CHAPTER 5: LIAISONS


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Faith hauled herself up out the grimy sewer hole with a resigned sigh, flinching only slightly as her ribs whispered in pain. Over the last day or so they had departed severe pain in favor of itching, only complaining when she stretched her body too far or put too much stress on them. Not too shabby for a week or so worth of healing. In another two weeks, they'd probably be healed as completely as if they'd never been broken. Sometimes, being a Slayer had its perks.

If only everything could be mended so easily.

She'd waited what seemed like hours for Spike to come back, the irony not lost on her that his presence would have made her feel much braver about a return to the Scoobies. His bravado and arrogance would have bolstered her own, and if nothing else he would have challenged her about going back until she did it just to prove that she could. So she'd meandered about the tunnels, searching down corridors she'd already scoured earlier until finally she couldn't pretend anymore that she wasn't waiting for him. It was ridiculous, but with him around, she at least felt like she had someone on her side; someone who didn't hate her for being a back-stabbing murderer.

No. He hated her for being herself.

And in her twisted, Bizarro-world corner of the universe, that was somehow better.

What a fucking world, huh?

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

It was late in the evening when Faith returned to the Magic Box, alone and empty handed among the dim street lamps of the city block. Her dark eyes darted hesitantly toward the darkened shop front, and her footsteps faltered with uncertainty as she approached. She paused outside the store entrance, catching sight of a lone overhead light that burned deep within, illuminating piles of books upon the circular table that stood beyond the bookshelves. Frowning, she squinted through the crystal-clear glass kept so spotless by Anya's industrious toiling, and determined that everyone seemed to have gone home for the night. Nothing moved in her line of vision, and she found herself both relieved and disappointed by the discovery.

Dawn's hatred, Willow's anger, Xander's disdain. There was nothing for her inside that shop.

The thought came to her with sudden clarity, and suddenly all the arguments she'd put up in favor of remaining there ceased to have meaning. It simply didn't matter; what she wanted, or what she did. Once a thing is done, it cannot usually be undone with ease… where had she heard that? Didn't matter, it amounted to the same thing: some things you just couldn't take back, no matter how much you wanted to. She'd tried telling Angel that, once, but he hadn't wanted to believe her. Angel and his lofty ideals, his pain that he embraced as a compass… she would have gladly traded a few more broken ribs to hear him utter one of his platitudes right now. He was better than her, that way. He had more hope in him. He could have stayed, stuck this out, walked right back in there and taken his lumps like he deserved them. But she just couldn't see the point. It wouldn't change anything.

She didn't know why she'd come here, didn't want to be here. And she decided to pass the store by, keep walking, scavenge for some dinner and maybe get a good night's sleep for a change.

But her eyes lingered on the warmth of luminescence that radiated from inside the darkened shop, and she found that it tugged at her heart far more sharply than it should have. Once, a moment and a lifetime ago, she'd wanted nothing more than to be in that light, to be surrounded by those people and encircled by their love and respect. Once, it had even seemed possible. But it had been a delusion, a false dream built on tattered hope and a lifetime of despair. Really, it was no wonder that the structure she'd tried to build had crumbled, given that its foundation was rotten through to the moorings with years of resentment and hatred. It was no wonder that she'd failed.

Did she really stand a better chance now?

Her face grew long with memory and brittle with self-derision as she shoved her hands deep into her pockets and turned away. The Sunnydale street stretched out before her, barren and forlorn, empty of promise or hope. It had been stupid to think she could come here again and make it right. Stupid to think she could be forgiven, that she could be anything else but what she was.

She turned her back on the shop and closed her heart, and knew that she would never see it, or them, ever again.

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

Her heart leapt in her chest as she heard the faint jingle of the shop doorbell behind her.

"Faith?" It was Giles' voice, so mild and uncertain.

His voice flew through the still night air and lassoed her, tightening around a cluster of nerves in her stomach and squeezing, drawing her up short. She closed her eyes briefly and paused a moment to admire the ironic timing. Her mouth twisted in a bitter smile and she took a deep breath, opened her eyes, and turned on her heels to face him.

"Yeah," she hedged, her voice taking on its usual cocky edge. "I was just… heading home for the night." She shrugged a shoulder vaguely in the direction of the empty street behind her.

His eyes flickered momentarily in the direction she indicated. "I… see," he remarked slowly, not quite looking at her as he leaned out against the door, and she was struck by the thought that maybe he did see. That he could see all the way through her like she was nothing but a ghost, and she hated it. Hated herself for wanting to run, hated him for being able to see it.

"Yeah." She swallowed and the bitter feeling went with it, fleeing like the tide, rolling back to expose the white bone of fragile seashells beneath. She felt frail, brittle, as if one more word from him might shatter her like glass, let her soul spill out on the ground. He might suspect her intent, but he wasn't going to try to stop her, she sensed that. And somehow, that was the hardest blow to bear. "So…" She took another step backward and started to turn.

"It was unfortunate, what happened with Dawn."

She paused in mid-turn, eyes slowly rising up to meet his.

"But to be expected perhaps, given the circumstances." He watched her carefully for her reaction.

Her own eyes hardened in turn, bristling at the implications, and she stiffened, standing up straight as if to brace against the impact of his words. "Yeah, I pretty much got that everyone thought I deserved it," she spat.

"That's not what I meant," he said, intensely sincere, and yet his voice lacked warmth or comfort. There was a look in his eye that she couldn't identify, the summation of so many emotions visible in the deep blue of his irises that she could not decipher a single one. She could only tell that he looked at her with sincerity, and seemed to take in the measure of her, as if weighing her on the fragile scales of justice in his mind. "No one said this would be easy, Faith. You've made mistakes in your past and you're going to have to face them."

"And what do I do when my 'mistakes' decide they're mad as hell and they're not gonna take it anymore? What about when they decide to take me out?" The words flew from her like tiny knives, sharp with exasperation and rage.

He gave her a reluctant, distantly sad look, and tilted his head toward his shoulder in an implied shrug that did nothing to lessen the matter-of-fact tone in his voice. "You do the best you can."

"Funny, you make it sound easy," she snapped, eyes flashing, temper flaring.

"It isn't," he agreed. "But anything worth doing seldom is." He met her eyes intently and held them, as if he were offering her some sort of divine wisdom, some kind of… choice?

And again she was robbed of the armor of her anger, the wind ripped from her sails as surely as a ship that has entered the eye of the storm. "Why are you being so nice to me, Giles?" she asked, her agitation growing, and she nearly cringed as she heard a desperate note enter her voice, betraying her emotions. She flung her hair back over her shoulder with a violent twist of her neck and angrily wrenched her gaze from him. "It's not like any of you actually want me here, so why are you going all Legend of Kung-Fu on me?"

"Do you think you're special, Faith?" he asked, eyes narrowing as he advanced a step toward her. "Do you believe that you are the only one ever to commit a terrible, unforgivable act?" He let the question hang there for an instant between them, filled with sarcasm, ringing with challenge. "Well you're not, I can assure you. I don't excuse what you've done, but I won't persecute you for it. I want to help you."

She didn't respond to that right away, averting her eyes. She wanted to believe him, wanted it so badly… but she couldn't. She didn't deserve his mercy, didn't deserve his kindness or compassion. "Why?" she asked, her voice weak.

"For the same reason that you came here in the first place."

The corner of her mouth twisted up in a crooked smile as she absorbed that, and she felt her tired, cynical feet come back under her. "Yeah? And what's that?" she asked, voice laced with dry wit, and her eyes rose to meet his in challenge.

He met her gaze without flinching. "Because it's the right thing to do," he answered emphatically.

She tucked her tongue against the side of her mouth and looked down with a faint, bitter smile and shook her head. She should have expected him to say something like that. She'd been wrong to think he'd just let her walk away without trying.

--because it's wrong!--

"You sound like Buffy."

He was silent, and for a moment she wondered if it had been the wrong thing to say. "She was a good teacher," he admitted at length, his voice almost reverent.

And she found herself nodding her head slowly, quietly surprised as the realization dawned on her. "Yeah," she agreed quietly. "I guess she was."

He smiled as well, caught for a moment in memory, and they stood amidst a not quite awkward silence, the mood between them softened and changed in that instant. Each felt the other relax just a bit, and there was been a sense of letting go, of moving on past the issues and invisible barriers between them.

He shifted within the dark sweater he wore, glancing down self-consciously at the navy striped sleeves. "There are, ah, a few things I wanted to go over with you." And then, as if he somehow implicitly understood her hunger without being told, he added, "I believe there might still be some pizza left over from earlier." There was a question lurking just behind the change of subject, and she suspected he understood all too well how she'd been feeling before he'd opened the door. He was letting her know, with the smallest and most comfortable of gestures, that she was still welcome there, with him. And yet he was still offering her a choice. She knew she could turn away if she wanted, and he would let her go.

The moment of choosing hung between them like a pendulum, waiting for the slightest push to begin its destructive arc. She hesitated—a heartbeat, two—then drew herself up with a slant of her shoulders. "You Watchers. Always burning the midnight oil. Don't you ever get bored?"

The moment passed, her decision made clear by her choice of words and the casual teasing of her tone. Giles shifted back toward the store, body relaxing as he fell into the more comfortable rhythm of conversation. "The books do get tiresome at times," he allowed with a faint smile and then shrugged one shoulder. "But there's always a spot of inventory to liven things up."

"You're a real wild man, Giles," she proclaimed with a chuckle, and felt the tension dissolve completely. There was an ease to the air between them that bordered on friendship, but didn't quite pass the threshold. Still, it was closer to a welcoming hand given freely than she'd had in a long time. She uncrossed her arms, let them fall to her sides and stepped forward with a grin.

He moved back and pushed the door open wide, allowing her to enter the store first. "Yes, but don't tell anyone. I have a stodgy reputation to uphold."

"Your secret's safe with me," she promised with a wry grin, drawing an "x" over her heart before she turned and stepped inside the doorway. He moved to follow her and she glanced back over her shoulder curiously. "Tell me the truth though. You guys practice those 'good-guy inspirational speeches' in the mirror, don't you?"

He gave her an enigmatic smile and stepped inside, closing the door behind them.

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

Willow grimaced and shifted her position at the table, trying to maneuver the nearby bookshelf between her eyes and the late afternoon sun that shone with blinding cheer through the front windows of the shop. She felt neither bright nor cheerful and was not much in the mood for anything that was.

Giles was speaking as he rounded the table, speculating aloud about the restoration ritual in a way that she normally would have found quite cute and endearing. But today she hardly heard him, could hardly stand to watch or listen. Every time she looked at him, all she could see was the stern disapproval he had looked at her with yesterday.

"Giles," she had said again, trying to cut off his angry litany. "I didn't know she would use what I taught her to try and cast a vengeance spell like that."

He'd been livid again. "Willow… it's magic. By its very nature it is dangerous. You can't simply go around just passing out its secrets to anyone. Especially someone as young and impressionable as Dawn."

"It wouldn't have worked," Willow had offered, meek and hopeful.

"That hardly matters. She could have caused something far worse to happen, to herself, or even to one of us. And if she'd succeeded with Faith—"

We could throw a party? Willow had thought, but dared not say. "Giles," she'd interrupted hastily. "I know." She'd ducked her head and squirmed lower in her chair, the very picture of misery and chagrin. "I'm sorry." And she had been. She should have known better. "It's just… after Joyce… and then Buffy… Dawn was so sad, so lost. I thought… maybe if I showed her some stuff she might feel better. It felt like I was doing something to help, you know?" She'd given him a look that pleaded understanding.

He'd leaned back against the vaulting horse and set his jaw, gazing intensely at nothing. When he finally spoke, his voice had been reluctantly forgiving, and she'd known he was still angry. "I suppose there's nothing to be done for it now. Let's just… try to show better judgment in the future, shall we?"

Again, she'd tried to help someone, to make things better, and again she'd gotten nothing but trouble for it. The thought dug at her with fiery, prying claws, peeling back years of shy repression like the layers of an onion. Instinctively she sought to stop it, not wanting to lay the center bare, afraid of what might be revealed. But she couldn't seem to help herself. It was like being caught in a feedback loop. She tried, she really tried to understand the feelings of everyone around her, but why couldn't they see that she was only doing what was right?

She cast a worried, sidelong glance at Tara, and found her lover's features captured in golden sunlight, oblivious to Willow's uncertainty.

She snapped from the trance of her thoughts as Tara unexpectedly spoke up, tilting her blond head at Giles in confusion. "They're paying her?"

"What?" Willow blurted, turning to look at him as well.

"Yes. The Council has apparently decided that it's far past time to change the rules governing the Slayer's compensation."

"There were rules?" Xander asked, looking just as lost as Willow felt.

"In earlier times, the Slayer was worshipped, revered and cared for by her people. She had no need for an income. Even as recently as the 1800's it is recorded that tribe, community, King, or Queen cared for the Slayer. It's only been in the 19th and 20th centuries that people have stopped believing in creatures of the night. People today are hardly superstitious at all." Giles raised his brows, sounding baffled and mildly offended by his own assessment. "They would never believe in a Slayer, except perhaps in third world countries, where they likely couldn't provide for her, anyway."

"Yeah," Xander agreed wryly. "Maybe they should have changed the books on that around the same time that 'secret identity' entered the picture."

"They're going to pay Faith?" Willow asked in astonishment, finally catching on.

"Well, nothing substantial. But enough to cover food, living expenses and such, yes."

"But… they never paid Buffy!" she argued, finding it somehow unfair.

Giles put his hands in his pockets and nodded, shrugging lightly. "Buffy never negotiated for money. She never really had a need to. She…" he forced himself to say the word, "died before the need arose."

"Faith should get paid," Anya observed, sensible as ever. "Besides, if she doesn't, we'll all have to support her."

The Scoobies exchanged glances and raised brows, then as one, shrugged and nodded in agreement.

"Good point," Xander noted.

"I think it for the best," Giles agreed. "Part of the reason the Council was prompted to change the rule is because Faith has no alternatives. They don't want to give her any reason to go looking for outside help."

"Oh, you mean like turning evil and trying to kill us all again?" Xander asked snidely.

"Xander…" Giles faltered, as if considering what he was about to say. "Let's give it a rest, shall we?"

"Is there any reason we should, Giles?" Willow asked, her face pinched in a disapproving frown.

"Yes." He looked impatient, as if he didn't understand the need for the question. "We have to work together, and I don't believe the constant… sniping at each other will help. Besides, Faith has made an effort to cooperate with us. I think she deserves a chance," he said with a shrug that showed he thought his opinion was simple common sense.

Everyone glanced away, not willing to argue. Willow bit her lip and looked resigned. Xander looked down at the table, fidgeting, the way he often did, and he at least, seemed as if he understood Giles' sentiment. Tara only looked to Willow to note her reaction, then glanced away, seeming troubled by what she saw in her lover's face.

Anya seemed fascinated as she watched everyone else's reactions, having none in particular of her own. "I kind of like her," she said in such an offhand manner that Giles had to smile. Everyone else looked at her in surprise and she went on, unperturbed, amending her statement slightly. "Except for the swaggering and the attitude. And well, Dawn casting spells at her in my store."

Giles shot her an offended look.

"Our store," she amended, rolling her eyes.

"You like her?" Xander asked in disbelief.

Anya lifted her chin, looking slightly defensive as she answered. "She likes my honesty. Even you get annoyed by it sometimes."

Xander glanced away and ran his hands through his hair with a look that said 'oh, this is ALL I need'. "And, uh, where is Faith, anyway?" he asked, as much to change the subject as out of curiosity.

"I sent her and Spike down to do another search of the sewer tunnels," Giles answered.

Xander looked at him, surprised. "Not to sound like negativity guy here, Giles, but don't you think that's asking for trouble, pairing the two of them together?"

"They seem to get along ah, very well when they're not bickering. I suspect they have a lot in common."

"Gee, could it be the cold-blooded killer vibe?" Xander asked sarcastically. Off Giles' look, he held up his hands. "Just saying. We should think about that. I mean, give them too much time together and they're liable to go all Mickey and Mallory on us."

"They'd have to be madly in love to do that," Anya interjected.

"Oh, hey, there's a thought. Maybe they'll start dating," Xander observed with a touch of panic. Then he paused, appearing to re-think that. "I can't decide which would be worse. Having to watch them make out or having them kill me slowly and painfully?"

Everyone looked at each other, seeming appalled by the idea.

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

Faith froze outside the tunnel entrance, body poised and still, lithe muscles corded with the feline grace of a predator stalking prey; head tilted, eyes narrowed to slits, ears straining carefully for the faintest sound. Something had moved around the corner, something with a light, preying footstep… something that didn't want to be heard. She clicked off her flashlight, hardly daring to breathe, and backed quietly to the wall, feet silent as a cat's, waiting.

Moments passed and no other sound reached her ears, but she'd been down here too often in the last few days, had become too used to hunting in these echoing tunnels to simply ignore her instincts. Her blood pumped with sudden energy, fairly singing with the promise of a fight, and for just an instant, the world fell away and she was focused, complete, whole. This was what she was made for, her calling, and there was still enough of her cynical detachment left to appreciate the fact that her calling basically amounted to kicking a whole lot of ass. She smirked in the darkness, and when the humanoid figure rounded the corner, her fist lashed out seemingly of its own accord, instincts meeting power and carrying out their combined mission.

"Bloody hell!" the shadowed form snarled, dodging backward so that her fist connected with its jaw with much less impact than she'd intended.

Tension eased from her muscles as she recognized the voice and was replaced with the usual annoyance she felt whenever she heard it.

"Spike," she bit off the name in clipped tones that spoke of ebbing adrenaline and flipped her flashlight back on, swinging it at him accusingly.

"A bit off your game, Slayer?" he taunted, coming forward into the beam of her light with his patented smirk intact as always, despite the swelling along the bone of his jaw line. He touched two fingers to the damaged area and gave her an appraising look that bordered on mock-accusation. "Nice shot."

"You deserved it," she snapped, and he considered that a moment, then shrugged in agreement. "And I thought Angel was bad about lurking," she muttered, still annoyed.

"Great poofter's got nothing on me," Spike said proudly, drawing himself up. "Well, 'cept for 70 pounds 'round his middle," he amended with a mean little grin.

She gave a tired sigh and shifted her posture, trying to give her ribs some relief. She hadn't slept well again last night; her ribs had begun to itch again, and though when she'd left the Magic Box she was as exhausted as she'd been for the last week or so, sleep had dangled tauntingly outside her reach for much of the night. What little she had managed had been shallow, nightmarish, and left her more annoyed than refreshed. She was bone-weary, soul-tired, so stretched and thin that she hardly even felt like herself anymore. She knew Spike was taunting her, but she really didn't feel like defending Angel right now.

"Find anything?" she asked instead.

"Like hell!" Spike countered, scowling automatically. "You—" He broke off, confused as he realized that she hadn't insulted him, which seemed to make him even more suspicious. "You feeling all right, Slayer?"

"Answer the question, Spike. You can do that, right?"

He gave her a look that she couldn't quite decipher, then glanced away, scanning the entirety of the tunnel they stood in, shrugging. "Nothing 'round here. If the Hell Patrol's setting up shop down here, they're deeper in."

Faith sighed and ran a hand through her hair, frustration skating down her nerves on razor blades. "This is useless. We've been looking down here for days." She gritted her teeth and sighed, flexing her fists restlessly. She wasn't good at the lurking around and waiting routine, and the longer they went without encountering anything, the edgier she felt. If she could just hit something… she cut her eyes toward Spike with a sidelong grin. "You know, if I don't find a good fight soon, I might have to kick your ass just for fun."

"Want to give it a go?" he asked with a smirk, seeming amiable to the idea in that faintly threatening, cocky way he had about him.

"I'd so win," she countered with superior arrogance, putting a hand on her hip and shooting him a devilish grin. She debated the matter seriously for a few seconds, then glanced around and shook her head. "But I say we take it to the streets a while. See if we find any of them lurking around up there."

"Fine by me," he shrugged. "Could do with a spot of violence, myself. Don't think we're going to have any better luck though."

She shot him an annoyed look, irritated by the fact that he was probably right—hell, he was almost always right—then moved toward one of the ladders to the surface, gripping a grimy rung tight in her hand. "Yeah," she agreed, disgruntled. "Giles thinks they've gone into hiding since getting the scroll. Maybe preparing for the big ritual… whatever it is."

"So, no new news, then?"

She shook her head and pushed off from the ground, mounting the ladder and pulling herself up with a twist of graceful limbs. "Zip."

Spike glanced up at her as she moved and unconsciously tilted his head, neck craning to the side to take in the contours of her body as she climbed, admiring the curvature and sinewy muscle that managed to be both soft and deadly at the same time. He caught himself watching as she reached the top and shoved open the manhole cover, turning to look at him with impatient expectation.

"You coming or what?"

Snapping out of it, he shook his head, blinked in surprise and scowled at her for good measure, wondering just what the hell had been going through his mind.

"Just waiting for you to get out of my way."

She rolled her eyes, flipped him off and climbed the last rung up, disappearing through the hole that peered up into the stars.

"Wanker," he chided himself beneath his breath, then mounted the ladder rungs.

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

After the third graveyard sweep with no activity, Faith was practically chomping at the bit.

"You really are about to pop, aren't you?" Spike asked her, bemused.

She shoved her stake in the back of her jeans so angrily that he thought she might split them down the middle, and regarded him contemplatively. The dark fire in her eyes seemed to debate giving him a run for his money like she'd threatened to do earlier. Then, mercurial as ever, the abrasive posture slipped from her slight form and she relaxed, putting a hand on her hip and giving him a solicitous grin.

"You up for making some action of our own?" she asked suggestively, arching a dark brow at him.

"Why Slayer." He managed to sound sarcastic, shocked and unimpressed all at once as he mocked her. "You propositioning me?" He didn't know whether she was going to try to hit him or fuck him, but he was, in general, pretty well prepared for either course of action when it came to women.

She sauntered up to him, still grinning, and lifted one hand to his cheek, patting his face rather too roughly. "Oh yeah," she agreed, and her flirtatious air took on a dangerous tone. "Think you can keep up?"

"Think you can get ahead of me?" he countered.

She tilted her head to the side, looking at him with eyes that glittered mischievously, then let her hand slide from his face and glided past him.

"How do you feel about tequila?" she called back over her shoulder with a roguish grin.

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

An hour later they sat facing each other over a bottle of Cuervo Gold, several empty shot glasses lined up in front of each of them like rows of tiny soldiers. Around them, music thumped and blared in catchy, house techno beats, and lights flashed in a rainbow of myriad color in time with the rhythm, spraying over the writhing dance floor in shafts of crimson, sapphire, emerald and violet. Faith cast an appraising look toward the undulating crowd and tossed her hair back over her shoulder in a cascade of golden light as one of the strobes passed over her in a wild arc.

"I always did like this place," she said, voice rich with satisfaction, like a cat curled up in a sunlit window. This place was like home to her; she always felt she was in her element when surrounded by music and chaos. It gave her a sense of being free that went far beyond physical. You could lose yourself under those lights, be anyone you wanted.

Spike gave an indifferent shrug, hardly glancing up at her as he poured himself another shot. "It'll do."

They were secluded in a corner far enough away from the dance floor and music to be able to talk without shouting, but still close enough to admire the shifting waves of chaos that spilled over the dance floor in rainbow hues of flesh.

She gave him a brief, scouring look, then grinned and leaned across the table in a spill of dark hair to grab the tequila bottle. Hardly taking her eyes from him, she poured another shot for herself and then sat the bottle on the table beside her with a decisive thump. "Ready?" she asked, and the glint in her eyes reminded him of the feeling he used to get right before he fed.

He gave another shrug and lifted the shot glass, considering the amber liquid as he turned it between his fingers. "I do hope you're not going to try and keep up with me all night. I don't fancy the idea of carrying you home."

She rolled her eyes. "Are you always this much fun? Because I think I saw some Mormons outside that might be more entertaining."

He gave a snort of laughter and slyly nodded his head at her, platinum hair momentarily haloed in orange as the lights flickered by behind him. "Right, then. Don't say I didn't warn you."

"I'll be sure to have them carve it in my headstone: 'Spike warned me'," she agreed archly. "So you in, or what?" She lifted her shot glass with an impish grin, clearly having too good of a time to let him annoy her.

"To mutual hatred," he said, toasting the shot glass toward her before tossing it down in a single gulp.

"Whatever," she agreed, then shrugged and gulped down her own shot.

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

Some time later, Spike set down another shot glass and sprawled back in his chair, and gave Faith an imperious look that did not so much slide down his nose as it swaggered. "So how did the drama with the Bit play out the other day?" he asked, raising a curious brow.

"The Bit? And you give me a hard time for not calling people by their name?" She shook her head, rueful, then gave a brief chuckle and shrugged. "It was… fine."

"Fine?" His other brow rose to join the first and his eyes fixed her with a penetrating look that was solidly backed by disbelief. None of the other muscles in his face moved, and she had to give him credit; he was a master of expression. She doubted there were enough words in the English language to convey the depth and range of his expressions. Had to be a British thing.

"Yeah. You know. Scoobilicious," she added with whimsical impatience.

"So everything's just peachy, then?" Spike asked, voice flat, clearly not believing a word. "You went back to the shop and Dawn and Willow grabbed you up in a group hug and sang a round of Auld Lang Syne?"

"Not exactly. But it all came out five by five in the end." She tossed her head and dismissed the subject. "Anyway, I thought we were here to drink?" she added, upping the challenge with the insinuation that he might be trying to distract her.

He gave an indifferent shrug then picked up the half-empty bottle with the intent of filling his glass. "Not much of a talker, are you?"

"What can I say? I'm pretty much a doer," she replied with a suggestive wink. She flashed him a smile that while charming, nevertheless hinted that the viewer should interpret it with caution.

"You ready, then?" he asked, and the tone was a casual, but the meaning was unmistakable this time. He really meant to see if she could keep up with him.

A beam of magenta light skewered the tequila bottle for a split second before passing on, and she grinned. "Bring it on, blondie." She lifted a hand to motion him toward her as she spoke, and jutted her chin out at him to complete the picture of cocky acceptance.

"Hope that new allowance the Council of Wankers is giving you can afford all this," he remarked, pouring for both of them.

"I got it covered," she said with a breezy motion of her head. "Besides, Giles said I should take some downtime while the vamps are laying low."

He gave a cynical snort and lit a cigarette, inhaling deeply as he stared her down. "Wonder how many Slayers spend their 'downtime' doing tequila shots with a vampire?"

"Hey, I'm of age. Long as I do their bidding and co-operate, I figure I can spend my petty cash on crack and whores if I want to." She shrugged, nonplussed.

He blinked, then laughed aloud, half toasting her before he tossed back his shot. "You're a real piece of work, Slayer," he admitted with grudging admiration.

She grinned almost invitingly, a promise of greater things to come. "You ain't heard nothin' yet…"

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

"And so I told B, 'It's simple: want, take, have' and she kinda grins and turns around, puts her fist through the glass and grabs this dagger out like a trophy, gives me this hungry look that sends shivers down my spine, and says 'want, take, have. I think I'm getting it'."

"Did not," Spike contradicted, only half-disbelieving.

"Swear," Faith said with a chuckle, holding up her left hand, then leaned clumsily over the table, reaching for the tequila bottle.

"Buffy broke into a place and stole something? And liked it?" His dark brows rose high above his eyes like exclamation points, and his expression told her he was clearly having trouble envisioning it.

"I know. Boggles the mind, huh?" She poured herself another shot, then leaned over the table again, filling up one of the shot glasses in front of Spike.

He gave a grudging smile and shook his head once as he watched her. "You're nothing like her." He said it quietly, and she almost had to strain to hear him.

Through the pleasant haze clouding her mind, she puzzled out what he meant. "Who? Buffy?" There was enough bitterness left over to taint her voice, but for once she didn't shoot it at him like a venomous arrow. She felt almost… generous. Pleasantly warm and satisfied. "No, B was more of a vanilla ice-cream and nice guys kinda girl."

Spike lounged back in his chair, looking thoughtful, and nodded. "She cared about you, though. I always got that. Never understood it, but I got it. I figured it must have been the Slayer bond, brought you two together."

"More like 'made us want to kill each other'," she countered, bitterness welling closer to the surface.

"I used to want to kill her. Doesn't mean I didn't love her." He shrugged matter-of-factly.

"You know, I don't want to come off holier than thou or anything, but you're aware you've got some serious emotional issues going on there, right?"

"You know," his brows rose in surprise and he gaze fell on her somewhere between appreciative and amazed. "I think you're right. Tell me how you did it. I mean," he leaned closer to her, lowering his voice, completely focused on her. "When did you fall in love with Angel, exactly? Before the first time you tried to kill him? Or was it after? Or was it sometime during the second time you tried to kill him?"

"Gee, maybe we can get therapy together," she said, her voice heavy with sarcasm. "Or maybe that theory doesn't always work, because I usually want to kill you and I definitely don't love you."

He gave a mild chuckle and fixed her with a pointed look, matching her sarcasm. "And the coincidences just keep piling up."

"You were talking about Buffy," she reminded him, directing him roughly to a much more desirable topic of conversation.

It took him a moment to switch gears, but he managed. She saw the soft, far away look that always entered his eyes when he thought about Buffy and knew her ploy to distract him from talking about Angel had worked. Plus, she was kind of curious to see what he had to say about her and Buffy. She'd never gotten an outside perspective on the happier points of their relationship.

"Yeah. I remember now where I saw you before, how I knew you two were chummy rivals even before I figured who you were. Could see it the way you two looked at each other, how you held yourselves," he said, mind seeming elsewhere even as he looked at her. When she frowned at him curiously, he explained. "Saw a picture of you two, once. In Buffy's room."

"B had a picture of me in her room?" she asked, genuinely surprised, thoughts of a moment before scattered and forgotten in the wake of this new information.

"In one of her drawers," he said in a distant, thoughtful voice. So vivid; the memory of silk whispering through his fingers, the smell of some flowery but achingly sweet sachet, flash of golden hair and sea foam eyes. Then he snapped back to the moment, eyes focusing on her intently.

"Drawers? Were you stealing her underwear or what?" she asked with a laugh.

Despite himself, he was mildly annoyed by the accuracy of her jibe, and he looked at her with a challenging expression that said 'Yeah. What else?'.

"Wow. You really are a perv." She chuckled. "You know, I kinda like that about you." She leaned forward earnestly, her dark eyes intent as a thought struck her. "Did she… you know. Was she into you? I mean, B always did have that vampire lust thing going on."

A laugh escaped him, unbidden, and he looked away, cynical and bemused. "Not bloody likely. Wasn't enough of a 'nice guy' for her." His fingers fell to the table and he eyed the state of his chipped black fingernail polish as he went on more thoughtfully, "But she treated me like I mattered."

"Yeah, she had a way of doing that."

"None of the others ever treated me like I was worth anything, but she…"

"I know exactly what you—" she trailed off, and their eyes met in realization.

"Another thing we've got in common," Faith noted, irritated.

"Oh, yay." Spike rolled his eyes.

"You know, we get along a hell of a lot better when we're drunk," she observed.

"Speak for yourself," he contradicted, annoyed. "I'm not even close to drunk and I still don't like you." He sounded almost petulant.

"Well, we should probably fix that. The drunk part, I mean," she amended quickly and picked up the bottle. "Damn. Empty." She shook the bottle for dramatic effect before she slammed it back down on the table.

"You want another?" Spike asked, arching a challenging brow at her.

She met his eyes with a hungry grin. "Are you kidding?"

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

"…and I said 'Sorry, luv. I don't speak Chinese.'"

"That's wicked evil," Faith declared with an appreciative nod as she reached across the table for the bottle. Nearly overbalancing, she caught herself against the edge of the table and pealed almost girlish laughter at her own clumsiness, tossing back her dark hair in a shimmering sea of color beneath the kaleidoscope lights.

"Thanks," Spike accepted the compliment with a grin of his own and leaned to snatch the bottle from her unsuccessful grasp. He turned the bottle up and poured into his shot glass, spilling a good portion on the lacquered tabletop before doing the same with Faith's.

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

"Yer beneath me, she said." Spike leaned drunkenly over the table, head lolling over his folded arms, the table top the only thing keeping him from falling to the floor. A cigarette burned down to the filter between his fingers, forlorn and forgotten as strains of sad guitar floated from the dance floor, the night winding down, the writhing crowd paired off into couples that twined in their own intimate worlds. On the table top, the two tequila bottles they'd finished off even seemed paired together, their square edges touching each other with intimate familiarity, faintly tinkling in time with Spike's swaying motion. Countless shot glasses littered the table, and somewhere in the center of the stubby, glass sentinels, an ashtray swelled high with butts, perilously close to overflowing.

"That sucks," Faith slurred, wavering precariously over the table, her face in grave danger of falling into the ashtray. "Angel told me he might care about me," she spat, her voice caustic. "Y' believe that? Said he might care 'n then ran out on me."

"He's a bloody wanker," Spike agreed angrily. "Stupid poofter."

"Yeah," Faith agreed, stirring from her drunken slump just slightly, a touch of fire in her dark eyes. She blinked, blearily trying to focus on the table. "'Nother bottle?"

*           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *           *

They stumbled out into the back alley behind the Bronze, clinging to each other in a drunken sway that threatened to overbalance at any moment. Faith clutched at the collar of Spike's duster, trying to haul herself up, and he fell toward her, causing both of them to burst into brief laughter.

"S'not right, them closing up th' place like that," he grumbled after a moment, regaining his balance.

"Hey," Faith perked up, blinking and peering around the alley. "I know this place."

That caused Spike to crack a mocking smile. "You ought to. Regular college boy dumping ground back here."

He turned to look at her and noticed that her eyes seemed slightly sharper than a moment before as they focused on him. He shifted his footing as he considered what that might mean, and nearly toppled over.

She caught him and hauled him back up on his rubbery legs, pulling him rather closer to her than he strictly needed to be. Fire shone deep in her dark eyes, and her manner had changed perceptibly. She seemed more aware, suddenly, more alive. "I remember the last time we were here."

"Yeah. Me, too." He took an unnecessary deep breath and held it, looking down at her quite seriously and intently now, wondering where she was going with this.

"I was a total tease," she said with a grin.

"You were a complete bitch," he corrected her, smirking back.

"I should make that up to you, huh?"

"You propositioning me, Slayer?" he asked in that dangerous way he had about him, half-teasing, half-serious, echoing his words from earlier in the night.

"Oh yeah," she agreed, and she seemed to sober a bit more with the sultry flirtation. "Think you can keep up?"

"Think you can get ahead of me?"

"Oh, I think you'd be amazed at what I can do." She spun him around toward her by his shoulder and grabbed him around the waist, pulling him tight up against her, grinning like a devil.

She might have thought the unexpected momentum would catch his drunken body off guard and expected him to pitch over, overbalance and give her the upper hand, but he didn't. A predatory posture entered his lean body as he grabbed hold of her hips, hands sliding down over her ass as he stared down at her, blue eyes bright with ravenous desire. Sudden lust for her coursed through his body, and he was surprised to find that he was hungry for her, that he fairly craved her.

She grabbed him roughly by the back of his platinum hair and pressed her mouth to his. Their tongues met, twining earnestly with desperate need, as if both their bodies had only been waiting for this moment, waiting for them to realize the truth and let the denial end. He felt body writhe against his as she arched her hips up into him and inspired an aching need between his own. He pushed back against her, and she moaned hungrily into his mouth, rocking against him eagerly, and startled by her passion, he drew back to look at her in wonder.

For a moment she only stared back with a gaze that seemed to devour him from the inside out, her chest heaving, breasts high and firm against his chest with every panting breath, and then her brown eyes widened like those of a doe, and she shoved him away from her, spinning him out in a spiral to her right.

He stumbled and nearly went down, coming up in a disbelieving, furious rage as he turned on her like an animal. "Dammit, Slayer! What—"

He broke off as he saw Faith's fist connect with a sharp crack against the jaw of a large, bronze-skinned man who held a stake in his left hand. The man stumbled backwards with a stunned shake of his head, his eyes fixed on Faith in amazement.

"Slayer?" The man seemed confused, perhaps even panicked by the discovery.

"That's right," Faith proclaimed, swaying only slightly as she backed up, pushing up her sleeves. "You picked the wrong girl to mess with, beefcake."

"I—I didn't know." He held up his hands in a gesture of peace, and for such a large, capable looking man, he seemed very vulnerable, looked even, perhaps, a bit sheepish. "We heard that the Slayer was dead. And I… thought he was going to bite you," the man motioned toward Spike, stake seemingly forgotten in his hand. "He is a… vampire, right?" the man asked uncertainly.

Faith's eyes narrowed slightly as she tried to process all that through her drunken brain. "Yeah."

"And… you're the Slayer?" he asked hesitantly, as if slowly putting together the pieces.

"Yeah," she answered more crossly. "You got a point, Mr. Universe?"

"Then…" he frowned, and dark eyes flickered back and forth between them, seeming to reach a reluctant conclusion. "What were you two… doing?"

Faith and Spike exchanged guilty, uncertain glances. Now that the moment was past, both were reluctant to mention it, think about it, or even acknowledge it.

"He's a good-guy." Faith made an offhand motion toward Spike and gave the vampire an apologetic shrug when he glared at her explanation.

"Oh." The man still seemed uncertain, and he sized Spike up with a curious glance. "So you're Angel, then?"

Spike glared daggers at the man, about to retort when Faith stepped between them. "You seem to know an awful lot that you shouldn't," she said dangerously, leveling her eyes on the muscular mystery man. "How about you tell us who you are and maybe I won't make you unconscious."

The bronze skinned man raised his shoulders and stood tall and proud, easily more than six feet tall at his full height. Cute, Faith couldn't help noticing. Brazilian, maybe, all lean jaw and rugged, pretty boy features attached to a frame that was, by all physical standards, very impressive.

"My name is Tenth. I'm with an Order called the Guardians."

"Great. Why are you here?" She fired off the question like a bullet from a gun.

He fixed her with a look that froze her heart in her throat, a look that said he knew far more even than he'd already suggested. A look that said he knew who and what she was, and though there was respect for her reflected in his eyes, he looked at her as if she were already dead, his expression vaguely sad but matter-of-fact.

"To stop the world from ending."


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Apologies that this took so long to write. I'm even publishing it without flavor lyrics because I can't find the perfect ones and I'm in hurry to post it (I'll add them later). It was a difficult, in-between chapter, establishing relationships and such, and took it's time getting to the point I needed to be at. It gave me a harder time than any chapter yet. I've already managed to finish chapter 6 in the week following my finishing of 5 (and oh BOY does it start getting good!), so hopefully I'm back on track!