Buffy POV
When I wake up again, I find myself in a dark room. And I have no idea where I am.
It's not the asylum, and it's not my bedroom in Sunnydale either. The air smells stale as if the room is ill-used. I cautiously creep out of the double bed, pulling the thin comforter off my body. My clothes are strange too – boxer shorts and an oversized t-shirt as though I spent the night at in old boyfriend's room. Maybe I've stumbled into yet another reality where I date a man who likes Dave Matthews Band and flannel. If that's the case, this must be Hell.
I turn on the bedside table, but the lamp doesn't illuminate. I suppose it would help if there were actually a light bulb though. I pad to the windows and draw back the heavy curtains. A sneeze tickles my nose when I pull away the heavy window-treatment from all the dust that powders the air.
Bright sunlight steams through the glass windows, filtering through the dust particles. It briefly makes me think of my Grandma. When she would babysit Dawn and me, she'd always bellow, "Stop running around you two. You're raising dust." It always made me think of a farmer. What kind of farmer would raise dust? Always seemed like a silly crop to me.
Outside this room the world beneath is bustling. Busy people clamber along the sidewalks, taxi cabs and other vehicles swerve along the streetscape, all unaware of my presence a few stories above. There's palm trees dotting the landscape, so I imagine I'm in southern California or Florida. But I have no idea why I'd be in Florida. Unless, again…Hell.
I look around the sparsely decorated room, trying to find more clues of wherever I spent the night. The last thing I remember is taking a bath at the asylum and dreaming of chasing demons through the abandoned hospital. Folded neatly in an easy chair beside the bed are the clothes I remember wearing when I ran into Cordelia. The sight of the t-shirt and blue jeans is more welcomed than I would have imagined. I must have blacked out and Cordelia brought me…where exactly? This doesn't really look like the type of place Cordelia Chase would live.
I slip out of the mysterious band t-shirt and men's boxers and pull on my regular clothes again. The pockets of my jeans are empty except for the bus ticket that somehow got me to Los Angeles. There's a bathroom connected to the bedroom, so I take a quick minute to freshen up, scrubbing my face with warm water and futilely fixing my hair in the dingy bathroom mirror.
Satisfied with my reflection, I leave the bathroom and open the bedroom door, not sure what to expect. I guess I shouldn't be surprised that the hallway is dark, too. The hallway is darker than the bedroom, so I allow my eyes to adjust before continuing.
I pad down a carpeted staircase which opens out into a large, open floor-planned room. Only a minimal amount of natural sunlight streams through dirty plate-glass windows. The air looks heavy with dust particles where the beams of light filter through. My footsteps creek noisily against the wooden floor.
"Hello?" I call out, my voice echoing against the tall vaulted ceiling. "Is anybody here?"
Getting no response, I continue my exploring. The room looks like the lobby of some fancy hotel – which I guess makes sense considering the second floor hallway looked like it belonged in a hotel as well. But I seem to be the only guest and that's never a good sign.
A crashing noise alerts me. It sounds like it came from somewhere behind the front desk area, but I can't be sure of the acoustics in this place.
"Hello?" I call out again, making my way to the reception area.
The countertops are barren: no paperwork, no brochures, no keys, not even one of those metal bells you ring for service. Feeling brave and a little nosy, I go behind the front desk where only employees are allowed. There's a door marked 'Employees Only' and my curiosity is immediately peaked.
I step closer to the wooden door, and have no time to call out in alarm when suddenly it opens towards me and smashes against my face. I call out a few undistinguishable, shocked, and angry noises from the impact and stagger backwards. When the blinding white light clears from my eyes, my gaze refocuses on the very alarmed features of Cordelia.
"Geez, Buffy," she exclaims, one hand against her heart. "Scare me much?"
I press my fingers against the bridge of my nose and tears start to stream from my eyes. "Geez, Cordelia," I counter. "Break my nose much?"
She waves a dismissive hand and casually strolls past me. "Oh, don't be such a baby," she says. "You're in LA. You can buy yourself a new nose."
I turn and watch her settled down at the reception desk with a jelly donut in hand.
"What is this place?" I ask.
"It's Angel's new office," she states between mouthfuls of pastry. "I forgot you haven't been here since we switched locations."
I shake my head, trying to collect my thoughts. The last time I was in LA – or at least the last time Sunnydale Buffy was in LA – had been years ago. I'd hopped the first bus to the city after Faith had taken off. After she'd stolen my body and slept with my boyfriend. Angel had practically banished me from coming back to his city after that confrontation, and Faith had turned herself into the police.
Faith.
I'd nearly forgotten she was here, too.
"Where's Angel?" I ask, hoping my tone doesn't sound too anxious.
Cordelia looks uncomfortable by my question. "He's not here," she reveals. "He's…he's looking for Connor."
"Who's that?" The name doesn't register with me.
"His baby."
"Oh. Right." Apparently a lot had happened since we'd last seen each other. He was a dad now. A dad. How the hell was that even possible?
"Um, so did he misplace him or something?" I ask, feeling terribly out of the loop. "Because I thought he'd be a more responsible father than that." I'm only half joking.
Cordelia looks suddenly tired. "It's complicated, Buffy," she says vaguely. "You've been out of Angel's life for a long time now. It's not like you can keep popping in and out of our lives like this. It's not fair to anyone."
Her words make me bristle. It's not like I'm doing this on purpose, after all. I have no idea why I'm even here in the first place.
"Can I use your phone?" I ask abruptly rather than try to defend my appearance.
The former Sunnydale beauty queen nods. "Yeah, there's a landline in there," she says, pointing towards the 'Employees Only' door.
I nod my thanks and head toward the door that has probably ruined my nose. I stop just before I breach the entrance. "By the way," I note, pausing at the swinging door. "How did I get into those pajamas last night?"
The smug smile on Cordelia's face is all the answer I need.
I call home, hoping to get a sense of why in the world I'd been traveling to LA. If I wasn't able to find Angel, since Cordelia was being less than forthcoming about his current whereabouts, I'd have to pull it out of Willow or Dawn.
Dawn answers the phone and she doesn't sound alarmed that I'm calling her, so I imagine I must have told her something about my plan. Not wanting to sound crazy (which ironically that's been a big concern of mine lately), I try to get details about my trip without sounding suspicious.
"How are things at home?" I ask casually.
I can almost hear her rolling her eyes. "Geez, Buffy," she complains. "You really didn't have to check in with me; you've been gone less than a day. I haven't had time to burn down the house yet or get knocked up."
"Ha-ha," I deadpan.
"So did you find her yet?" Dawn asks me eagerly. "Have you talked to her? How does she look?"
"Ah, no. Haven't found her yet," I say, not sure to whom my sister is referring. Maybe Cordelia?
"I wonder what she's like now," my sister muses aloud. "I mean, after spending all this time in prison –that's gotta change a person, right?"
Prison. The word makes my stomach drop as I suddenly realize my purpose for this trip.
Faith.
Cordelia waves out the window of her black compact car. "Okay, you two play nice now," she bellows out the open drivers' side window. "I'll be back in an hour after your play date."
I grit my teeth, but say nothing, as I watch Cordelia drive away. She honks once and I see her waving hand in the rear window one more time as she turns out the long driveway that leads away from the prison.
I guess I lucked out because Cordelia knew exactly where Faith was being incarcerated and how to get there. When I asked if she'd been visiting the Boston slayer, Cordelia just snorted. "As if," she muttered.
I have to check in with the prison guards when I first enter the facility. They ask me a bunch of questions and give me a long list of items I'm not allowed to have on me when I enter the visitation area. Luckily, I don't have any stakes on me, but I've gotten pretty good at explaining their purpose since my first days in Sunnydale.
A lanky blond guard leads me towards the visitation area. Some prisoners get to sit at cafeteria-style tables with their loved ones. Others are separated from their friends and family by plex-i-glass. I briefly wonder which I'll get…which I'd prefer.
I ask my escort if I'll get to sit at a table or in one of the private booths. "First time, huh?" he asks with a small smile.
I nod. "Yeah, I-I've been busy," I say lamely.
"It's okay," he reassures me with a surprisingly kind smile. "You're here now and that's what counts."
I nod guiltily and allow him to lead me toward one of the booths.
When they bring her in, I almost don't recognize her. Her hair is longer, maybe even a shade lighter from the sun. She must get to go out in The Yard pretty frequently. I think that's what it's called. Her face is a little fuller, the cleft in her chin a little more pronounced, no doubt from finally having three meals a day that don't consist of McDonald's value meals. The make-up I've been so accustomed to seeing painted on her face isn't there. Her face is scrubbed totally clean. I don't think I've ever seen her without make-up before.
And I can't forget to mention the orange jumpsuit. As if prison isn't bad enough, they force the inmates to wear the most unflattering shade of orange ever. At least it's not horizontal stripes though; I'd personally be on the phone to Amnesty International for that fashion crime.
I wonder what I look like to her.
Faith is in prison. Faith Is In Prison. I guess I never really thought about it much until now – which I know makes me a horrible person. I never really thought much about her when she was in a coma, either. She's right to hate me the way she does.
Even with the thick piece of plex-i-glass that separates us, I can see the shock on her face. I don't blame her. I'm shocked to be here myself. It's surreal – I feel like I'm on a movie set or something.
I pick up the black plastic phone from its receiver and sit down. I wonder how many other people have sat in this uncomfortable chair in this uncomfortable situation? I wish I had thought to brought some bleach wipes with me.
She still hasn't sat down yet and it's starting to unnerve me. Why won't she just sit down? Did I drag her away from something more interesting?
The tall guard standing behind her puts a hand on her shoulder. I can just make out his muffled command: "Sit. Down."
I half expect Faith to turn around and mouth off to the somber-looking man, but she obeys him instead.
She picks up her own phone and I notice the silver bracelets around her wrists. Inmates get to wear jewelry? It suddenly dawns on me what they are though. Handcuffs.
God, I'm an idiot.
We're silent for a moment.
"Hi," I say into the phone. God, I'm lame.
"Hey yourself," she replies casually. She's leaning back in her chair in a way that almost makes it look comfortable. I know it's not though. Nothing about this is easy.
I know I should say something. I'm the one who came to visit her, after all. But after all my fancy speeches I've ever given her, I'm suddenly without one.
"I…" I stop to fidget with the black cord that connects the plastic phone to the wall. What to say? After all this time? After all our lack of communication? I wonder if she knows that I died again. I wonder if she could feel it. I'm not ready to bridge that yet. The words seem to tumble unintentionally from my mouth: "My mom died."
She sits forward suddenly and her face reveals her concern. "Oh God, B," she rasps in a voice harder and raspier than I remember. Must be from all the smoking. "Was it…was it a vamp? Some kind of demon?" she worries aloud.
Her concern surprises me and a wave of emotion washes over me. I haven't thought about my mom's death in quite a while. My eyes suddenly sting and I rapidly blink to keep the tears at bay. "Brain aneurism," I choke out.
Her face looks suddenly quiet and contemplative and what I wouldn't give to be able to read her thoughts. The quiet unsettles me and I start to babble: "It…it was about a year ago," I say. "I'm sorry no one told you."
"S'ok, B," she murmurs into the phone. "I know you must have had a lot of things on your plate lately." Her dark eyes draw me in. It's like I'm seeing her for the first time. There's no anger. It's just…remorse…and it makes me ache all over.
In the cubical next to us a woman starts shrieking about something, and it snaps me out of my daze. I let out a frustrated sigh. "I hate talking to you like this."
As soon as the words come out I know she'll misinterpret them.
"You don't have to be here, you know," she mutters miserably. She slumps back into her chair, and I know I've lost her again. "Nobody made you come and nobody's making you stay."
I immediately begin to back-peddle. "I don't mean I hate talking to you," I self-correct. "I…I hate talking to you like this." I wave my hand around, motioning to our plastic cubical. "It's like you're a caged-up animal."
"That's because I am an animal, B," she snorts bitterly. "I wouldn't be locked up like this if it weren't true."
God damn it. Why does she always do this? Why does she always have to be so hard on herself?
Strangely, her mouth is no longer a frown. Instead, it's that mischievous smirk that was never too far from her lips. I'm immediately suspicious.
"What?" I demand. "What are you smiling about?"
She gives me a falsely innocent grin and leans closer to the glass that separates us. "There is another way we could talk, B," she rasps lowly into her telephone. I can't tell if she's trying to be mysterious or seductive with that tone of voice. Either way, it makes me wiggle uncomfortably in my chair. "Alone, I mean."
"Am I supposed to be waiting on pins and needles?" I deadpan, masking my unease with sarcasm. "All this time in prison must have messed with your ideas of what's good suspense."
Her next words take me by surprise. "It's called a conjugal visit," she snickers.
Oh my.
I snap my mouth closed, but I know she's gotten the best of me. It's always been a talent of hers – surprising me, that is. Well, I'm not that same girl anymore. I can make her squirm too.
I drop my voice to a low burr. "When can you arrange one?"
Her mouth opens and closes a few times comically like a goldfish feeding. When I suddenly realize what I'm proposing, however, I start to get nervous again.
"I don't mean…I don't want to…It would just be…" I struggle to form a complete thought, "…nice to talk to someone who doesn't look at me like I'm about to shatter into a million pieces."
She surprises me by standing up abruptly. Her movements are so quick, the legs of her chair shriek loudly against the linoleum floor.
"Come back around this time tomorrow," she orders tersely. She returns her chair back to its original position. "I haven't been crackin' skulls these past few weeks," she tells me with a casual smile, "so I'm probably due some perks."
My words seem to fail me again and I can only nod. Then Faith hangs up the phone, turns away from me, and exits without a second glance back.
The next day comes all too soon. I can see her through a large plate-glass window getting final instructions or something from a guard. He opens the heavy metal door and we're finally face-to-face for the first time in longer than I can remember.
She's still in prison orange and not wearing any make-up, but her hair looks damp as though it's freshly washed. I can smell the faint scent of bar soap on her. She looks good.
"Hi," I say shyly, not quite able to bring my eyes to meet hers.
"Nice outfit," she grunts.
I feel heat on my cheeks and I awkwardly tug at my skirt. I'm in a peasant skirt, tank top, cardigan, and gladiator sandals. It's a little dressy for a prison visit, and I don't want her getting any funny ideas, but I don't want to look like a slouch either.
"I had to borrow some clothes from Cordelia," I explain. "It's…it's a long story."
We're not exactly the same size anymore (but there's no way I'd ever say that to her face), but I'm grateful to have something besides the jeans and t-shirt I was wearing when I first got into L.A. It strikes me as very strange, and not at all like me, that I would have left Sunnydale without an overnight bag. Even if I wasn't planning on staying long, you'd think I would have at least brought along a toothbrush.
One of the guards chuckles and Faith spins. "Clock's a tickin'," she says angrily. "Where's our room?"
The broad-shouldered man adjusts his gun belt and nods in the direction of a short hallway. "Down there," he says.
I follow the guard down the hallway with Faith close behind. I wonder what she's thinking about. I wonder what she's expecting from this conjugal visit.
The guard lets us into a small room. It's not much to look at. The walls are cold, painted cinderblocks. The linoleum is a dirty off-white color. Only a bed that better resembles a double cot adorns the room.
"Are there cameras in here?" I ask, looking around the space. There aren't any windows or mirrors that could serve as double mirrors, but you never know what kind of perverts run this prison. They could be making money off of inmate porn, you never know.
Faith passes by me, the fabric of her jumpsuit unintentionally brushing against my arm. "Not that I know of," she says in an almost bored tone. She sits down on the bed and grabs onto her knees.
I continue to stand awkwardly in the center of the room. Am I supposed to sit down next to her? Sit on the floor? I don't know what to do with myself.
"Don't worry, B," she chuckles, not unkindly. "They're not gonna know this isn't a real conjugal visit."
I can't explain what comes over me next. It's like I have something to prove to her. Something to prove to myself. Before she can react, I'm flying at her and crushing my lips hard against hers. I still don't know what I'm doing, or why I'm doing it though. My hands are everywhere, touching her, but yet it's not enough.
She's obviously surprised by my actions. Hell, I'm surprised. She doesn't react, however, until I boldly push my tongue past her lips and into her mouth.
Faith gives out a startled cry. "B," she gasps, pulling away from me, "w-what the fuck are you doin'?"
The crying is almost as unexpected as the kissing. "Please," I sob. "I just…I just need to feel something." I pull at her arms, hoping she'll just touch me even if it repulses her. I feel so needy and pathetic. "I just feel so empty and confused," I cry. "Y-you can't understand what I've been going through the past few days."
Instead of giving in to my pleas, however, she stands up and walks away. Her back is turned to me for a moment before she spins on her heels and faces me. "Try me," she challenges. "We've got time.
I stand up and take a step toward her. I glide my hand up the side of her face and feel her body stiffen. My heart feels like it's going to fall out of my chest. Why does she have to make everything so difficult? I'm literally throwing myself at her and she's denying me? I can't handle any more cruelty or confusion right now.
"I'd rather not waste our time talking about me," I say. My voice is quiet, almost like a mouse. When did I become so timid?
I don't know why I kiss her again. Maybe it's because I know she won't treat me like I'm crazy or fragile or vulnerable. Maybe it's because she reminds me of my hospital staffer. Or maybe I like the orderly so much because she reminds me of Faith. It's too much to think about, and I've had to do far too much thinking lately – it's exhausting. I was never the brain of the operation – research was Giles and Willow's area. I was just the brawn.
I really did have every intension of just talking to her, but now, being here with her, alone, the words fail me, my questions are silenced, and all I want to do is feel comforted. Although she's the last person I'd expect to find comfort from, she doesn't know what's been going on with me lately, and I want to keep it that way. I just need something uncomplicated right now.
Her hands slide down my back, and she pulls me closer. She deepens the kiss and alarms explode in my head. I'm kissing Faith. This isn't some hospital attendant with a penchant for Parcheesi and a warm grin. This is Faith.
She must be one helluva talented kisser though because I feel the air around us shift and the floor starts to slip away from beneath my feet. I feel like I'm falling and her lips are warm and soft and greedy and I'm on fire. I close my eyes because it's all too much; my senses are on overload. If I knew kissing her would feel like this, I would have done it a long time ago.
When I finally open my eyes, I'm no longer in LA. I take that back. I'm in LA, but I'm not in prison with Faith. I'm in the asylum with her look-a-like.
"Y-you're awake," she says, her face looking startled. "I kissed you and you woke up. It's like out of a friggin' fairytale or something."
"Then I guess that makes you my Prince Charming," I respond.
I don't know what I'm doing, but it feels like the right thing to do, so I go back to kissing her and she immediately returns the enthusiastic embrace. Moments later, a startled gasp causes me to break away from those damn addictive lips.
It's Dr. Primrose.
When the doctor's initial shock passes, her face clouds over.
"I told you not to cross that line again," she says in a low tone. She's looking right at my Faith-look-alike. "I warned you not to get involved with Buffy Summers."
I can't help but think that this is one story without a happy ending.
TBC