AN: Thanks very much to everyone who's taken the time to read, review, follow and/or favorite so far. For anyone wondering where the 'romance' is, I wasn't kidding about the slow burn, but it will turn up (W/F is my OTP, but they have a lot of issues to sort through); for anyone who finds Chapter Eight a tad unusual/disjointed/WTF-is-going-on-here?-ish, the narrative structure/style is deliberate, but certainly not intended to cause undue confusion - all I can really advise is, enjoy the trip!

Eight: Can't You Hear Me Knocking, Pt. 3

Buffy looked at Willow. "Should we bring her round? She's all magic-free now, isn't she?"

Willow was studying the other witch, bound upright to the ladderback chair in the middle of the room. Taking a breath, the redhead muttered a few words in what Faith assumed was Latin, and Amy Madison's head jerked upward, eyes snapping open like someone just stuck her with a cattle prod. Blinking a few times, she glanced from side to side for a moment before looking up at the three women standing in front of her.

"Nice nap?" Faith asked.

"I've had better," said Amy. She tilted her head and a smirk appeared. "I know you … you're Faith, right? The other Slayer? We never really got to know each other back in the old days, but I've heard some interesting things since." She turned to Willow. "So, either your power's shrunk to the point where you need brute force to get things done, or you're such a big shot now, you get two big shot Slayers to watch your back. Hmm, which is it? I wonder …"

"Well, it's not the first one, dipshit," said Faith. "The fact you couldn't float a fuckin' doily right now should tell you something."

Amy raised an eyebrow, her eyes still on Willow. "And they talk for you too. I guess it must be the second one."

"Be quiet," snapped Willow. "You should be grateful Buffy knocked you out. You don't wanna know what I would've done."

"Well, so far, aiding and abetting an assault, holding me here against my will ... I wonder what kind of jail-time a person —"

"Yeah, we were wondering what kinda time someone might get for that yucky stuff you've got stashed in your suitcase," Buffy said. "Willow says some of it's not totally legal. And can I just say, the African bullfrog thingy? That's just gross."

Amy Madison narrowed her eyes, looked like she was about to say something smart in reply, then seemed to reconsider and said instead, "Why are you here?"

"That's kinda what we want to know," said Willow. "I mean, we know why we're here, in this room, 'cause we wanna know why you're here. You know, where we are? But, we wanna know why you're here. So … that's why we're here."

Faith sighed quietly and took a cigarette from the pack in her pocket. Lighting up, she took a long drag.

Amy smirked again. "Isn't this a non-smoking —"

"Boo fuckin' hoo." Faith exhaled a thin stream of smoke past Amy's ear.

Willow cleared her throat, focusing on the other witch again. "And not that I'm not pleased to see you after last time ..."

Amy flinched at that. "Listen, I had no idea what was going to —"

"And you didn't care when you did know," Willow said tightly.

Faith glanced down, saw Willow's hand clenched rigidly into a white-knuckled fist held stiffly at her side. Buffy was looking too, probably wondering if they were gonna have to turn it into a round of good cop/bad cop/other-indifferent-sort-of-cop.

"Look," Buffy said, "we just wanna know why you're here."

"I heard there was a pretty impressive Wicca group in the area, that's all." Amy gave them an innocent wide-eyed look, the kind of look practically designed to piss Faith off, like she thought they were stupid or something.

She kicked one of the legs of the chair and Amy turned her gaze toward her.

"No, really ... you know, fresh start."

"Don't fuck with us," Faith snarled.

"Oh, my!" Amy gave a small, startled laugh. She cocked her head to the side, eyes narrowed. "Say, is it true you're pretty much a total psychopath? Is this a good day for you?"

"Ignore her, Faith," said Buffy with a sigh. "And, Amy, since you're not exactly the sanest sandwich in the picnic basket, the name-calling really isn't cool."

"Did you leave a message for us … me … at the crater?" Willow asked.

The other witch looked at her. "What kind of message?" Her mouth dropped open. "It's not your birthday is it?"

"And why were you asking about Willow at the hotel?" said Buffy.

Amy gazed back at her for a moment, then slowly turned away to face the wall opposite, once again wearing one of those really fucking annoying smirks.

"What, are we done talking?" said Buffy, raising her eyebrows.

"God, I hope so," said Faith.

Amy looked at Buffy again. "If this spell's the one I'm thinking of, it's gonna wear off in, what, about an hour? So, I think I'm just gonna wait."

Buffy looked at Willow, who nodded slightly, with an apologetic curl of her lip thrown in for good measure.

Faith studied the witch, hands tied behind the back of the chair, feet bound to the front legs, the so far unused gag they'd torn from a towel in the bathroom hanging loose around her neck, while a faint bruise was beginning to rise below the corner of her lip. Funny the kinds of things that were familiar to her by now, mostly thanks to her own fucked up sense of unfairness and injustice.

But, that was part of the punishment, wasn't it? Where a girl tied to a chair in a shitty motel room wasn't the worst thing she'd ever participated in. Not even close. Still, one of the warped benefits of those kinds of memories was that she'd always have some past form to draw on. And, right now, those memories were giving her a really bad idea.

"Fifteen minutes, that's all I need." Letting the butt of her cigarette drop to the parking lot below, Faith leaned back against the rail of the balcony, glancing through the narrow gap created by the door left slightly open, into the room where Amy was still tied up and saying nothing.

Buffy looked at the other Slayer from where she stood next to the doorway. "I don't know …"

"Well, she's not gonna talk without at least a little incentive."

"Incentive? What does that mean?"

"Means makin' her talk."

Willow frowned. "You're not gonna do anything … horrible, are you?"

"Fine, here, take the knife." Faith pulled an eight-inch hunting knife from the inside of her coat and handed to Buffy. "Happy?"

The other Slayer sighed loudly. "Okay, fine. Go talk to her. But, Faith, if you do anything …"

"Just fifteen minutes alone. Swear I won't touch a hair on the bitch's head."

Buffy and Willow stepped away from the doorway and Faith entered the room, closing the door behind her. It was only when she turned the bolt and snapped the security bar into place that Amy chose to acknowledge her. She tilted her head, eyebrow raised.

"Is this the part where I get oh-so scared and tell you everything?"

Faith nodded as she crossed the room. "Pretty much, yeah." She stood in front of the chair, hands tucked inside the pockets of her jeans, and looked down at the other woman with a smile. "You a murderer, Amy?"

"No, you'd have to talk to Willow about —"

"See, I am. You know that, right? But, the difference between Willow and me? I don't have to know who's on the end of my 'anger management issues' or 'cycle of whatever-the-fuck-you-wanna-call-it'. Don't get me wrong, helps if I've got a name, Amy, but I don't have to see my one and only spilled on the floor or swap sticky magic fluids with some loser who had to give himself a cool new handle …"

Amy looked up.

"C'mon, Rack? You know that dude was a Norman or Eugene, right?"

"I've no idea what his —"

"No, difference is, Willow likes to have a reason – which, by the way, in my opinion, you pretty much fit the bill after what you did to her last time around. Me? Just gotta gimme a sharp object and point me somewhere I can stick it."

"Too bad you gave Buffy your knife. I heard."

Moving to the bed, Faith propped her right foot on the corner post and pulled the leg of her pants up, drawing a five-inch switchblade from where it was tucked inside her boot. Standing up straight again, she touched the trigger with her thumb and the blade sprang upright with a satisfying click. Faith looked at the witch.

"Hey, look, a spare."

Amy's eyes widened. "You swore you wouldn't touch a hair on my head."

Faith crossed the room and, crouching down, rested her free hand on Amy's thigh, letting her fingers brush along the hem of the witch's short skirt. She leaned close until her lips were just a fraction away from the other woman's ear. "That still leaves plenty other places, Amy."

The witch's eyes, even wider now, darted to the locked and bolted motel room door.

"Oh, and if you're a screamer?" Faith tugged the gag up over the witch's mouth, smiled at the muffled whimper she heard from behind the strip of bathroom towel. "Well, too bad."

"I really don't like this, Willow." Buffy paced the walkway, trying not to look nervous, the effort no doubt diminished somewhat by, well, the visible pacing activity she was currently undertaking.

"I don't like it either, Buffy, but what else are we supposed to do?"

"I don't know." The Slayer stopped, eyeing the door of the motel room warily. "It's just, Faith plus fun-with-knives? Not usually of the good."

"She uses them all the time," Willow reminded her, then added quickly, "You know, not that she's going to use that one. It's just ... pretendy stuff."

"But, you know, the whole torture thing ..." Buffy trailed off with an apologetic wince, while the other woman shrugged awkwardly.

"Pretendy torture," Willow said quietly.

Buffy breathed a silent sigh. The brilliant plan. Let the psycho loose on ... the other psycho; let her reputation do the work. With the help of a prop, of course. But, Faith was different now, wasn't she? Faith cared about fighting evil and about other people; Faith had a nice ex-sort-of-boyfriend in Cleveland; Faith liked to play touch football on Saturday afternoons with girls who looked up to her; Faith always remembered to put a newspaper on the kitchen counter when she cleaned her boots; Faith liked to goad Buffy and see her squirm and ... okay, some things weren't so different.

Still, Buffy couldn't help thinking she should have put up more of a protest, tried to figure out another approach when Faith came up with the idea of an all-too-real role-playing game, delivering her pitch in a low voice a few doors down from Amy's room, before they'd let the witch hear what they'd wanted her to hear. But, Buffy had agreed to it, however reluctantly, because ...

Because she was pissed off enough to let her do it. Pissed off when she looked at Willow and remembered how frail and vulnerable she'd seemed while she'd slept in Buffy's arms, pissed off because it hurt to have Tara used like that and she missed Tara. She was tired of fighting with Faith in new and exciting places, of grouchy, asshole Wiccan guys, of creepy doubles, of hanging around the biggest graveyard in Southern California like the vacation from hell. She just wanted the other Slayer to do her thing so they could get out of there, go home, and leave the weird little cattle-happy vamps to catch some undead strain of mad cow disease.

With a louder sigh this time, Buffy leaned forward and pressed her ear to the door. "I can't hear anything. That's gotta be … good, maybe?"

Crouched down in front of the chair, elbows resting on her knees, Faith tapped the open switchblade quietly and slowly against the seat between the witch's thighs. Steady like a clock, like the water she could hear dripping from the faucet in the bathroom. She pictured the basin, off-white with age and ground-in dirt, scarred with spidery cracks, and the water snaking its way toward the drain, leaving a pale trail behind it until the next drop hit. The rest of the place wasn't exactly a palace either. Fucking dump. The kind of digs she was way too familiar with. Fit mostly for a rat, former or otherwise.

Faith brought the tapping to a sudden stop and stood up, holding the knife loosely between her thumb and fingers, letting it swing casually back and forth like a pendulum.

"You know, before I get started," she said, "I think we should have a talk. And by that, I mean I'm gonna talk and you're gonna … well … have to listen."

A frown formed around the gag in Amy's mouth.

Faith smiled. "See, you might not know me too well, Amy, but, I got a pretty good handle on you. You know, your big mad-on for the redhead?"

Amy looked up at her, eyes sullen but uneasy.

"Yeah, kinda hard to watch someone get everything you want, everyone falling over themselves to kiss her ass while all you get's left behind with a bad rep. But, here's the thing: I know what happens when you get what you want. See, I'm pretty sure Willow wouldn't mind swapping skins a day or two. Willow gets inside you, you get to be Willow. And you know what that means?"

The witch stared at her for a moment, then shook her head.

"Said it yourself: you get to be a murderer. You get a bunch of newbies lookin' at you like they don't know whether to give you a hug or hide when they see you comin'. Means you get to wake up in the morning not knowing if you can make it through the day without snapping the neck of some little asswipe who cuts you off in the grocery store parking lot. You get Buffy Summers worryin' about what might happen if she ever has to throw down with you again. Plus, you get the very special bonus of a dead girlfriend and some bitch who just can't leave it alone. That's the chick you're so hot for."

Amy blinked and looked away and Faith sighed, crouching down again in front of the chair. Reaching out, she grabbed hold of the witch's chin, putting a little more pressure than strictly necessary on the emerging bruise, and turned the other woman's head around until she was facing her again.

"Amy, don't look away. Not when I've got a confession to make." Faith pressed the tip of the blade against the other woman's thigh, her eyes flicking toward the door. She kept her voice low. "They know about this knife."

Amy's eyes darted to the door, then back again.

"Yeah, supposed to be a bluff so's I can pull the Psycho Slayer act. You know, big, bad Faith goin' off the rails again? Sure, they're standing out there telling themselves they trust me, but, fact is, Buffy Holier-Than-Thou Summers and Glinda the Born-Again sent the murderer with mental health issues in here with a knife. And you know why?"

Amy shook her head as Faith leaned back a little, letting the switchblade push down into the witch's flesh, turning the skin white around the blade. A tremor ran along the length of the weapon; she could feel it vibrate against the palm of her hand. The other woman's knee was shaking.

"'Cause they think you're using Tara to mess with Willow again and that's kinda upsetting for her. So, far as the Chosen One's concerned, all bets are off."

Amy blinked and Faith smiled.

"Yeah, had to piece some of it together from before my time, but, truth is, Buffy'll do anything for that girl. Want your honey to send you to hell? Put Willow in a coma. Get your box of spiders back so's you can turn Sunnydale into an all-you-can-eat? Trade it for the redhead. I mean, here's a chick who destroyed a Hell God and put the First Evil in a coma, but she couldn't take down a pissed-off witch? Look at this, for Christsake – we coulda pulled the same stunt with Willow herself, but B doesn't wanna lose her to the 'dark side' again, doesn't wanna put temptation in her way. Doesn't much care if I take a trip back to Psychoville, but Willow's too important to her."

The tremor seemed to get stronger then and Faith looked down, saw her own hand trembling, almost shaking. She snatched the knife away, barely glancing at the mark she'd left on the witch's skin as she rose to her feet, moved away from the chair, and turned around.

Catching her reflection in the dark grey of the blank television screen, she saw the light pushing through the closed window drapes cast one half of her in shadow, the other half pale and ghostly. Cartoon evil, Jekyll and Hyde bullshit. She touched the recently acquired welt on her lip, courtesy of her very own demon, created from a power so overwhelming it had, according to its owner, come from nothing more than a thought she couldn't even remember having while she'd slept. Sucking in a deep breath, Faith felt the tremors begin to subside, and turned back. Reaching out, she tugged the gag down.

"Bottom line is, you fuck with Willow, you fuck with Buffy. That's how it works. So, you can scream all you want, Amy. I'm willin' to bet the Cavalry's not comin'."

Amy choked out a strangled cough. "Why are you telling me this?"

"'Cause I want you to be clear about why I don't mind doin' the dirty work. I mean, I like Willow okay. We've been getting along pretty well since I got back, but, that's a sidenote."

"You still don't have to do whatever they —"

"Didn't let me finish, Amy. Reason I offered to do it is 'cause you and I know that one of these days, no matter how much B doesn't want it to happen, Willow's gonna go off the deep end again. I don't know ... maybe she'll meet some other cute chick with a killer smile and a nice rack and everything'll be just rosy; and then, one day, it all comes crashing down. Willow's gonna lose it again, only this time with a fuckload more firepower. And when that happens, I know whose side I wanna be on."

Faith sat back against the TV cabinet, ran her thumb along the flat of the blade. She smiled.

"So, right now, I'm on the Yay for the Redhead team and if that means inflicting a little pain just so's Willow can deal with some issues, I'll do it, 'cause I want her to remember that I was there for her. Hell, I'll let Willow ride me like a broomstick if it means, come Judgment Day, I get to play sidekick instead of gettin' my ass handed to me."

Crossing the room, Faith pulled out another chair, dropped it on the floor by the side of the witch, and straddled it. She swept Amy's hair from her shoulder and let the tip of the blade slide slowly down the side of the other woman's face.

"So, we ready to talk, or d'you want me to prove just how far I'm willin' to go for my seat at the Wiccan's right hand?"

Amy swallowed. "Okay, fine, I'll tell —"

And a sudden buzzing noise cut her off.

"Oh, for fuck's sake." Faith dug into her pocket and pulled out her cell phone. Flipping it open, she glanced quickly at the display before holding the phone to her ear, listening to the quiet voice at the other end, urgency and worry cutting through the apologetic tone.

She closed the phone over again, crossed the room and unlocked the door.

"Did you get anything?" Buffy asked. Faith stepped aside as the two women looked past her into the room.

"Got a call just when she was about to spill. We gotta get out of here."

"What's up?" Willow asked.

"Something that really kinda sucks."

"So, am I free to go?" Amy asked behind her.

Faith returned to the chair and began to undo the binds. "Not finished with you yet," she said. "You're comin' with us."

The moment Amy's hands and feet were free, she stood up and jabbed a finger at Faith, almost close enough so the Slayer could have bitten it off. "You can't trust her. She told me you knew about the knife and about how she'd do anything to —"

"Shut the hell up," Faith snapped.

"You told her about the knife?" Buffy blinked.

"Look, we don't have time to deal with this right now." Faith grabbed hold of Amy's arm. "And, yeah, nice to know you've still got a little bit of rat left in you."

Some Girls #4

Cutting herself; it had seemed like such a cliché, even at the time. It hadn't helped her feel any more in control either, or feel anything much at all. The pain didn't bring her relief, because numbness wasn't her problem. She prayed for numbness.

But, it had almost been worth it just to see the disgust and disappointment on his face as he'd studied each of the cuts in turn – like, how could she do this to him?

When she left, the cutting stopped and the wounds on her arm turned into pink scabs and scars she covered with long, loose sleeves. Sleeves she forgot to roll down one afternoon when Faith showed up at her room in the Super-8 laden with convenience store snacks and news from Giles about some guy in England he'd contacted that morning.

"Somethin' you want to tell me?"

So, she'd told her. Sitting cross-legged on top of a lumpy mattress while a grape-flavored slushy melted inside the cup in her hand. Amazing how still Faith had stood while she'd listened, fingers wedged inside the pockets of her jeans, head tilted slightly, lower lip turned out. Not knowing what to say to her about a different kind of monster, the kind like that song her brother used to play in the car, keeping time on the steering wheel with the flat of his hands while he mouthed the words silently to himself:

The mugger, the rapist, the arsenic lover,

All smile out from the news, at one time or another,

Those smiles, those garish sickly smiles ...

Willow pulled up alongside Caridad's car at the front of the apartment building and they got out.

"You knew about this?" said Buffy. "Why didn't you say something?"

Faith slammed the car door shut. "Promised I wouldn't."

"What, so you're integrity-girl all of a sudden?"

Willow visibly flinched. "Buffy ..."

"Okay, sorry." Buffy sighed as they made their way along the footpath to the building's front door. "But, we could have gotten her some help."

"You mean some touchy-feely Council shrink sits her down and tells her it wasn't her fault?" Faith said. "Believe it or not, think she already got the memo about that."

"We could have gone to the cops."

"C'mon, you gotta know the rules, B. One lousy screw and it's open season. Think maybe she was dressed 'wrong' too or, you know, she was breathing or whatever. Girl's been through the fuckin' wringer. Figured she was safe now."

Buffy nodded, whether in agreement or not about the total shittiness of the situation, Faith wasn't sure. "Okay, I understand, but, first thing, we've gotta stop her doing something she's gonna regret."

"Well, if you ask me," said Amy, "I wouldn't blame her if she did do something and didn't regret it at all."

"Good thing no one's askin' you then," said Faith.

Amy raised an eyebrow. "You know, you really should pick one theme and stick with it. I like torturing perfectly innocent people ... I hate bad guys ... I wouldn't want to see some creepy little —"

"Listen, Rizzo, you and I've still got some quality time left to make up. So, if I was you, I'd pipe the fuck down." They reached the front door. "Where the hell's Caridad? Said she was gonna wait for us outside. Oh, Christ, if she's not here …"

Inside the building, they made their way upstairs quickly to the unlocked apartment door and went inside.

The body lay face-down in the middle of the floor, blood seeping out from underneath, like the stupid fuck had fallen face-first into a puddle of jelly.

Amy pursed her lips. "Looks like the cavalry didn't quite get here on —"

"Shut the fuck up!" Faith barked. As she moved closer to the body she glanced at Buffy, saw her bottom lip tremble, fingers raking unsteadily through her hair – another fucking nightmare dropped at her feet to deal with. Meanwhile, Willow was looking on with what might have seemed to the casual observer like some kind of expressionless shock on her face – mouth stuck in the default setting, corners sagging ever so slightly downward, dark eyes staring blankly, the secret hiding place for thoughts she didn't want to give away betrayed only by the tiny spark pushing its way through.

Finally, Faith looked at the figure hunched forward on the couch, blonde hair spiky with sweat, hands trembling, breathing a mix of quiet wheezes and jagged gasps, sucked and exhaled through a pair of pale, dry lips.

"I thought it was okay to leave them alone if he was here," said Caridad. "Then, when I came back to check ..."

Buffy was staring at the bloody knife in the boy's hand. "You did this?"

The girl's brother looked up, eyes red and tired with pain and fear and worry and, finally now, relief. He glanced at his sister, crying quietly by the window, Caridad standing next to her with an arm wrapped around her shoulders. He shrugged and looked back at the Chosen One, spoke in a quiet, watery choke:

"I couldn't let her do it. She's one of the good guys."

The three of them stood in the bedroom with the door leading into the living room left ajar – an emergency meeting for want of a better phrase in a location that could probably have been better too. But, the illusion of privacy would have to suffice; despite Willow's instructions to Caridad to keep an eye on Amy and alert them should anything 'weird' happen, a closed door was a barrier she wasn't keen on putting between herself and Amy's potential to cause trouble.

"We can't ask him to turn himself in, Buffy."

Buffy looked at her and it was only then Willow realized she was the one who'd spoken. She hadn't meant to, not for want of anything to say, but for fear of saying too much too quickly. Of sounding panicked and rushed when, in reality, she'd already considered the matter, if not quite from every angle, from enough sides to count as reasonable at least. She even had a name for each perspective: Pot, Kettle and Black. She waited for Buffy's response, for a stammered reprove, verging on disbelief, but instead, the Slayer turned to Faith.

"If he goes to the cops, what kind of time will he get? Will he even do any time?"

"What, you mean once they're done showing what an upstanding guy Mr No Longer Upstanding was? Sorry, B, I'm with Willow on this one."

"Of course you are."

"Hey, you wanna start adding up all our little crimes and misdemeanors, there's none of us saints, Buffy. Only difference right now is, Willow did a stint in Wicca rehab and I spent three years in the joint. C'mon, you think about it, Xander's just about the only one not responsible for padding out a body bag at least once."

"This is different," Buffy said. Her brow scrunched up slightly, as if she were trying to sort through very carefully whatever words might follow. "Willow was grieving and you … you needed help."

If Faith was at all angered or offended or even just surprised at Buffy's assessment of her stint on the homicidal side of the tracks, she recovered quickly with a shrug. "So, maybe it's just not different enough. We turn this guy in, we're not helpin' anyone."

Buffy sighed heavily, shoulders sagging. "It just feels ... I don't know. God, did I mention how much this sucks?"

Faith tucked her fingers into the pockets of her jeans, sucking on her upper lip, eyebrows knit together in deliberation. "Look, we're not talkin' about some random psycho. Fucker got what was comin' to him and ..." The note of quiet determination in her voice seemed to waver for an instant before normal service was resumed. "And I'm sorry if I can't work up the enthusiasm to get all weepy about it."

Buffy's own expression turned frosty. "Didn't we have this conversation before one time?"

"Hey, this guy wasn't caught in the crossfire – he was a fuckin' sleazebag. You think he gave the damage he was doin' to her a second thought?"

"And that makes it okay?"

"No, I'm not sayin' that. Quit puttin' words in my mouth."

"Well, stop acting like this is just some great karmic retribution."

"Nah, I'm thinkin' more live like a prick, die like a —"

"Willow!"

The panicked tone in Caridad's voice brought the verbal skirmish to an abrupt halt, bringing the three of them back out into the living room. As Willow stepped past the body, the smell of something metallic hit her: energy and blood fusing together, twisting around each other, melting into one. Following Caridad's wildly pointing finger, she saw Amy's body twitch convulsively, eyes wide and glowing, her head bobbing back and forth like a rag doll caught in the jaws of a puppy.

Then, suddenly, it stopped and Amy looked at her, lips curved.

"Time's up," said the witch and raised her hands, fingers stretched toward the middle of the room, where Buffy and Faith were standing.

Willow yelled, lifting her own hand to stop it, not even considering where she might be drawing her weapon from – no time to mess around with white earth magic – but, before the bolt of energy could leave her, an almost blinding red light erupted, then flames, and another more sickly and familiar smell: burning flesh, intestines, bones, teeth, hair.

"There," Amy said brightly. "Problem solved."

Through the swell of queasiness rising in her stomach, Willow felt the tension release from her muscles, the fledgling dark energy fizzling to nothing as the smoke disappeared and she saw what Amy had done.

Saw Faith and Buffy gaping at the charred, empty space on the floor between them.

Buffy glared at Amy. "Are you insane?"

"Oh, don't give me that look," Amy scoffed. "You protect murderers and God knows who else, but getting rid of a dead rapist somehow crosses a line?" She looked at Caridad, who, in turn, looked like she was about to lose her breakfast. "Sorry about your floor. You probably won't get your deposit back."

"Yeah, I'm going with insane." Buffy threw her arms in the air.

Faith poked at the freshly singed wood with the toe of her boot a couple of times, then stepped away again with a shrug. "Rat Girl's got a point, though. Can't turn the guy in now. Besides, you wanna try explaining all this to the former-Sunnydale boys and girls in blue?"

She looked at Willow then.

Who held her gaze for as long as she could before the spark of recognition she saw in the Slayer's eyes forced her to turn away.

She shut the apartment door behind her. Walked swiftly down the hall.

Anya. Demon-Anya. Annoying-Anya. Ex-girlfriend-of-Xander-Anya.

Kind-of-attractive-Anya.

Kind-of-attractive-helpful-Anya. Who might not know how to talk to people without scaring them or pissing them off, but Anya got it. The magic and the pain.

Bossy too, so she wouldn't let Willow slip ...

And for a brief second, all she'd seen was an attractive, helpful, kinda really forward woman standing in front of her. Then she'd caught herself. Thank God.

Bad thoughts. The worst. Apart from anything else, Anya was just so, well ... annoying.

Nice hair color though.

God, she was lonely.

Flicking a short length of ash into one of the plant beds beside her feet, Faith stood in the courtyard and pulled on her cigarette, the tobacco hit serving a duel purpose this time around: feeding the addiction as well as masking the smell of burnt rapist that was lingering around her nasal passages.

Buffy was still upstairs, sorting things out with Caridad, now that the other junior Slayer and her brother were headed back to the family home. Meanwhile Willow and Amy stood at the other side of the courtyard next to the gate of the arched passageway leading to the front of the building, looking at each other with … not contempt … more like a weary sort of boredom, while they wrapped things up.

"Well, I'd like to say it was fun catching up, but …" Amy shrugged.

Willow looked at her, eyes narrowed. "And you're honestly sayin' you didn't leave that message?"

The other witch paused for a second, then sighed. "Okay, I'm not gonna lie. I heard on the grapevine from Tucson that you were headed to Sunnydale and I was curious, but that's all. I didn't leave any message anywhere."

"Then who did?"

"How should I know? Maybe it was your dead girlfriend …"

Faith saw Willow's shoulders tense. "Amy, now's really not the best time –"

"Or, far more likely, you're projecting. You know, it wouldn't be the first time that big brain of yours got all screwy and you did something weird to yourself."

"You think I put that message there?"

"Well, far be it from me to suggest you're a narcissistic egotist, but having your girlfriend still pining for you in the afterlife might just be the kind of thing you'd be into."

"Amy, shut up," Willow snapped.

"What? You come back to Sunnydale – or what's left of it – and suddenly Tara decides to make an appearance? You know, the kind of appearance where she doesn't actually appear anywhere? The only way it could be more pathetic is if you started smelling phantom pancakes in the morning. She's dead, she's probably happy wherever she is, get over it."

Up until now, Buffy's earlier diagnosis aside, Faith had been swinging back and forth on whether Amy was just a little unhinged or merely just stupid. Right now, as she watched Willow's jaw clench hard as steel, face burning and nostrils flaring, 'batshit crazy' was looking like the one to beat.

But, the surprises kept on coming. All of a sudden, Willow's outrage seemed to deflate like a burst balloon and she was looking back at Amy with sad, tired eyes and a lip curled uncertainly.

"I … I don't know. Maybe I did?"

"You know you did," Amy sneered. "But, on the bright side, now you can go home to whatsername with a clearer conscience."

"Huh?"

"Your other bodyguard … I assume she's an actual Slayer now."

"Kennedy," Willow said. "She wasn't my bodyguard. And … we're not together anymore."

"Chased another one away? What did you do this time?"

Willow sighed. "Did it ever occur to you … you know, while you were busy trying to get me to murder —"

"Let's not blow it out of proportion," Amy snorted. "It's not like murder's such a huge deal for you. I mean, you've even got a homicidal friend to play with now, who, by the way, shouldn't she be in prison still ..."

"Hey, standin' right here," Faith drawled, but the two women barely glanced at her. Instead, Willow took a step forward and, while Faith couldn't swear on it, she was pretty sure she saw a spark of electricity – and not the metaphorical kind – as the redhead grabbed hold of the other witch's upper arm, squeezing tight.

"You can never prove what I did, Amy. We both know that. Faith's a different matter. But, until we fix that, if you do anything stupid, like sic the cops on her? I'll hunt you down and I'll end you. Do you hear me?"

The hand holding the cigarette on its way to Faith's lips came to a halt. She tilted her head, watching while Amy stared back at the redhead with a sullen, poisonous look in her eyes.

"Fine," the witch said, shaking herself free from Willow's grasp. She rubbed her arm, the smirk returning. "Looks like your new bestie might be onto something."

Willow frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"Oh, you know, your little psych-out game this morning? She had some really interesting things to say about your future …"

Shit. Faith tossed her cigarette to the ground and started for the other side of the courtyard. "Hey, Willow? Reckon B must be about done upstairs. We should probably get goin'." She turned to the other witch. "Can't say it was a pleasure, Amy, and I'm sure there's a cozy little sewer somewhere you need to get back to …"

Amy's eyes narrowed. This time, the contempt was loud and clear. "The rat comments? Really getting old."

Willow sighed. "Amy, unless you want me to magic you to a third rail on the New York subway, just go."

"I'm going," said the witch testily. With a final smirk, she turned and opened the gate, heading down the passageway until she reached the parking area and disappeared around the corner.

Faith looked at Willow as they made their way back across the courtyard. "Gotta say, far as arch-enemies go, you could probably do better."

"Hmm," Willow replied distractedly, lower lip turned out, deep in thought. She looked at Faith. "Do you think I put that message there?"

Faith shrugged. "Not really sure how the whole 'doing yourself' mojo works."

"Stress, anxiety, guilt … Other people get hives, I do stuff like make my friends not exist and turn myself into a guy."

Faith nodded slowly. "Guess the last couple days have been kinda stressful …"

"Exactly," Willow sighed. "God, I suck."

Faith pulled the door to the apartment building open. Just before Willow passed her, she paused, eyeing the Slayer's coat with curiosity.

"Hey, is that your new police jacket?"

Faith rolled her eyes. "Go ahead – make the crack."

"No, it's nice," Willow said and smiled a little.

They went inside and headed upstairs, just in time for the sky to open up again behind them. As the sound of heavy rainfall reached her ears, Faith cast her mind to a mountain of rubble beside a crater barely twenty miles away, pictured a small collection of carefully arranged stones being slowly swallowed up by the muddy earth around it, until it disappeared.