Author's note: I don't own anyone. :)

The darkness fades into blinding light and Brigitte can make out a familiar voice but the figure to which it belongs does not come into focus for what feels like an eternity.

She is flat on her back in the school hallway. Ginger is speaking to her, her face and hands smeared with the blood of the unfortunate janitor. She pauses. "B? Anybody there?"

It sounds less like the monster and more like her sister, and Brigitte is aware that this is probably a trick, but she really wants to believe it's possible that the old Ginger is still in that body somewhere. "Yeah," she says finally. "I'm here. I'm listening to you."

"Where'd you go?" Ginger is on all fours, crawling closer now.

"I blacked out or something, I guess. I had this dream."

Ginger's lips curl into a feral smile. "Was it about me?"

Of course it was, Brigitte wants to snap. Everything is about you. The thing is, it would be easier to resent her for asking if it weren't true. "Yes."

"Did you like it?" Closer, closer, closer, deliberately taking an eternity to cross a few feet.

"Everyone died. Me. You. Sam."

Ginger rolls her eyes, hangs back, and Brigitte's heart lurches. She wants to apologize for mentioning his name, but doesn't.

"Fuck him. How'd we die?"

"You killed him."

"Good."

"I killed you."

"And then?"

"And then I killed myself."

"Dead on the scene," she smiles, satisfied.

"But it was just a dream. It doesn't have to end like that." And she is backing away from Ginger now, which is probably a smart move, because the look in her eyes has turned lethal. "Everything could change. We could live." She is almost pleading, but she can't let her vulnerability be known. Even the old Ginger would have eaten her alive for it.

"Why," Ginger asks, "would we want to do that?"

"You weren't you, in the end. You were the wolf. Only the wolf. Everything that was Ginger was gone. Is that what you want?"

"Isn't that what we've always wanted?" She looks slightly wounded now, wounded and sulky, and this is not going to be easy.

"Yes," Brigitte admits. "But I think it's more fun to play dead than to be dead."

"Tough shit," Ginger spits. "This has always been the plan. Why are you fucking with it now?"

Brigitte is shaking and she can't find the words so she just stares at Ginger, wills her to read her mind.

Ginger begins her slow crawl once more, and Brigitte backs up until her back hits somebody's locker. Her legs are stretched out in front of her and suddenly she knows where this is going, so she doesn't move away anymore.

"Pamela," she offers, "is going to find Trina's body. Then she's going to take care of everything for us, and in the morning we can all leave together. I know you hate her, but--"

"Pamela?"

"I know, but--"

And now Ginger's face is inches from her own, Ginger is leaning over her, but this is not Ginger. This is not the way it used to be.

"What did she have to do to get you on her side?"

Brigitte can feel her mouth go dry. "What are you talking about?"

Ginger cocks her head to the side. "Come on, people don't change overnight. So I'm asking you, B..." She reaches out a hand, strokes the side of her face, like a mother, like a lover.

"God, you're sick." Brigitte tries to make her voice reflect revulsion, even though she's so cold from fear that she can't feel anything like that right now. She knows what Ginger will say next, and she knows that she can't argue.

Ginger laughs, but doesn't back off. "Fucking hypocrite."

"It's not like that. It hasn't even happened yet. But it will. She'll help us, Ginger. We can go and get--I can cure you, we don't need Sam, I remember how to do it."

"What makes you think I want to be cured?"

Brigitte closes her eyes and it is a long, long time before she says: "Please?"

Ginger's arms are getting tired; nothing is happening. She extracts herself from Brigitte and sits beside her, mimicking her position. "Let me cure *you*, B," she says softly. "You have no idea how fucking liberating this is. You can be the person you've always wanted to be."

Brigitte bites her tongue until she tastes blood to stop herself from saying, you're the person I've always wanted to be.

Ginger's face darkens even further as she reaches out and forces Brigitte to look at her. "You said you'd die for me."

And Brigitte remembers the dream and what happened next, the way Ginger disengaged, the stake her response drove between them. At the time she had just wanted Ginger to leave her alone, to give her some time to figure out how she could fix everything, to figure out why she wanted to try. It had changed everything. It was probably the reason she'd had to kill Ginger, the reason she'd had to kill herself. She would not make that mistake again.

"I would rather live with you," she whispers, the closest thing she can manage to seduction with the janitor's blood on her face from where Ginger's fingers pressed into her flesh.

And when it happens, the way Brigitte had known it would, she is relieved when she feels Ginger's mouth--first on her own, then navigating a wet path south toward its destination--without the accompanying sting of her new teeth. She tries to relax, despite the cold floor and the unfortunate setting. After it is over, whatever is left of Ginger might calm down enough for Brigitte to convince her to submit to the cure, and maybe she can even get her to agree to the plan Pamela will propose.

Ginger was her first kiss. Ginger will be her last.

But just maybe this won't have to be that day.