A/N: Thanks so much for the feedback! How kind are those who review a story when it is young and unformed, and still find promise in it!
About three hours in, the bus pulled to a stop at the Barstow depot, the driver warning them "twenty minutes and I'm leavin'." Buffy pulled her eyes from the window and decided she could use a little fresh air. Outside, it was cold and Buffy was glad of her sweater, her knee-length coat. Some of the other passengers came off with her, wandering around, some stopping to eat sandwiches on benches. They were better prepared than she was. A few others walked ahead of her to the vending machines beckoning. The sound of change and clunking processed food and sodas echoed until most had gotten their supper, such as it was, then wandered back towards the bus, leaving her to it. The series of arches made little pockets of dark as the blonde stared at the machines for inspiration. Coke. Cheetos. Muffled scream off to her left?
The slayer raised her head, alert. She left her purchases in the bin, reached inside her coat for a stake.
Staying in the darkness that the arches threw, she moved quickly and silently towards the sound, the base of her spine tingling a little. Back in a dingy corner, she could make out a young man and a larger, looming shadow that had him by the neck. A small cry and Buffy darted in, grabbing the guy by the arm, hauling him roughly back.
"Get out of here!" The slayer's voice was an insistent hiss as she kept her eyes on that dark shape. It was large. She almost smiled. Hearing the sound of feet moving away behind her, she lunged in, still not quite able to see the black thing's edges, the shape of its limbs.
Until one of those limbs came out and got her, with a longer reach than she'd expected. And, well, really who had been expecting a four-foot long arm, hairy and thick? Maybe her, next time, she thought, picking herself up off the ground, shaking her head a little. The creature stayed where it was, hardly making a sound, not even a dignified monster growl. Buffy went back in at it again, ducking under that arm this time, being the sort of girl who learns from her...
Okay, next time she'd know there was a pretty quick backswing there, too. She felt the wall, slid down in a little before regaining her footing. Where was a crossbow when you needed it? She backed over to a bench, kicking out the thick, middle slat. It would do in a pinch.
She came back swinging, changing the arc midway to cut down towards where the creature's knees must be. If it had knees. Well, something connected anyway. And she hammered in again, this time swinging straight for the head. Two big black hands caught it, but in catching it, left open underneath, which is where Buffy aimed her punch, packing it full of slayer fun.
It landed, but the thing was fast, reaching down with one hand to take the slayer up by the neck, squeezing, shaking her a little as she lifted off the ground. It was silent and squeezing, offering a quiet death. Buffy could hear only her own small cries, dragged out of her as she dangled, fighting for breath. She felt her foot lashing out, catching that exposed belly full on, feeling the exhale of foul breath in her face. The slight loosening of the fingers that allowed her to get some leverage of her own underneath, in between her neck and those fingers, peeling back a little even as the stars hovered in the edge of her vision and she left one hand working as the creature tightened its grip while the other found a stake, fumbled a bit with it, felt the blackness creeping in, until finally she got the pointy end turned right and jammed it home.
Another wave of breath, that hand loosening, the creature slumping still quiet in its dark corner as Buffy dropped and backpedaled.
She pulled up her collar, not quite concealing the finger-shaped bruises on her neck, pocketed the stake for next time, and hurried back to the bus. Several miles down the road, she realized she'd left her supper back in Barstow. Good thing she hadn't really been hungry anyway.
The toughest thing about prison was figuring out what to do with your time. Much as she hated those group sessions earlier, at least they broke up the day. Now there was nothing. On the cinderblock wall next to her bed: " days without killing anyone." Like one of those construction job sites. In the blank space in front of the words, careful lines for each day since she'd been here. Some days she counted them up, for something to do. Other days she erased lines for people she had killed, just to remind herself she was working off a deficit and, you know, not to get too cocky about this whole reform thing.
Okay, so it didn't really make the best count of days. Still a shitload of lines.
In the dim night light (dim because they never let it get dark, never let you really hide like you wanted to), Faith stared up at the dull gray of the ceiling. She'd taken top, her best position, if she did say so herself. That and she really didn't want to be reminded she wasn't alone in here. Fat chance they would give her a single if she asked pretty please. So she had a roommate to hear all the talking and screaming and shit in her dreams. Not too much she could do about it, being asleep and all.
Of course, it was too good of gossip for her bunkmate not to tell, and, since the word was already out, no good flirting with a guard to get moved now. If she hadn't been a slayer, hadn't been able to take the beatings as they tried to figure out if she was weak during the daytime, too, she'd probably be dead or somebody's bitch by now.
But she wasn't. Sure, she'd had to break a few noses to get left alone. But, you know, a broken nose seems pretty restrained when you think they were out to kill her. She could've done worse.
For good measure, for even thinking about that something worse, Faith rubbed the edge of her hand along the wall, wiping away another of those marks on the wall, forcing herself back a day in her count. The ceiling looked down at her, implacable. She heard the heavy breaths of the woman below and wondered if she would be able to sleep.
"No, Willow! No more spells." Tara's face was pinched and angry as she sat curled on one end of the living room couch. They were all in sight of the door, waiting for Buffy to reappear. She kept not appearing.
Giles pinched the bridge of his nose. "I agree with Tara, Willow. She may just be—"
"Goddess, it's just a locator spell! I don't see why you guys are freaking out so much. It's not hard and there's nothing bad about it, I promise...I just want to find Buffy. Giles, she's alone out there, dealing with...all of it!" The redhead could hardly bear the reference to what Buffy was dealing with. She'd done it. And if she could just find Buffy now, they could talk, she could apologize, and she could have her friend back again.
"Will, we could just go out and try looking for her—you know, usual haunts, graveyards and...graveyards." Xander's voice was quiet, as it had been since his role in the musical-gone-bad had been revealed. He gave her a small smile. "Call me old fashioned."
"But that would take too long!"
"Magic isn't a shortcut you use because it's more convenient, Willow." Tara shook her head. Her girlfriend hadn't learned anything from this.
"Well, we can't just sit around here and wait! She looked really bad when she left...she could be in trouble out there!"
"Call me crazy, but I think the chick with the super powers can probably handle herself, even when she's depressed and suicidal."
The room turned towards Anya, standing arm in arm with Xander. She gave a small shrug of "what?" Xander glanced over again at his old friend, who had resumed her pacing in the middle of the room, her fingers working unconsciously, almost as if she were casting.
"As loathe as I am to admit it, Anya appears to be right, Willow." Giles sighed, leaning against the wall. "Buffy should be able to take care of herself. And she may not want to be found right now after..." He, too, could hardly say it. "It's only been a matter of hours. I'm sure she'll come back when she's ready."
"You think so?" Everyone looked at Dawn. They'd forgotten Buffy's sister was there, curled in a chair in the corner, staring intently at the door.
"Is this your dream or mine?"
Buffy whirled around, hearing the dark slayer's voice behind her.
"What makes you think it's a dream?"
"Well, for one thing, ya ain't tryin' to gut me. Yet, anyway." A pause as the blonde slayer's eyes met hers. "And, for another, this has gotta be your bed we're makin' again."
Buffy looked down at the multitude of pillows and downy comfort, the cream sheets. Definitely not a Faith bed. And definitely not the Greyhound window she'd last been using as a pillow. "Ok, you have a point."
"So..." The brunette smoothed the cool sheet.
"...this is awkward." Finished the blonde.
"Yeah, I mean, how do ya tell someone that having a stuffed pig kinda ruins the whole badass superhero rep?" Faith tossed the animal at Buffy, who caught it against her chest and then held him up to face her.
"Mr. Gordo knows I'm more than just a slayer."
"Lucky you, I guess." The dark slayer shot a few pillows on the bed, displaying excellent basketball form.
"Would you like to borrow him?" The blonde held him out across the bed.
"Naw. Girls down at the prison would think I was weak." Faith looked across at her golden counterpart reaching out. "'Sides, I might get him dirty." Buffy's brows knit in confusion, looking to Mr. Gordo in her hands, then down to the droplets of blood on the sheets.
"Not again." The blonde groaned at the marred perfection of that bed. "We were just making it all pretty."
"I didn't do it, B., I swear." Faith looked across to Buffy, hoarse, pleading, then down to the blood. The room spun, forcing her to sit down, then collapse back on that bed, splayed out in front of Buffy, the blood pooling under her neck.