I spend a few more days looking for any sign of her but still nothing. But at night, she's always there when I hit the first cemetery, like she lives there and whenever I cross over the border, she materializes. We fall into an old rhythm: patrol, and slay. We spar, when it's quiet, in some empty corner of a cemetery, in that pure adrenaline rush that only we can achieve, so unlike when I sparred with Riley or even Angel, who could at least match me for strength. We're perfectly matched, equals, her slight reach advantage negated by my edge in speed. It's poetry, when we spar, movement choregraphed to some music only we, the chose two, can hear. It's exhilarating while it lasts, but then I have to explain the bruises to everyone in the morning. We're not gentle, Faith and I, that's just not our thing.
I stay out all night, most nights, with Faith, even sneak out for a second patrol after I've seen Dawn to bed. At night, it's like I tap into this feral energy of the hunt, and it's a relief to feel the energy, to simply feel. I'm alive, at night, my body attuned to the dark and quiet, with my dark shadow appearing at my side as I cross over. I sleep walk through the days, where the light seems to make me ethereal and translucent, but everyone's so used to that after I came back from the dead, so I think it goes unnoticed. And every time I turn around, there's Faith, an apparition beside me in her black leather and monochromatic t-shirts, moving with that cat-like grace as she walks beside me or spins to stake a vamp.
Her taste in clothes still favors dark colors and tight shirts, although sometimes she wears this pair of well-worn levis that hug her hips and show her stomach. I don't remember her ever wearing anything like them before. Before, even her jeans screamed 'fashion victim' with zippers or chrome studs. I laugh to myself to think that Faith wearing old levis means she's mellowed. Black leather is still her favorite though. I wonder where an ex-felon gets the money for it.
I start to imagine that perhaps Faith is a phantom, or my mind's twisted idea of an imaginary friend. We talk, sometimes, on patrol, or more accurately, I talk. I open up to her. which scares me when I think it through. I've let my guard down before with Faith and gotten my teeth kicked in in response. I'm not looking forward to a repeat performance. But she rarely talks when we're patrolling, about herself or anything else. No tall tales, no embarrassing sex talk, so unlike the old Faith, and it's a relief to talk someone who doesn't radiate smothering concern every moment. I talk, no, more accurately, I ramble on and on about everything, the death, my friends, Dawn, and she listens, nodding to let me know she's listening. I am sure she is a phantom. I hope she is a phantom.
But nevertheless, her presence is comforting, a warmth that penetrates the chill deep down in my stomach. After a long sparring session, we're sitting, leaning against a head stone and we're both quiet, alone with our thoughts. Finally, she pushes to her feet and turns, holding out a hand to me. I catch her hand, but also catch sight of the edge of pink and white scar tissue, there on her stomach, peeking out from under her tight, baby-doll T. I let go of her hand suddenly, falling back to the head stone while she looks down at me, puzzled. I reach out again and touch the scar, feeling the gnarled tissue marring the smooth skin of her stomach, and look up to meet her eyes. There's old pain there, lurking in the darkness, but also concern? worry? for me? Is that what I see in her eyes?
"Sorry," I whisper, my eyes supplying the missing blood, her blood, on my hands. It was so warm as it gushed out of her stomach, and sticky later as it dried. I remember how I lay there, stunned, with that sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, just long enough for her to jump, when what I wanted to do was catch her as she fell, staunch the flow of blood, and beg her forgiveness.
Faith catches my hand again and this time succeeds in pulling me to my feet, but she pulls too hard and I stumble into her. My face is a bare inch from hers.
"Faith, I..."
Her finger to my lips stops me from saying I don't know what. "Shhh. It's ok." Her voice is incredibly quiet and soft and the look in her eyes is compassionate, understanding. I never imagined Faith could be gentle. "It's an old scar. That wound healed a long time ago." I touch the scar again, trail my finger along the soft ridge of skin etched into her stomach, and try to read her eyes. The warmth of her finger against my lips, that odd concern and gentleness throws me, as does the desire to run my hand over more of her skin. We stand like that for a long, long time before she turns away.
She walks with me to the house in a not-quite-strained silence. It's like we're both trying to figure out what just happened. We haven't spoken and I feel like I should say something before we separate when a huge arm grabs Faith by the hair and yanks her backwards.
A demon. A big demon. A big ugly demon. My flying kick surprises him and he releases her, but he swats me like a fly and I'm flying back now, into a pair of garbage cans. A sharp yell issues from the house behind me. Damn. Faith is hitting him with a flurry of punches where she can reach him but the blows don't seem to doing anything to faze him. I kick a trash can at him and the demon spins to grab me just as Faith snatches a battle axe from his belt and beheads him in one quick flowing stroke. The head bounces in the trash and I grin as I think, easy clean up.
"Nicely diverted, B," she says, flashing a smile and reaching down to pull me up. Again. And we're face-to-face, again, and now I really have to say something. But another voice stops me.
"Faith?" Willow stands at the end of the alley, glaring at Faith. Her eyes grow incredulous as she turns to me. "Buffy??"
I'm confused, feeling the world come in on me in a rush. It staggers me under the weight. I look between her and Faith for a minute, and then turn to face Willow. "You see her too?" Willow's eyes widen at the questioning tone in my voice, but before she can say anything, Faith calls, "Be seeing ya, B" and disappears, slipping into darkness before I can say another word.