|
|
When I wake up, it's around nine o' clock at night. Nice. Dark and cool with just enough glow over the city that it looks beautiful, not gaudy. Well, not too gaudy. It is LA.
Afternoon naps are something that I feel most people take for granted. I don't; but then, I don't need them. I mean, I work hard! I fight, I kill, I maim...and all for a reasonable fee, as Cordelia would put it. But I don't get worn out easily, so naps are really just a luxury for me. Enjoyable and harmless, but a luxury nonetheless, in my line of work.
They didn't use to be harmless. My luxuries, I mean. My eyes go to the wall of weapons near the kitchen of my apartment, and I think automatically of my knife. I've never found anything that I loved as much as that beautiful thing, and I don't expect to. It was a gift, after all, from a man that I loved but still prefer not to think about.
Buffy still has it, I'm sure; some macabre commemorative of her victory over me. She never was able to fully forgive me, fully trust me again. And I'm always severely jumpy around her, much as I've wanted to be her friend. So I guess a reminder of that night on the rooftop is something that she needed, to let me into her life again, if only in the tiniest capacity.
I have other knives now; battleaxes, swords, weapons of all kinds. All left to me by Angel when he left town to fulfill his destiny.
The crosses on the walls, however, are mine.
I collect them, the crosses. I have crosses from all over the world: carved and wooden, molded from steel or silver, even some gold ones. Some with the effigy of Christ and some merely decorative and beautiful. I have Celtic ones from Angel that I love; beautiful patterns of mazelike tendrils snaking out to form a pattern. My parole officer practically had an orgasm when she saw my walls; said it was a sign that I'm 'regaining my faith.'
'Regaining my faith'--that's a laugh. How can you regain something you never had in the first place? But Father Alex doesn?t seem to mind that. He calls it my 'return' to the Church, but its more like a return to me. To trying to find the bright place inside of me that makes me a Slayer.
Wesley says that there is something within each Slayer that causes them to be called. Something good and pure in their heart that makes them the Chosen One, or in my case, Chosen Second. Many girls have the potential to be Slayers but not all of them are chosen.
When he goes off on a tangent like this, I mostly tell him to fuck off. Watcher-man, go get a job. And he laughs with me, or picks up a book and sighs.
All this is old news, really. Makes me grin, though.
But its late, so I go into my bedroom and find something suitable for business hours. Its gotta be good to fight in, but nice enough that our clients trust me. Like always, I choose something tight, black, and serviceable, very different from my old look. Not the 'tight and black', although now its more for security than sexuality, but the 'serviceable.' These are my fighting clothes, only sexy by accident, if at all.
Not that I don't have weekend clothes. I'm not a saint.
The phone rings while I'm in the bathroom, brushing back my wild brown hair. I should really cut it, but its an indulgence that I allow myself. I'm still me, underneath, and I need my wildness.
'Hello?' While I was contemplating my hair the machine picked up, and now Cordelia's annoyed voice is filling my apartment. I run into the living room in bare feet, hair still down and curly around my shoulders.
I pick up before she gets too pissed and slams the phone down. "--hey!"
"Took you long enough, Faith."
"Sorry, miss snippy bitch, I just woke up," I growl back at her.
She makes a put-out sound deep in her throat. God, that woman is eloquent with her grunting noises. Much like me, I think fondly, remembering B.'s playful teasing. But back to the convo.
"--okay? So get here quick, boss lady. That woman's back--you know, the one with the hair? And she wants our help. Only this time there was a big demon chasing her." Now she lowers her voice, sheepishly. "Guess we should have believed her last time, huh?"
Sigh. I love the people I work with, but...just, sigh. I try to keep the edge out of my voice. "Well, did someone, I dunno, help her?"
She brightens, somewhat. "Oh, yeah! Wesley whacked it pretty good with that Hafalia sword; you know, the one from Turkey? And it ran away." She lowered her voice. "Of course, now he has a concussion. . ."
I rub my temples, trying not to grin. "I'll be there in ten."
"Great!"
"Uh-huh." Oh, boy. This is kinda funny, actually. But now I need shoes. And no dinner for this woman.
"So, bye." The phone clicks in my ear, and I can't help but laugh some. Cordelia is strange, strange, strange. Still the same old Cordy, though, which makes it hard to believe there was a time when we hated each other. Maybe I'm the one who's changed.
Best not to think of that now, though. My boots are--thank the Good Lord--by the couch, where I shucked them off before falling asleep, and I do the sign of the Cross as I grab them. They're another indulgence, I gotta say. My one sexy thing with my fighting outfit-ninja thing, as Cordelia calls it. And my boots are sexy...black, high-heeled, steel toe. Good for kickin' ass, but still shapely and relatively unscuffed. Frayed laces, though.
There. Boots are on. I grab my coat and head for the door, but before I open it, there's a quiet knock.
No one ever knocks at my door. Not unless I'm expecting them. And this is a nice apartment; we don't get solicitors.
I get in a fighting stance before I open the door, one hand in a tightly clenched fist.
On the other side of the door is the one person I never expected to see there. Red hair still bright as copper wiring, but no longer in fiery tendrils around her pale face. It is short, cut to her chin in a smooth pageboy pushed behind her ears. She's dressed casually, almost sloppily, in blue jeans and a white tank top. No bra. A far cry from the ankle-length skirts of her college days, which is the last way I remember her. Her face is still very young, younger than it should be...she's 26, but looks about 13 right now. Her mouth is red and swollen from where she's chewed on it, and her grass-colored eyes are dripping tears. God, she's crying a fucking ocean, right here on my doorstep.
Willow.
She sniffles, looking at her feet. "Faith." Her voice, which is low and mature, cracks, and I immediately reach out to her. Fucking 'help the hopeless' instinct. She doesn't want me to touch her. I think that she'll flinch at the sight of me, but she doesn't.
"Red." Dammit! Remind her of my murderer days, why don't I? The words 'Try it, Red, and you lose an arm' come floating to me from my memory, and I correct myself. "Willow."
My hand is on her shoulder, and I'm aware again of how much taller than her I am, especially in my boots. She's wearing sneakers without socks. She raises her eyes to mine, gaze steady with wet eyes. "Buffy's dead," she says, voice quivering. Her eyes are still streaming tears.
My knees buckle, and I almost, almost fall over. I am practically leaning on her now, but she doesn't seem to mind. "B." My God, is that my voice? I haven't heard that tone in years, not since Buffy found me in Angel's arms. My head is filled with thin, tanned limbs and swirls of blond hair. Buffy.
Willow nods. "B," she says solemnly.
25. I am twenty-five years old right now, and I feel like I'm five hundred. A lot's happened since I was eighteen, and now one more thing's been added to the list.
I was in prison for three years. Should've been longer, but I was a minor at the time of the murders I committed, and most of my crimes were previously accounted for, anyway. Not the ones in LA, of course--assault, public disturbance, that sort of thing--but the ones in Sunnydale. Almost everything was covered up, except for the last guy?Lester something. The professor. Mayor took care of me good.
Really good, as I eventually found out. He left me a lot of money in a private bank account, as I found out after I was released; I didn't get it back in Sunnydale cause no one could track me down to read his will and all, what with the cops chasing me. So I'm a rich little girl.
And as for a job, not that I really needed one...Angel took me in, under his wing again, much to the chagrin of Buffy and crew. Wes and Cordelia, especially, which was to be expected. I mean, I tortured Wes nearly to death, and elbowed Cordy in the face. I deserved anything they threw at me.
But they didn't. Throw anything, I mean. Yeah, sure; they were cautious at first. But over the years, we became friends. Coworkers. I love them.
The Scoobies in Sunnydale...didn't accept me as warmly. Buffy could barely ever meet my eyes, although she wasn't opposed to patrolling with me; Riley, her beefcake, blushed every time he saw me; Anya the demon chick clutched Xander and glared; Xander himself went between glaring and blushing and avoiding my eyes.
And Willow? Well, we mostly avoided each other, if possible. I mean, I held a knife to her throat. Punched her. Threatened her. Intimidated her girlfriend. Was I just supposed to go up and ask her to have coffee with me?
Okay, I'm getting defensive now, so I'll shut up.
Angel...Angel went to Ireland a few years ago, 'fulfilling his destiny' like I already said. He didn't give any real thorough explanation for his departure, but I think there was a woman involved.
God, I wonder if he knows.
Sniffling, I snatch my hand back from her shoulder and invite her in with a gesture. If she;s a vamp, and this is all some sort of trick, she won't be able to enter. She doesn't seem like a vampire, but she is a witch. I'm assuming that there's some sort of spell vamps could use to make themselves seem human.
But no, she walks into my apartment, looking around at the sheer size of the place. "Wow," she says softly, and I can't help but laugh. It's bigger even than the place the Boss--no, I mean the Mayor--bought me.
"Thanks. Decorated it myself." And I did, too. Very proud of that.
She nods, and I can see from just that small movement that she's utterly exhausted. "It's beautiful."
I look her over, concerned. "Willow, do you have a place to stay, here?" I don't think she does. She has that 'drove all night, surviving on coffee' look in her eyes. I had that look, myself, when I first came here.
Sure enough, she shakes her head. "No. But I have plenty of money, so I'll find someplace."
"No!" My voice comes out too quick and too loud, and she flinches slightly. I'm surprised at my own abhorrence--hey, big word--to that idea. "Why don't you stay here?"
I can see her consider it, and am instantly flooded with guilt that she has to run every option of this over in her head. Probably thinks I'm gonna kill her in her sleep.
But to my surprise, she just says "Thanks" softly and falls into my chair, then looks up at me with wide eyes. "You don't mind, do you?"
I shake my head. "Um...no. But if you wanna sleep right now, my bedroom's--"
"I'd rather not sleep right now," she interrupts.
Um. Okay, this is getting really awkward, and I keep wanting to give her things. "Want something to drink?" I could just smack myself.
She doesn't reply, so I tell her, "Look, I better call Cordy and Wes. Tell them I won't be in to the office tonight." Willow just nods, so I go over to the phone, dialing quickly.
Cordy answers almost immediately, voice bright and cheery. "Angel Investigations. We help the hopeless." We decided to keep the name after Soulboy left so our clients wouldn't get confused.
"Hey, Cor. Look, tell Wes I won't be in tonight. And if he really has a concussion, take him to the hospital."
"What? What do you mean, you're not coming in?" She seems honestly confused here. I don't blame her; can't remember a single time I've skipped out on work. "What about the demon?"
"You and Wes take Gunn out. I'm sure you three can handle it." Willow is watching me noiselessly, face still blank and childlike.
"But--"
Finally I can't take it anymore. "Cordelia, Buffy's dead." I can hear her indrawn breath over the phone, so I cut in quickly. "And I've got Willow here, so I'm just gonna make us some--dinner, or something." I dunno, I just need to make Willow eat something. Looks like she hasn't eaten in weeks.
Cordelia sounds a little wigged. "Wait...Willow's there? With you? Voluntarily?"
I don't know whether I want to laugh or strangle her next time I see her. I settle for smiling slightly. "Yeah. So I gotta go. Tell Wes, will you? God, I don't think I can break the news to him."
Her voice is low and sympathetic now. "Of course. I'm sorry, Faith. Bye." The dial tone echoes in my ear, and I hang the phone up.
Willow smiles slightly, eyes still wet. "How are they? Cordelia and Wesley?"
I shrug. "They're...Cordelia and Wesley. But they're doing all right. Don't know how Wesley's gonna take the news..." I have to look away. When I feel okay again I sit across from her, on the couch. "How'd it happen?" Pure business now. I have to know this.
It takes her awhile to respond, a lot of holding back tears and breathing in and out, but finally she says it. "There was...this setup. A bunch of demons set up in this big old house. She thought she could take them all, and--" She's crying again, and I do the only thing I can think of: lean over and hug her, which feels completely odd to me. The last person I hugged was Angel, and that was only cause he was leaving for Ireland. And even that was awkward.
I've always been the one being comforted, never the one comforting someone else. I was never someone who could deal with this sort of touchy-feely shit, and this is no exception. I draw myself away from her as soon as it gets awkward, and then get up, wiping my own nose and hoping that she doesn't notice the tears in my eyes. "Look, I haven't eaten today, so I'm gonna make some soup. Okay?" She nods slightly, looking just simply weary, and I go into the kitchen, trying to brace myself. This news, and then Willow being in my house...its all just completely surreal and scary.
Okay, this is something stupid about me, but...when I get nervous, I cook. Its something Angel taught me, back when I had first gotten out of jail, and everything made me jumpy. All I wanted to do to anyone was pummel them, and I was trying to redeem myself. I was torn.
And I was surviving on popcorn and toast.
So, he bought me some cookbooks and I learned how to cook. Angel, well--Lord knows I love him, but all the man can make is eggs and occasionally cookies. But I seem to have a natural affinity for it, because I love it. Its something to focus on, and the end result is both tasty and satisfying. Kind of like sex, in that capacity. My old line comes back to me, 'Isn't it funny how slaying always makes you hungry and horny?' I always seem to equate the two in my mind, food and sex. When I told Annie, my therapist, that, she said that its because I was always 'hungry for something.' Blah.
But right now I'm too nervous to do anything but boil water, because my eyes are running. So the soup I make is that Campbell's stuff--thank god for food in a can. When I was living on the street I learned that you can steal stuff like that from supermarkets, bust 'em open with a rock or a knife, eat 'em cold, and they taste just about the same. All but soup, since you're supposed to add water to it, but I suppose the undiluted protein or whatever was in that was good for us kids.
Willow's still in the living room, staring at my walls. There are things I want to tell her, things I want to ask her, but I just don't know how I'm ever going to. I mean, I know that she's supposed to be the big-hearted Slayerette, but she was never very forgiving to me. Not that I don't understand why--being told that someone is going to rip you open, just to see if your insides are as cute as your outsides, can make people nervous. I think back on that night in the Mayor's office and shiver.
I think about those days a lot; my days with the Mayor. The thing about that is, even though I know what I was doing then was wrong...those are good memories. Even the ones of fighting and killing and threatening the people who are now my friends. There are times when I look at Wesley after a fight and see him dressing his latest wound, and it makes me want to cut him a little deeper, show whoever's been hurtin' him how its done. Sometimes when Cordelia is just ratttling on about something I want to punch her until she bleeds. It makes me sick to my stomach, but those sort of thoughts still come to me on a regular basis, despite my required fucking therapy.
The only person I ever told this to was Angel, and all he did was nod. Demon inside him and all, I guess he understands. But I'm not a demon, I'm a Slayer, primal power and all or not.
With B. dead now and all, I wonder what happens next. Am I the only Slayer, cause I was called after Kendra's death, not B.'s? Or is yet another little innocent girl gonna be thrown into a world of blood and death so that it can suck the life from her veins?
I don't wanna think about it. If a new Slayer isn't gonna be called, and I'm the only Chosen One, then the Council will probably send another special ops team after me. They tried it again (twice!) after I got out of jail. Because, yeah, the Watcher's Council still exists. Guess they didn't pick up on the fact that me and B., two of the handful of Slayer's that've made it to twenty-five, never really had Watchers. Sure, she had Giles, and I have Wesley, but they were both fired, and the Council ain't exactly their biggest fans.
But whatever. Soups done, now, so I bring it into the living room and set it on the coffee table.
Willow's fallen asleep on my couch, red hair mussed over her face, and I actually feel something in me sort of melt at that. I know that its probably just cause she's exhausted, but it seems like she trusts me well enough to sleep with me. I mean, with me around. Dammit.
Speaking of which, one of the things I want to ask Willow is whatever happened between her and that blonde chick. I know they were dating for awhile (and hey, I bet Oz was surprised at that one, poor puppy), but last time we went to Sunnydale I didn't see her around. Course, we haven't been there for awhile, not since Angel left, so maybe they've gotten back together since then.
Not that it matters. Even if I was interested in Red that way, I'm little miss celibate lately. Can't even remember the last time I got laid. It makes me feel sort of like Angel, really, only now he's got a girl, so...
I decide not to go too far into that little mind-fuck. Too many possible ends to that sentence, and most of them focus around the redhead lying on my couch. Rather than think, I cover her up with a blanket, switch on the tv, and calmly eat my soup.
When I wake up for the second time (God, she's only been here overnight, and she's already fucking with my sleep habits) Willow is already awake, and apparently she cooks when she's nervous too. There's eggs and bacon for both of us, not to mention fresh-squeezed orange juice. I wasn't even aware I had oranges.
I pull myself up from my chair with a yawn, running my hair through my tangled hair. Its naturally curly, and if I don't brush out all the tangles before I go to sleep, its all in knots when I wake up. Whatever. Too late to think about that now. "Hey."
She looks up, and her eyes are wide and guarded. "Hi." She sort of relaxes when she sees that its just me, but she still seems on edge. She blushes as she looks down at the table. "I hope you don't mind, or anything. I just figured?you let me stay here, the least I can do is make you breakfast."
Shrugging, I walk over to the table and sit down, trying not to attack the food. God, I'm famished. "Its cool. I mean, its nice of you. To cook. This."
Willow just shrugs and turns off the stove. She sits down at the table and grins at me. "You can eat it, Faith. You don't have to start after the bell."
I grin and start to dig in. Damn, she's a good cook! Almost as good as me.
But while I'm eating, she just leaves her totally wicked food on her plate and just stares at me. I don't mind at first, but it makes me edgy after a little bit. "What is it?" I ask, trying to be polite. I'm not used to waking up with other people in my kitchen, or even in my house. I wasn't kidding when I said that I'm freakin' celibate.
She just gives me this sort of fond half-smile. "Its hard to believe you're twenty-five. I mean, you've grown up since I last saw you. You're still?you, but you just seem so much more-"
"Not insane?" I guess.
"-stable, she finishes.
I shrug. "I've grown up. I've made my amends; according to the PTB we're totally even. Me and the universe," I explain.
She nods, and then looks down at her food. "Then, um...well, I'd ask why you still do this, but I understand."
"Do you?"
"Yes." That face I know so well, her 'resolve face' I think she called it, is firmly back. "The same reason I'm still a Slayerette. The same reason Wesley and Cordelia work for you. And because you're the Slayer."
That I am. I forget sometimes. Sometimes I just feel like I don't have a destiny for this, like I'm just fighting because I can.
But this is uncomfortable, so I try to change the subject. "So, uh, you're still a Slayerette?"
Willow shrugs, brushing her short hair back behind her ears with one hand. "Yeah, sort of. I mean, when there's something big. I work out in New Orleans now. Computers. It's a home job, so I get to live wherever I want."
"Oh." Well, I don't really care about that. Sure, I'm happy she's doing well, but my life revolves around fighting, and I don't really know anything about computers. "So, how are the rest of the gang?"
"You mean, in general, or--"
"In general," I say quickly. I don't want to--I don't want to talk about B. until its absolutely necessary.
She smiles a big smile. "Well, Xander and Anya--you know, the demon girl--broke up when she got her powers back-"
Okay, what? That's just a little too fast for me. "And Anya would be who?"
"She was Xander's girlfriend. She used to be a vengeance demon, but then she lost her powers?"
Oh?right. B. told me about that. I nod at her, stuffing more eggs in my mouth. "Continue."
"So Xander's got a new girl now, who's unawares of the whole Scooby thing. He's still working at the shop in Sunnydale. Co-ownership with Giles. Giles and Olivia finally got married-Olivia was his girlfriend," she explains somewhat unnecessarily. "Oz is?he's with a wolf clan up in Vancouver, and Tara moved to Phoenix to start a magic store two years ago." She looks a little sad about the last two, which is understandable. The two great loves of her life, is how I interpreted it. Not including her high school crush on Xander.
"So, you're not seeing her anymore?"
She shakes her head, taking a sip of her juice. "We sort of?fell apart after that whole incident back in college. I mean, we still loved each other, but we broke up a long time ago. It was really for the best."
Whoa. That's just?intense. "She stayed in Sunnydale up til two years ago? What the fuck for?" That's kind of fucked up. I mean, you don't stick around after a breakup like that. Not that I know anything more about relationships than I ever did, not having had any, but still. I know breakup etiquette from back in Boston.
Willow is apparently much more forgiving. "She had college, and a job there, and?she didn't get the store in Arizona til then. Wasn't her fault." She looks so sad now, but she tries to perk up. "So, how are Cordy and Wesley? And a real answer this time, not 'They're Cordy and Wesley'."
"Well, they are." She glares, and I grin, knowing that I'm pissing her off. Even when I hated Red, I could still have a good time teasing her. And I think she always could too. I shrug. "You know, they're good. Cordy and Gnu are still together-don't ask me how-and they're thinking about having some kids. Not getting married, though." I roll my eyes. Gunn getting married is just such a laughable thing. He still keeps up with his little street pals. Not like me. As soon as I was off the street and living with Melissa, my first Watcher, I totally abandoned all the people who had kept me alive when I was young and stupid but strong. Not Gunn, though. He keeps them with a roof over their heads and gives them shelter, training all the little runaways to fight the vamps off. I've given them lessons a couple of times.
I realize that I've drifted off, and Willow is staring at me. Shit. Way to convince her I'm no longer a psycho. I clear my throat, continuing, "And Wes...well, after Linda died last year, he's kinda avoiding the romance. He seems okay, though."
"And what about you, Faith?" Her voice is so low and sweet that it makes me want to cry. Instead, though, I just shrug. I don't know how I am. Okay, I guess. I have a place, friends, a job...I'm happy.
But I don't say that. All I can make come out of my mouth is, "I'm living."
To Be Continued...
