Disclaimer: Yup, I own it all. Well, except for the idea, the characters, and pretty much everything else on the planet. Other people own that stuff.
Summary: Buffy's back after being dead. A surprising return helps her come back from the brink. B/F
Spoilers: Through S5. I re-wrote S6, so no real spoilers there.
Many Happy ReturnsI block hard, duck under the counter and stake the vamp before he recovered from his ill-fated roundhouse. No other vamps follow from the trees, but a twig snaps off to my right. Someone or something is still out there. I square up, facing the dark figure standing under some low-handing branches near the mausoleum. "Might as well come out," I call as I twirl the stake, dancing it along my fingers until set, point-end first, "Got you pegged." The figure advances through the darkness to be finally bathed in streetlight and I register the clothes first: black leather pants, red wife beater, and black jean jacket. And above it, a familiar dark red pouty mouth and even darker brown eyes, so dark they look black.
"Hey B." The corner of her mouth smirks and she hangs her head to the side, giving me that sarcastic half-grin. "How's tricks?"
The look I give her is the classic, 'ha, ha, funny sex humor-NOT,' but it only stretches her mouth into more of a grin, like I rose to the bait or something. Which I totally did. I let the moment stretch, stash the stake in my sleeve, for emergencies, and slide my feet and hands into a loose guard. She is at least ten feet away from me, but I know she can cover the distance in a heartbeat, maybe faster, and it's just good slayer training to be on guard around a psycho with superpowers. "Can't complain. How's prison?" I sneer, slipping into baiting her in turn. Wow, took me all of ten seconds to go the immature route. Might be a new record.
She spreads her hands and shrugs her shoulders in that "hey, I'm innocent' expression she always pulls out when she's up to something. "I'm not in anymore, as you might have noticed." Her dark eyes glitter mischievously. "Early parole for good behavior." I snort. "Been a while," she says, almost conversationally, casting an appraising look over the assorted tombs and gravestones, as though to see what's changed. "What, a year and a half, two years almost?"
"What, you been counting the days?" Her grin tightens a little and I think I scored a point, although I'm not sure of the game or the rules. Hurt me, hurt you? As good a game as any. After all, we've been playing it for a lot time. "I guess you got nothing better to do, locked up like the rabid animal you are." The taller brunette flinches, and then arranges her face into the look of cool stoicism. There, I'm definitely ahead. I shrug a shoulder, exaggerating the casual movement to let her know little anything bothers me. "Me, I lost count there for a while."
"Yeah, I heard you died again." She nods her head, her dark hair flowing with the movement. "That must suck." She emphasizes the last word, with all the barbed sarcasm she can muster.
"Next time I'll stay dead and miss your lame attempts at conversation," I retort in that false sweet tone I know she hates, but the retort is lame and we both know it. I think we're even, now. "Whatever. It's late, I'm tired. What do you want, Faith?" I put a tone of boredom in my voice, another goad. "If we're going to fight, let's get this over with, ok?"
She steps a little closer, more into the light, and it doesn't look like the year in prison has hurt her. Not hurt her at all, in fact, as I notice how the muscles on her arms stand out even more than before and how lean she is in those leather pants.
"I'm not here to fight. I came to see how you are doing." Her voice is remarkably free of guile, even sincere. I take that to mean that she's got some especially nasty trick planned.
"Do-gooder Faith, huh? You must have really played them at that prison." My voice drops flat, almost monotone, and I see her hands slide up in a guard in response. "That shit won't play here, Faith. I know you," I grind out the words between clenched teeth. "I know your tricks, your games..."
"You don't know anything about me anymore," she interrupts, anger flashing in her voice and her eyes. She pulls herself up, a couple of paces away from me, exhaling sharply. When she speaks again, her voice carries only a hint of repressed rage. "It's been a long time, B. I've changed."
The scorn in my laughter is evident. "Angel and cops may have bought into the act, F. God knows Angel always did bond with sociopaths." I close the distance between us and catch the collar of her jacket, yanking her toward me until her face is inches from mine. I put all the venom and anger into my glare. "But don't fuck with me." We froze like that for a long moment, each trying to stare the other down. But I have righteous anger on my side, burning into her dark eyes. Her expression is unreadable, the murky depths of her eyes unfathomable, but I can feel the heat of her breath on my face as I try and ignore how close I've pulled her.
She seems to notice, looking down the space between our bodies with a smirk, and I hear her voice, like a ghost out of the past, 'Give us a kiss, then.' As I'm distracted by the past, her hand catches my arm and she breaks the hold easily, as I expected, and circles to her left, out of the overhanging trees. "Such language, B." She shakes her head in mock sadness. "What happened to the sweet little princess I used to know?"
"She went to heaven and got pulled back to hell, thanks for asking. Now can we just get this over with?" I move with her, keep her in sight.
"I told you, B, I didn't come to fight." My block just misses the blazing straight punch aimed at my jaw and I get knocked back a few steps for my trouble. I circle around, out into the open ground cluttered by only a few headstones. "But if you are so juiced for a fight..." Her taunt carries just the hint of a sexual undertone and she wiggles her fingers suggestively. "Let's get it on."
I reply with a spinning backfist that she easily ducks under. We circle, feint a few times, testing, almost like playing, or sparring. I try to keep that hard edge of anger, but it's difficult. Emotions aren't my thing anymore, and even in the midst of fighting my worst enemy, the heat doesn't go all the way to the icy core in the pit of my stomach. My eyes are trained on her body, watching for that little movement to originate in her stomach to signal an attack, but I risk a quick look to face. Her eyes are dancing, as if she has never been so happy. She probably hasn't been, for a while. She always did love a good fight. And ours? They were the best.
I move as she moves so her strike hits the air right where I had been and my side kick catches her in the stomach and the fight is on in earnest. No more feinting, we trade blows, attacks and counters feeding, building on each other, like an intricate dance. Spin, slash, block, kick. It goes on and on, almost like we forgot we were actually trying to take each other down and are just fighting for pure enjoyment. Whenever I get a flash of her eyes, I think that may be the case with Faith. Me, I'm not so sure about. Rage boils through my body and for once, it's an honest emotion, something I'm actually feeling, but Faith isn't really the target.
We're still very attuned to each other's style and rhythm, although she seems stronger, more muscular. I still have the advantage in speed and technique, or so I think, until I drop her and she sweeps my legs, bringing me down on a overgrown grave stone and knocking me breathless for a moment. As I inhale deeply and prepare to jump to my feet, I see her retreating back moving through the trees. "Be seein' ya, B."