while. The lock is awkward, the key worn, and Faith almost breaks it trying to get into their room. When the door finally does judder open she makes the mistake of turning on the main light. It is harsh, unforgiving. It shows them exactly what she's come to expect -- the décor, circa nineteen seventy-four; the carpet you really wouldn't want to walk on barefoot; but, mainly, it lets them see each other far too clearly. After a few motionless seconds, Faith flips the switch off again. In the brief darkness, before her eyes adjust to the gloom, she pretends she can hide. That it didn't feel dangerous when B accidentally brushed against her, as they trudged up the four flights of stairs; that they didn't automatically shy away from each other as if they'd been stung. That her guard will hold; that her face will not betray all those things she's trying her best not to think about; that this wasn't the stupidest of all stupid ideas. Then streetlights, moonlight, and the eerie, neon-blue glow of the hotel sign dimly illuminate the room; and B, standing, looking at her, with eyes like beautiful cigarette burns -- which is fucked up, 'cause cigarette burns ain't beautiful, they just hurt. And Faith realizes she's lying to herself, because Buffy already knows. Maybe. And maybe that's why she came. But this is not the time to find out; this is the time to prove she can do the friend thing.
"B, are you...is there anything that..."
Buffy plucks at her shirt and sniffs, looking vaguely disgusted. "I need a shower," she says flatly; and walks out.
Faith pads after her, down the narrow corridor, until they reach the small bathroom situated right at the end.
"Alone," Buffy adds; closing the door before Faith has a chance to protest that she wasn't about to offer to scrub those hard to reach places; she just wanted to make sure that Buffy was alright.
So Faith wanders back to their room, glad she remembered to retrieve her smokes from the car, and wishing she had a bottle of Jack to go with them -- something to take the rough edge off of things. Her shoulder hurts, and her ribs feel bruised; tight, flaring pain when she breaths too deep. The window opens with a rattle of protest. She sits on the sill -- feet up, back resting against the hard line of the frame -- sparks up, and waits, and waits, and waits, and tries not to worry. There's a late night session happening in Sullivan's Irish Pub, on the ground floor. Faith can hear the muted sound of the young folk-rock band belting out whisky soaked Pogues covers. Bass thumping as fast as her heart. Even at this distance she can tell their singer is authentically out of tune. Though he could probably argue that the rest of the band are out of tune with him; she gets that. These days she thinks B might get that too. What the hell is taking her so long anyway?
"Hey, Buffy." No answer, only the sound of water running. "You okay in there?" Nada. Faith knows she should probably just leave, but she is starting to feel irrationally scared. What if Buffy's blacked out and drowned in some senseless freak accident. Shit, what if she's done something to herself; she's not exactly full of the shiny happies right now. "B?"
The bathroom door is locked when Faith tries it; but not for long. A well aimed kick, and it swings open to show her Buffy, crouched in the bottom of the shower stall, still fully clothed, wringing wet, and shivering.
"Get out," Buffy says, without looking up. Faith can tell from her voice she's been crying again.
"Strange though it may seem, the usual custom is to remove your clothes before y --"
"Screw you Faith."
Don't say it. Don't say it. By some supreme effort of will, Faith forces back a stream of innuendoes all vying to get out of her mouth at once; but then can't help murmuring, "Hmm. Maybe later." Oh crap. Well, it could have been worse. And B doesn't seem to have heard. She reaches through the lukewarm spray of water and turns off the shower. "Think you've had enough. I'm cutting you off."
Buffy hugs her knees tight against her chest, and whispers, "I can't get clean."
Faith sighs heavily. "Yeah. I know."
After some hunting Faith manages to find a towel; wraps it around Buffy's shoulders, and leads her back to their room. She leaves her curled small in a foetal position on one of the beds; then goes to try and wash the worst of the dirt and vamp dust off her self.
An hour later, Faith is smoking her last cigarette, as slowly as she can; and B hasn't moved. Faith can't look at Buffy for too long; she doesn't know what to do, and it makes her feel helpless, and useless, and angry. She's bone weary, but too wired to sleep, so she returns her attention to the street below. The band have launched into an old, sad, number that Faith thinks she recognizes. They're wishing they were back in Donegal or County Clare -- somewhere far away -- and Faith finds she's suddenly homesick for places she's never been. The volume of music, voices, laughter, rises, and light spills onto the sidewalk; the pub door must have opened. She watches a man jog quickly across the street, and down a side alley, where another guy, odds on it being his dealer, emerges from the shadows to meet him. She could be back in Boston, which is one place she's pretty damned sure she's not homesick for. Whatever. She observes the dealer, Parasiticus Low-life-us, at work in his natural habitat. It's all kind of detached, unreal, like a wildlife documentary on the Discovery Channel she can't be bothered to flip past. He's selling tickets to Never Never Land; instant pain relief -- no such thing; Faith has learned that the hard way. She thinks that life, at least her life, is a lot like watching those animals -- an endless cycle of fighting, feeding, and fucking -- only without the guy in the safari shirt, and the running commentary. It isn't enough.
She takes a final drag on her cigarette, then lets the butt fall and watches the glow spinning down until it disappears. Remembering another night; a different window; a bloody shard of glass falling. Wes cut up and beaten, tied to a chair. Faith thinks that here, 'on the outside,' she may never really be safe, never fully in control of herself; or have any clear idea of who the hell she is that she can hang onto for longer than five minutes. And maybe a junkie is always a junkie, even when they've been straight for years. But she has drawn a line in the sand that she would rather die than cross again. She is no longer the woman who tortured Wesley; or went to kill poor, harmless Lester, for the Mayor, as if he'd just asked her to pick up his dry cleaning; and she's not the woman who could...well, there are things she still doesn't want to think about. She has changed.
Thousands, millions of moments, choices, decisions go to make up a life. Buffy wonders which one it was that brought her here; which one set this train of events in motion. Because it isn't always the obvious things -- cause and effect. Sometimes it's the stupid, tiny, insignificant little brainstorm that might lead to the Tsunami that comes and tears her life apart a year later; sweeping away everything she thought was hers. And other times not so much. Part of her wonders if it's fate yanking her strings; and the control, the freedom, she thought she had, needed to believe she had, were simply illusions. She has always defied prophecy, always found the loophole, but what if she was meant to find it all along? What a joke fest that would be. Then again, perhaps this universe is pure chaos and nothing she does means anything at all. Either way it's more than she can handle right now. She feels as if she's trapped in some giant hamster wheel, running faster and faster, with no chance of escape. Why couldn't my friends have understood enough to let me go, she thinks bitterly. It was my time. I was finished. She wonders which one of those insignificant choices led to her killing another human being tonight? An innocent girl, with a name -- Zoe Jane Marquette -- and a mom, and a life that Buffy had been trying to save. How the hell did this happen; and why didn't she try harder to find the loophole?
Buffy can feel the familiar ache, and throb, and sting of her body healing itself. Broken skin, and bruised muscles being repaired with supernatural speed. It hurts, but not enough to cut through the numbness which is beginning to blanket her emotions. She has been here before. Her heart is shutting down, playing dead. A thick, grey fog of hopeless, agonizing apathy and disconnectedness is pumping out from it, trying to envelop her, until there's nothing, just nothing left. She can't bear it. It's worse than pain. She needs to do something; she needs to speak before it swallows her whole. Everything is slipping away from her again, except, strangely, Faith.
Moving is difficult, but preferable to not moving; so Buffy shifts gingerly underneath the scratchy towel, then sits up fast. It's better that way, like ripping off a plaster.
Faith starts slightly, swings her legs off the window sill as if she's going to come over, then seems to change her mind and stays perched there. "So B, what gives?"
Buffy fiddles with the small silver cross hanging round her neck, distractedly pressing the points into the pads of her fingers. Now to speak, say words; perhaps string a few well chosen vowel sounds together. "There should be a rule," she blurts out, "no fighting evil priests more than once a decade. What is it with these guys and women? I mean most demons, a little chanting, a little ritual sacrifice; what's not to love? But this freak kept his dead girlfriend's grotesquely reanimated head in a box for three hundred years."
"I guess it puts a whole new spin on getting good head." Faith glances at the ceiling and grimaces. "God. Can we pretend I didn't just say that out loud. I can't make it stop; it's like I've got fucking Tourette's or something."
Typical Faith. Buffy ought to be grossed out and mad at her for saying something like that at a time like this. But she finds she's laughing; if a sound as empty and humourless as the one she's making could qualify as laughter. She stops abruptly. "The car?"
"Huh?"
"What did you do with the car?"
"Torched it. Why are you still here?"
Buffy looks up sharply, but she doesn't see any animosity in Faith's face, just concern.
"Why haven't you gone on that vacation?" Faith asks; her tone soft but insistent.
Buffy doesn't answer. She is becoming aware of her ghosts, gathering silently in the shadows of the room. She feels frozen in spite of the heat. The back of her neck is prickling. There is a girl at the forefront who could be... Buffy wrenches her gaze away and stares hard at a stain on the carpet directly in front of her, as if it's the ink blot test that will prove her sanity. She refuses to look at the assembling spooks. They're early, and if they've decided to pull a double shift that's not her problem.
There is a cool breeze playing along Faith's skin. It would be quite welcome, except it seems to be coming from inside the room, rather than from the open window behind her, which is pretty weird, and she's had her fill of weird for the day. B has returned to doing her impression of an inanimate object, but it isn't fooling Faith, she is not letting her off the hook that easily. "Let me clarify -- being a Slayer is my life, it's all I've got, it's what I was made for, and I'm cool with that. But things are different for you; you've got a chance to live like a person now. You've got a future. You could do anything you want. So why are you stuck in a fleabag hotel with me, when you could be on vacation?"
Buffy's shoulders lift fractionally, in something which Faith interprets as a dismissive shrug.
Fine. Time to get metaphor-y. "Did you ever watch a whole big flock of geese flying south for the winter?"
"I guess so."
"They always fly in that V formation 'cause they cut through the air better; and the one at the front has the hardest job 'cause she's breaking the way for all the others. Anyway, if you watch 'em closely, every so often they swap places, take it in turns. One of the geese from the back flies up and takes over the tough job, and the one in front drops back, takes a break."
"We're not geese Faith," Buffy says indifferently.
"No shit Sher -- That's not the point. The way I see it, you've been flying at the front for eight years solid, and that's a real tough gig. Maybe no one else could have even done it. But in case it's escaped your keen notice, you're not the one and only Chosen anymore. You..." Faith falters, trying to decide whether to go on. She takes a breath, and finishes. "You haven't been for a long time."
Buffy's face is unreadable in the blue-grey half-light.
Faith picks up her discarded cigarette packet, remembers it's empty, and drops it again. "Why don't you let someone else do the heavy lifting for a while? It's my turn to carry now." That sounds wrong, like she's staging a take over. "Me and all the newbies," she amends. "Giles, Willow, Robin, they can keep us in order. Make sure we --"
"It's not that simple." B is staring at something in the corner of the room -- her expression a mixture of guilt and blank misery -- and Faith is fairly certain it's not the wardrobe she's looking at.
A bitter chill is creeping through Faith. She may not be able to see whatever Buffy's fixated on, but she can sure as hell sense it. It's the same subliminal nightmare she's been time sharing for days; only now it's much, much stronger. This has to stop. For once in their lives can't they have a straightforward, honest conversation, without it metamorphosing into a joke, or a fight, or a glacial silence. "Listen, I ain't no brainiac Harvard scholar, but I'm not stupid. I know there's something going on B, I can feel it. You gonna tell me what it is? Please don't shut me out."
"That's rich coming from you."
"This isn't about me."
"No, it isn't, and I don't want to talk about it," Buffy says, in that way that makes Faith want to put her fist through a wall.
"Maybe I can help."
"No."
"Goddamnit, fucking tell me," Faith shouts; and instantly regrets it.
Buffy is winding her hands together in her lap, and slowly shaking her head. "Just drop it," she says, more pleading than commanding.
Faith is afraid that she may have blown it. That B will never talk to her now. She stands up and goes to sit beside her. "Tonight in the church, that was brutal, but you stayed strong. Did the right thing; the only thing."
That laugh again; worse than screaming or sobbing. Buffy's hands grip the edge of the bed, bunching the sheets. "You didn't have to see her mom's face. I'll never forget. And it isn't only...it's everything. You don't know the things I've done."
"We've all done things we regret -- me more than most -- but you can't change the past."
"I was meant to save her. It was my responsibility. My failure." Buffy continues, as if she hasn't even heard Faith. She glances towards the corner again. "In the end it's always...I-I mean, sometimes I just wish I could..."
With some trepidation, Faith reaches over and runs her thumb gently over Buffy's knuckles. Buffy's death grip on the sheets relaxes slightly, and when Faith takes hold of her hand, she doesn't try to stop her. It's no secret Faith is crap at these sharing your feelings conversations, and the strain of trying to maintain it is starting to get to her; but she wants B to understand, so she tries again. "It's like...like Ash Wednesday every day with you," she says; and is rewarded with a look of total incomprehension. She doesn't know why she said it. Considers trying to explain the feeling of the priest's thumb marking a tiny cross of ashes, mixed with sicky oil, on her forehead. About repentance, and mourning, and guilt -- always guilt -- and how she hasn't even believed in any of this bullshit since she was eight years old, so why should she bother. Instead she snaps, "Get over the fucking martyr complex or you're gonna end up dead. Again."
Buffy had forgotten the hate. Cool and heavy, well polished. How dare Faith sit there and pretend to understand, to care about her; and then presume to judge her. She couldn't ever...And how dare she be right. Buffy's not seeing red, so much as black, as her fist shoots out, and catches Faith full in the face, pitching her backwards onto the floor. Buffy braces herself for the retaliation she's sure is coming; wonders how far Faith will take it; but she's just lying there, cupping her jaw in her hand, and breathing fast and shallow. "Is hurting me gonna make you feel better?" She kneels up; her arms hanging loosely by her sides; hands open. "Go ahead -- hurt me. I want you to." The dim light exaggerates the contrast between her pale skin and dark hair, until she looks like a black and white photograph of herself, taken from a long way away. The expression on her face makes Buffy's throat close up.
And Buffy lunges at her. She doesn't have a plan; doesn't know what is supposed to happen next; she just moves, and isn't that surprised to find she is sprawled on top of Faith and kissing her, hard; hard enough to bruise. After a moment's hesitation Faith returns the kiss with equal force; her fingers snaking through Buffy's hair, pulling her deeper. The taste of smoke and chocolate on her tongue.
The logical part of Buffy's mind is yelling at her to 'desist at once,' in a voice that sounds a lot like Giles, at his most British. But she isn't going to be ordered about by imaginary Watchers; and anyway, she can't seem to make herself stop.
Buffy feels Faith's knee slide up between her thighs; one of Faith's hands travelling down her back to press and circle near the base of her spine; the rub of denim, and her jeans zipper pushing into her. She rocks against Faith and can't help moaning softly. Her kiss becomes a bite. The familiar, coppery tang of blood is beginning to fill her mouth. She realizes, distantly, as if this is happening to someone else, that her teeth must have split Faith's lip.
Faith growls something unintelligible that might be 'bitch,' and easily flips them over. A second of panic, struggle, as Faith slams into her, pinning her wrists to the floor on each side of her head, painfully tugging strands of Buffy's hair that are still caught in her fists. Buffy lets out an involuntary yelp, and Faith pauses, her face a blur, too close for Buffy to focus on. And Buffy knows that she's stronger than this, but her limbs have turned to jelly, and she can't fight. She is suffocating, trapped beneath Faith's slight weight.
Remembering Spike, frantic, grabbing at her in a cold white bathroom.
'Gonna make you feel it.'
'Ask me again why I could never...'
Remembering how his face changed, that last time, standing in the Hellmouth, the pure light of his soul streaming through him, amidst all the destruction.
'I love you.'
'No, you don't. But thanks for saying it.'
Then Faith relinquishes her hold on one of Buffy's wrists, and slips her hand up to interlace their fingers, palm against palm. Reassurance of a kind that threatens to break her open.
So close, but it's a lie. Don't let her in. It has to be a lie.
Buffy whimpers and closes her eyes as Faith dips her mouth to Buffy's neck; kissing, nipping, suckling on a pulse point that still bears a faint tracery of scars. Gentle, tantalizing, at first, slowly building their arousal; her lips and tongue matching the rhythm of their bodies undulating together. All fierce, contained fire; until suddenly her hips jerk and she's attacking the place with such desperate hunger Buffy half expects to feel fangs piercing, ripping her skin, her life gushing out and down Faith's throat, warm and crimson. That though leaves her shuddering violently; fear and desire coursing through her. Stars exploding behind her eyes. She squeezes Faith's body between her legs, trying to pull her closer; finds her hands are free and clutches urgently at Faith's back, feels her wince at the crushing pressure on her ribcage, her breathing getting harsher.
This need is burying Buffy alive.
Hard fingers at the vulnerable curve where her neck meets her jaw.
Rotting pine and dirt in her throat.
Hand on her breast. Kneading. Twisting. Not pretending to be gentle now. Not pretending to care. Better this way.
Clawing at woodfleshwood. Fingernails split and bleeding.
Have to get out. Touch me. Help me. Save me. Kill me. Make it stop.
She needs to strip away clothes and skin, and sinews, muscles and bones, until there's nothing left of her -- of either of them -- to be scared, and hurting, and always alone. Faith bites down and she almost screams, her body arching. Whatever pride she may have had has evaporated. So now she's begging, jumbled and broken. "Fu-fuck. Oh. God. Faith. Fuckmeplease. Please."
Abruptly, Faith breaks away looking utterly lost and confused, and edges backwards across the floor, shaking her head. "I-I can't," she whispers, as if she doesn't quite believe she's saying it. "You don't really want this. You'll hate yourself. You'll hate me."
Buffy stumbles to her feet and savagely wipes the back of her hand across her lips. "How the hell do you know what I want; are you psychic now? Is this all part of the new improved Faith? Jesus Christ. You treat sex like most people treat fast food, and you pick now to grow a conscience -- or did one of your personalities decide to be shy?"
Faith has come to rest in the corner, with her arms wrapped protectively around her body.
Buffy knows she's being unfair, cruel even, lashing out at Faith when she is clearly trying so hard to do the right thing. But this is so not the right thing; and she is terrified and enraged and horny as hell. "I can't do this."
"What?"
"Play whatever stupid, fucked up little mind game it is we're playing now."
Faith's eyes are full of shadows. "I'm not playing," she says very quietly, and makes for the door. Jaw working, fists clenched, refusing to look at Buffy. "I'll be back before dawn."
Buffy's anger is crumbling rapidly. "Don't go."
Faith stops with her hand poised on the door handle. Doesn't turn.
The ghosts are closing in; hovering in the speckled dark. Just the imprints of people caught in the memory of a moment. Their presence smothering. They stand either side of Faith, leaving a space for her, almost as if she's one of them.
Buffy can practically feel the heft of the knife in her grip; the slight twist as she drives it into Faith's gut, up to the hilt. Shock. Blood. Watching her falling. These are the things which change you forever, haunt you forever; and occasionally return and check into sleazy hotel rooms with you.
It's true, this is not a game; this has never been a game.
She walks over and lays her hand on Faith's back, feels the muscles twitch in reflex. "I'm sorry. Please don't go." She slips her arms around Faith's waist, and hangs on; relieved to be touching her again, though she can sense the resistance vibrating through the other Slayer, the effort it's probably costing her not to bolt, or turn around and hit her. Instead Faith leans against the door, supported on her palms, and lets out a sharp breath. "I'm sorry," Buffy repeats; her chin pressed into the crook of Faith's shoulder. Sorry I couldn't save you from yourself; that I didn't see the big, red warning signs until it was way too late; that when it came to it I couldn't even kill you right.
There is one thing she has to do -- to know. She slides her hand a little way under Faith's top, strokes the curve of her stomach, stops when she gets to the scar, but doesn't say anything, simply traces it. It's still there, the thin, raised line of puckered skin. This is the way Faith's body remembers. Slayers don't scar easily; Buffy doubts this will ever fade completely. She finds that she's shivering; they both are.
"I did that," she murmurs, running her fingers over the three inch seam in Faith's flesh.
"Yeah, it's..." Faith's voice cracks. "It's wicked sexy though. Drives 'em wild -- er, Buffy, what --"
Buffy has swung quickly in front of Faith, and dropped to her knees, in order to press a kiss against the place. Her lips and the tip of her nose nuzzling the warm, slightly damp skin of Faith's belly. She looks up; and there's so much she wants to say, but what comes out is, "Like this you mean."
Faith lets out a sound half way between a laugh and a sob, as her knees buckle and she crumples to the floor. This hurts more than she can bear. Her eyes are burning with unshed tears. The bitch is torturing her; and she's standing -- okay, technically collapsing -- here, and letting her. By now Faith should be three sheets to the wind, and negotiating a nice, safe, zipless fuck with some guy named Kyle or Mitchell; who'd be so mesmerized by her tits they wouldn't bother to wonder why she's bruised and dirty. Scratch the itch; run; forget.
But B is holding her like no one else has ever held her; and it's been so long, it's been so fucking long.
"Hey." Buffy pulls back to give her a sad, serious look. The loss of contact is like being dowsed with ice water. "What just happened? I didn't mean to..."
"S'okay. You kinda tickled me. Found my, my Achilles' heel. If you had a feather I'd be completely at your mercy."
"Faith." Buffy strokes Faith's face lightly with the back of her hand.
This three hundred and sixty degree turn from abuse to sympathy is not exactly new to Faith, but it's confusing the hell out of her all the same. She flinches away. "Shit, B, what are you trying to do to me?"
Buffy smiles weakly. "I don't really know -- is it working?"
"I can't stop shaking."
"Me neither," Buffy whispers, and leans in for a brief, strangely innocent, kiss, that leaves Faith dizzy and longing for more. "Is this alright?" she asks; suddenly looking so much like the girl Faith first met; except now there's a deceptive fragility in her body, a deadness in her eyes, which don't belong with that memory.
The word forming part of Faith's brain has gone temporarily AWOL.
"Do you want me to stop?"
There's a knot in Faith's stomach, the same as the last second in a game of Russian roulette before she pulls the trigger. "No," she says. "No, don't stop."
Even though this is breaking my heart, don't stop.
The bed creaks and settles as they fall onto it; tiredness making Buffy clumsy as she fumbles with Faith's clothes. They are nearly tussling in their hurry, uncoordinated, and getting in each other's way. Buttons and zippers never normally seem this complicated, now they are the enemy. Faith hisses in discomfort as Buffy accidentally elbows her in the ribs, but her apology is cut short as Faith rolls her over and kisses her, with lingering, half-painful tenderness. This feels like their first time; the way it did their one and only time. And it feels like a goodbye.
They undress for each other in silence; and when Buffy draws Faith down to her again, it's grief, slow, sweet grief, finally spilling out in every touch. Hurt and regret. Memory and forgetting. Even as she's here -- locked in this embrace; body slick with sweat; moaning with the rhythm of Faith's fingers sliding inside her -- it's as if she's looking back on this from some time far in a future she probably won't live long enough to see. And that's alright. Buffy knows this war may never truly be over, never won, but they will go on fighting to the last. It's what they do.
After a while she loses track of whose hands, whose mouth, whose thoughts; it's just them, a tangle of straining limbs and wanting. As the dead look on, she closes her eyes and gasps into her climax; thinking -- this is for everything we lost along the way. This is for all those precious things that could have been, and never will be, because their time and place have passed.
Then there is only Faith crawling up the bed; the taste of herself, still on Faith's mouth when she kisses her, soft and deep. There is only Faith. The way her body responds to pleasure, to pain; to the fine edge between them; and how Buffy wants to take her over that edge, and catch her when she falls. There is only Faith -- close now, bucking hard, breath hitching desperately; watching Buffy with intense, vulnerable eyes. Faith biting her lip when she comes; swallowing the sound back down inside herself like a secret that can't be allowed to escape. Shuddering with aftershocks. Tears forming and trickling slowly into her hair. So weird seeing Faith cry; but good, right somehow, that she isn't trying to hide it. It makes her seem stronger. And maybe Buffy doesn't really understand what just happened; and it's probably one more thing they will never, ever mention after tonight; but it makes her ache, all the same. So she holds Faith close, and whispers against her neck, "You're safe. You're okay," feels Faith relax into her; exhausted, trusting. "Safe," she repeats to herself, "You're safe."
Later, Buffy is drifting in the stillness that follows a storm; random wisps of memory floating through her mind.
Mom drinking fruit punch. And yawning. And brushing her hair.
The musty books, hormonal teenagers, Earl Grey tea, smell of the library at Sunnydale High.
Tara singing while she made pancakes.
Dingoes Ate My Baby, playing live at the Bronze.
Jesse, who they never talk about; and Dead Gay Larry; and Harmony -- 'vacuous tramp.'
Her old room at Revello Drive. Mr Gordo, entombed there forever, under tons of rubble.
Miss Calendar.
Angel, trusting her, even as she sent him to Hell.
Jonathan, who did almost ask her to the Prom.
Chloe, and Eve and Amanda. The thousandth routine patrol at the Restfield Cemetery. Anya doing the dance of capitalist superiority.
Spike. Spike saving her every night...except when it counted, of course.
Xander, Giles, Willow. The people they used to be, and will never be again.
She remembers standing alongside her friends, staring into a five mile wide crater in the desert, where a town used to be. Dust settling. The open road stretching endlessly behind her; leading towards a whole world full of possibilities; and her sister's voice saying, 'Yeah Buffy, what are we gonna do now?'
In the nowhere hour before dawn, Buffy wakes from a fitful doze; automatically looks for the shadows gathered in the corners of the room, and finds they are only shadows. She heaves a sigh of relief, and lies, half watching the patterns of street lights reflected on the ceiling; the curtains twitching slightly in the breeze. Faith is still fast asleep in her arms, her head pillowed, warm and heavy, against Buffy's chest; making Buffy profoundly aware of her own heart beating. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. Faith's heart beating. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. She can't help thinking it's seriously ironic that the thing, steadily, inexorably ticking away the seconds of her life, is the very thing which tells her she is alive. Kind of poetic. Kind of sad. Figures.
Suddenly, surely, Buffy knows that when the morning comes she will not see her ghosts.
She will get up and rejoin the gang. She -- well, Giles and his magic credit card -- will buy two plane tickets to France; one for her, and one for Dawn. And she will finally retail therapy herself into some new clothes. But for now, just for this moment, she listens intently to the quiet, already familiar sound of Faith breathing, curled in her arms, and smiles into the fading dark; because this is all she has; this is all she will ever have; and it is a kind of peace.
Because I know that time is always time
And place is always and only place
And what is actual is actual only for one time
And only for one place
I rejoice that things are as they are and I renounce the blessed face
And renounce the voice
Because I cannot hope to turn again
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice
Ash Wednesday by T.S. Eliot.
Written -- November 2003 to May 2004.
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