The sun had already set by the time Buffy jogged up to the unassuming house. Dropping her weapons bag in the yard, she dug out a crossbow. She rammed a bolt home and stuffed a few replacements into the waistband of her pants. That covered distance fighting. Buffy frowned and grabbed a dagger, just in case hand to hand was the only option.
A quick twist of her wrist broke the flimsy lock on the screen door. Buffy crept inside the dim house, senses extended. The Hellhound was here; she could feel it. Buffy searched for Tucker and his pet, wending her way through the furniture and debris that littered the cramped rooms. The house was empty.
"Where are you, Tucker?" she muttered, heading towards yet another cluttered room.
Following the pull of her Slayer senses, Buffy ended up in the kitchen. Unlike the rest of the house, the room was clean and devoid of furniture. Buffy stood in the doorway, looking for anything to explain the feelings assaulting her nerve endings. Buffy started to smile, as her eyes swept over every surface,. The rug. That had to be it. Three quick strides brought her to the multicolored covering. She bent over, examining it closely. At this angle, it was easy to see the tiny latch and the slight break in the floorboards underneath the rug. Juggling the crossbow and dagger in her left hand, Buffy quietly lifted the trap door with her right.
Dim light from the kitchen lit a steep staircase leading under the house. Ready for some action, Buffy didn't bother disguising her presence. Boots thunking hollowly on the stairs, she trotted down, weapons at the ready. About halfway down, the basement came into view and Buffy paused. Seemingly agitated, Tucker Wells wandered across the room. He held the remains of some electrical equipment, and he poked and prodded the circuitry. Nearby, a caged Hellhound growled a warning.
"Hey, Tucker," Buffy called, resuming her trip. "Nice dog."
The lanky teen spun around. His eyes widened when he recognized Buffy and he rushed for the cage. "It's too late," Tucker mumbled, trying to unlock the kennel.
Adrenaline surging, Buffy leapt over the handrail, hurriedly grabbing Tucker from behind. Of course, since her foe was human, his struggles were something of a let down. "Really? 'Cause I gotta tell you, my timing is usually perfect. You're not going anywhere and the ugly mutt is still in his cage."
Tucker writhed and twisted against her until he hung limp and panting in her grasp.
Deciding he wasn't a threat, Buffy shoved him away and began looking around the room. A small TV blared static, its tiny screen covered in black and white snow. What caught Buffy's attention, though, were the videos stacked on top of the unit. Picking them up and reading them out loud, she looked at Tucker in disbelief. "Pretty in Pink? Pump up the Volume? That's is? That's how you brainwashed the 'hound to go psycho at the Prom?"
Obviously, Tucker missed the derision in her tone. Grinning proudly, he nodded. "Neat, huh?"
"No!" Buffy disagreed, forcefully. "It's lame. Why would you want to ruin the happiest night of a Senior's life?" She took a step toward him. It was time to stop playing Twenty Questions.
Flinching back, the 'hound master stumbled into a storage shelf. The rickety unit crumbled, sending tools and electronic equipment sprawling across the floor.
"Oh, for God's sake," Buffy grumbled, kicking her way through the junk. "You're pathetic." Reaching down to the floor, she grabbed a lamp and ripped the cord from its base.
Tucker used her brief distraction to pull a remote from his pocket. Pressing a series of buttons, he unlocked the cage in the center of the room. An unearthly howl split the air and the Hellhound sprang out.
Slayer reflexes kept Buffy alive. Dropping to the floor, she let the 'hound sail over her. It hit the ground close to the far wall, and Buffy wasted no time climbing to her feet. Her weapons lay on the workbench near the TV. Eyes locked on the slavering 'hound, she inched back, hoping to reach them. She didn't make it. The beast dove at her, knocking her to the ground. Claws ripped at her leather coat. Buffy braced one arm below the snapping jaws, holding the teeth away from her face. Her other hand worked to toss the cord around the 'hound's neck.
Her position on the floor didn't allow for much leverage. Buffy was tiring by the time she had the cord draped around the furred shoulders. Praying she didn't end up as dinner, Buffy slid the hand holding off the 'hound to the side, gripping the free end of the cord. She wiggled underneath the creature's weight, pressing her heels to the floor. Her hold on the cord tightened as she rolled until the 'hound rested beneath her.
Perhaps sensing the end was near, the 'hound redoubled its efforts. Clawed hands flailed. One of them made contact with Buffy's neck, ripping four parallel gashes above the collar of her coat. Despite the flaring pain, Buffy hung on, slowly strangling the Hellhound. Finally, the body grew still, and the Slayer slumped forward, gasping. "You know, Tucker, the next time you get a dog, try a smaller breed," she griped, clambering to her feet.
Silence.
"Tucker, I am so not up to a game of Hide and Seek." Buffy scanned the room. A small door she hadn't noticed before stood open. Stalking over, vowing a little rough handling for the other teen, Buffy peered through the doorway. She froze, palms suddenly damp and fear twisting her stomach. Four empty cages lined the walls of the small room, and a window led outside.
She hit the stairs at a dead run. The crossbow and dagger were clutched in her hands. Despite the fact she might need help handling four more 'hounds, Buffy knew she didn't have time to call for reinforcements. The Scoobies – even the adults – were at the dance. She was on her own.
For the second time that day, Faith found herself fleeing her emotions. Tears she was too stubborn to shed blinded her as she stumbled along the path surrounding the high school. Sliding to a halt, she swiped at her eyes, chest heaving. The look in Buffy's eyes when she insisted on leaving…It was too much. Sobs tore from her throat, and Faith dropped to her knees in the gravel, huddling in on herself.
The tears eventually tapered off. Faith felt rocks digging into her knees and hands. Too tired to care about the nagging pain, she stayed hunched over, breath hitching occasionally. Instead of making things better, her head throbbed and her throat ached from the crying. Limbs heavy, she climbed slowly to her feet. She'd made the right decision. She had to leave Sunnydale. This time, however, Faith wasn't going off half cocked. No more running without plans or supplies.
Shoving her hands in her pockets, Faith started down the path. Mrs. Summers was probably at the Gallery. She'd offered a place to stay; maybe a shower and some food would be an OK replacement.
The trip didn't take long. Faith kept to the lesser used paths and alleys, approaching the Gallery cautiously. Night was well on the way. She kept her senses on high. A few vamps or demons pinged on her radar, but they were faint and too far away to be spying on Joyce. A bell over the door jangled when she pushed inside.
Faith had never been here before. Peering around the well lit displays, she noted some very strange sculptures and a few paintings that looked like the artist had been on a great acid trip.
"Faith?" Joyce watched the teen's expression with amusement.
Spinning abruptly, Faith hunched her shoulders. "Mrs. S." She rocked on her heels. "I…um…the Scoobies are taking care of the Hellhound thing and getting ready for their dance. You think," she cleared her throat, incredibly uncomfortable under Joyce's stare, "you think I could hit your place for a shower and a change of clothes before I split?"
Amusement fading, Joyce sighed. "You're going?" She tucked her hair behind an ear and watched Faith squirm a little at the question.
"Yeah." Faith didn't elaborate. She couldn't. It didn't matter how right she knew the decision was, it still hurt. Not wanting to break down again, she pressed her lips together and stood stiffly.
"Of course you can stop by the house." Sadness filled Joyce's voice, but she didn't try to convince Faith to stay. They'd had that conversation before. "The clothes I got for you are in a bag on the kitchen counter. Come on in back for a minute. I need to get you a key."
Her legs felt like a stranger's. Faith followed Joyce disjointedly, numb and emotionally disconnected. Mrs. Summers led her to a small office in the storeroom. Leaning against the doorjamb, Faith watched Joyce dig through her desk drawer, looking for something. She must have found it. She straightened up and grabbed the purse perched on the filing cabinet in the corner.
"Here," Joyce said, holding out her hand. A key glinted. "It's a key to the front door."
"Thanks, Mrs. S." Faith accepted the offering and turned to go.
Joyce had other ideas. She gripped Faith's hand, holding her there. "Wait." When the teen tensed up, she hurried on, "I have something else to give you. Just give me another minute, OK?"
Faith nodded, and Joyce let go of her hand. The key seemed to burn her palm, a pain-filled symbol of everything Faith had always wanted, but never had. Closing her fingers around the key, Faith swallowed hard against a need to tell Joyce everything, all the crap she'd done in the past and all the things she so desperately wanted for the future.
"Honey?" Joyce's soft question jerked her back to the present. Hazel eyes bored into her brown ones, concerned, caring. "Are you alright?"
"Five by five, Mrs. S." The words lacked their customary brash confidence. Neither woman commented on it.
Opening her wallet, Joyce removed all of her cash. "Take this, too." At Faith's headshake, she frowned. "I'm not taking no for an answer, Faith. Take it. You're going to need money for food, at least."
Faith shoved the wad of bills in her pocket. "Mrs. S-" she broke off. What the hell could she say? Thank you seemed inadequate.
"Be careful, wherever you go, Faith." Joyce seemed to know just how much Faith was struggling. She dropped the purse back on the desk and moved in front of the Slayer. Warm hands cupped the hunched shoulders. "Don't forget you have a home here. We'll be waiting with open arms when you're ready to come back." Not wanting to push too hard, Joyce dropped her hands and walked back out to the showroom.
One more run. Faith jogged through Restfield, almost hoping for a vampire to fight. She left the Gallery with the word "home" repeating over and over in her mind. Mrs. S didn't mean it like that. No way. B musta told her to get me to stay for the fight with the Mayor. Faith felt a little better at that. It was typical Scooby behavior to want her to help out with their mess. Determination worked its way through the confusion and pain. She wasn't giving in. No way. She was leaving, tonight.
The Summers' house was dark. A single porch light illuminated the door as Faith fumbled the key out of her pocket. Once inside, she tossed the key onto the table in the entry hall, not bothering to lock the door behind her. She hurried to the kitchen, easily locating the bag of clothes on the counter before trotting upstairs to the bathroom.
She didn't waste time standing under the warm water. Taking just long enough to get the last of the dried blood and dirt off her body, Faith toweled herself off and stepped into the jeans, tank top, and chambray overshirt. She dragged a brush through her hair and pulled the still-damp mass back into a pony tail.
Clean and dressed in new clothes, Faith hesitated on the second floor landing. Weapons. She was going to need at least a few stakes. Buffy had a weapons chest in her closet. Buffy wouldn't mind if she borrowed a few things. Faith turned around and opened the other Slayer's bedroom door. The chest was right where Faith remembered. She pulled out four well-honed stakes, tucking them into the back pockets of her jeans. Several duffel bags littered the closet floor, and Faith stuffed a modest collection of daggers and long knives inside. Closing the chest with a thump, Faith shoved it back into the closet and stood up.
That's when she saw it. Wrapped in plastic with matching shoes sitting underneath, the dress stood out against the more mundane clothing on the rod. At first, Faith didn't understand what she was seeing. She had almost reached the door when the dress' significance set in. Stopping, Faith closed her eyes, trying to resist. Body humming with conflicting impulses, she pulled up an image of the Mayor when he told his goons to kill her. She needed to leave.
The Mayor faded. Buffy's sad eyes filled her thoughts, and Faith caved. Retracing her steps to the closet, she carefully took out the dress and the shoes, placing them gently in the duffel on top of the weapons.