Title: And She Comes Crashing Back to Earth
Chapter One: Unasked Questions, Unspoken answers
Disclaimer: Don't own BtVS, the characters, or this computer. The only thing I do own is a couple Good Charlotte CDs and a floppy disk. Don't sue, 'cause you won't get much of anything.
Author's Note: Well – Faith/Buffy fic, set after Choices. If femmeslash of any kind gives ya the wig – you might not wanna come back, 'cause it's not something that's gonna go away, and especially not with me.
I can hear them talking, the words garbled; indistinguishable. Rounding a crypt, I see them, snuggled together, leaning against a wide, simple gravestone, seated on a blanket spread out on the grass.
Stepping forward, my ankle gives, and I stumble, right into a marble statue, bringing half of it crashing down onto my stomach with a low rumble. "Crap," I mutter around a grunt, trying to shove the chunk of marble off me. Stopping for a moment, I stare up at the night sky, briefly searching for some constellation to focus on.
It's ironic, my trying to find a constellation, never having learned them in the first place.
Blinking sweat, tears and blood from my eyes, I struggle with the marble again, arms shaking. The cool stone hardly budges, and it collapses back onto my stomach, making me groan, more tears flooding my vision.
A hand clamps around my neck, hard, lifting me up easy as if I weigh no more than a Raggedy Ann doll. My back and head slam against a wall, adding stars to the number of things fucking up my vision at the moment, and cold, hard marble to the number of things that have been beating the crap out of me since mid-afternoon.
"What the hell are you doing here, Faith?" Angel asks, his hand tightening around my throat and I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting to breathe, to pull his hand from my neck. Both my hands clamp around his wrist, pulling as hard as I can. Pain shoots through my left arm, making me cry out, eyes flying open in surprise; it's broken, definitely. "Well??"
My arm falls to my side, useless, the other hand scrabbling at his sleeve and the hand around my neck, failing to find any purchase. "No no no..." I throw my head back and forth, trying to fight back the panic, and at the same time get him to let go, clawing at the hand around
Opening my eyes, I look past his shoulder, to where Buffy stands, ten feet or so behind him, arms crossed, bored as hell. She looks over to where Angel stands, holding me up by the throat, and I see her jaw move, realizing she's chewing on bubble gum at the same time I realize Angel could kill me, right here, and she couldn't care less.
The soles of my boots skid against the wall of the crypt, trying to find purchase against the slick marble without success
"Angel..." she says, uncertain, walking up behind him. She steps forward several feet, trying to catch his attention, but he doesn't even acknowledge the fact that she's said anything, even as the two of them, and this fucking cemetery, get spotty. "Angel..." she says again, firmer this time; if I didn't know any better - I'd almost assume she's actually concerned.
Angel's arm jerks slightly to one side, taking me with it. Buffy punched him, in the chest. "Angel! Let her go."
He does, and I crumple forward, Buffy catching me before I hit the grass, both of her hands grasping my hips lightly while my still good hand grips her shoulder. She lowers me to the ground, easing me back to rest against the same crypt I was against before when Angel held me a foot off the ground by the neck.
I wince, leaning my head back against the cool marble, eyes slipping closed as I concentrate on breathing.
Buffy sighs, sitting close at my left. "Do you have any broken bones?" She asks, resigned. The Rogue Slayer needs help, and she's the only one who's gonna do it. On any other day, this would have me pissed has hell.
Tonight, I'm grateful.
"Faith?" She asks, probably worried I've fallen unconscious - though I'm not sure if that would be something she would find worrisome or a fucking Godsend.
I take a deep breath, slowly gathering the strength to open my eyes, staring straight ahead through the gravestones to the faraway stars. "My wrist," I mutter before taking another deep breath, assessing the damage. "A few ribs, probably. One or two on either side, I think." Lowering my head, I hesitate before cataloguing the rest of my broken bones. "Two fingers..." I whisper, staring at my knees, drawn up to my chest. "...On my left hand."
She sighs again. "Ok -" she cuts herself off when the dark corvette, recent issue model, stops at the curb, not even twenty feet from us, and the driver's side door opens. "Stay here," Buffy whispers to me before standing and stepping around me while I think Where am I gonna go? to myself.
The guy who steps out is short, for a guy, probably not much taller than I am. He walks up onto the curb, stepping into the grass, and I realize it isn't a man, but a woman dressed in a black leather jacket, that hangs weird on her, seemingly too heavy, the jeans she's wearing too form-fitting to be worn by a man, her short, dark hair leading me to assume she was a he.
As she nears Angel, she reaches into her jacket with one hand and, holding it open with the other, she pulls out a stake and cross. She walks right up to Angel, and I see him stiffen slightly, the tension spreading slowly throughout the graveyard. Buffy moves up behind him, and the newcomer moves back slightly, landing in a definsive posture as easily as a cat lands on its' feet.
There's a tense silence between them, lasting several seconds until..."Buffy. Hi. You know...I heard you killed him..." She trails off, gesturing at Angel, totally flippant and uncaring.
"Miss Calendar...you came back. When -?" Buffy asks, sounding extremely confused and not in the least pleased.
"I just drove into town a little while ago. Is there something going on I should know about, Buffy?" she asks, jutting her chin in my direction.
I can practically hear the suspicion in B's voice. "I don't know, is there something you want to tell us? Like, oh - I don't know...why you're back?" her voice drips with venom and even I flinch slightly, feeling the sting.
"Look," the woman Buffy called Miss Calendar cuts in, "We could stand out here, in the middle of a fucking graveyard - or we could pack our merry selves off in my car, and go to Rupe-" She didn't finish, the sharp slap from Buffy's hand cutting her off, head snapping sharply to one side.
"You don't have the right to say his name! He tried to protect you! You knew the risks - you knew what it was like, and you accepted it. You were willing to fight right alongside the rest of us. But then, when it started to affect you - when things got too hard to deal with, you bailed!" B's voice is cold; hard-edged steel, her anger with the older woman standing before her barely contained, a grim coil of rage and the pent-up need for revenge, just waiting to be let out of the box.
"Well, Buffy," Ms. Calendar replied, voice even, she dabbed lightly at her lip, checking for blood. "I'm sorry my being raped, tortured, and driven to near-insanity by your boyfriend didn't mesh with your spring plans," she growled before turning her head to one side and spitting into the grass. "I don't owe you a thing, Buffy - but I'm willing to do you a favor. Do you want it or not?" She glared hard at Buffy, the two of them locked in some weird contest for power.
A long moment passes before either of them says anything. "Fine. Help me get her in the car," Buffy says, her voice cold as hell. "Angel -" she says, turning to her undead boy-toy, voice much warmer; like the difference between California and Northern Canada. "Keep patrolling?"
He just nods, not looking at Ms. Calendar - out of guilt? I know zippo-shit on the back story about the woman and how she knows Buffy, other than the fact that she must've been around when Angelus got loose. "Sure," he mutters, slipping off into the darkness and not looking back.
I watch him go for as long as I can distinguish him from the shadows; he eventually melts into them, his dark clothes darker than even the blackest shadows. Buffy walks toward me, Ms. Calendar following her, just to stop a few feet back, moving so light from a nearby streetlamp lands on my face. "Goddess," she mutters, staring; apparently shocked at the black eye.
Turning to look at her, I narrow my eyes slightly, trying to figure out where I've seen her before; it's no use, though. Not enough light.
"Can you stand?" Buffy asks, standing in front of me. I just look up at her for a second, digesting the question, her voice, the look on her face; everything, and yet...there's no anger, no loathsome glares or revulsion,
Glancing away from her, I brace my right arm against the crypt where it meets the grass. "Yeah." Pushing away from the crypt, I try to stand, collapsing back to where I was before. "Or not..."
"Ok," Buffy says, calm as hell. "Here, gimme your hand," she continues, her hand held out to me.
I look at it for several long seconds, uncertain. Finally, I stretch my hand forward, fingers wrapping around her wrist with a grimace. Her hand closes around my wrist quickly, pulling me to my feet before I even know what's happening.
Once on my feet, I stagger sideways, shoulder hitting Buffy square in the chest and she steps back a foot, hands catching me around the hips again.
We stand like that for several seconds, seemingly frozen in time. Testing my ankle, I straighten slowly, wrapping my arm around B's shoulders for support, half my weight resting there.
Walking to the car, Ms. Calendar doesn't say anything; instead, her jaw gradually falls lower and lower as she sees the extent of damage to my face and clothes, not to mention my left arm held close to my chest in hopes to hold my wrist still, to avoid more damage past the swelling and snapped bones, or the slight tremors running through my whole body every other minute.
Buffy holds me steady as I slip into the passenger seat, moving around the car to slip into the back, settling behind the driver's seat. Ms. Calendar gets in, closing the door and fastening her seat belt.
She sees me struggle with the seat belt, but before she can do a thing, Buffy slips along the black leather bench seat to reach around me, pulling the belt out smoothly and letting the slack go only after I've shifted my arm to rest on top of it when the belt rests across my chest.
She fastens the belt with a sharp click, the feeling of her hand at my hip lingering for impossible minutes even after she's slid back to her seat, behind Ms. Calendar, buckled in and comfortable.
Her gaze is still fixed on me, though; not out the small side window, or down at her hands.
Buffy wants to know what the hell happened; I can feel it, I can feel her, fingers lingering at my hip and her gaze on the back of my neck.
She's been inside me for the longest time...but I had to get the crap beat out of me by the creepy insane-o mayor to figure it out.
There's no fuckin' way that's a good sign...
They don't say anything for several minutes, and I follow their lead, not feeling permitted to be the one to break the silence.
Her eyes still bore a hole in the side of my head, the buzzing, self-conscious, hair-raising-on-the-back-of-my-neck feeling dropping to a low hum in the pit of my stomach.
Why stare? B was always one to try trick it outta me, playing Mind Fuck or...something. She's not one for getting info outta people with intimidating little silences and determined stares. Why's she even give a shit? I can't help thinking, feeling two very unwelcome feelings explode in my chest - panic and helplessness.
I turn away from them, fighting to steady my breathing, shoulders tight and uncooperative; not wanting to relax and making that fact known 'in no uncertain terms,' as Giles would say. My jaw clenches, trying to stop the trembling, but it doesn't work, instead forcing the sobs from my lungs.
It's scary; this is the first time in a long time I've told my body to do something and it didn't obey. I'm not talking about not being able to budge that chunk of marble back in the cemetery that was...I-I'm not sure what that was - I was just too weak, from-from getting the crap beat out of me, I guess. That never helps with shit.
What really scares me, though...is this. Not being able to control my emotions. I've held everything in, together, my whole life, with a fuckie alcoholic mom and...that sorry excuse for a father - that's not even the right word, 'father' is no name for a fucking sperm donor - and Kakistos, and becoming a slayer, and all the other shit that's happened since that crappy day when I was born...
Thoughts zip through my mind the same way darkened buildings and streetlamps slip past this dark corvette we sit in, colors streaming together, gliding over the streets of Sunnydale to only the hum of the motor and tires on asphalt.
We pull into the parking lot for an apartment complex; it's nice, dark stucco, or something similar, lots of green stuff growing around. A fountain or two.
Ms. Calendar opens her door, stepping out easily, with cat-like grace and the ease of long practice. If I didn't know any better, I'd say she herself is a slayer. Buffy follows, pushing the driver's side door forward before slipping under the seat belt.
She closes the car door, walking around to my door. Pulling it open, she crouches, sighing sadly when she sees my face. She frowns, looking pissed off and sympathetic at the same time. "It was really bad, wasn't it?" she murmurs, reaching up to rub her thumb across my cheek, and it's only now that I finally realize I'm crying, that the streetlamps and buildings weren't blurred themselves; my vision was.
She drops her hand, unbuckling my seat belt before standing and moving back slightly. She offers me a hand and I take it, still not understanding her kindness, not knowing if I want to; swinging my feet from the car down to the asphalt, I pull on her arm and drag myself up to stand close in front of her and she wraps an arm around my waist gently, my arm going around her neck, shaking.
It takes several minutes to walk the short distance to the small courtyard, and up to the dark, shadowed doorway. Ms. Calendar knocks and we wait in silence, B's arm hanging loose around my waist as I lean against the wall, taking slow, deep breaths to try and stop the tremors running through my body, leaving my knees threatening to give.
Giles finally answers the door, putting his glasses on and looking like he was asleep when she knocked. His gaze travels from face to face to face, the look of utter disbelief and anger deepening the lines around his eyes. "My God...what-what the hell happened? And why the bloody hell are you back? I believe you said you 'wanted a normal life.' That's bloody well not something you're going to get here in Sunnydale, and definitely not - " he rants at this Ms. Calendar, the fact that they too have some sort of history obvious as hell.
"Questions later, Ripper. Right now, the poor girl needs to lay down. She looks like hell - or didn't you notice?" She growls, shoving past him and into the light green apartment, pushing him and the door back so Buffy and I can enter.
Buffy starts past him, the door open all the way as Giles just stands there, one hand on the door as he waits. Her arm still around my waist, she steps into the apartment, and I match her step for step - until my knee collapses beneath my weight and I pitch forward, half-catching myself on the arm around Buffy's neck.
Another set of hands clamp around my waist, the bruises there screaming. "No!" I sob, panic returning full-fucking-on. "No! No - let go! Stop it!"
"Giles -" Buffy says, her voice tight but still impossibly even. The extra set of hands disappears and the floor rises up to meet me.
B's arm slips under my waist, pulling me upright before my knees even hit the floor. She guides me over to the desk, and I sit on the edge, doubled over and gripping my waist with my less-injured right arm while my left is still held tight against my chest, still as possible.
Head hanging low, jaw quivering, I mutter, "I think I'm going to be sick," to the hardwood floor, the reeking copper smell of blood flooding off my bloody jeans, making me feel sick.
Giles wordlessly picks up a small plastic trashcan at the side of his desk, handing it to Buffy. She holds it under my head with one hand, the other resting gently on the back of my neck, hair gathered together loosely in her hand, and what feels like every last piece of crap I've eaten in the last month comes up with a fucking vengeance, burning all the way.
Everything is silent for a few seconds, the only sound my hard, raspy breaths as I fight to calm down until Buffy whispers, "You done?" and I could almost swear she's mistaken me for Willow, she just sounds that damn concerned.
"Yeah," I rasp, voice shot after upchucking what felt like three gallons of acid. Buffy sets the trashcan off to the side, gently pushing against my shoulders to help me sit up.
"Here," Ms. Calendar says, stepping forward with a mug of some steaming liquid in her hands. "Drink this. You'll feel better."
She holds the cup out, waiting for me to take it, but I'm more than a little doubtful I can even hold it up. My arm's just that tired. "Can..." I mutter, looking at the mug with longing, thirsty as hell. "Can I sit down first?" I sway slightly, Buffy's hand on my shoulder the only thing that keeps me from tipping over as I look at each of them, wondering if my request is even acceptable, after all I've done to them, the pain I've caused.
She looks like she's just gotten a pie in the face, pulling the mug back, seeming almost embarrassed. "Oh. Of..." she looks at Giles, as if asking permission, unsure. "Of course." She steps back, and Buffy helps me stand, slowly guiding me to the couch where we both sit down.
She takes the mug, and steadies my hand when my arm begins shaking, the tea almost sloshing into my lap. It feels excellent, going down as I sip carefully, not wanting to add burned mouth or tongue to the already long list of my injuries.
If there's one thing the British do right, it's tea. Especially peppermint and chamomile. Before, my first watcher, a very British but spunky woman, would offer me tea, flavor of my choice, and crumpets or scones after workouts.
At first, I laughed. Thought she was kidding or something, I guess. But she wasn't...and it was nice...kinda quaint and dorky but...nice. After...what happened, I didn't touch tea again, until now.
Forgot how much I missed it...
Pausing between sips to take a deep inhale of the steam wafting up from the liquid, I notice the tension in my shoulders easing, the throbbing headache I didn't realize was so bad fading into the far-off background. Tipping the mug back up, I take another sip, the tea steaming slightly, still hot.
I drain the cup after another minute or so and Buffy gently takes it from my hand, setting it on the coffee table in front of the couch...and the awkwardness settles over the room, a heavy, stifling wool blanket. "You feel better?" Buffy asks quietly, the sympathy in her voice making me feel like crap; what the fuck did I do to fucking deserve her sympathy? I can't help thinking to myself, the fucking laundry list of all the different ways I've screwed them over scrolling through my head. I'm barely worth having her beat the crap out of me, let alone treat me with fucking respect...sighing, I take a deep breath. "Yeah...yeah, I'm fine," I mutter, leaning back against the couch cushions, only fully relaxing when none of the bruises covering my body make themselves known with fucking flashing lights and blaring sirens.
"Ok. Good," Buffy says quietly. Picking up the tea cup, she stands and walks into the kitchen, and I can hear her talking to Giles and Ms. Calendar; easing my head back onto the couch cushion behind me, staring at the ceiling, my eyes slide shut. "She's feeling better, I think. She's tired, though - hunh. God - I'm tired, and...It's after 3 in the morning. No wonder. Ugh. So where do we go from here? I mean - her arm looks pretty bad; she thinks it's broken, and I'm inclined to agree, and at least two of her fingers are broken. A couple of her other fingers look pretty bad too...What do we do? I mean - do we-do we take her to a hospital, or -"
"Buffy," Giles cuts in, stern and more than slightly pissed. "I-I think it would be best if we didn't take her near civilians - I mean, after all, sh-she did -"
"Giles..." she says firmly, the fact that she isn't the one out of the two of them stuttering making her sound much more decisive, like she knows what she's talking about. "She's hurting. And not just physically –" her voice drops and she suddenly sounds uncertain and scared, like a little girl, almost; like she doesn't know what to do. "She's...something happened, Giles. Something bad."
"Y-yes, well – be that as it may, w-we must think of-of the safety of those we might run into, and –"
"Buffy's right and you know it. Faith needs some serious medical attention," Miss Calendar butts in, still angry with Giles, who just sighs, exasperated, in response. "Alright," she continues, "I have an idea – but I doubt anybody will be up for it."
"So? What is it?" Buffy asks, annoyed.
Miss Calendar sighs. "You aren't going to like it; either of you." She doesn't wait for an answer, instead just plowing ahead. "Willow was well on her way to becoming a powerful witch when I - a year ago; there's a spell – a healing spell – that heals broken ones and other injuries. Willow would've had the experience and power to do this spell months ago – but it takes practice to maintain the spell long enough to heal half of Faith's bruises. As is, Willow will barely be able to heal Faith's broken arm and her fingers, let alone the bruises, but we won't have to take her to a hospital, let alone move her much more than just having Faith lay down and moving her arm," she says, the thought of moving my arm making my stomach role. "The only thing that might be a problem is finding a power source for Willow to draw on during the spell." Well, I guess it's normal for people to use the term 'power source' on a Hellmouth...
"What do you mean? What the hell's a 'power source'?" Buffy asks, defensive, and suspicious – more likely trying to protect Willow than me – but a girl can hope, can't she?
"A power source can be anything from another person to precious stones with magical properties," Miss Calendar explains, sounding almost like she's speaking to a little kid.
"I get the point," Buffy cuts in, voice hard, menacing. I can just imagine the look on her face – Slayer-protecting-her-friends with major overprotective mama bear undertones. Buffy can be a good friend to have – but getting on her bad side is a definite no-no if you also want o die of old age surrounded by fat grandchildren.
'So why is it you are still alive?' a nasty, leering voice asks from the back of my mind, made all the creepier by the only answer I have to that question: I don't know.
My eyes slip shut; too tired to keep them open, I guess. Sighing, I drag them open a moment later, trying to stay awake and failing miserably. Buffy walks out of the kitchen, kneeling next to the couch in front of me. "Hey." Her voice is soothing – almost sisterly, given the amount of caring in it but, best of all – forgiving. "You tired?" she asks, her face swimming against the fuzzy background of Giles' living room.
"Yeah..." I whisper, voice trailing off slowly as I nod.
"Okay," she murmurs, my eyes closing before the word's even completely out of her mouth. "Here." She sounds like she's a few miles away, at the least. "Lay down..." the sound dies slowly, Buffy's hand on the side of my neck, the other gently lifting my feet to rest on the couch...and that's the last thing I remember.