Flood
by Valyssia
In the Beginning is My End
[reviews]
Cleanse and purge me in the water.
Finding it impossible to contain himself any longer, Xander allowed the impish grin he'd been restraining to show. Angel said, 'piss in it,' but—well, I just couldn't stop there. Besides...demon blood—it just wouldn't've been right. Bet this makes him sicker than a dog. He gave Angel a sideways glance and burst into peels of laughter when Travers dropped to his knees and started to retch.
Faith looked at the two men like they'd lost their minds and grumbled, "Failing to see the funny."
Angel wheezed, trying to calm himself enough to speak, and said thickly, "You guys really need to get a new act."
Faith quirked an eyebrow when Travers began to vomit a sickly, blue-green paste.
"Sleight of hand, Faith," Angel gasped, "I asked Xander to get another bottle and piss in it. What that is—well, umm...I have no idea." Tilting his head, he gave the young man a questioning look and asked, "What is that?"
Struggling to get a grip, Xander choked and said, "Well, it's what you asked for and—I have no idea. I found it in the cafeteria." His brow furrowed thoughtfully. "I'm thinking vanilla pudding. It sorta looked like it before the blue dye."
As the room filled with laughter, Angel turned deadly serious and barked, "Now!"
The instant the command came, Xander watched Faith jump into a back flip just as her assailants pulled the triggers of their weapons. The two men staggered while blood poured from their stomachs. Not wasting another second, Xander plummeted under the table and grabbed Mrs. Summers by the ankles.
The sound of automatic weapons fire roared through the room. This is really, really mean, he considered as he dragged a struggling Joyce underneath, but Angel was right. Joyce was too wigged to duck. He took in the horrified look on her face and said above the chaos, "Relax, Mrs. Summers, it's just me." It took him a couple of tries to break through her hysterics. When he finally had her attention, Xander pulled the bottle from his jacket pocket and handed it off to her. Her expression filled with shock again.
Once Joyce had settled, Xander chanced a peek under one of the chairs. His view was blocked. Shifting his head, he peered around the council goon's legs. What he saw stunned him. Faith was standing, bent over near the steps to Giles' office. When she straightened up, he stared at her blood-coated hands clutching her stomach. Oh! Sweet Jesus! That's so not good!
His gaze traveled up to her face. Her matted hair clung to sweat-covered cheeks. The look on her face was haunting. It spoke of pure malice. The man's weapon fell clattering to the ground. Xander quickly swept it under the table. His attention returned to Faith. She was grinning, head bowed, glaring up at the man. A string of bloody saliva dangled from her lower lip. She moved her hands and revealed a hole in her tattered, blood-stained tee-shirt. The skin underneath was healed. Shit!
Xander didn't stick around to watch the carnage. As he redirected his attention to Joyce, there was a snapping noise that made him cringe. The council goon's body dropped to the ground beside them. After shutting his eyes tight to wipe the alarm from his face, he offered reassuringly, "I think it's under control."
Joyce was half sitting under the table, propped up on her elbows. She clutched the bottle to her chest with both hands.
Making eye contact, Xander said in a slow careful voice, "Listen to me, Mrs. Summers. Angel's gonna let us know when it's safe. Angel and Faith are gonna take you to the airport and drop you off. When you hear from the girls, you'll fly out with Giles. Okay?"
When Joyce nodded with understanding, he returned the gesture and continued in a soft reassuring voice, "Just ignore the—it's okay, I swear. I know this is really wiggy." Falling silent, he glanced over to look at Travers. The pompous Englishman was lying on his side, his back to them, clutching his stomach, in a puddle of putrid sick. Serves the old bastard right.
Xander turned back to Joyce and instructed, "Put that in your purse."
She obeyed as Angel's voice sounded out, "It's clear."
Wesley and Giles poked their heads around two of the lower level bookshelves when Xander emerged from under the table. Good! They were smart enough to duck too. I was worried. After climbing to his feet, he offered a hand down to Mrs. Summers. "I'm really sorry about that," he remarked sheepishly as he helped her rise.
After fastidiously straightening her clothing, Joyce replied aloofly, "No, Xander, its fine."
Releasing her hand, Xander was a bit bewildered when she set off immediately for the coat rack.
When Joyce turned around, she held one of Giles' umbrellas. Stepping carefully around the bodies of Travers' fallen men, she made her way to the Head Watcher. She stood just outside the puddle of sick and peered down at the pathetic man.
Uh-boy! I know that look. Badness—that look means total badness. Xander glanced anxiously around the room, taking in the attention Joyce had garnered.
"I hope this will be a lesson to you," Joyce stated firmly as Travers peered dully up at her. "I get the feeling that you're not a man that listens to reason." She twirled the umbrella in a circle as she continued to rant, "The obvious tends to elude you." She whipped the umbrella down across his shoulders. "What really speaks to you is pain." The umbrella bent when she beat him over the head.
Travers whimpered, covering his head with his arms.
When Joyce brought the umbrella down again, the vampire swept across the room and caught it. Angel carefully pulled the umbrella from her grasp while he offered soothingly, "That's enough, Joyce. Just let him slither away."
Tears welled up in Joyce's eyes.
'Kay, so...the planet's gonna start spinning backwards at any minute, Xander mused when Joyce slumped into the embrace Angel cautiously offered. Yup, cats and dogs are gonna be frolicking in the sun together. Oh! And it'll start raining toads. It's always fun when that happens.
Angel put his arm around the elder Summers and led her to the door.
As Faith walked over to escort Giles to the car, Xander gave Wesley a sideways glance and smirked. He joined the younger Englishman and said, "Hungry? 'Cause there's this great pizza place just down the street."
Wesley peered wide-eyed around the room at the bodies and replied, "Someone should really stay and—"
Xander shrugged and turned to leave. "Suit yourself. Given the choice—pizza or cops—I'll pick the pizza every time."
Wesley rushed to catch up, remarking as he went, "Did you say you liked sausage on your pizza?"
Holding the door for the other man, Xander answered, "Love it."
Once Wesley passed by, Xander set pace next to him. He watched vaguely as Angel's car sped away. Sirens sounded in the distance and he picked up the pace.
When they were clear of the school, Wesley leaned in to ask, "What just happened?"
Slowing his gait, Xander stuffed his hands in his pockets. As he strode casually down the sidewalk, he commented softly, trying to suppress the bitterness from his tone, "Y'know, no one ever pays much attention to me." He fell silent when the street lit with the glare of flashing lights.
The fleet of squad cars careened past without so much as slowing and Xander resumed, "All around me I've got slayers, and watchers, and vampires, and even Will" — he directed his attention to his feet — "not that she's here now—but she's really smart. What am I? Just Xander. But I figured it out tonight. I do have a power: if I want, I can become invisible—like that girl."
He gave Wesley a sideways glance, surprised to see he had his full attention. "You weren't here for her. She turned invisible—like really invisible—because of the ignoring. Whatever. Point is: all it takes is the right words and Giles completely tunes me out. Y'know I told him I was going to my car when I left to get another bottle?" He chuckled. "I don't even own a car. Faith was looking right at me when I swapped the bottles. She turned away as I did it."
Xander cleared his throat and directed his gaze forward before concluding, "Angel was right. No one saw me." He sighed wistfully. "But whatever... What happened was this: Angel saw another one of those black vans outside. When you and Mrs. Summers came in, I switched the bottles. Then Travers showed exactly how much of a creep he is. And from there, I'm thinking, 'lots of kicking and punching,' but I'm not really sure—what, with the hiding."
"I see."
Xander glance over to take in the pensive look on the watcher's face.
As the lights of the pizza place came into view, Wesley chucked wryly and asked, "So what are we doing tomorrow evening?"
"I was considering having a movie night. Have you ever seen Apocalypse Now?"
***********
Detective Richard Lawson scanned the barren clearing, rapidly taking in the teams working the scene under the flood of artificial light. After a few moments, his partner Danny poked his head out of the shabby little cabin and walked over to greet him. Ah...kid said he was hitching a ride with Parish. Regular little eager beaver. I remember when I cared.
The younger blond man shook his head ruefully and offered, "Helluva way to start the weekend, eh, Rick?"
"You know it," Richard replied, "So, what've we got?"
"The perp's name is Micha Dresden, age thirty-six" — Danny gestured to the body in the center of the yard — "diagnosed at fourteen with schizophrenia, in and out of mental hospitals most of her life—a genuine nutcase—one of the documented few that actually developed multiple personality."
"So, the perp, how'd she die?" Richard asked, peering into the dark waters of the marsh, past the techs from the coroner's office as they worked to bag the body.
Turning away from his partner, Danny studied the yard as he responded, "Won't know until we get the autopsy results. Brain aneurism or something? I don't know. It's the damnedest thing. Looks to me like she fell over."
Richard observed the techs carrying the body away. "So why was she out?"
Danny put his hands on his trim waist and replied, "From what I gather, her condition was perfectly manageable with meds. System shows that she was fine last time she got out. Course that was years ago. Taxpayers don't like paying to keep a healthy person in a psych ward and the patient doesn't like being there. So, they let her go."
Rubbing his scruffy chin, Richard prompted, "So, she dropped her meds?"
Danny cleared his throat before he answered, "I really wish it was that simple, but, yeah, you're right. Trouble is: cabin over there's full of religious propaganda. From the piles of pamphlets and other stuff, she was a Christian Scientist. You know, that whole 'God will heal you, modern medicine is the work of the Devil' line of crap."
After letting out a deep belly laugh, Richard remarked sarcastically, "Great! So we've got another religious nutjob on our hands? We just don't get nearly enough cultists."
Combing his fingers through his collar-length hair, Danny shrugged and responded, "Yeah...looks that way. She'd go in and after awhile be just fine, once they pushed the drugs down her throat long enough. Then she'd get out and stop taking them. She played the cycle a few times. After a while, she just dropped off the radar."
"And the vic?"
Danny answered dispassionately, "Vics. Two girls: Anne Rouche, twenty; and Danielle Williams, twenty one" — starting to stroll across the yard to where the two women were found — "just moved here from Arizona. Both clean. I got to interview Williams before they took them both to Ochsner. The other one, Rouche, was too beat up." He stopped and began to gesture indicating where they were laying. "They were both here when we arrived. The Williams girl had passed out. I thought for sure we had three bodies on our hands to look at them. They were really bad off."
Richard looked at the scuff marks in the packed earth before he remarked, "Sounds to me like those girls got lucky."
Danny gave his partner an incredulous glare before commenting, "I'm not sure I'd call getting nailed to a board 'lucky'. That's how we found the Rouche woman."
"Fair enough," Richard mumbled, "Poor choice of words."
Danny gestured and set off for the two bald cypress trees near the water. "Come look at this. The lab techs took samples to determine how many we're talking, but you can tell just to look it's going to be at least twenty." He snapped on a pair of latex gloves, mostly out of habit, and pulled out a pen light. Using the light he started to point out the nail holes in the tree for the other detective. "I counted twenty-two." He stepped back and pointed out the two u-shaped brackets on each trunk of the huge tree. "See the brackets—like you see in old barns to hold the doors—?"
Peering up into the gnarled old trees, Richard shuddered before interjecting, "Yeah, yeah...you can stop now. I get the picture." Long as I've been on the force—stuff like this still gives me the willies. His gaze lingered on the blood soaked bark for a moment before he turned away.
As Richard started to make his way back to the drive, Danny kept pace beside him, commenting softly, "We've got a team coming out to dredge the swamp at first light. It's an open and shut case. We just have to figure out which missing persons' reports line up."
Richard paused at the edge of the crime scene tape to ask, "Think the Rouche woman will know anything more than Williams?"
Holding up the tape for his partner, Danny concluded, "If she ever wakes up, I doubt it. My gut's telling me we've got all we need. Those girls have been through enough. Fact is: we may never know who they all were."
***********
Buffy drifted on the edge of sleep listening to a muffed conversation in the hallway outside her room.
"It's your turn, Denise."
"I'll take old man Hannover off your hands if you'll do this for me, June."
"What's your problem with these two? They're just a couple of girls."
"It's the Williams girl. Have you seen how she looks at us?"
"Not really—I mean, sort of, I guess."
"She's like some kind of predatory animal protecting her mate. She freaks me out."
"Alright—I think you're nuts, but alright, you take Hannover. I don't get you, Denise. You'd rather have a dirty old man grab your ass than deal with a couple of lipstick..."
A weak chuckle slipped out, muting the rest of the statement, and Buffy turned her attention to her sleeping girlfriend in the corner of the room. Hear that, Will? You're scaring the help.
"She just gives me the creeps, June. I wish she'd go home and at least get cleaned up. She's really got me worried."
As the two nurses moved away, returning to their rounds, Buffy studied her friend. Mate? Interesting choice of word. But, whatever. Fact is, Will, the nurse is right—you need to go home—whatever that is. She took in the dark, hollow look on her girlfriend's face. The effect was made more striking by the smeared black makeup. You look like that guy from that movie. What was that? The tragedy mask guy. It's a bit creepy. Not to me, but I can see the—
Willow stirred. Meeting the gaze and holding it, she sat unmoving and silent.
Refusing to break eye contact, Buffy peripherally inspected the slings holding her legs. Yes, Will, I know the truth. Despite the drugs—in spite of all your work to keep me out—I'm paralyzed. I get that. How do I feel about it? Nice of you to ask. It'd be nice if you did, but you don't need to. You know—you know I'm not sure yet. You get that I'm desperate and angry, but too fucked up to do anything about it. You're keeping me that way. You blame yourself. I can feel it. That and I know you. I don't need to feel to know.
The flourish of movement from the corner of the room didn't surprise Buffy. Watching her guardian remove the blanket and stand up, Buffy rasped, "Go home, Will." Back to sleep. That is, if the nurses will listen to you again.
Buffy followed the limping figure as Willow set off wordlessly out of the room. You can't keep me like this forever, Will. Eventually I'm gonna wake up and you'll just have to deal. You'll have to deal with me...and you...and 'you and me'...and 'us.'
***********
Bristling, Faith's attention snapped to the door of the hotel room when the lock issued a couple of clicks.
As Joyce pushed the door open with her back, she stooped to pick up a handful of shopping bags.
Faith slumped back into the chair, visibly relaxing when Mrs. Summers entered the room. Her gaze moved back to the ice bucket that contained the blood—the blood she'd given everything for. I didn't want her to go out alone, but it's what she wanted. And she was totally right. No one would notice her alone. Me? I stick out like a sore thumb. She looked down at the dirty, ripped clothing she wore. I look like a fucking bum. Her attention turned to Joyce as she drew near.
"I hope I did okay. I'm used to shopping for Buffy," Joyce remarked, handing off the shopping bag to Faith.
Faith poked her nose in the bag, lifting the items aside to look. Her face lit up when she saw the black jeans, plain black button-down cotton shirt, and boots. "It's perfect, Mrs. S. Thanks!"
"Alright, you go get showered and I'll drop off Angel's things. I got him a Hawaiian shirt he's just going to love," Joyce replied cheerfully and set off out of the room with the second bag.
Faith chuckled while she looked through the remaining bags. Locating toiletries, she went into the bathroom to shower. As she removed her old clothing, she piled it into a trash bag. The shower was the best thing she'd experienced in recent memory and she had a hard time leaving it. When she was clean, dried, and dressed, she returned to the room with her hair in a towel.
Joyce was sitting in one of the chairs patiently waiting. Gesturing to the floor at her feet, she offered, "Please, come here."
Faith went over to take a seat at Joyce's feet.
Joyce giggled lightheartedly and made a twirling gesture with her right hand. "Turn around."
Furrowing her brow with uncertainty, Faith followed the directions. She flinched when Joyce removed the towel.
The tone of Joyce's voice was warm and kind. Despite the distrust, Faith found herself calming as Mrs. Summers began to touch her hair and speak. "Its okay, Faith. Relax and get comfortable. I used to do this for Buffy when she was little. Truth is, I sort of miss it."
When Joyce started to brush her hair, Faith was stunned. She expected it to pull, but it didn't. The touch was very gentle. Joyce carefully sectioned off clumps of knotted hair, working from the bottom to remove the tangles. Faith had trouble imagining the patience it would take to remove all of the snarls. I wasn't sure how I'd deal with this. My first thought was crew cut. "Mrs. S., you don't have to spend the whole night on me. It's cool. I'm good," she said nervously.
"If you have something you'd rather do, I'll stop" — Joyce let the hair she was holding fall from her fingers and set aside the brush — "but right now we're just waiting," she responded frankly, "I thought I could return some of the kindness you've shown us."
Faith turned so fast it made Mrs. Summers jump. Raising her hands to show she meant no harm, she gave the older woman an incredulous glare and stammered, "Kindness? Mrs. S., I caused"— she stabbed her chest — "it was me."
After the alarm passed, Joyce responded patiently, "Yes, it was. I haven't forgotten. But, Faith, what makes a person good isn't the mistakes we make, it's how we deal with those mistakes."
Faith's brow knit with confusion. "I was forced to do that. Angel made me." This motherly shit's makin' me crazy. I don't deserve it. She took in the kind, patient look on the older woman's face and grew angry.
"And you were forced to see it through?"
Faith folded her arms across her chest and snapped, "If I wanted to go home. The bastard hid the stuff to get us back."
Joyce was unaffected by the outburst. Motioning for Faith to turn, Mrs. Summers stared obstinately until the slayer obeyed and went back to brushing her hair.
Faith rolled her eyes when Joyce started to speak. Great! More wisdom from the peanut gallery. Just what I need.
"People make mistakes, Faith. Sometimes they do all the right things for all the wrong reasons. That's part of being human. Sometimes you have to look past the reason and simply look at the action. Then hope that something good will come from it."
Faith started to calm again. The anger drifted away and she sat listening to the soft, serene voice. The fingers moved across her scalp reminding her of what she lost and what she had gotten back. "I was a monster," she mumbled.
Making a soothing hushing noise, Joyce stated frankly, "Just listen." After several moments of imposed silence, she began to reflect, "When Buffy was fifteen, she got into a bunch of trouble at school. It was a parent's worst nightmare." She paused to chuckle bitterly. "Hank and I were beside ourselves. Did you know she actually burned down the gym of her old high school?"
Faith nodded and the story continued.
"I didn't know what to do, so I let Hank do what he felt was best. He said she needed help. At first I agreed—she was ranting about vampires; how could that be real?"
Faith felt the other woman grow still. When it became obvious that Joyce was crying, Faith tensed with uncertainty. As she started to move away, Joyce began to speak again and the slayer froze.
"It was slowly draining the life out of her. My little girl—the one person in the world I'd do anything for—was dying in that place."
Faith puzzled for a moment. They had her committed? When she settled back in her spot, the gentle, soothing touch resumed.
"So I did the only thing I could: I made a choice. I left Hank and brought Buffy with me to Sunnydale."
There was another drawn-out silence and Faith slumped into the comforting touch. Is this what it's like—having a mom who cares? A tear rolled down her cheek.
"Last year. It started again. Just when I thought we were okay—everything was fine: Buffy was doing well in school, making friends, living a pretty normal life. Then, out of the blue, she started up with the nonsense again—telling me she was 'the slayer'."
"She showed me some things that frankly just scared me. I reacted badly and I lost her again."
Yeah...she said she bailed—went to L.A. I wondered why she didn't just stay gone. I think I get it now. Faith sat patiently waiting for more of the story. During the break, she absently wiped away the tear.
"When this all happened, we were just starting to talk again. Most of what I heard was really hard to accept, but we were talking. Then she was gone again."
"But the thing you have to understand, Faith...the reasons don't matter. You've given us another chance. I don't care why you did it. The fact that you did is all that matters—you and Angel."
The contact lapsed for several moments and Faith turned to peer up into the peaceful, tear-stained face. She flinched when Joyce took her hand and started to examine it. The sensations were all muted and the scrutiny made the slayer uneasy.
"What's more, I know what you gave up."
Faith steeled herself when Joyce drew her into an embrace. I will not cry! If I start, I'm not sure I'll stop. A tear slipped down her cheek, causing the slayer to cringe. Dammit! As the older woman began to caress her back, Faith broke down and wept.
***********
Willow put the key into the lock and entered their room. The afternoon sun radiated into the space, giving it warmth. She took a deep breath. It smells like her. Strange after only a few days.
After shutting the door behind her, Willow's jaw clenched with resolve. I need to do this and get back. I can't stop to think. If I do, I'll cry. And if I cry, I won't stop. She started to shed the filthy, rumpled clothing and made her way to the shower. Piling the foul mess of black leather, lace, and cotton into a corner of the bathroom, she turned on the faucets. Looking down at her injured wrist, she began to peel off the brace and Ace bandage.
Her reflection caught her eye and she looked into the mirror, meeting the smeared, dirty gaze. At first she was astonished by how bad she looked. It was like the face wasn't even her own. As she peered into the deep, sunken eyes, she grew comfortable. I look like what I am: a monster.
She turned her back on the monster in the mirror. Climbing into the shower, she started to hastily bathe. At least I'll be a monster that smells nice. There just aren't enough good smelling monsters in the world. Maybe I can set an example for monster hygiene.
Though, in all fairness, the Master's progeny were all pretty clean. Willow chuckled, falling silent as she started to wash her hair. Heck, Angel's practically metrosexual. When we met him, he wore more eyeliner than I do now. Glad he stopped that. He looked like such an idiot.
When her hair was rinsed, she applied some conditioner and started to carefully wash her face. Me? Well, at least I don't have to drink blood. I'd never get past that. But I don't need to. All I need to do to kill—to destroy the woman I love—is this oversized brain of mine. I can kill with a thought. That's way more scary than the pointy, bitey routine. They're all amateurs.
After lingering a moment, she stepped out of the shower and began to dry off. Tucking the towel around her, she met her reflection again. I look harmless, like I couldn't hurt a fly. She drew back and punched the mirror with all her strength. Drawing back bloody knuckles, she stared at her fractured likeness. That's better. She ignored the pain throbbing through her mangled hand.
Seconds later, without a conscious thought, she began to paint the face back on. When the monster met her gaze again, Willow left the bathroom to dress. I need to get back and make the nurses drug her again. If I don't, she'll wake up and see what I've done.
A beep caught her attention as she sorted through her clothing. The cell phone sat on the desk, emitting a metered tone. She walked over and picked it up.
After hitting the send button twice, she listened to the monotonous chime until Joyce's excited voice replaced it. "Yes," Willow replied, waiting patiently through the eager speech. When Mrs. Summers fell silent, Willow responded with six simple words, "Anne Rouche, Ochsner Baptist, New Orleans."
"What? What is that, Willow?"
"Her name and the name of the hospital," Willow answered dispassionately. As Joyce pled for information, the remainder of Willow's heart turned to ice. She hung up the phone and cast it aside.
After rushing to dress, she gathered one suitcase of clothing and her laptop. Seizing her jacket, she picked up her bags and walked out of the room.
***********
Leaning against his shovel, Angel stood back, watching the slayer pour the last scoop of dirt onto the grave. I'm not sure what the difference is. One of them is in the ground; the other's walking around. Yet they both had the same thing done to them. Maybe it's the slayer—whatever that is—the thing that makes her a slayer. Maybe it's just the time they were there.
Faith turned away and picked up the fifth of Maker's Mark. Raising it, she muttered, "Rest in peace, Siggy," and took a healthy gulp.
Maybe it's the fact that she drinks like a fish? Eyeing the slayer, he asked, "So that's the plan? After all this, you're gonna get drunk?" Whatever it is, the fact remains that Sigvaldi died of exposure. His body couldn't handle this atmosphere. I have to wonder if the effect will be the same—if it'll just happen slower for her. When no reply came, he drew his favorite sword and buried it almost up to the hilt at the head of the Norseman's grave. He stepped back, leaning against a tree, and whispered, "Safe journey, Sigvaldi."
As she turned to meet his gaze, taking another swig, Angel pulled the Norseman's blade from his back. He stood for a long time, examining the sword in the moonlight while the slayer watched him and drank. Eventually, he began to whisper, "There's an ancient tradition. When two honorable men become brothers as a result of their journey, they trade weapons. Carrying a brother's sword is a sign of fealty." A sardonic smile tugged at the corners of his mouth and he admitted, "That and this is just such a nice sword. It'd be a damned shame. This thing really belongs in a museum."
Faith chuckled and passed him the bottle. "I'm surprised you gave the other up."
After propping the sword against a tree, Angel took a sip before he responded, "It's important we do something to mark the grave."
When she had the bottle back in hand, Faith tipped it over, allowing a portion to dampen the fresh-turned earth. She stood, quietly observing the grave for several moments prior to asking, "What's gonna stop someone from just taking it."
He met the slayer's gaze again and responded matter-of-factly, "The same thing that holds the rest of our world together: magick."
Faith took another swig and passed the bottle before replying, "Fair enough."
Taking a sip, Angel prompted, "You never answered me," careful to keep his tone neutral. This is it: the moment of truth. Will she go back to stumbling or forward to something else? It would be incredibly arrogant to think I have all the answers she needs, but I think I can help her find a few. Maybe, if she'll give me the time—whatever time she has.
A harsh laugh slipped out and she smirked at the vampire. After swiping the bottle out of his hands, she began to reflect honestly, "I figured I'd get a buzz, yeah. S'not like I've got tons of other things hangin'." She made a sweeping gesture with her arms and tipped up the fifth, taking another sip. "'Sides, where I'm from, when a friend dies, you drink—it's tradition. And the hangover the next day—it's a lot like mourning—" she took another healthy gulp "—or at least you mourn what's left of your head." Staggering slightly, she passed the bottle back.
Drinking another swig, he returned the bottle and asked, "And then?"
Faith took another belt off the fifth and passed it back. After mopping her mouth with the back of her hand, she remarked, "Best I got is: one day at a time. I know I can't stick around here. Too many people want me dead or locked up...or worse. Think I wore out my welcome in the 'Dale."
He replied frankly, "You and me both. Look, Faith, let me be blunt. I'm leaving and, if you want, you're welcome to come with. We'll try to figure it out together. I've not got a lot to offer except an ear, but I promise to listen." Falling silent, he raised the nearly empty bottle to the grave and took another small sip.
When it was offered, Faith accepted the fifth, turning it up to drain the last few drops. She whipped it into the air, listening to it sing as it sailed away. When it finally landed in the woods, crunching the leaves, she met the vampire's gaze and winked. "Buy me another bottle and you got yourself a deal," she remarked flippantly and started to walk away.
After sliding the sword back in place, Angel picked up the shovels and turned to leave. Rushing to join her, he mumbled, "You drive a tough bargain, but I think I can handle that."
***********
The light of the laptop display glowed, illuminating her corner of the dim room. Movement in the hallway caused Willow to glance up from the webpage she was studying. The door cracked and light poured in. Ignoring the disturbance, her gaze fixed on Buffy.
Two familiar voices broke the silence, invading her solace. Willow turned her attention back to the display, peripherally taking in the fuss Mrs. Summers was making over her daughter.
Giles moved toward her asking, "What on earth happened? Joyce has been beside herself since you returned her call."
Willow filtered out the chiding tone and replied bluntly, without looking up, "We were attacked."
Rounding on the chair, Giles stood over her obviously struggling to understand. Eventually, he managed, "Attacked?"
Willow pressed the power button on the laptop and snapped it shut. After setting it aside, she folded the recliner closed and stood up. Giles was studying her like he might something disturbing, yet curiously fascinating. She disregarded the scrutiny and answered impassively, "You heard me, Rupert."
Pushing Giles aside, she moved to the foot of Buffy's bed and waited for Joyce to administer the blood. Buffy looked up and their eyes locked. The expression on her face wasn't accusing. Willow had half expected it would be. Instead it was bewildered, like her friend was trying to understand something very alien to her. Willow held the gaze, allowing the blonde her examination.
Joyce interrupted the exchange by putting her hand behind her daughter's head and lifting it up. "Honey, I need you to drink this," she instructed in a soft, patient voice.
When Buffy made a face at the request, a soft grin curled the corners of Willow's lips. It swiftly faded into the same vacant expression she'd worn since they left the bayou together. She watched Buffy drink. I don't think they get this—how violent it'll be—how damaged she is. I wouldn't have stayed, but they need me. She needs me one more time.
A thick silence hung over the room as the four waited for some sign that this miracle was working. They stood motionless, listening to the beeps of the monitors. Again, Willow patiently allowed the blonde her study. Ripe questions seemed to tug at her friend's lips, but thankfully she remained quiet. I don't have your answers, Buffy. I'm sorry I don't.
Movement in the hallway caught Willow's attention. Without disturbing the tranquility of the room, she bid the nurse to pass by. She doesn't need your drugs now.
While Willow stood engaged in this wordless dance, silently placating, she felt them—millions, perhaps billions of microscopic stars, little pulses of energy, coursing through her friend's body. She sensed them fanning out, carried by the new blood. Any moment now. Her friend's pulse jumped and Willow stifled the machine, forcing it to keep their secret.
Terror reflected back at her from the bed. Willow ignored the expression and continued to focus, calming the machines, holding the trembling limbs still, keeping their silence. When a scream bubbled up in her friend's throat, Willow snuffed it out. Shhh... I know it's hard. I know it hurts. I know you're scared. Just hold on. It'll be okay. I promise.
As Buffy grew calm, a tear rolled down Willow's cheek. Yes, it's almost over, love. I'm here.
When peace rested over the room, Willow turned away, paying no heed to the stunned looks.
"Will?" Buffy pled desperately, "Will, please?"
Willow continued to the recliner. Quickly bagging her laptop, she brushed off the shock of those around her. After slinging the case over her shoulder, she limped out of the corner. Exhausted, she pushed past Giles. Ignoring the barrage of questions, she started for the door.
Joyce stepped in her way and Willow stopped out of respect.
"Willow, please," Joyce appealed as she reached for her purse. After a moment's search, she pulled out the locket and tried to hand it off. "Faith wanted me to see this was returned to you."
Taking a deep breath to suppress cringe, Willow replied, "Hold onto it for me," and gently pushed past Joyce. Determination hastened her step as she passed through into the corridor. That skanky bitch! Rage welled up inside her. That skanky bitch kept her promise! She helped! She did everything right! She made it better! What'd I do? I screwed everything up! I made it worse! I hurt her! Me! The one that loved her—loved her more—more than I loved—more than I love...myself.
Tears poured down her cheeks. Willow ignored the stares—ignored Giles. She could feel him behind her. Her ankle shrieked with pain. She ignored that too, moving as quickly as she could to the exit.
She broke through into the moist night air. The sterile smells of the hospital faded and she was grateful to be outside. Free—free of the guilt. A weight lifted as she made her way across the concrete bridge to the parking garage. Please, just leave me be, Giles. Let me slip away. I need this. I have to go. I can't stay—not after this. I'll just hurt you. You can't trust me. You should see that.
When she passed into the parking garage, Willow hit the button on the key fob and the Mustang chirped to life.
Giles caught her shoulder, spinning her. "Willow, wait! You must listen! We can help you," he pleaded. Pointing desperately at his chest, his trembling voice turned faint as he added, "I can help you."
Wind whipped past the concrete pillars, whistling as it circled around the witch's form. The fury returned and Willow spat at Giles, "You can help? You really think" — she seized him magically and shoved his body into a pillar — "you can help me? You want to?" Rounding on the fearful Englishman, she continued to rant, "When did we change, Giles? When did your mission statement change? When did the good guys start defending murderers? Did someone forget to send me the memo 'cause I thought you were supposed to catch the murderer and defend the innocent?"
Eyes widening, Giles gaped, slack-jawed at the witch. Wind whipped violently around him. Pieces of debris caught in his hair as dust pelted his skin.
Closing the distance between them, Willow rose off the ground. Her voice dropped becoming low and dangerous. "Take a good look at me, Giles. Tell me you see something to save."
She paused to inspect the speechless man. The air around them drew painfully calm. Outside the bubble they stood in roared a hurricane. His breath issued in puffs, hot and steamy. She could feel his heart laboring to pump blood through his body at a frantic pace. Her voice was barely a whisper when she finally broke the silence of their communion, "Now let me go. There's nothing here to save."
Suddenly without warning, she willed it all to stop. The air snapped completely still as Giles slumped into a pile on the ground.
Turning her back to the life she once loved, Willow hobbled the last few steps to her car and climbed inside. The engine roared to life and she drove away without glancing back. I'm really, really sorry, Giles. You needed to see. You had to really see me to understand. I'm dangerous. I kill.
***********
Staggering sideways, Faith began to sing, "Nobody liketh meeee!" taking a few creative liberties.
"Shhh..." Angel hissed as he caught her, steering her around a shipping container. And I left my duct tape at home. Leaning in to speak, he whispered into her ear, "Faith, we need to be quiet now."
"Quiet?" Faith slurred inquisitively, tipping up the fifth in her hand to take a large gulp. She wiped her mouth sloppily and added, "Oh...'kay...shhh..."
"Yes, Faith," Angel mumbled, putting his finger to his mouth, "Shhh..."
"'Kay...got it, Boss," Faith whispered, sounding like a little girl. She snapped a stiff salute and whacked herself in the forehead.
Shaking his head, Angel turned to look at the ship. Chinese, that'll work. It's been a long time since I was in China. Last time I was there it was on fire. I hear they've rebuilt.
"Everbodeeeee hateth meeee!" Faith began to wail again, "Guess I'll go eeeeat worrrrms!"
"Faith!" Angel barked in a restrained voice. When her face crinkled into an exaggerated pout, he quickly amended apologetically, "We're being sneaky." Way this is going...first town we hit—angry mob. I can rate most of the world based on their ability to assemble an angry mob...and the Chinese—they throw together one hell of an angry mob. Very focused people—they're good at violence. Maybe China's a bad idea.
Faith sulked for another moment or two and took another sloppy gulp off the bottle. Attempting to lean against the container, she landed flat on her ass and started giggling.
He stood back putting his hands on his waist and peered down at the slayer. That second bottle was a bad idea...and the third? The third she snuck off with was bad beyond measure. So, now I'm stuck with a slayer who's had enough alcohol to put two full grown Irishmen in a coma. There's only one thing to do. Stooping down to meet her unfocused gaze, Angel asked, "Faith you want to go to China?"
"Yeah! China'd be wicked cool!"
"Okay," he confirmed and reached down, tossing the slayer over his shoulder. Once she was settled in place and thankfully hadn't gotten sick down his back, he said, "We're going to China then. Please try not to get us killed."
Faith wiggled for a minute and grumbled, "Fuck it," then raised the fifth, "Here's to you, B.," taking another long drink.
Shrugging, Angel began to walk toward the gangway. I hope this is actually what she wants. It's going to get pretty tough to change our minds soon.
After taking another swig off the bottle, Faith broke into song again, "Long, thin, slimy ones..."
Angel chided, "Hush, Faith," starting to board the cargo ship.
She continued as though she hadn't heard him, "Short, fat, juicy ones."
Slipping behind a crate, Angel sighed before he interjected, "Sneaky, remember?"
"Yeah...sneaky," she replied, putting her finger to her mouth and hissing a sloppy, "Shhh..." When they started to move again, she caught sight of the pier and waved. Slurring the words, "Bu-bye, B.," she took another drink and added, a little too soberly, "I hope it worked."
***********
Rolling her eyes, Buffy peered into the fractured mirror as her mother's anxious voice sounded from the bedroom. It smells like her in here.
"Buffy, we only have two hours until the fight leaves."
After stripping off the scrubs, Buffy turned on the taps and started the shower. Why'd you have to leave me, Will?. I don't get it. Happy ending! We got our happy ending. You love a good happy ending. Why aren't you here to enjoy it with me? It was one hell of a ride, but here I am, walking, talking, standing, dancing Buffy. Only I don't feel like doing any of that without you.
Rustling sounded from the other side of the door followed by Giles' voice, "Yes, Buffy, do try to hurry."
Her eyes welled up when Willow's face entered her mind. She blinked away the tears. Turning her attention to the parted shower curtain, she vacantly watched the water swirl down the drain. In memory, she was peering down the length of her bed at a face. Eyes like black marbles stared back at her from deep, darkened sockets. Her friend's face was pale and gaunt, like she hadn't eaten in days. The expression was something new—empty, yet somehow deeply focused. Light crackled around Willow's form as she stood statue-like, helping. Buffy remembered the sensations, filtering out the pain. Strange, it felt like she wasn't involved—like she was an outsider.
What the hell happened to you, Will?
Snapping out of the daze, Buffy called out, "Going as fast as I can! Chill!" and climbed into the shower. My luck I'm gonna get grounded again. That's how this all started. Doesn't matter, though. They can ground me. Watch me twenty-six hours a day, ten days a week, and it'll all be the same.
As she started to wash up, a wave of nausea hit. A vinegary taste welled up in the back of her throat. It was so bad she could smell it. Uh-boy...I don't feel so good. After parting the curtain, she leaned out into the room and hung her head over the toilet. This is one hell of a note. I feel great...except... And they want me to fly? They're outta their minds. The hot water pounded on her back and shoulders as she retched. The sensation made her feel like she might be gagging up her toenails but, when it was over, thankfully it was over. She glanced at the pool of icky blue sick and shut the lid of the toilet.
After rinsing her mouth in the spray, she went back to hastily bathing. Well that was pleasant. Think that might be the first time I've ever puked in the shower. Glad the bathroom's small. Wonder what fun-filled adventures life has in store for me next. Maybe I can get hit by a bus before I leave this goddamn city.
Her gaze fixed on her left hand as she poured shampoo into her palm. That's weird. I could swear I had a scar there. She furrowed her brow and dismissed it, choosing to work the shampoo through her hair instead. Anyway, this place doesn't seem to spare the hate. Neither does Sunnydale, but at least that's the sort of hate I can relate to. Shove a chunk of wood in its heart and the hate usually turns to ash and blows away in the wind. There are times when 'Sunnydale hate' can be hell on the dry cleaning bill, but that's about the 'it.'
She moved around in the mist, letting her hair and body rinse off. I hope you left this place, Will. I hope you go far, far away. I hope you're alright. Well, that's way past my normal level of stupid. Of course she's not alright. If she was alright, I wouldn't be alone. But then that might be awkward too. Mom and Giles in the next room and Will and me in the shower? A wry grin flickered across her features. Yeah...interesting picture, but one I'd like to avoid.
Dammit, Will! Why? A deep scowl settled in place of the grin. I'd trade all that awkward and more to have you here with me, right now, in my arms.
After applying a handful of conditioner to her hair and rinsing it, she grabbed a towel and stepped from the shower. Wrapping the towel around her body, she leaned in, turning the faucets off, and flushed the toilet. That's better. Wow! I actually feel good. How long's it been? Was it—? It was before my birthday.
She stepped over to the vanity and wiped the glass to clear the steam without thinking. "Ouch!"
Joyce's concerned voice sounded through the door, "Are you okay?"
"Fine, Mom," Buffy called out, looking at the small drop of blood that beaded up from the cut. As she watched, the nick sealed over. Oh, that's cool. I mean ouch, but...umm, er...wow! She rinsed the blood off and grabbed another towel to dry the broken mirror.
Absently grabbing her toothbrush, she began to brush the foul taste from her mouth. I don't get why? Why was she— I've never seen Will upset enough to break anything. It's not like her. In fact, it's anti-Willow. She likes things neat and orderly. Brokenness is bad in her world.
When she leaned in to spit, it hit her. After all the blank staring, she knew something was wrong, but she couldn't place it. Her face drew with confusion as her mind jumped tracks. Holy shit! It's, well it's not gone, but— She examined her neck carefully. There was a scar there—like a huge scar—from where that Master jerk bit me. It's fading. It's almost gone.
Quickly rinsing her mouth, she took a seat on the toilet and started to frantically look herself over. I had a scar on my knee from ice skating. Well, not so much 'skating' as 'stumbling and falling.' Whatever. Gone. My hands. I had about a billion scars from a billion different stupid things. They're all fading. Most of them are gone. This is totally weird. It's me, but not.
Rising to her feet, she started to dry off and get dressed. Done wigging. But that's just too cool. I could seriously get into this. If this is true—like really true—none of my mistakes count anymore.
She snapped completely still as the thought hit her, But what does that make me? If I did get hit by a bus, what would happen? Would I die? Or would I lay there for a few minutes in pain, then get up and walk away? What am I if I could walk—if I can walk away? 'Kay, so...stretching, it was one small cut, but my back—
Peered into the fractured mirror again, she whispered, "What am I?" A noise from the other room prompted her to get going again. Moving, before the bitching. Hear that, Mom? Pre-bitching movement happening here.
When she finished dressing, she began to gather the toiletries and bag them up. Her mind drifted back to the previous musing as she worked. Something's different. When I was called, it was like running from my home end-zone to the fifty-yard-line. I looked back at my friends and wondered what I was.
She finished picking up and stared at the lump of clothing on the floor. Will, I need your help. I need to talk. The football metaphor is seriously dorky, but I'm just a cheerleader, or I was. Now I'm just too weird to be much. I know you could come up with better. But if this—this new thing—whatever it is—if it is what I think it is, I just ran into the visitors' end-zone—the enemy end-zone and there's no looking back.
Turning to gaze at herself in the mirror, she mopped away the tears that had started to flow. My friends are all dots on the other side of the field now. I'm not human. I may look like one. I may be able to go to the doctor—not that I'll need to—and not get funny looks. All my pieces and parts are in the right place. But really I'm as human now as Angel. Maybe less.
***********
Sitting with her back propped against a crate in the dark cargo hold, Faith stared at her hands. The effect was sobering. She pulled out her shirt to peer inside and gasped. I'm a nightlight. Handy...but can I just say, 'What the fuck?' I don't feel bad, but...this is just too weird.
Her skin tingled as Angel moving around the hold behind her. Slayer crap. 'Danger! There's a vamp!' Yeah, okay...what if you don't give a shit? Can I turn it off 'cause it's seriously on my last nerve?
When he drew close enough to call, she let out a hiss and whispered, "C'mere. Tell me what you think of this." And if you call me 'firefly,' I'll break your legs.
As he caught sight of her hands, she felt him tense. She raised her hands, twiddling her fingers, and reflected, "Pretty wicked, eh?"
When she started to unbutton her shirt, Angel grew uncomfortable and replied, "Yeah, 'wicked.' What the hell are you doing, Faith?"
"You need to look at this too," she offered anxiously. Parting her shirt, she revealed her glowing sternum. "So, whatcha think, Boss?"
After averting his eyes, Angel responded, "I don't know what to think."
"Well, that's helpful," Faith remarked coolly and started to button her shirt. When she was done, she stated bluntly, "Look, I get that you're still hung up on Blondie, but that wasn't what I was askin'." All of her insecurities surfaced as she added, "Should I be worried?"
Before replying he took a seat next to her. "Would it really help if you were?"
Allowing him to take her hand, Faith replied honestly, "No."
"Well, then don't," he directed in a firm tone, "None of us knows what's coming."
Nodding, she went back to studying her free hand.
"Look, when we get to China, we'll get you in to see someone," he offered kindly, quickly amending, "Not a doctor. Don't freak. The Chinese are an ancient, deeply-superstitious people. There are lots of people there who understand things that Westerners ridicule."
Consumed by her musings, Faith nodded absently.
***********
A tear seeped out as Buffy sat cross legged on her bed, regarding the knife. There's something you don't see everyday — her gaze traveled from the hilt to the tip of the dagger that pierced her forearm — if you're lucky. She grimaced and her jaw set as she pulled the blade out, dropping it onto the towel in her lap.
Blood welled up, running trails down her arm. It dripped from her elbow onto the towel. As she sat, silently observing the healing process, a picture she'd seen earlier in the newspaper hung in her mind. She looked sorta like that girl from the Matrix—only her hair was long. Though, honestly, you see one dark-haired chick with bedroom eyes and great cheekbones, you've kinda seen them all. They're a dime a dozen out here. This bitch was lots plainer, but—
Using the towel, she wiped up the mess off her arm and cleaned up the blade. It was a good picture, anyway. Why they used a good picture—it makes no sense. When everything was tidy again, she dropped the dagger and towel into her weapon bag. She was smiling. I wouldn't have guessed she could. All I remember is rage. I remember her trying to kill me.
After shoving the duffle into her closet, she fished out Mr. Pointy. The polished wood felt comfortable in her hand. So she's dead? That's what the paper said. Zipping the bag closed, she randomly piled stuff on top of it. I didn't look long. Giles and Mom were doing their protecty bit—I didn't want to answer a ton of questions—so a glance was all I got, but a glance was all it took. I turned the question game on Giles. Boy, was he ever uptight, but he told me enough. Will blames herself for a death. Has to be her.
She pulled on her tennis shoes and peered down, taking in the tank top and sweats. So, I won't look my best for the first vamp I dust. Not like he's gonna tell anyone. Shrugging, she went to the window and her thoughts snapped back on track. But if she killed her, that means she saved me—she saved herself—it was totally self defense. Why the wig?
After lifting the sash, she crouched on the window sill, momentarily savoring the night air. My brain keeps spinning over the same crap. It's totally annoying. Repeat-o-girl for the win. There's something I'm missing and I have no clue what it is. Will wouldn't wig over—would she?
As she dove to the ground, a memory returned: a pencil stuck, half-buried in a tree. Hitting the lawn, she collapsed and rolled onto her feet, using the momentum to propel herself forward. She heard Faith's name and...badness. She was running at full speed when she reached the front of the house. 'Emotional control.' Pressing off the fender of a parked car, she launched herself into the center of the street straight into a passing car.
The car struck her and she tumbled across the hood, not stopping. Glancing over her shoulder, she called back, "Sorry," in a restrained voice. That's it! Someone trying to kill you...ergo: emotional train wreck. I can't believe I was that stupid! She lost control and now she's scared. It's so simple.
Her ankle throbbed as she continued to run, cutting between two houses. I have to find her. The pain passed and she poured on more speed, leaping a privacy fence without slowing.
Buffy tore through the gate of the cemetery and slid to a halt. I'm back. Did you miss me? Taking a deep breath, she scanned the rows of monuments.
Starting off again at a leisurely pace, she couldn't suppress a mischievous smirk. I need to find her...and I need to spank her for shutting me out. Her brow furrowed with doubt. She might like that, though. Besides...I totally get the 'needing to get away.' I can respect that. I get that things can pile up.
As she slipped into the shadow of an ancient mausoleum, her skin prickled. But it's the principle of the matter. She saved my life and this time she didn't get a kiss. It's just good manners. Someone saves your life, you give them a kiss.
She rounded the corner of the mausoleum and her gaze fixed on a tall, slender vampire with long, wavy, chestnut hair. Smirking at his outmoded fashion sense, she stepped out of the shadow and looked over his black velvet frockcoat, ruffled shirt, and fitted trousers. Uh-boy. Not another one. She let out an exaggerated sigh before offering conversationally, "Haven't seen you around here before."
The vampire's brow furrowed with indecision as he turned to face her.
There was a bounce in her step when she moved toward the vampire. Holding out her hand, she commented cheerfully, "Welcome to Sunnydale. My name's Buffy."
When the befuddled vampire took her hand, Buffy twisted his arm, flipping him head over heels onto his back. Peering down, she smiled brightly and chirped, "I hope you enjoyed your stay," as she drove the stake into his chest. Huh. He looked a little like Brad Pitt. Kinda cute. Uncertainty crinkled her face for just an instant. Oh well, too late now.
Turning her back on the pile of ash, she put a hand to waist and cocked her hip. Yeah, that's just what I need...another broody vampire. I've got enough issues with my wigged out Wiccan.