CHAPTER 16: GRAY

Before you judge me take a look at you
Can't you find something better to do?
Point the finger, slow to understand
Arrogance and ignorance go hand in hand

It's not who you are it's who you know
Others lives are the basis of your own
Burn your bridges and build them back with wealth
Judge not lest ye be judged yourself

Holier than thou
You are
Holier than thou
You are

You know not

            ~Holier Than Thou, Metallica
______________________________________________

"I don't suppose the fact that I just saved your life might get me a little leeway here?" Faith asked with a weak laugh.

She watched as Willow's eyes went completely black, the effect sending a chill down her spine, and she was already leaping away—she might be tough but she wasn't stupid—when the magical blast struck her, catching her in mid-air and slamming her to the ground. 

"Guess not." She rolled onto her side and half sat up, one hand clutching the ribs that had been bruised by her impact. "Ow. That really hurt," she said, looking up at Willow with dawning admiration and grudging appreciation. "You've gotten more powerful since the last time we tangled."

"You don't even want to know," Willow spat, advancing on her.

"So you borrowing a page from my book now? Kill first, ask questions later?"

"Fitting, isn't it?" the redhead retorted.

She heard another rustling in the bushes to their left, and more people stumbled through. Faith's heart sank as she saw Xander, Willow's girlfriend—what was her name—and Xander's girlfriend. Judge, jury and executioner, she thought, and wondered if she'd be able to make a run for it.

"Willow, are you—" Xander broke off, eyes going wide as he saw Faith lying on the ground. His mouth worked like a fish gasping for air, and if the situation hadn't been so dire, she might have actually gotten a laugh out of his expression. But before Xander could even begin to form a comment, Willow began to chant in some strange language, and though Faith didn't understand the words, she definitely got the gist. She'd already wasted too much time trying to talk sense. There was only one way this was going to end.

She was gathering herself for the final leap to take Willow out, one last chance to save her skin before the witch got off that spell, when the blond girl—Tara, that was her name—grabbed Willow's arm and yanked it so hard she spun Willow halfway around toward her.

For a moment, Willow's black eyes flashed red, and Faith wondered if the witch was so far gone that she would incinerate her girlfriend to finish the spell. Then Willow's taut form relaxed, her eyes returned to normal, and her expression was all hurt and confusion.

"Tara, what—"

"What are you doing?" Tara asked, and from the way everyone looked at her, Faith got the impression that Tara didn't speak up very often. The girl seemed shocked, aghast, even, and somehow deeply hurt. "You could kill her with that spell."

"You—you were gonna kill her?" Xander asked rounding on Willow, and he sounded as shocked as Tara. For the first time since all this had begun, Faith felt a spark of hope.

"But…I…n-no." Willow shook her head, as if lost, uncertain.

"As vengeance goes, it's very unimaginative and straightforward," Anya put in helpfully. Xander shot her a look that was equal parts annoyance and appreciation. Encouraged, she went on, "Perhaps a pestilence spell. Flesh-eating parasites are always good, and if you want to get really creative, there's always mummy rot or—"

"No!" Tara exclaimed, looking from Willow to Anya, then back to Willow.

Willow seemed to regain control of herself, looking at Tara. "You don't know her," she said harshly. "What she is. What she's done! To Buffy. To all of us." She turned her eyes on Faith with an anger that made the Slayer shiver. She remembered the bookstore, when she'd gone out to talk to Willow, believing the red-headed girl to still be a hero at heart, believing that she might listen to Faith and give her a chance. She thought that it was a damned good thing she'd waited too long, because what she recognized in those eyes was all too familiar to her. She would recognize that murderous glint, that burning, all-consuming hatred anywhere.

"Then we let the police deal with her," Tara admonished, her voice shaky but still righteous.

"The police couldn't deal with her—"

"The Council then," Xander broke in, seeming desperate to come up with a solution. "By the way, does the Council know you're out?" Xander asked sarcastically, turning to look at Faith. His voice was caustic but it still betrayed his fear and uncertainty; she could hear it clearly even as he went on to make what he probably considered a joke. "'Cause last I heard all they had planned for you was a one-way ticket to hell."

And she couldn't help it. It was like a reflex, it was so instinctive and automatic. She was on the ropes, her life probably hanging in the balance despite Tara's interference, and still she couldn't reign in the urge to mock them all, to make them eat their words.

"Council sprung and sponsored," she answered, spreading her arms wide, unable to keep the ironic smile from her face.

There was a moment of stunned silence as they processed that, and she watched the expressions shift on their faces as they figured out what it meant, exactly.

"You're the new Slayer?" Willow fairly sputtered in outrage. She was so offended that she couldn't seem to find her voice for a moment. "What? You think you can just come here and take—take Buffy's place?"

The question hit Faith like a stinging blow, bringing home the reality of the situation—and wow, wasn't this one bitch-kitty of an emotional roller coaster? For just an instant, she saw everything through their eyes; Buffy's death, their struggle to make sense of it all, their mourning, their offense and shock at discovering that one of their most hated enemies had returned to take their friend's place. She could see it all and she completely understood. "Willow…" she struggled with the words, unfamiliar as they were to her. "For what it's worth, I—I'm sorry."

"You're sorry?" Willow uttered a disbelieving, indignant laugh, and then her face went deadly serious. "Get out of Sunnydale, Faith. If I see you again—" She didn't even finish her sentence. She didn't have to. Turning so suddenly that she nearly knocked over her startled girlfriend, Willow stalked through the bushes and was gone.

The others eyed her warily for a moment, then slowly, they began to fade back into the bushes. Xander lingered a moment longer after everyone else had disappeared, his back pressed against the damp green hedgerow.

"I hope you don't think just because Buffy's gone you can come back and wreak vengeance on the rest of us."

"That's not why I'm here," she said very seriously.

"It better not be, or I'll kill you myself." He gave her a last, penetrating look, then stepped into the greenery and was gone.

She hung her head and sighed deep, closing her eyes. She didn't know what the hell had happened in Sunnydale in the last two years, but the Scoobies had gotten a lot tougher and darker since the last time she'd seen them. Xander might not be strong enough or quick enough to make good on his promise, but she knew without a doubt that he'd meant what he said. If she got in their way, or crossed them, he'd kill her if he could.

"Well, that went well," she muttered to herself, pushing up from the ground.

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

Some hours later, bruised, beaten and soul-weary, Faith let herself quietly into the house.

"Faith?" Beatrice called curiously from the kitchen.

Damn. She'd been hoping Ms. H would be out, or asleep, or whatever it was that she usually did while Faith was gone all night. She should've known her Watcher would be up waiting. After all, it wasn't like she had much else to do.

"Yeah, it's me."

"You're home early," Beatrice said, making both a statement and a question of the words as she came around the corner into view. Blue eyes peered curiously at Faith from behind round-rimmed glasses, and damned if Faith didn't think she saw just a modicum of concern there, too.

"Yeah," she said shortly, shifting uncomfortably inside her jacket, not sure what else she should say.

"Did something… happen?"

Bitterness swelled inside her suddenly, smashing violently through the dam she always tried to keep around her emotions. It rushed from her in an acidic torrent, bent on demolishing everything in its way. "Well, Angel took off and the Scoobies damn near killed me, but I did manage to off six vamps and one K'alish demon, so that makes everything all good. I mean you only care about the reports and the numbers for your neat little orderly files, right?"

"Faith." Her voice managed to be somehow reproachful and apologetic at the same time, and Faith wondered if the British took special classes on how to cram that much expression into as few words as possible. "I'm sorry about Angel."

She clenched her hands into fists and tried to stuff her anger back into its cage. She did not want to talk to this woman about Angel, especially about how sorry she was that Angel was gone, when all she'd done was bitch about him while he was here. "Wow. Are you pretending to care? 'Cause for a second there I almost got all misty eyed."

"I know it's hard for you—"

"What the hell do you know?" she retorted, her anger bordering on rage. "You sit here and read your little books and give me orders and take down my numbers like some kind of—machine! You're so perfect with your education and your suits and your holier than thou attitude. If the world were about to end you'd probably be too busy cataloging the raining toads and swarms of insects to give a damn about saving your own uptight ass."

"Swarming insects are not a sign of the apocalypse," Beatrice corrected calmly. "That's a popular misconception propagated by the Bible."

"Good to see that you were paying attention," she snapped with an exasperated roll of her eyes.

Beatrice eyed her rather indignantly, arching an eyebrow. "Sit down, Faith."

"No."

"Fine. Don't sit. I can say what I need to just as well with you standing." Still the picture of composure, Beatrice stepped to the side of the foyer, into the sitting room, taking a seat in a high-backed chair. She folded her hands primly in her lap, regarding Faith seriously from her lower vantage point. "Things are going to be different now that Angel has gone. You're going to be relying on me a lot more heavily than you'd probably like."

"As if," she snorted, tossing her head dismissively, not even bothering to look at Beatrice.

"You need me," Beatrice stated plainly. "If you feel you don't, then you are welcome to try and go it alone. Perhaps this time they'll give you the chair instead of a shortened sentence."

"You think I can't do this without you?" The question came out nearly as a threat. It pissed her off, the way people were always so smug and sure she could never do anything except screw up. That she'd be lost without them. She'd gotten enough of that shit from her parents and her boyfriends to last her a lifetime.

"As I said, you are perfectly welcome to try. However, I think you'll find your life much easier if you use the resources available to you." She considered Faith's angry countenance, then sighed. "I can see you're not going to hear a thing I say until we've covered all the emotional buttons. Very well. These 'Scoobies' as you call them, have no bearing on your life. They carry on the mission, but they are not part of the mission. You are."

"Nice try, Dr. Self-Help. No cookie, though. I could give a shit for the Scoobies,"

"Couldn't you?" Beatrice asked challengingly. "You certainly seemed upset about it a few moments ago. They're soldiers, Faith, playing at war since their General has gone. You are the General now, and that frightens them. With good reason, considering your actions in the past," she allowed as an afterthought. "But they are irrelevant. You must prove to yourself that you can live up to the responsibility on your own. In the end, your own conscience is the one you must answer to."

"You still think you can get inside my head with this crap, don't you?" she asked in disbelief.

"Angel," Beatrice continued, ignoring her interruption, "is much the same. He fights the battle, and has his own part to play. It is quite different and separate from your own, however. It is certainly not as your mentor, and I question his status with the Powers That Be that he even assumed a station so lowly."

"I don't know. You seem to like being 'lowly' okay," Faith needled.

"My station is to serve as your mentor. It is an important role, but not so important as the one Angel will play in the future, according to the prophecies. I accept that. I do not question my duty, because it is the one I must fulfill. You would do well to do the same, since in the role of Slayer, you will be called upon to play just as important a part."

Faith felt a tiny sliver of what Beatrice was saying slip through her mental armor. It lodged in her mind and stuck fast, sending her train of thought down paths she would have rather left unexplored. Part of her wanted to be that important, wanted the weight of the world balanced in the palm of her hand, but another part recognized the danger in that, the danger in herself.

"Although, in some ways, you have an even clearer vision of what the Slayer is than Buffy ever did."

"What?" She was completely floored by this unexpected turn in the conversation. No one had ever compared her to Buffy and come up in Faith's favor on any front, and Beatrice was the last person she would expect that kind of sentiment from. "You didn't even know Buffy," she accused uncertainly.

"I know what I read in the files. I know that she sacrificed herself where it was unnecessary to do so."

"How did she die?" Faith asked, and though her anger had momentarily fled in the face of her surprise, the question still came across as belligerent. She hated to ask, hated to give this conversation any more mental credit than any other session of droning instruction Beatrice gave her. But she'd never had the opportunity to ask, and no one had ever told her. Beatrice was the only one that it wouldn't be too painful for, most likely.

"No one told you?" Her Watcher blinked owlishly. "Her sister's blood opened a portal to multiple dimensions, and all of them would have converged into one had the blood not stopped flowing. One wonders, of course, why she didn't try band-aids," Beatrice commented dryly. "But be that as it may, rather than give her sister, whose life was inconsequential, she gave herself, being of the same blood, and closed the portal, thereby saving the world."

Faith was stunned by the revelation. The portal, the feeling of dying, of being set free; it all made sense now. Buffy had sacrificed herself to save the world rather than let her sister die. On the surface it seemed as simple as that… but there had been something more in her dreams, a feeling that didn't belong to her that she couldn't quite put a name to. Despite herself, she was drawn in by Beatrice's explanation. "She saved her sister's life, and you think she made a bad decision?"

"Of course," Beatrice answered mildly. "The girl had barely been human for a year, her death would have meant nothing. The fate of the world depended on Buffy, especially since you were in prison. And she went willingly, anyway."

Faith didn't understand the stuff about Dawn only being alive for a year, but she rolled with it; it was irrelevant anyway. "Maybe she just couldn't take it anymore," she said with a shrug.

"Perhaps," Beatrice agreed with a nod. "But Buffy was filled with noble, emotional ideas that didn't always hold up well under scrutiny. You, on the other hand, have always understood that it is the Slayer who is the law, and who must get the job done, and who must survive, no matter what the emotional cost. That does not extend to being a renegade, or a criminal, but it does encompass certain gray areas of the moral center."

"Yeah. You know, if I'd gotten anymore gray, I would've evaporated."

"No. You turned black. But you've learned since then. You would love to be able to afford the innocence and ignorance of Buffy if you could, but you can't can you? You long to be the noble, self-sacrificing hero, but you see the wisdom in placing yourself before others. You see the importance of your role."

Faith looked down, avoiding her Watcher's eyes. It was true. On one level, she'd never understood Buffy's self-sacrificing attitude, but on another, one she had never quite acknowledged, she had longed to understand more clearly. After all, she was the Slayer, and didn't that make her life more important than anyone else's? Everything Buffy had ever said rang true on some level, but everything Beatrice was saying now related far more to who she really was. But wasn't who she was wrong? Isn't that why she'd ended up in jail? She shook her head slowly, confused.

"I understand you, Faith. I know you far better than you give me credit for. I can help you, if you'll only let me." She studied Faith quietly for a long moment before continuing. "Those who can afford passion are rich. We are poor, Faith. We have only the crude instruments given us by fate and intelligence and skill. We have a higher mission that must be fulfilled, one that does not always adhere to the ideals of a noble hero. We are warriors, we are judges; we are executioners when necessary. We do what we must that the world might survive. And that means we must do what others cannot bring themselves to do. Such a life does not lend itself to extremes; what Buffy believed was too white, what you believed, too black. The truth lies in shades of gray."

"Is that a fancy way of saying we get to do whatever we want? 'Cause you know, that didn't work out so great for me."

"It's not about looking out for ourselves. You and Buffy have both used your powers selfishly. The balance is somewhere in the middle, realizing your importance, doing what you must to fulfill your mission and letting nothing get in the way, without becoming a loose canon or needlessly endangering your own life. A good soldier does only what he must."

"Yeah, well I'm not exactly what anyone would call a model citizen."

"There's hope for you, Faith."

Surprised, she raised her eyes to meet her Watcher's; taking a long hard look to be sure the older woman wasn't playing some kind of joke on her. "You think?" Her voice conveyed cynicism, skepticism and just a touch of true curiosity.

"Of course I do. I wouldn't be here right now if I didn't believe it. Neither would you," Beatrice added matter-of-factly. Giving Faith the faintest glimmer of a smile, the Watcher rose from her seat. "Get some sleep. It's been a trying night for you. Perhaps everything will seem better in the morning and we'll talk more then."

I'll be damned, Faith thought as she nodded and made her way upstairs. Maybe the Ice Queen has a heart after all. Okay, maybe saying she had a heart was taking things too far. But it was something.

It was more than Angel had left her with.

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

Willow walked so fast she was practically jogging, the others struggling to keep up with her. They had reached the house everyone still thought of as Buffy's before she slowed her pace, heading directly upstairs to the room she and Tara shared.

"I can't believe it," Willow raged, throwing open drawers and tossing out spell components.

"I know," Xander agreed, slightly out of breath as he leaned against the doorway, glad for a chance to rest at last. "Faith as the resident Slayer… I mean, hello? Karma?" He stepped inside so that Tara and Anya could follow, and Tara stopped just in front of him, her eyes still angry as she turned them on Willow.

"What are you doing?" she asked in her low, soft-spoken voice. But there was an undercurrent of strength to it now, a thread of steel that rendered her presence un-ignorable.

"We've got to do the spell," Willow said quickly, her voice resigned yet pleading with them to understand.

"Whoa, whoa, wait. You mean the Soul Train spell?" Xander asked.

"Xander—" Exasperated, she threw down the herbs she'd been inspecting and turned turbulent hazel eyes on him. "It's Faith. She's evil. We can't just let her run loose again. We need Buffy back."

He fidgeted uncomfortably, shifting his weight uneasily from one foot to the other. "I'm on board with the Faith's evil theory, but she did say the Watchers Council sprung her."

"Oh, and I'm so sure she was telling us the truth, 'cause Faith would never ever lie to save her own ass," Willow spat sarcastically.

"Willow," Tara spoke up again. "What if she was telling the truth, unlikely as it may be?"

"So what if she was?" Willow exploded. "Look, we all agreed that we needed to bring Buffy back, no matter what. Faith just makes it so that we have to do it sooner. Even if the Council did get her out, she'll turn on them, and then what are we going to do? I'm the only one with enough power to take her out—maybe not even enough—and you didn't seem too on board with that idea tonight."

"She wasn't a threat tonight," Tara objected. "If she becomes one then we—"

"Then it'll be too late," Willow said gravely. "Tara, you don't know her. You don't know what she's capable of."

Tara just stared at her lover, completely at a loss for what to say. Buffy's death had changed Willow so much… she had stepped into the leadership role with hardly a ripple, and at first it had all been working well. But then the desperation to bring Buffy back, the growing resentment with everyone for disagreeing with her, the marked increase in her power and the carelessness of its use. It was as if she was forgetting all the principles magic was based on, forgetting that magic did not make her automatically right.

"She's right," Xander spoke up reluctantly, adding his agreement to Willow's statement. "If Faith decides to turn, we probably won't know until after the knife's already in our backs."

Tara looked at Xander as if gauging the sincerity of his words, and then looked down at the floor, thinking. If Xander was agreeing with Willow, then there had to be something to the threat of this Faith girl. Xander had been the most stalwart of them against using this spell, and now it sounded as if he were considering the idea as a real possibility.

She looked again to her lover, saw the grim, resolute expression on her face. How she wished to see Willow laugh again, to see that sparkle of happiness in her eyes, to see the lightness of her heart come through in every gesture and word. Willow had walked around as if the weight of the world were resting on her shoulders since Buffy had died, and Tara supposed, in a way, it had been. She had severe misgivings about bringing Buffy back, but if it would make Willow happy again, if it would keep them safe… maybe it was worth the risk. And maybe, just maybe, if they succeeded, it might keep Willow from crossing the line she was so rapidly approaching.

She lowered her eyes, blond hair slipping forward to cover her face as it so often did, and nodded, wrestling with her heavy heart all the while. "O-Okay."

"Well, I'll be glad to have Buffy back," Anya said, speaking up for the first time. The others looked at her in mild surprise. "What? Why are you all looking at me like that?"

"Well," Xander said carefully. "It's just… You guys weren't really all that close. And you did get annoyed at each other a lot."

"Yes, yes. And I often complain that all this patrolling she left interferes with my nightly money counting," she said impatiently, as if it were of no consequence. Then, more uncertainly, "That doesn't mean I can't miss her, does it?"

"No, An. It doesn't," Xander said almost gently. Then he shook his head, exhaled harshly and turned his face toward the ceiling. "I can't believe we're doing this."

"Okay, then," Willow said, letting her eyes travel over them, resting on each of them briefly. "Tomorrow night, we do the spell."

She bent and rummaged through her drawers again as if searching for something, so that she wouldn't have to look at them anymore. So that they wouldn't see the fear and doubt that suddenly filled her.

Could she do this?

They were going to find out.

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

I n t e r l u d e

Slightly later the same night, 3:02 am, a Sunnydale alleyway

A few hours before dawn, Eddie carried the trash out the back door of the bar, throwing open the grimy green lid of the dumpster with a metallic bang that startled him despite himself. He glanced around warily, trash bag held stiffly out from his side, heart thrumming with startled adrenaline, reminded that the back alleys of Sunnydale were not the safest place for its residents. Or even the main streets for that matter. A few moments passed, and when the alley decided not to retaliate against the intrusive sound, he took a deep breath, sighed, chuckled a bit at himself, and then threw the bag of garbage on top of the heap.

He was still smiling faintly when he put his hands on the lid, about to lower it quietly closed, and paused, his nose wrinkling against the putrid, rotting smell that wafted up from the dumpster. He'd done his share of carrying out the garbage in his time, starting when he'd been a lowly dishwasher here, and against all pride, he still insisted on carrying it out, even though his name now resided on the deed. And for all the garbage he'd carried out in his life, which by now probably equaled tons, he'd never smelled anything quite so organically rotten and offensive as this. You didn't get to the ripe old age of your early forties around this town without learning a few things… but there was a difference between being aware and actually being taught a painful lesson on just how real the dangers were in this little town. Maybe that was why he hesitated, even though he knew better.

It smelled like something had died in there.

That realization was followed by the urge to let go of the dumpster lid and run back inside as fast as he could, and his mind agreed that sounded like a very sane suggestion. Very, very sane, thank you very much, I'll just be going now, he thought to himself. But he stood rooted to the spot, frozen by fear, fascination, and a sickening need to know.

He pushed the lid back up and reached out with trembling hands, shoving aside the dark green and black plastic, shiny bags, all fat and fit to burst with their unsavory treasure. The image was not a pleasant one, and for some reason it made him think of fat, shiny beetles, bloated like—

The girl's eyes were wide open, staring flatly up and out at him, two black pearls that had lost their shine, lackluster and strangely out of place against the pale purple tint of her skin. She had been pretty before, movie-star or model pretty, and her skin was only just beginning to mottle with the first signs of decay, dark spots dotting the curve of one high cheekbone like pockmarks on a plague victim. He gagged helplessly at the sight and smell of her, but even that wasn't the worst of it.

He supposed he should have been grateful to find her with her mouth closed, after all, it would have been far, far worse to find her with old coffee grounds, or worse, bugs (beetles?) filling her open mouth like some kind of dank, rotting dump. That would have been worse, yes.

Except that her mouth was stitched shut.

The laces were wide, and sewn in with care, and God help him, it looked like she'd still been alive when it had happened, because the stitches at the bottom had pulled gaping holes in the flesh of her chin, as if she had tried desperately to force her jaw open. Tiny dark colored spots that might have been blood had dried around the holes, and…what was wrong with her body, a small, detached part of him wondered? His mind screamed at him to look away, but he couldn't seem to tear his eyes from her grisly countenance, stuck fast by the same fascination that strikes spectators of fatal accidents. Were those stitches on her neck…?

His stomach rebelled at last, and he fell to the ground, vomiting, heaving and God, even stale, greasy alley air tasted better than the air around the corpse.

He lay there for a few minutes, weak and twitching, no longer concerned about what might decide to wander into the alley with him, and tried not to think too deeply about why someone would go through all the trouble of cutting the poor girl's head off and then sewing it back on.

Backwards.