Robin looks wacked. He doesn't look like he's going to die anytime soon though, for which I'm grateful. Couldn't stand losing anyone else today. He's sleeping and there's just something... really messed up about him - something in the face... maybe the eyebrows and those high cheekbones. It's him, but it don't look like him, and - what is it? Peaceful? Is that really it? With my crazed drunken mom's fitful hangover sleeps, the ladies and their night-terrors in prison, and girls alternating crying themselves to sleep and screaming, I really haven't had much of a chance to see people just lying there relaxed. If I hadn't thrown out all those boys I'd slept with, I might have a better point of reference. Live and learn.

It goes against my rep, my character, 'Badass Faith,' but I'm holding Robin's hand as Giles skedaddles the bus away from Craterdale at a blistering 58 mph. It's not just because I'm holding someone's hand - I haven't done that since... ever - but because Robin's sprawled out on the very first bench seat behind the stairs and I'm strictly a back of the bus kinda girl. His hand feels a little clammy against my skin, but that's to be expected. He had lost a lot of blood before we managed to stop the bleeding so we decided that it would be best for him if he got the front seat with less jostling. I always thought that the point of the bus was to sit at the back so you would get a jostling. Then again, I didn't go to school to learn, either.

If only my high school teachers - especially Mrs. Pengelly the bitch - could see me now. I'm in a friggin' relationship with a friggin' principal. Karma must have fallen off the wagon for that to happen.

The wounded girl laid out on the opposite bench seat yelps in pain as she tries to shift position. She quiets down immediately but the noise snaps my concentration. I lock eyes briefly in the bus's rear view mirror with Giles when he tries to look back to check on the girl. His expression softens when he meets my gaze and I give him a weak smile, which he returns before focussing again on the road.

It's freakishly quiet on the bus. After the weeks of girl army noises, the clash of swords and grunts of battle, speeches from General B, and THX special effects, all that I can hear now is the rumble of the road beneath the tires, the bus's engine straining as it revs uphill, and muted breathing from the survivors. Everyone is too tired to talk. No one would be talking anyway. They already all said their happies when the battle was over. Now things are starting to sink in and words aren't enough to describe it. Most of the crew is sleeping. Those who aren't are staring out the windows, watching the desert roll by, though I doubt any of them are actually paying attention - it's just background imagery for their thoughts. The background for my thoughts is the strangely innocent looking Robin, the worry lines smoothed from his face, a slight smile on his lips. I wonder what he's dreaming about?

It had better be me.

I have a long way to go. That egocentrism is something I have to work on - something I realized I was still guilty of, even when I thought I was trying to look out for others. My little suicide stunt proved that. The ol' brain churned out that nugget of wisdom eventually. I've been staring at Robin for a while.

My blood is screaming for nicotine. Has been for an hour now. Reluctantly, I let go of Robin's hand and fumble for my pack - almost empty - and lighter - dented. I don't want to smoke around the wounded that are clustered around the door. Fear of infection or irritation or generally just not a nice thing to go through when you're dying or close to it. I'm especially worried about what it would do to B (who's lying down on the seat behind Robin's). I know she doesn't want to admit it, but the smoke'll remind her of Spike, which will open up a whole can of worms that she also wouldn't want to admit. So instead I stand up, stretching the tired legs, and look for a seat at the back.

Farther along the aisle there's Willow snuggling up with Kenny. Willow's asleep, all tired out from the wicked mojo she pulled, and she's cradled in Kenny's arms with a big smile on her face. Kenny is staring out the window. She's not as happy. I think she knows what I know: they won't last. Maybe a few months, maybe even a year if they're lucky, but there's too much light/dark conflict for them to get along with each other forever.

I'm putting off lighting my cigarette until I find somewhere to sit. Xander's there, I can see his eyepatch but not his eye as he too gazes over the passing dirt and scrub brush. I don't think I could look at him right now. Some of the newly activated Slayers are huddled together; others have positioned themselves away from the group. Right now none of them look like a friendly face.

What right do I have to sit with them? I didn't lose anyone I cared about in the battle or in any of the months leading up to it. Each and every one of them - the Slayers, Xander, Dawn, Willow, even Andrew - share the loss of lovers, friends, teachers, and family. I haven't lost anyone since I was evil, and that puts me in a different category from them. I can't comfort them; I don't know how. I don't want to, either. Not now, anyway. Redemption can wait until tomorrow.

Choosing a seat at the very back of the bus, I crack open the window to let the smoke out, then light up. Yup, them scrub bushes are going by fast.

I had given fuck all as far as planning what I was going to do after this is concerned. Now... I don't have a clue. Pretty much expected to be dead by now, so long term plans weren't on the agenda. When I busted out I didn't think at all. When Willow brought me from LA I didn't think at all, either. Come to think of it, I'd been being jerked around for months now. What shit is this?

Then again, when I do my own thinking, things sure get fucked up in a hurry. Maybe I'm better off just following along and being Buffy's lap dog. Then at least I could hump her leg - Whoa! Bad thought! Trying to integrate into society, here. That type of imagination is better off left in the bedroom - possibly bathroom - but definitely not on a school bus sitting across from Andrew. I hope no one is looking at me because I'm sure my cheeks are a dead-giveaway shade of red. A quick look around: everyone is concentrating on his or her thousand yard stare except Andrew, who's rummaging around in his backpack. At least one person on this expedition was smart enough to bring supplies.

I take another calming drag on the cigarette and let the nicotine soak into my bloodstream. There's a thought... I might live long enough to get lung cancer. Not going to stop anytime soon, though. Everyone's happier if I'm not cranky.

Or fat.

My cigarette is burning down, but I'm not smoking it, not really. I'm too busing gazing down the aisle at the legs and feet of Robin and Buffy, protruding from between the bench seats where the two of them lay asleep, recuperating from their serious wounds. It's weird, contemplating the woman I've loved since... before I can remember, anyway, and then the man that I - well... not love, exactly, but it really does feel like it's getting there, y'know? Feels like a shitty thing to do: I've been obsessed with B forever yet she's there, right in the same bus and right there next to Robin who I'm knocking boots with and will continue knocking boots with for the foreseeable future (not a long time in our circles) and who I met only because of B in the first place.

For the first time in my life I can do whatever I want to do and it won't be called running away from anything. I could start a new life with Robin; travel the continental US killing things that need killing and fucking like bunnies in our spare time. Or I could continue mooning after Buffy like I've been doing. Not much of a choice when you look at it that way.

Still...

I'm startled by a bright flash right in my face. Click! "Fuck!" I shout, and I try to hide the fact that the camera has sent me three or four inches into the air off my butt. "Andrew! Geez." Trying to recapture my badassness, I flick glowing ashes at him and he backs off tentatively away from me - at least until he trips over his seat. "Give a girl some warning if you're gonna be whipping that thing out and pointing it at people."

Andrew cringes and tries to make himself look innocent, but he's always good at doing that. "Sorry. You just looked so perfect, like Captain Janeway when she takes her authoritative pose staring down aliens on the bridge of Voyager."

Outward, I cringe, showing utter disdain for his stupid fanboy obsession, but inwardly I'm chucking at his innocent silliness. I'm half convinced he's only putting on this act to maintain some concept of self-image. It just wouldn't be him without nerdliness. He's just like me that way. Who am I without the badass, the wicked-cool, sex-bomb hotness and attitude? I've never wanted to just be anyone else, even now, not just another slayer. Though sometimes I feel like all I want is to have a normal life, be a normal girl with a normal job, normal friends, and a normal relationship or two. But then I come to my senses. If I were normal I wouldn't be me. So I continue to play the part.

"Gimme that," I say, tearing the camera away from his hands, relishing the little yip! of shock he makes as I reach out at him with superhuman speed. Yeah, that's why normal sucks. "Why'd you bring a camera anyway? I thought you were all 'I'm gonna die.'" I snap a picture of him as he looks back at me with the ineffective indignance he gets, which, God help me, I think looks kinda cute on him.

I have to grow some standards one of these days.

"Don't break it," he whines and tries to grab at it, but I, like the bully I am, hold it away from him then take another picture of Andrew reaching vainly for it.

"Answer."

Andrew pouts. "Fine." He rummages in his backpack again and quickly produces a note, which he reluctantly hands to me. I recognize this. It was taped to the zipper on the way out here, but had since been stuffed inside. I don't need to look at it long to realize that it was instructions for the survivors to document the aftermath of the battle as his last wish. If I know Andrew, and I think I do, he wanted to leave some sort of overly melodramatic account of the heroics but not really thinking ahead to realize that any heroics would be overshadowed by the misery of loss and human suffering. "I hoped that Anya would take some pictures for everyone after I died," he says, "and I didn't put any thought that I'd live and get the chance to be the photographer - that I don't deserve. I'm angry with myself that I forgot to get some shots at the crater. You all had such great relief and lightness on your faces..." he trails off, not really knowing where he was going with this, I think anyway.

I have some ideas. "You mind if I?" I ask.

"Please. They won't beat you up like they will with me."

I smile. "Cool." I spot the subtle look of dismay on his face. "Don't worry," I say softly. "I'll get everyone." He smiles now, too.

The Potentials - Slayers - take little offence or interest of any kind as I snap pictures of them. I guess they're either in too much shock from the battle or basking in the afterglow of their new powers. So many faces are missing, but even the ones that are there I have a hard time connecting names to. That's just my normal detachedness, but now it feels like a cop out - or worse - just mean. God, here's the guilt flooding back.

One of the girls is crying. I don't know who she is, but I'm guessing she lost some friends in the fight. She's holding herself, wrapped in blood-splattered arms and, when she looks up at me, all I see is sincere emotions: sadness at her loss, joy at the victory, admiration for me – how fucked up is that? I give her a hug, and she holds me tight for a long time. She manages to crack a smile when I take a picture of the two of us together. I think her name is Shannon, but my memory for details like that is still crappy.

Xander wordlessly waves me off. I hate to see the guy alone in his misery like that, but there's nothing I can do, or at least nothing I feel comfortable doing yet. Kennedy gives reluctant permission but makes sure I get mostly Willow in the shot. I don't give Giles a chance to say if he wants in or not. I just snap a picture of him from the side/back, then another of him getting annoyed with me, and then another of him getting more annoyed with me and gesturing Britishly at me, then a final pic of him frantically grabbing at the steering wheel after accidentally heading onto the dirt shoulder. I laugh and he swears at me (I think – honestly I have no idea what it is he called me at all). Yeah, our relationship is patched up.

Robin still looks so sweet and babyish. If I take this picture he'll never forgive me. He's a proud, vain, macho man who relishes the rugged, mysterious look he no doubt has spent years cultivating. Click!

"Huh? What?" murmurs Buffy, startled awake by the click and the flash from the camera after I capture Robin in a candid snapshot. She flails about and tries to sit up, but winces in pain instead.

"Shhh... Go back to sleep, B," I whisper.

She's so cute when she's groggy. "Faith? Where the hell'd you get a camera?" she asks.

"Andrew wanted us to take a few documentary photos," I say, shrugging like it's no big deal. I chuckle inwardly, watching her face scrunch up in faux-furious rage and mock anger.

"Where is the little twerp?! I'll kill him!" She doesn't mean it. I hope. "So? What, you just going around taking pictures of everybody?" she coughs. There's blood on her hand when she pulls it away from her mouth. "Got a career as a photographer lined up after this?"

"Nah, I got no focus. Xander's got more eye than me. I'm just taking over so Andrew doesn't get the shit beat out of him. It needs to be done." I let the camera drop and I put my hand on her thigh. Nothing sexual, for once, but just comforting. At least, I hope comforting. "You alright?"

"Never better," Buffy says between grimaces. "I'm gaining newfound appreciation for what you've been through."

"How's that?"

Buffy pulls up the hem of her ruined sweater. "We've got ourselves matching punctuations."

I'm confused. "Perforations?"

"Isn't that what I said?"

"God, B, I thought I was the high school dropout. No wonder kids have no respect for guidance counsellors."

B flips me the bird. Kid's got spunk, even with a hole running through her. "Actually, I'm thinking of packing it in. Don't think I can handle the pressure. All those kids looking up to me? Truly frightening. That and your boyfriend fired me. And on that note I think I hear children around the world rejoicing."

"What are you thinking of doing now?"

"Geez, a little soon, F? I'm missing some blood, you know. I think I read somewhere about brain functions requiring the stuff. My brain has a hard enough time as it is." Buffy let out a long, slow breath and closed her eyes, deep in thought. "I don't know," she finally says. "I promised Dawnie I'd show her the world. As it is, all I've shown her is the living room. I guess take a break. Travel a bit. You?"

"I don't know either," I shrug. "Everywhere I go I gotta keep an eye out for the pigs. Still got some redemptioning to do." I don't tell her about the wrestling that's going on in my mind - the stuff about my guilt wanting me to go back to prison, finish atoning for what I'd done. "What do you think? Until you decide to retire from the profession, what's your expert opinion on what I should do with my life, oh counsellor lady?"

Click! Whoops. Accidentally took a picture of Buffy's groin. She scowls at me. "If you're subject matter's any indication," Buffy says, "I'm thinking Playboy photographer."

"Sorry. I'll burn that one. But seriously..." I prod. I can't rely on my brain for decisions like this. Or any decisions, really. At least nothing bigger than what I want on my pizza. Which is usually the carnivore special. Which will kill me with cholesterol. I shouldn't make decisions.

"If you can get over yourself - your issues with uh... us, I mean - I'd like it if you stuck with us." Buffy took my hand from her leg and grasped it firmly in her own. "I know we don't get along. Historically. We've spent a good chunk of time carving chunks out of each other. But I'm willing to let bygones be bygones. Somewhere in the world something needs its ass kicked, and I can't think of anyone better than you for the job."

That brings a smile to my mouth. "Aw... that's sweet, B."

"I thought you should finally know for sure how we all feel about you. We've had some rough times, but everyone has rough patches, any group of friends, any family," Buffy sniffles, and it's contagious. "Damn, I must be getting sentimental in my old age." Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, she struggles to continue, "You're part of the family now, and that's something we should have said back in the beginning. None of us want you gone. None of us want to see you try out for the USAF parachuteless skydiving team again."

"Yeah. If they won't take me after two auditions, I should give up on the dream. Bastards don't know quality when they see it." I guess I've misjudged her. My mushy gray matter runs her words through my sarcasm filter and the BS detector and finally I understand. "Thanks." I've wasted too many years on old vendettas, concentrated too much effort on a feud that never should have existed in the first place, and nurtured an anger that was undeserved. The pent up horniness I'll keep to myself.

"So, you and Robin, huh? How is that working for you? Please leave out the icky stamina ickiness."

"The boy's got some skills-" I start, but that's not what she's asking about. It's not what I need to talk about either. "He makes me feel something - inside," just saying it makes the tingling in my stomach start up again, makes me feel a little nauseated, to tell the truth. "I don't know what it is, but I know it - it just feels good, y'know? I can't help but want to be with him, get to know him better. You know, that feeling you get, right here," I say, touching my chest, "that sense of just feeling totally drawn, like you were meant to know them, and as if you've known them forever?"

B smiles a wicked little smile. "You've got it bad."

Half of what I'm saying is meant for her, though.

"You two make a cute couple," Buffy suggests. "Whatever baddies you two go after, you'll give 'em hell. I see a happy future for you two… adventuring… saving the world. And someone needs to take care of Robin." That causes me to scoff, but Buffy is insisten. "Hear me out," she says. "He may act all macho, but he's really a puppy."

"I'll need to take him for walks and scoop up his shit?"

That earns me an eye roll. "Yes, that's it exactly."

"Thanks. Love you, B."

"Love you too, F."

I give her a high five. Click!

"So, we're good?"

"We're good."