CHAPTER 4: TRAVESTY

Drowning like a fly in my drink
You drone about being on the brink
But I really don't care what you think
Oh I'm sick of it all
Sick of it all.
I hate the way it's always the same
Hate recrimination and blame
And you just wait for me to fuck up again
Oh I'm sick of it all
Sick of it all.

            ~Trap, The Cure
______________________________________________

"Wow, Giles," Faith said dryly, surveying the room as she stepped inside the Magic Box. Late afternoon sunlight slanted lazily through the plate glass windows with an almost blinding effect, illuminating the store with brilliant, golden light that cast long, strange shadows behind the Watcher, the store's only visible occupant. "You the only survivor?"

"I'm here," Anya said with a sensible shrug, all business as she appeared from behind a bookshelf nearby. A strange light glimmered in her eyes for an instant as she informed Faith with just a trace of irritation, "I'm always here. The store is half mine, you know."

She fixed Anya with a confused look, about to comment when Giles set his book down on the table in flutter of flustering motion, distracting her, his composure hesitant as he met her eyes. "O-of course there's Anya and... Xander and Willow… they're ah, in the back room."

"Willow's here?" she blurted, surprised, and instantly wanted to kick herself. Really smooth. She hadn't expected the witch to be there. In fact, she'd expected Willow to find a reason not to be there every day until Faith got a new Watcher. And Faith had really been okay with that.

"Yes. And, and, Tara as well." Giles paused for a moment, his posture as tentative as his words, and silence hung thick in the air between the three of them, threatening to smother them with its weight. At last Giles pulled his gaze away, adjusted his glasses, and motioned toward the table with the uncomfortable air of fulfilling protocol. "Please. Have a seat."

Faith gave him a guarded look, then folded her arms and swaggered almost reluctantly toward the table. This was still all so weird, and she thought that even if they did this every day for the next hundred years it would still feel as awkward as it did today. She'd never been good with the whole Slayer/Watcher thing anyway, and now her assigned Watcher was a person whose friends she'd tried to kill on several occasions. Darkly, she wondered if Miss Manners had any advice to smooth over that kind of awkwardness.

She reached the table but didn't sit, dark eyes bouncing back and forth between Giles' handsome features and the fine wood grain of the table, shifting her weight uncertainly. "So. How's the study group going? We still stuck at cults?"

He glanced down at the table, subtly but effectively averting his eyes, and she could tell that he wasn't satisfied with the answer he had to give her. "Yes."

That was all he said. That was all he needed to say. They'd spent somewhere upwards of eight straight hours researching books yesterday, reading until Faith thought she would go insane from the boredom, and they'd found absolutely nothing helpful. She shook her head and snorted dark laughter, the twinkle in her eye not all together pleasant. "We're screwed, aren't we?"

"N-not exactly." He didn't sound completely certain of himself, but there was a hint of indignation in his tone that gave her a slight glimmer of hope. "At least we know we're on the right track."

She frowned at him with sudden suspicion, feeling a dark cloud of warning sweep over her mood. She didn't like the idea of them making discoveries without her, it made her feel… unnecessary. But more than that she was filled with a feeling of foreboding that she wasn't going to like what he had to say. "And how do we know that?"

Giles opened his mouth to reply, but the voice that answered her wasn't his; this voice swaggered with arrogance, carrying just a tinge of mocking, its English accent drawled rather than precisely spoken.

"Had myself a bit of an encounter last night," Spike said, smirking as he appeared behind the counter from thin air, causing Faith to flinch.

"Damn. Don't you ever knock, or announce yourself?" she snapped, slightly agitated that she'd been thrown by his presence. The moment of surprise past, she realized that he must have emerged through the shadowy doorway behind the counter. His appearance here in broad daylight confirmed Giles' explanation that the door led down to the basement and the sewers. Either that or Spike slept down there, and judging by the lingering scents of tobacco, whiskey and wild nights that clung to his leather duster, she didn't think it was likely Anya or Giles would go for that.

He gave a short bark of laughter. "Here's a tip for you Slayer: if they don't know you're coming, they don't run away." He advanced a step on her, attempting, she thought, to appear menacing. "Trapped," he explained, tilting his head to the side at a predatory angle. "No struggle at all when you pounce."

"Dating tips from the undead," she observed in a wry voice, clearly unimpressed, and she could have sworn she heard someone snicker. "Let me write that down."

He rolled his eyes and shook his head, exasperation etching his features, and she took a moment to admire just how quickly the rapport between them disintegrated. "You know, I don't know why I saved you."

"Slayer fetish?" she mocked with a nasty grin.

A muscle in his jaw twitched once; she could actually see the scathing reply forming inside him, and she tensed in anticipation of its delivery.

The door to the back room opened and Xander stepped out, hesitating as he caught sight of the confrontation. Momentarily distracted, Spike had turned his attention back to Faith to deliver his retort when Anya walked up between them, large, brown eyes looking back and forth from one to the other with intense curiosity.

"Why are you two fighting?" she asked, suspicious, as if she suspected some kind of joke were being played. "I thought you were friends. You know, birds of an evil feather?"

They both laughed derisively, the sound brittle and harsh as it skittered through the open area of the store, and asked in simultaneous, utter disbelief, "Friends?"

"Yes," Anya said, sounding annoyed that she had to clarify. "You saved her life, and she helped you stop us from casting that spell," she explained, as if she might be explaining a new concept to young children. "And you're both incredibly arrogant and like to brag and swagger." Her lovely brow beetled for a moment as she reflected on that. "A lot."

"So?" they asked in unison, sounding impatient and moody, recalcitrant children who cut each other nasty sideways looks when they heard the other echo their words.

Anya looked them both up and down and raised one delicate brow, folding her arms over her chest. "And you're both overly fond of wearing black denim and leather." She looked oddly proud of her observation, like a detective who'd found a subtle but telling clue.

Spike and Faith opened their mouths to protest, looking down at their clothing, then glancing at each other. Their eyes met and the words died in their throat, all traces of mirth fading from their faces as they shared a look of sudden realization.

"You're like…" Anya searched for the words, her enthusiasm increasing as she remembered. "Two peas in a pod. Frick and Frack. Hans and Franz."

"Mary-Kate and Ashley!" Xander chimed in, causing everyone to turn and look at him oddly. He gave a nervous, almost giddy titter and shrugged, backing up a step. "My mind sometimes makes frightening connections."

"He's right!" Anya said quickly, diverting their attention from her discomfited boyfriend. "Only… less evil," she added with a vague wave.

Realization turned to shock and denial as it slid down the slippery slope of confusion, their expressions mirroring each other's comically, finally settling into disbelief and angry acceptance.

"Mary-Kate and Ashley are evil?" Xander sounded inconsolable.

As one, Spike and Faith made a disgusted noise and spun away from each other, stalking off in opposite directions.

"Whatever."

"Get bent."

"Mary-Kate and Ashley are more evil than Faith and Spike?" Xander asked in plaintive disbelief. When no one answered him, he threw up his hands, shook his head and went back into the training room, muttering to himself.

Faith threw her back against the wall, arms folded over her chest, annoyed. Spike disappeared into a row of shelves and assumed the exact same posture in the exact same manner, though luckily, neither of them realized it.

Anya watched the two of them go, then gave a mild shrug and walked back to the cash register, unconcerned with their annoyance.

Giles glanced down at the table and swallowed a smile, amused somehow despite the immaturity and implications of the display. He took a moment to compose himself, cleared his throat and looked up again, attempting to catch Faith's eye, his expression now quite serious.

"Faith—"

The door to the back room of the Magic Box burst open and Xander stepped out again, this time carrying a small, cardboard box. "Giles, where should I—"

Everyone turned to look at him—

And the bell over the front entrance of the Magic Box rang out loud and shrilly as the door was thrown open. Instantly, rushing wind filled the store, and in its wake bottles rattled in musical discontent and dust stirred, painting the air with movement for a moment before the motes dispersed in a swirling dance among brightly colored sheets of paper.

"As it has been done, so let it be wrought, as misery as has been visited, so let it be brought—"

As one, everyone in the shop stumbled back a step against the onslaught of air, turning their faces into the wind and shielding their eyes, trying to locate their attacker. It was difficult to see through the afternoon glare and swirling debris, and all they could make out was a dark outline, framed by the doorway and limned in a halo of sunlight. Anya staggered and nearly fell against the wall behind the counter, forcing her slim body against the will of the wind, clutching fingers skittering up the wall and throwing the shop's night time light switches, illuminating their foe in bright fluorescence.

"Dawn!" Xander exclaimed in shock, dropping the box he had been holding.

The teenaged girl stood, coltish legs wide apart, her pretty face almost savage as she continued reciting the words of the incantation, her hand extended, palm upward, holding the main component of the spell she was casting. Her hair whipped and flew about her slim form, buffeting her body in ways that seemed impossible to ignore, and yet she did, paying no mind to its blinding strands or stinging strikes, oblivious to everyone else in the shop, her eyes fixed on the object of her spell. She was beautiful; a young green-eyed goddess filled with wild power and indomitable will, and in that moment it seemed that nothing could hope to stand against her.

Faith rose from her fighting crouch as she realized Dawn's intent, and she stood straight, dark eyes meeting light, mocha to emerald. Just a glimmer of what she felt showed and reflected there; surprise, the slightest hint of sadness and memory, admiration. "Pip," she said, her voice half disbelief, half grudging admiration, too quiet to be heard above the noise of the wind.

"What evil deeds have gone before, let them now return in kind and more—"

The door to the back room burst open again and Willow forced her way through the opening, red hair flying wildly about her frightened face. Her panic seemed to increase tenfold when she saw the perpetrator of the spell, and the knowledge froze her solid with horror. "Dawnie! No!"

They were all so concerned, and yet they stood, shocked and immobilized, beguiled by Dawn's innocence and paralyzed by their own disbelief. Time seemed to both speed up and slow down. Faith had the sense that everything was happening very quickly; she hadn't as yet processed her brain's directive to move, but she had time to watch the box Xander had dropped fall to the floor, tumbling end over end, contents breaking free, each item imprinted in her mind with crystal clarity as it spun free of its cardboard confines and spilled to the floor, clattering away soundlessly as it was caught up in the grip of the wind. She had time to see Willow burst through the door behind them, had an eternity to take in the detail of the petite redhead's face, to note the nuances of the fear embedded there. She saw that Giles alone seemed to have the presence of mind to rush the girl, but the wind held him back, and through the maelstrom of paper and small debris, Faith saw Dawn's lips curve in a sly, triumphant smile.

"Let them torment her forevermore." The wind ramped up, its dull roar becoming a high-pitched whistle.

"Mei." She began the final words to complete the command. "Nutus." The wind fairly howled and everyone found themselves sliding backward on their feet, pushed back by the power of the magic around them.

"Attinet." The wind screamed, as if expectant of the events to come, as if anticipating its reward… and Dawn stood, her face completely still as she gazed at Faith, her eyes blazing hatred at the Slayer. She took one, last deep breath—

--and crushed the component in her hand to a fine powder, turning her hand over and letting the dust sift through her fingers. Her eyes were deliberate as she looked at Faith, and in the sudden absence of the howling wind, their locked gazes were the loudest sound.

"This close," Dawn said, her voice tinged by just the barest tremor. "One more word, and you would have been the most miserable Slayer ever to live. For about five minutes," she added meaningfully.

"Dawn!" Giles broke in, sounding shocked, the first of them to regain his wits.

The girl ignored him. "I could have hurt you. Could have killed you. I had you right in my hands—and I let you go. Remember that next time you get the urge to hurt one of us."

"Dawn. In the back room. Now." Giles' voice was clipped, tense, brooking no argument or intervention.

Dawn began walking toward the room, never taking her eyes from the Slayer. Faith turned and watched her, their gazes remaining locked until the younger girl disappeared behind the door.

The door clicked into place and Faith felt the wires of tension leave her limbs, only to be replaced by the leaden weight of guilt. Her heart ached as if it had been pierced as it slowed its adrenaline-powered rhythm, and the image of Dawn, hair flying wildly around her as she stared Faith down with hatred-filled eyes, was burning its way permanently into her mind. She blinked, and the image, crisp and fresh, was replaced with a tattered, well-worn memory of Dawn when she'd been twelve years old, large, luminous green eyes like a cat's as she'd gazed up at Faith in awe and wonder.

"You're a Slayer, too?" the question uttered with breathless admiration.

She'd almost worshipped Faith, had begged the Slayer to teach her the moves that her big sister stolidly refused to show her. She'd been all gangly legs and no grace then, only the barest hint of the woman she would become concealed in her round, childish features, always harassing Faith and Buffy with her high-pitched squeaky voice. Faith had started calling her Pipsqueak, eventually shortening it to Pip as she had gotten fonder of the girl. Of them all, Dawn had liked her most, had sought her company most often, and Faith had finally relented and shown her a few moves; nothing fancy, just some kicks and blocks, how to throw a good punch, the kind of stuff that could help a young girl out with schoolyard bullies or pushy boys. But oh, had Buffy been pissed when she'd found out about that. Faith had thought B was going to try to kick her ass right then and there. She was pretty sure that Buffy had never forgiven her for it, either, but she would never know, because it hadn't been long after that that Faith had turned against them all. She remembered when the others had found out; Dawn had taken it the hardest, had been the one who believed in her the longest. She could still remember the look in the girl's eyes when she'd tied her up; the utter betrayal reflected in those green depths as yet another piece of childhood innocence was stripped away. Dawn had still been a little girl then, so delicate and fragile, hopes and dreams still idealized in her mother, her sister, her friends. That little girl was gone now, replaced by a young woman with a sanguine voice and eyes that had found their maturity in much harder places than they should have.

Dawn's hatred of her, absolute in its finality, hurt her far more than she wanted to admit, and standing there in that room, surrounded by people in whom she inspired nothing except revulsion, she felt the loss of that hero-worship keenly. Her heart curled up and blackened around the edges, wisps of ash falling away, leaving her chest feeling burnt, empty, profoundly raw and hollow. She wanted to crawl deep into her bones and hide from the truth of herself. Resentment paced her soul like a caged beast, longing to slip its chains and visit this selfsame hurt upon them all. Vibrant red and black, it buzzed and vibrated through her body, swallowing the sadness whole, making her limbs prickle with anxious, violent energy.

She flexed her muscles sinuously and took a deep breath, forcing herself to relax. It seemed she could feel everyone's eyes burning into her, and she pushed away her unwelcome thoughts, lifting a cool, indifferent gaze to greet them. Their eyes seemed to stutter, and everyone exchanged uncertain looks before glancing uncomfortably away. Willow stared longingly at the closed door, as if she'd like to follow Dawn and Giles into the room, but didn't quite dare. Xander just stood there, completely at a loss and not bothering to mask his confusion. Only Anya moved about the room, hurriedly picking up papers and muttering angrily about teenagers and spells. "Don't we know any spells without wind?" Her voice seethed with biting sarcasm as she called out rhetorically to them, and everyone seemed startled by the sudden sound.
 
"I don't think she likes you," Spike informed Faith as if mildly remarking on the weather, nodding his head toward the door to indicate that he meant Dawn. He had, apparently, abandoned the cover of the bookshelves at some point during the disturbance.

She brought her shoulders up like armor, tossing dark hair back over one shoulder, and fixed him with a dispassionate stare that challenged him to make her care. "Pip and I go way back."

He gave her a penetrating look the reeked of vexation and mockery. "You ever call anyone by their real name?"

"Sure." Her whole body shrugged with an air of tight indifference. "Blondie."

"Can't imagine why anyone wouldn't like you," he quipped, nastily.

"Really?" Sarcasm snaked from her voice in bright, shiny tendrils, dark eyes wide with feigned innocence as she mocked him in return. Then, like a snake shedding its skin, the expression dropped from her face to reveal the dispassionate anger beneath. "Want me to show you?"

And though she was very eager to hear Spike's return on that, warming to the violent outlet he was providing her, it was Willow's cold voice that replied. "Maybe because you held her and her mother hostage and threatened to kill them? Or tried to kill her sister on multiple occasions? And almost killed her sister's boyfriend? And her sister's best friends?" The witch's face was like stone as she faced down the Slayer, hard and unforgiving.

Faith's eyes narrowed, muscles tensing, and it was a monumental effort on her part to remain calm. She wasn't thrilled with the person pointing out her past mistakes, but she couldn't refute the truth of them, either. She had done all of those things, and she did deserve what Dawn had almost dished out. But she knew that already; didn't need the witch rubbing it in like salt in a wound, agitating her already considerable annoyance. Faith pivoted smoothly on her feet, her face a mask of arrogant indifference as she lifted her chin, gazing down her nose at the witch. Don't hit her. Don't hit her. "Could have something to do with it," she said, her voice flatly sarcastic. She lifted one shoulder in a disinterested shrug.

Her seeming indifference only aroused Willow's ire. "I'm thinking: everything to do with it. Do you even remember what you did to us all?"

"I'm sure you're about to remind me. Am I gonna need to pull up a chair here, make some popcorn?" Faith's patience was played out, and Willow seemed too angry to know it… or maybe she just didn't care.

Willow made a disgusted noise and rolled her eyes to the side. "Do you ever get tired of being a smart-ass?"

That did it. Screw manners and diplomacy. "I don't know. You ever get tired of being a self-righteous bitch?"

Willow's eyes went wide and her nostrils flared with angry breath, and Faith thought she heard Xander back up a step, but she didn't quite dare take her eyes off Willow long enough to look.

"Look who's talking!" the redhead shot back vehemently. "Walking around here like you're all 'wicked cool' and 'five by five', like anybody even knows what that means, acting like you have every right to be here when you're lucky to be walking at all."

"You wanna try to fix that for me?" Faith asked in menacing undertone, taking a step closer to Willow. The hell with this walking around on eggshells crap. The witch had been gunning for her since the beginning, and even though she couldn't really blame her, Faith had taken about as much as she was going to take. Sooner or later everything was bound to explode between them; it was inevitable. Might as well be sooner. "Come on, Willow." She spread her arms open wide. "Hit me with your best shot. You know you want to."

Fire leaped into the witch's eyes, and she wound like a coiled cobra about to spring. Faith's face split in a mirthless grin, her fingers clenching into fists, dark eyes shooting eager sparks as she prepared to meet the strike—and then the witch faltered, her eyes flickering uncertainly. Willow took a hesitant step backward, and Faith saw fear flutter like frightened birds captured in the depths of her hazel-green eyes. Predator to predator, eye to eye, Faith looked into the primeval depths of her opponent's soul and understood. Willow's fear wasn't of Faith; her fear was of herself, of what she might do if she unleashed her rage on the Slayer.

She leaned closer to the witch and gave her a nasty grin. "What? Afraid you might get off on it?"

Behind her, unseen and forgotten, Spike blinked in surprise and gave a grudging grin of admiration.

Willow's face simultaneously flushed and tightened with anger—and Xander belatedly stepped between them, looking at Faith as if he thought she might have lost her mind.

"Uh, Faith, if you're trying to stay alive? Not lookin' good for the home team," he advised, only half-kidding in his trademark, flatly frantic voice.

Willow looked as though she were made of stone that might explode, eyes like flint and steel, her mouth a tiny seam set in smoothly curved marble. Faith felt the corner of her own mouth quirk in a hard smile, her body thrilling with the anticipation of a fight. God she was so much better at this than dancing around with words or keeping her mouth shut. This is what she was built for.

But then Willow's taut posture eased a fraction, and her chin lifted upward with a haughty tilt that Faith was far too familiar with. "No, it's okay Xander," she said her voice icy calm. "I'm not like her."

Faith snorted cynical disbelief. "Oh, so now you're all great and noble?" she sneered, incensed by Willow's choice of defense. "You didn't sound so humble when you were deciding whether Buffy should live or die."

The red splotches on Willow's cheeks grew brighter, the only indication of exactly how infuriated she was with the Slayer. "There's a big difference between taking life and giving it, Faith."

--You cannot create life. That is not your gift.--

--Death was my gift. I wonder what yours will be?--

"No matter what you do, you'll always be a killer, a taker. Self-righteous would mean that I think I'm better than you. That's not true. I don't think I'm better than you," Willow said, her eyes as calm and cold as her voice, completely certain. "I know."

Don't hit her. Don't hit—oh, fuck it. Faith stepped forward, her fist drawing back, about to push Xander out of the way—

And the door to the back room opened again and Giles stepped halfway out, pushing at his glasses in a familiar, self-conscious gesture. "Ah, Willow. Could you come back here, please?"

"Sure," she answered, voice flat, her eyes still locked with Faith's, the gauntlet thrown, the challenge met.

Faith eased back on her back foot, hand slowly coming down at her side. She swallowed hard and grit her teeth, forcing a brittle smile. "Your lucky day."

"Yours," Willow returned casually with a slight movement of her head, matter of fact as she broke the glare between them. Turning, she slipped by Giles into the back room without a backward glance. Giles hesitated a moment, looking at Faith, oddly questioning, as if he knew he had missed something important but didn't quite know what. Then he nodded once and disappeared behind the door as well.

Xander sighed and gave Faith a reproachful look. "Well. That was… vicious."

She gave him a surly shrug. "She started it."

"Too bad," Spike said musingly, staring after Willow. "Would have liked to see that particular Sunnydale Deathmatch."

"Yeah. You must have been really entertained to stick around that long and keep your mouth shut. Must be a new record," she commented, snidely. Straightening her stance, she seemed to be settling in to continue at length when her right foot came down on something small and plastic with a resounding snap. Her tirade momentarily forgotten, she frowned, kneeling down to pick up the object. She held it up curiously, brow crinkling in amusement as she recognized what it was.

"Give me that!" Xander snapped, snatching the piece of dark plastic from her fingers.

Faith tucked a dark lock of hair behind one ear, looked up and flashed him a taunting grin. "Sorry, Xander. Didn't mean to break your hair clip."

"It's not mine," he answered abruptly. He seemed about to say more, then glanced away, shoulders slumping as the sudden anger drained from him like a flash-fire burning itself out, leaving his face a barren plain, his expression ruined and exposed. "It was Buffy's," he said, voice quiet as he let it slip from his fingers to fall into the now-empty cardboard box.

"Oh." Her voice was quiet, twisting with discomfort in the silence of the shop. Behind her, she heard Spike move away, leaving her alone to face the awkward moment. Too many sharp ups and downs, too much hatred, too many recriminations, too much sadness… it all pushed against the thin skin of her heart until she thought it might burst, Buffy's name like the final nail. It burst the fragile balloon of her anger, leaving her hollow and haunted again, and she wished fervently for the armor of her hatred; so much easier to bear than this. Robbed of her arsenal of vicious words and stinging retorts, she was left not quite knowing what to say. It didn't seem right to simply walk away, leaving Buffy's ghost hanging like heartbreaking specter between them.

"Do you need any… help?" She tried to mask her uncertainty with bravado and heard it fail stunningly.

Xander's eyes could have burned holes through her, the way they caught fire with her words, and Faith was left with the impression that she had just trod upon holy ground and sullied it with her passing.

"No," he replied shortly, and knelt to pick up the rest of the scattered items he had collected from the training room earlier. She watched as his hand closed around a hair comb, palm squeezing it, pressing the thin plastic points as deep into his skin as they would go without breaking. "You've already got everything you want, don't you? Buffy's job, Buffy's Watcher, Buffy's Scooby Gang, and soon enough you'll have Buffy's training room, once we pick it clean of her reminders." His eyes cut upward to look at her like twin scythes, and she shivered, imagining the feel of cold steel through her flesh. "You don't get to have Buffy's friends, too, so stop trying."

She swallowed hard against a retort about not wanting losers like them for friends, anyway, and turned her eyes away from him. She felt drained, so tired of fighting and struggling. "I…" she trailed off, the words sticking in her throat, and wondered at how hard it was. God it was hard. Why was it so hard?

"I didn't want it to be like this," she forced the words out, her voice barely above a whisper, and he must have heard something of the sincerity she felt, because she could feel it as he looked away from her. Silently, he returned to picking up the pieces, and she stood there for a moment longer, lost in thoughts of past and present, filled with the stale hope of dreams never realized.

At last she turned away, moving slowly toward the register. She laid her hands down on the customers' side of the wooden counter, staring down at her fingers, fingers that had betrayed, fingers that had wounded and committed murder, and wondered if there were a point to any of this. She would never belong here.

She didn't move, eyes remaining unfocused and unseeing on her slender digits, even when she felt Spike come up beside her. "They'll never accept you," he confided, glib as he glanced over to where Xander knelt, gathering up the scattered shreds of Buffy's memory. "Believe me, I know. Bloody wankers never—" he broke off, as if realizing the implications of what he'd said. "Oh, bloody hell!" He looked heavenward in exasperation. "Might as well get matching outfits. Demon girl was right. We're like the sodding Bobbsey Twins."

"Who?" Faith frowned at him in confusion.

Briefly, Spike considered death as a preferable alternative, then heaved a resigned sigh.

"Want to make a sweep of the sewers?" he asked her instead.

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

"So this Cherry chick, she's evil?" Faith asked, cutting Spike a casual sideways glance as they made their way through the echoing sewer tunnels.

"Well, I suppose, by your definition," Spike allowed with a noncommittal shrug, his duster rustling with the movement, the whisper of soft leather on soft leather. "She's a succubus." Off Faith's blank look he explained, impatient, as if she ought to have known exactly what he meant, "Seduces men, kills them in the throes of passion?"

"Wow." Faith tucked her chin, upper body straightening and jolting with surprise, dark eyes wide and impressed. "Must be a real kick, seducing men then killing them while they're getting off."

Spike paused in his step and cut her an amazed sideways look, hardly believing the admiration he heard in her voice.

"Well," she blinked, seeming to catch herself. She lifted her shoulders in a shrug that was just a little too casual. "Not that that makes it right. But still, what a charge."

"Got more than a bit of evil in your heart, don't you?" he asked with an indulgent smirk. When she turned, eyes hot and ready to defend herself, he shrugged. "A Slayer needs a bit of darkness." He said it with such practicality that for a moment she was left speechless, pondering the implications.

She shifted her posture away and shrugged, uttering a cynical laugh. "Of course you would say that. I mean, vampire; evil, hello?"

"And where exactly do you think you get your power, luv?" He stopped walking, eerie shuffle of footsteps ceasing, and turned to look at her.

She shifted and shrank from his naked gaze, hating the scrutiny and the glint of mocking laughter that was always present in his eyes. She hated even more the intensity of his presence, how unnerved she always felt when he was near her, when he focused on her… and hated most of all that in some sick, twisted way, she still found his presence comforting somehow. "What do you mean?" she flung back at him hotly, managing to salvage a shred of posture.

"I mean, where do you think a Slayer's power bloody comes from?" He advanced on her a step, all belligerence and annoyed impatience, and yet his expression was serious, almost studious, tainted by the shadows that blackened his knowledge and his heart. "You have the power to fight and kill. Maybe you use it to destroy things that're evil, but any power steeped in death has to come with a little bit of darkness. It's part of the package, luv. And any Slayer that can't handle that darkness in her soul is going to find herself in a spot of trouble real quick."

She put her hands on her hips and rose in height to meet him, eyes defiant as he swung his flashlight on her. "So you're telling me your beloved Buffy had darkness on her bright, shiny puritan soul?"

He flinched as if she had hit him, drawing away just a fraction from her. "Yeah," he said quietly, his voice unsteady. "Yeah, she did."

She took in the exposed sorrow in his eyes, so stripped of all his posturing and attitude now, and she felt the guilt, the sadness rising up in her again. There was something almost angelic about him, something soft and vulnerable and very child-like when he talked about Buffy; from the clear, blue depths of his eyes to the hollow angles of his cheekbones, he became suddenly, exquisitely beautiful, exotic and fragile. When he looked like that he almost made her heart want to break for the pain of feeling his, and she wondered how anyone she loathed so deeply could touch her so truly.

Uncomfortable with her thoughts and the proximity of his naked emotion, she cleared her throat and looked away, not wanting to see him anymore.

"Maybe we should split up. Cover more ground. See if we can find any traces."

"Right."

She took a step back and half-turned away, shining her flashlight over the expanse of tunnels, illuminating all the darkened halls that branched off like black, malignant veins from the one they stood in. "I mean, they've got to be down here somewhere, right? Only a matter of time." She shrugged, feeling her confidence return with the little speech, and turned back toward him, eager to push on with their mission and leave this little moment of intimacy behind.

But Spike was already gone.

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

Elsewhere…

It is dark here, and musty. Silent and sealed away from the world, the fevered thought flickers through her mind that she is dead, and she has been sealed at last in her tomb. The thought brings profound relief for a brief instant, and then her body touches the boundaries of her tiny prison as she stretches, climbing the last painful inches to awareness and she breathes deep, exhaling a ragged sigh. Thankfully, the scent of her own unwashed body no longer troubles her olfactory senses; they have grown mercifully accustomed to the stench.

The flexing of stiffened limbs, lithe muscles moving beneath the skin, sapped of strength now and will to move. Slow rhythm of a heartbeat, dull pounding through her fragile form that tells her she is still alive. Dry swallow of a parched throat, pain like stinging needles in her arms, a low, deep down weakness that shimmers on the border of delirium; this is her world now., devoid of light, and thought, and feeling. She remembers that there was bright panic once, a driving need to escape, to flee her own skin. And before that, long before that, there were voices, and kindness, and warmth. She remembers those things only vaguely though, like fever dreams of another life, and even they have gone now.

She can no longer remember how she got here.

She doesn't know who she is.

Eyes flutter shut, their shading no different than the blackness of her prison, and she slides back into unconsciousness on fiery tendrils of pain.