Chapter 16
Don't Speak
The pouch is large and transparent with a plastic zip. It contains a whole bunch of orange bottles filled with pills, a wedge of sachets of powdered drink supplements and some instructions. I dump it out onto the kitchen bench and begin to arrange the contents in rows so I can figure out which matches to the schedule.
Faith doesn't say anything, even if she could. She looks defeated by the situation.
I take a deep breath and pick up the little white board.
Stop being a pussy.
She pulls an expression and snatches the board, writes on it, then hands it back.
U R the pussy
I think of a comeback, but they all seem to wordy. I simplify things and flip her off. She crosses her arms with a satisfied smirk. I finish sorting the meds, and push a bottle towards her. I hold up 1 finger. She slicks out her tongue, and places the pill upon it. Swallows. Winces. Shakes out her head.
She takes the board and writes.
So U my nurse now?
I shrug.
Whatevs keeps u alive
Can't stay here.
Why?
Next kwestun.
Question. Stay.
Y?
Don't B a dumbass. Heal. Then U can go.
Y U doin this?
U saved me. I save U.
I don't need UR help.
Get over URself.
She reads this last one and gives me a look like I have challenged her. I take the board, or try, she keep hold of it in ridiculously strong grip. I snatch the pen instead.
I write on the fridge.
Go if U like. Gonna order Chinese
She gestures for the pen. I toss it to her. She wipes the ink away with her forearm, which is already blue from all the too and fro at the hospital.
Like 2 C U try Dumass.
She grins and tips her head to the phone. I look at the phone and back to her. We both break into laughter. Strange, strange, silent laughter.
Faith is dozing on the couch, slipping back and forth between stubbornly fighting to stay awake and a weird twitchy, restless sleep. I nearly gave her Buffy's Sunnydale shirt to wear, but it felt somehow a sick and twisted thing to do. Instead she has an oversized Sundays tour shirt I scabbed from work and some of my boyshorts.
I walk to the Double Dragon on main street, a little way down from the cinema. The strange oppressive silence hangs in the air all around town.
Everyone woke up the same. Nobody can speak. A virus, the paper calls it. Tosh. It's magic. And my money is on Ethan Rayne being behind it. Town wide bedlam is his kind of chaos. But I keep that to myself.
Obviously.
People are walking around in a daze. Some are sobbing. The mood is strange and unsettling, and adds to my sense of inner turmoil about Faith. I can't get to the reason for my behavior, let alone ease my conscience despite all the moral questions floating around in my head sounding, like, super loud in all the eerie silence. Things like, she tried to kill me. She tried to bring about The Ascension, which would also have killed me, also hundreds if not thousands of people, but most probably me. Willow and Buffy were both on her list at various times.
I remember then she also tried to kill Angel several times too.
One of those times I egged her on. Came with her. Wanted to watch.
God, why am I like this?
No, why was I like that? That's not me, is it? Is it? I have changed. Right?
I remember the bitterness boiling in me as I played pool that night. My hatred for Angel. No. Not hatred... jealousy.
Because Angel got to have Buffy, and I got rejected. She wanted him, a vampire, an animated corpse, over me.
Shit. I was a petty, jealous, insecure little boy. I mean, to be fair, I was right- he did go evil and start killing everyone.
I shake my head at my own assery again. Angel lost his soul. It wasn't Angel, it was Angelus.
Because it wasn't me doing those horrible things, it was the Hyena spirit. If it hadn't have driven me to attacking Buffy… I would have been a murderer too. It fed off of my lust for her, my aching need for her. And I couldn't fight it.
Me hating Angel had nothing to do with him being a vampire. He had done nothing but good whilst in control of his actions. He battled his inner demon. I couldn't even battle a hyena spirit or a Bezoar thingie, for that matter.
My hands are not clean, even if they have changed shape and size. They are the same hands.
Faith hadn't lost her soul when she had turned evil. Christ, even that term "turned evil" seems bizarre now. We have all done bad things, both with and without our self control. Faith killed that deputy mayor guy by accident in the heat of battle. Buffy killed Ted out of rage, and she didn't know he was a robot. The same rules apply to Buffy apply to Faith, right? But somehow, inch by inch, we all pushed her away.
Into the arms of The Mayor.
Uhg.
By the time I got to the restaurant I had boiled down the complex situation to this:
U saved me. I save U.
After that, Faith is free to walk out of Sunnydale and my life, and that will be that. Her crimes and her craziness? Not my problem. Maybe that motivation is therefore entirely self serving, but I am not her keeper. She has her own path. I have mine. And my path involved a clean break from Buffy Summers. Because I am not good around her. I am not a good person around her, and I want to be a better person than what I was. Maybe, in time, I may develop myself so I can be around my crushes without acting like a total dick. But right now I don't feel strong. I feel emotionally stunted and closed off. I feel like I need to knock down my walls and rebuild the foundations. A few patches of plaster and a coat of paint isn't enough.
I freeze as I turn to cross the street.
Buffy is walking down main street, a focused look on her face as she looks down each alley. She is dressed for battle, tight black jeans and a long blue coat that I know contains a crossbow.
I feel my heart crush and twist over as she notices me.
She freezes. I can't read her expression from here, but it doesn't matter. I spin on my heels and walk away. Clean break.
But a strong hand grabs my shoulder and spins me. She tries to say something, her cheeks flushed and I can't tell if its anger or… or…
I put my hands up, palms towards her. Enough, I try to say. I am done. I make a diagonal cutting gesture with both hands. Done. I don't want to hear it.
She releases me, eyes darting about. Her lip is quivering and she makes some kind of gesture with her hands that I have no idea what she means. She makes another.
I hold up my hands again, tears threatening to fall.
She makes a frustrated clawing gesture at the sky and steps back. Turning away but not moving.
I should go. But my feet stay put. Damn it
Damn her. I reach for my white board, only to discover that I left it at the apartment. I can't do this.
Buffy sighs silently and turns back, tears flowing from her eyes. And every part of me wants to go to her, embrace her, pull her into my arms and into me.
I hate this. I hate me. I hate how she makes me feel.
So I do what I do best. I run away.
Faith is sitting on the floor reading a graphic novel as I come through the door. She looks at me confused, then makes a sort of "and?" Shrugging gesture. I realise I am empty handed.
I slump back against the door, a position I find very familiar now- like I am holding back the monster behind the door.
Faith stands, shakily, and with some caution approaches me. Quizzically looking at my face.
I turn my head to the side as the tears start to flow. I push past her and head for the bathroom and bolt the door before the worst hits.
I am burning hot and cannot do anything but sob. I am dimly aware that at some point I have slid down the wall and balled myself up beside the toilet, but mostly I just feel my injures ribs screaming at me as thick, heavy sobs stretch them. It hurts but not as much as what's inside my chest.
A bang and the clatter of the bathroom lock hitting the tiles, and suddenly Faith is in here with me. Locks and Slayers, I forgot.
She says nothing, just stares at me with a mix of horror and uncertainty. I look away, covering my face with both my arms, fists clenched and trembling and a wave of shame rolls over me and roar in silence.
I am moving. She is pulling me onto her lap in the middle of the bathroom. I bury myself, burrowing into the dark space she offers, her arms circling me, over me, forming a shelter of sorts.
And there, in her arms, I cry myself out in that strange and empty silence.
