Faith cursed as she ran along streets, sky fading from purple to early morning grey.

Her boots skidding along the pavement, she turned in at a block of flats, painted cream and blue, the cream faded to gray, and the blue faded to white. Her feet tapped a steady rhythm as she flew up the stairs, missing every second one. She skidded to a halt outside number 7, fumbling in her bra for the keys. There were three of them, and a lock like a safe. She punched in the combination, and then heaved the door open with a grunt.

She did nothing for a moment, standing stock still in the middle of the lounge room and closing her eyes, listening for breathing, or the rustle of clothing.

She grinned with relief at the familiar whistling snore that echoed faintly in her ears, and then, relaxed at last, kicked her boots off, and shimmied out of her jeans. She stood in boyleg jocks and a white tank top, stretching, cracking her back for the fun of it, then walked tiredly towards the noise.

"Hey," she whispered, as the sleeper awoke and regarded her with tired eyes.

"Hey," he whispered back, smiling.


Willow fumed. This bar seemed more depressing every time she entered it, and the fact that the barman now knew to slide over a lemon soda with a little umbrella in it as soon as she entered really didn't help!

Reluctantly, Willow was forced to admit to herself that the slayer was avoiding her. She pouted, contemplating the bubbles in her drink.

I don't know why I care anyway. Stupid Faith. Stupid singing. Stupid Boston with its dumb accent and boring news. I should just stay with the others; next to I zap myself home. It's not like I'm getting anywhere here. Only one lousy promotion in the last three months!

The witch stood and left, ignoring the barman as he called, "Leaving early tonight?"