You are fearless. Or you tell yourself that you are, which is much the same thing. You are young and beautiful and strong and sexy. You are 25. So when B tells you she loves you, it can't possibly have been fear that made you run. But you did run, so it must have been cruelty, a desire to step on her heart with your heel and grind it into the dust. And when you turn 31, and you're still beautiful and young and strong and sexy, you go back to Slayer Central and find that B isn't there. That she left, that she retired.
And at first you're annoyed. You assume this is more B bullshit because slayers don't retire. They fight the good fight, and then they die. Giles looks at you, and he is older now, hair silver, face lined. But he is still your watcher, and the closest thing you've ever had to a father so you listen when he tells you to stop. Buffy, oldest of the slayers, 1 year and two months older than you are, has indeed retired. It turns out; slayer powers have a limited lifespan. Buffy hasn't been a slayer, Giles tells you, since she turned 32.
For the second time in ten years your run away from Slayer Central, jumping onto your Kawasaki and tearing up the road with an emotion that you cannot be feeling driving you. This time, you tell yourself its amusement. That your heart is pounding because this is all so funny. You tell yourself you are headed to New York, where Buffy apparently lives now, because you need to share this joke with someone who will really get it.
All the pain and angst of being a teenage slayer? Turn out you get to be Nancy normal anyway. Just a little later in life. It is 11 months and 29 days until your 32nd birthday when you arrive outside Buffy's apartment building. You check the place out, but there's no Buffy Summers listed in the building.
Elizabeth Anne is the first name listed, and you roll your eyes and think to yourself that you could teach Buffy a thing or two about hiding. The door to her apartment is plain white, with a gold colored number.
For the first time in a long time, you hesitate. Why am I doing this? And you reach out with your mind, looking for the connection you and Buffy always had shared. It's gone. You are tuned into her frequency, but all there is, is silence.
Still, there is no room for anything but careless bravery in you, so you knock on her door, standing out of site of the peephole. The door opens.
Buffy stands there, a staff in her hands. Its end is pointed, sharp. Her eyes are as keen as ever, her hair the same shade of blonde. Her skin is lightly tanned, and she is wearing neat, loose clothing. That's all you have time to notice, taking it all in half a second, before the staff is at her throat.
"Faith." Recognition is a few moments behind reflexes, and slowly, Buffy lowers the staff.
"What do you want?"
"I heard what happened," you hesitate, "I had to see…"
"It's true," Buffy's face is pale. "What are you going to do?"
It takes a moment before you rlize what that question means, before it clicks as to why Buffy never did let go of that staff, why there's a silver dagger thrust into her belt.
She's afraid of you. Afraid of what you could do, now that the power is just yours, not hers as well.
"Nothing..." you say, looking at her. "I just thought…I just came to see if you were okay," you lie.
She doesn't believe you, it's clear on her face, and in her actions as she backs away, motioning you into the small living room even as her hand, unconsciously, perhaps, strays to her belt, and the knife there.
But the two of you talk, and when it's time for you to leave, head back to your motel paid for with the Watchers Council gold card, you shake hands, an awkward gesture of peace. Even from down the hall, you hear deadbolts drawn into place. They're shiny and new.
You come back, everyday. Every day, Buffy opens the door, staff in hand, silver knife at her belt. You take her to the movies, out for lunch where she watches you eat plate after plate of food, while she nibbles at a salad. You are crossing a road, side by side, when you first touch her. The car that came out of no-where missed her only because of your hand, pulling her back.
She is grateful, embarrassed, and ashamed. Her skin feels cool compared to yours, and as you let go you notice that a bruise is already forming. Your fingers are imprinted on her skin. It is 11 months and 9 days until your birthday.
It is 9 months and 26 days until your birthday. She surprises you. The fledgling friendship you two have been developing extended by now to coffee dates, daytime strolls, watching DVD's in her apartment.
It is Joyce's birthday. Buffy is quiet today when you come over and you don't even suggest leaving. Instead you order some food and sit on the lounge with her, watching some romcom she loves.
You try to ignore the tears, but with your slayer hearing can practically hear them drop from her eyes and so, you reach out. One callused finger brushes the tears away, and casually, as though you do this all the time, you sling an arm around her. She turns, buries her head into your shoulder, tears on your new black muscle shirt. Your heart races.
Eventually, she stops, and as the movie goes on, you fall asleep. Her head is still on your shoulder.
From somewhere, only half awake, you feel a faint pressure on your head, there and gone in an instant.
You wonder.
Did she just kiss the top of your head?