CHAPTER 8: CATHARSIS

Sudden problems shouldn't take away the startled memory.
All in all, the journey takes you all the way.
As apart from any reality that you've ever seen and known.
Guessing problems only to deceive the mention,
Passing paths that climb halfway into the void.
As we cross from side to side, we hear the total mass retain.

Down at the edge, round by the corner.
Close to the end, down by a river.
Seasons will pass you by.
I get up, I get down.

            ~Closer To The Edge II (The Total Mass Retain), Yes
______________________________________________

The first thing Spike thought when he heard the knock at the door of his crypt was that it was the damned Sylappha demons coming round again. Damned, bike-riding goody two-shoes, trying to sell their martyred ram God to him in tiny pamphlets and newsletters that promised answers to supposedly frightening questions like "demons—are we bound for Hell?", and delivered nothing but a reinforcing dose of God-induced fear. Beauty of capitalism at work, it was, playing on the fear of eternal punishment in the hopes of loosening the wallets of the masses. Because money; that was the way to the Promised Land, and they were like mini-travel agents, selling tickets door-to-door to a demon heaven no one really believed in. Kind of like every other religion in existence.

He snorted and stormed towards the door, filled with loathing for organized religion, reluctantly leaving behind the melodramatic joys of daytime television (whose bloody baby was Marilyn carrying, anyway?), determined to make them take him off their list of addresses. Ever since he'd gotten this sodding chip, they'd been—

He yanked open the door, nasty diatribe about the particular bathing and mating habits of a certain ram God ready to launch—and stopped cold, staring dumbly at what he found on his doorstep.

He glanced back and forth and blinked against the daylight just beyond the threshold. As if not quite convinced of what he was seeing, brows drawn together in a confused frown, he centered his vision on the person in front of him.

"You… knocked?" Suspicious. Completely baffled.

Faith didn't say anything, just stared at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, her body unwound from its taut posture, uncoiling like a snake, and she leaned one shoulder against the edge of the doorway, shrugging at him. "Isn't that what people do?"

Spike found himself wishing fervently that he'd found a religious sermon on his doorstep instead.

"People, yeah!" He snorted at the irony of her choice of words, then stopped, fixing her with a suspicious look again. "People." He reluctantly agreed. How many times had Buffy kicked in his door? "But not—" He cut himself off again, verging on confusion, and his expression shifted like quicksilver for the third time in less than half a minute. "What do you want?" Flat now, irritated, as if he wanted nothing more than to get back to his television, and in truth, he would rather be coasting through the ridiculous, unpredictable wiles of daytime soap opera's than deal with the ridiculous, unpredictable moods of this girl. In truth, he'd almost rather stick nails in his own eyes.

Okay, yeah, they'd shared a sort of moment last night, but there was no need to go getting all Hallmark about it, was there? Never could stand to see someone he cared about hurt like—

He cut the thought short and banished it to the deepest, darkest recesses of his mind. Stuffed it into a box marked "destroy" and made a mental note that that box was getting pretty full.

"You gonna invite me in?" she asked almost flippantly, and—was that a glint of amusement?

He glanced up at the sun, as if double-checking its existence. "You don't look like you're bursting into flame," he said pointedly, then turned away from the door, moody. Bloody bitch knew she didn't need an invitation. What was she playing at? And why was he so annoyed, anyway?

After a moment, she followed, taking a hesitant step over the threshold. He heard her push the door to, then turn back toward him, fingers brushing the shoulder of his duster.

"Spike…"

He spun on her, angular jaw set with sharp annoyance—and stopped.

The attitude was gone. The one that proclaimed "I'm-a-bad-ass-bitch-don't-fuck-with-me"; the one he'd thought as inseparable from her as her bones. Her eyes were unmasked, glittering as they studied him in the dim light of the crypt, and he would swear she was looking into him rather than at him.

What the hell did that mean?

"Listen…" She hesitated a moment, and her eyes almost skittered away. But at the last second, they held, seemed to grow determined. "Thanks. You know. For what you did last night," she tilted her head at him and her smile deepened just a fraction. It was a quirky, lop-sided smile, one of those smiles that was given tentatively out of fear of rejection, but it was genuine.

"Right," he said slowly, still studying her, the words not quite penetrating yet.

He saw the moment the shield went back up between them. Whatever response she'd been looking for, he hadn't given it to her. But it wasn't a huge distance, not like it had been before. Whatever had transpired between them last night, whatever was happening between them right now, it had brought them closer together in her mind.

What about in his mind? Why was he feeling so odd today?

Deep in the storage bin of his memory, the box marked "destroy" shifted and spat out an unsavory tidbit. It stared at him with predatory eyes and hunkered down like a nightmare lying in wait.

For the moment, he ignored it.

"Yeah. Good thing I caught your fist with my face," he responded dryly. The retort didn't come out sounding half as nasty as it had in his head, but he supposed it was a damned sight better than standing here gaping at her.

"Yeah…" she glanced away, tucking a lock of hair behind one ear as she often did when she was uncomfortable—which was frequent. "Sorry about that."

Well… that left him speechless. Write this down, kiddies, taunted the bit of his objective mind that still remained. He hadn't known her long, but he got the feeling that she didn't apologize often—or possibly ever. This was weird, and only getting weirder.

"Taken worse," he said with an indifferent shrug, letting it go. Something was definitely wrong here, and not just with her. He felt like he'd woken up in someone else's head. Someone's daft, indecisive, and possibly stoned, head.

She seemed grateful to be let free of the awkward moment, regaining some of her usual swagger and took a few more steps inside the crypt.

"Nice place," she commented, not quite looking at him as she approached the coffin at the crypt's center.

This whole situation wasn't tracking for him at all. Screw the small talk. He wasn't going to let her get away that easily. "You seem awfully chipper for someone who fell to pieces last night," he observed.

"And you seem awfully asshole-ish for someone who held me through it," she shot back, finally losing her patience.

That look was back in her eye; that fierce look of uncertainty caught between need and hate. It had never been aimed so directly at him before, and he felt the weight of its responsibility settle uncomfortably on his shoulders. The protective veneer of her attitude was thin, so very thin, and he knew if he pushed, he could scratch through the surface, maybe do some permanent damage to the softness beneath.

"Then why are you still here?" He could have hurt her, made her run, but he was actually curious.

She wavered on the edge, and for a moment he thought maybe she was going to run anyway, and then her defense mechanisms kicked in and her cocky attitude returned like a shield.

"Because I need your help."

He considered her for a moment, brows raised, expression impassive. "You back in the game, then?"

"Never left it," she replied with a grin and a shrug as she hopped up on top of the coffin.

"And what makes you think I'm gonna help you?"

She lifted her hands and spread her arms. "Aren't we friends?" Her tone was cocky, but he thought he heard something else beneath it, something deeper and more concerned.

"Bloody hell, no!" He spat, annoyance bursting free in his disbelief.

She looked him calmly up and down a moment. "Is this like that 'you'll never be friends' speech you gave Buffy and Angel?" She asked the question almost mockingly, but her eyes still glimmered with interested amusement, as if she truly wanted to hear the answer. "'Cause if it is…" She jumped down off the coffin and stepped close to him, stalking him, preying on him until her face was inches from his own. "I think we're missing out on the benefits of not being friends." She ran one finger down his chest, following it with her eyes.

He glanced down at her finger, then looked back up at her face. The nightmare tidbit in the back of his mind shifted, digging its claws in just a little deeper.

"How do you know about that?"

"You told me when we were drunk, remember?" she asked with a grin. "Told me lots of other things, too. Nasty things. Actually did a few nasty things to me…" She took another step closer, and he could feel her breath on his lips. "Or did you forget that part, too?"

Oh no, he hadn't forgotten. Neither had other parts of his anatomy.

"This routine is getting old, Slayer," he said, affecting boredom. "Either fuck me or beat the hell out of me, pick your poison."

She held his gaze a moment longer, then backed up a step and smiled, shrugging. "Love to. But I'm a little short on time here." She gave him a look that he couldn't decipher. "So what do you say? Let's be friends instead." She threw the idea out whimsically, as if it didn't matter at all. He knew her well enough by now to know that meant it mattered a lot. "You in?"

He thought about arguing with her. Thought about giving her a hard time and making her work for his help… but in the end, for reasons he couldn't even begin to sort out, he only nodded and gave her an appraising look.

"What are you on about?"

For an instant he saw gratitude in her expression, but only for an instant, and then she was all business. "I'm looking for something in a magical shade of peyote." Her grin grew broader, darker.

"Peyote?" he laughed, condescending. "What do you know about peyote?"

"Hey." She frowned slightly at his tone. "I saw Young Guns."

"Oh yeah. There's an accurate representation." He rolled his eyes.

"Whatever. I don't care what it is," she bulldozed on with an irritated shrug. "I just need what it does."

He blinked once as he considered that. Did she mean--?

"You're looking for a spirit quest?" He couldn't keep the surprise from his voice.

"Actually… I'm looking for a vision." Deep brown eyes flicked up to meet his, their gaze steady, and for a moment, he had a fleeting impression of dark granite shot through with crystalline veins, beauty inseparable from hardness.

"A vision of the future."

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

They made their way through the sewers in silence, boots scuffling, jackets rustling, unspoken words hanging heavily between them. Faith wasn't sure what his deal was, but she was trying not to think too much about it, chalking it up to the vampire's usual moodiness. At least he had moods. That was refreshing change of pace for vampires in her life. Better for him to be annoyed with her and obvious about it than for her to wonder what was going on behind silent eyes.

Angel… she tried not to think about him either, but she found, often when she was silent or alone too long, that her thoughts slipped inevitably in his direction. She wondered where he was, what he was thinking… if he was ever going to come back. And if he did, would she want to see him? Would she be able to stand being around him, the way she felt? And how did she feel exactly? That was another thing she tried not to think about too closely. It seemed there had always been a lot of things like that. Issues to avoid, to disassociate herself from when they became too painful. But things were different now, weren't they? Were they? With the apocalypse on its way and her role in it specified if not defined, all those things suddenly seemed less important. And somehow, at the same time, they seemed more important than ever. As if she felt her last chance to set things right was slipping from her hands. Time was running out, maybe forever, and she found herself longing more than anything for just a little more.

"Why are you doing this, Slayer?" Spike's brittle voice intruded upon her thoughts, snapping her from her reverie.

"The vision thing?" she asked, not sure what he meant.

"No, the bloody cha-cha," he snapped, rolling his eyes. "Yes, the vision thing."

I…" She hadn't thought too deeply about that either. She'd been running on instinct more than anything. Had woken with the need to move forward and do something, find a way to take control of what was beginning to unfold. "I need to know what's coming."

He arched a brow at her, as if questioning the sincerity of her answer. "So you can know which way to run?"

"So I can fight it." The reply popped out before she'd even had time to think about, but now that she'd said it, it sounded right.

He stopped walking, turned and faced her. "Made up your mind, have you? Ready to go into the glory of battle and die like a good little soldier?"

He sounded like he was mocking her, but she wasn't sure, because there was something else in his voice that she couldn't identify. "It's… it's what I have to do."

"One little breakdown is all it takes to make the difference, hey?" And now he was being completely snide. "One little crying jag and you're all healed and ready to become the savior of the universe?" He snorted, face laden with derision.

His words cut into her with the force of a knife, twisting in her gut and burning, forcing words from her in a scathing stream. "What the fuck is your problem, Spike? One day you're all 'she's not heavy, she's my Slayer' noble boy, and the next you're a complete prick. Can you pick a fucking lane? What's your damage?"

He laughed, certainly mocking her now. "Oh, right. Yeah, that's rich. Let's make this all about Spike. Don't want to have to look at ourselves for a second now, do we?"

She stared at him in dumbfounded, open-mouthed rage. "What the hell do you want from me? I'm actually trying to make a decision here, do something right, and I've got handicapped-vampire-guy giving me shit? What is this? If you don't want to help me, then say so. Or are you gonna go all Angel, 'guess that emotion in three notes or less'?"

"If I was gonna 'go all Angel' I wouldn't be here at all, now would I?" he contradicted her with a smug smirk.

She stared at him, furious, hardly believing he'd said that. Her fist clenched and unclenched, fingers flexing with the urge to hit him… and then she turned on her heel. "Screw this."

He grabbed her by the arm and spun her around, and for a split second she was face to face with him, eyes bare inches from his, lips so close she could…

She shook him off and pulled away violently. Turned again and began stalking off, legs feeling as unsteady as the emotions that beat and burned inside her breast, angering her, confusing her.

"Oh, yeah. Run away. That'll bloody help."

She couldn't help it. She stopped and spun on him, pointing at him with a hand that was very nearly a fist. "I'm not running away! And in case you didn't notice, A.D.D. boy, I was asking for help." A noise of frustration erupted from deep in her throat, sarcastic and knowing, and she shook her head at the sound, emotion draining from her face as she realized what a fool she'd been. "I don't know why I bothered." She threw the words at him like a dagger and turned away again.

"So you're gonna let the first thing that gets in your way stop you? Yeah, you're trying real hard." He snorted his opinion on that. "Come on, Slayer. I can still smell the fear on you. You're still on the fence, and if you go off half-arsed trying to do this, you'll get us all killed for sure. You might be able to sell the others this reformed, Wonder Woman routine, but I know where your head is, know what you're feeling. You're not ready for this."

Her head lolled back as the words hit home, almost as if he'd struck her in the back of the neck with them, and she heaved a sigh. She didn't turn, wrapping her arms around herself as she considered. Was she ready?

"I…" She thought about berating him, screaming at him, telling him he didn't know jack. "Maybe you're right." The words tumbled out, unbidden, and she paused, pained by the admission. "But I have to try. I have to know what's coming so that I…" she trailed off, unsure how she'd meant to finish the sentence. God, she hated this. Hated this whole stupid melodrama with a burning passion.

"So you can decide?"

She closed her eyes, bit down on her lower lip. Nodded. "Yeah." She grimaced against the pain and drew a deep breath, trying to collect herself. She was not going to break down again. "If… if things go down like Tenth said… I could be more of a danger to them than a help. I can't let that happen."

Silence behind her, utter and complete. Then a scuffling sound as he took a step nearer to her, a hesitation as he drew breath he didn't really need, and she could almost imagine him standing there behind her, angular, handsome face strained and concerned, from angry oppressor to understanding in a moment's time, and dammit why did he have to be so much like her?

"Do the others know?"

She thought of the Scoobies, locked in the shop pouring over their books, their faces sad and worried in her mind. "I called Giles. Told him I… needed time."

"Time for what?" he asked, voice sharp as his mood swung back once again. "To take a peek into the future, see if you're going to be a hero before you decide to try? No point in trying unless you're going to come out on the winning side, is there?" he mocked with biting sarcasm.

"God, I hate you," she said slowly, voice quiet.

"No need to flatter me, Slayer," he chided with a lighter brand of sarcasm. "Just doing my job."

"Is that what you were doing last night?" she asked with a sneer. "Your job?"

Silence again.

And again, she could imagine him there, confusion etched into his features as he considered that, too thrown by the implications of her question to respond instantly.

"Look. Spike. I…" She hesitated on the verge, not quite willing to take that last step over the edge, and then plunged. "I don't know what's gonna happen. Hell, I don't even know what's going on." She interrupted herself with a bitter laugh. "With me, the Scoobies, with Angel or… me and you." And there it was, the thing that had been hovering between them all day like a leaden weight, out in the open. She turned toward him, no pretense now, the circumstances of the last few months pushing her to honesty, and God she loved the feeling, like a raw, ragged freedom, emotion spilling from her without filter. "But I want to try and figure it out. I need to do this. And I don't think I can do it alone." Fuck, but that hurt to admit. But she wasn't going to stop herself now.

Her voice rose an angry notch, taking on a slight accusatory tone as she went on. "Maybe there is something going on between us, but right now, I don't have time to figure out what it is. I need to know if you're with me or not."

His mouth worked, opening and closing as he tried to find the words to convey his shock and outrage. "You bloody wish!" he began heatedly. "You don't need drugs, Slayer, you're already—"

"So that's why you sat there with your arm around me last night?" she interrupted with a superior tone. "'Cause you hate me so much? God, you're acting like a college boy on the morning after! Yesterday I knew I could count on you, today I have to ask. Too emotional for you, Spike? Fine. Get out. Run while you can. I don't need this crap right now. What I need is someone to back me up." She leveled him with an intense gaze. "You're the only person that's been there besides Angel, and he's gone now. Giles cares, but he's too close to the others. And if you won't help me, I'll do it alone… but… I don't know if I can—"

She cut herself off, the emotion finally becoming too much at last, lowered her eyes and pressed her lips together against the tide. How sad was she, telling this bastard vampire that she needed his help—that he was the only thing she had even resembling a friend? Rock bottom baby, oh yeah.

His eyes widened slightly, surprise reflected in his features, and he looked at her as if he might have been seeing her for the first time. "I am helping you."

"Then act like it," she snapped. "Because I don't have time for this shit."

"You don't need me," he told her, completely serious, and she heard the finality in his voice.

You don't need me, the sound of Angel's voice echoed in her memory.

She blinked once, letting her eyelids lay closed a moment while the feeling washed over her, then snapped them open with defiant anger.

"Right. Sorry I bothered you." She bit off the words and turned away for the third time.

And again, he took her by the arm, more gently this time, turning her resisting body back with subtle ease.

"I didn't say I wouldn't help you."

"Didn't say you would, either," she countered, voice taut, challenging.

He let go of her arm but didn't step back from her. "That's why we're here, isn't it?"

"Is it? Why Spike?" she asked pinning him with her eyes. "You wanna get down and dirty, let's go all the way. Why have you ever helped me at all?"

Hell of a good question, he thought, and almost smirked at her ability to continually stump him with what should have been, relatively, very simple questions. Why had he helped her? Why had he helped Buffy? Buffy was simple enough, he supposed… he'd loved her… but it was more than that wasn't it? It was all about the middle ground he'd discovered since he'd been implanted with this chip. The gray area. Vicious killer instincts somewhat curbed, smitten with the Slayer and fighting on the side of good, he'd had a chance to see things from the other side, and once that was done, there was rarely ever any going back. Much as he hated to admit it, he cared about what happened to this world, and only in part for what he selfishly took from it. Okay, granted, the larger part was that, but still, there were other things. Maybe he even cared about what happened to her. And possibly, just possibly, cared about what happened to the others, as well. A remote possibility, and an exceptionally stupid one at that, but it existed, nonetheless. That was something he wanted to face even less she wanted to face her fears. And damn her for bringing it all home to him, for making him know beyond a doubt that he was changed.

And how could he find the words to explain it all?

And then he laughed aloud, startling her with the sound of it as it echoed off the concrete sewer walls. Of course that was it. It was simple and true and it stuck in his craw, digging at him like a thorn in his side. He hated it, and he hated her for bringing him to the truth of it.

"Because I'm as bloody buggered as you are, pet," he replied, still laughing at the irony of it. "Bloody buggered as you."

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

Spike's crypt was utterly silent, candles burning high and bright in lieu of actual daylight. The flickering light cast strange shadows all about, painting the room in a gothic vision of stone and architecture, the pale blond vampire slouching moodily in one corner the final, perfect touch in the haunting masterpiece.

Atop the stone coffin at the center of the room, Faith sat, legs crossed, painted just as beautifully though she didn't know it, looking somewhat anxiously at the small bit of organic matter in her hands. It hadn't taken much for Spike to find what she needed once they'd gotten through their little drama. She hadn't thought that it would. A visit here, a phone call there, and boom, there she was with her own questionably tasty ticket to take a trip on the magic bus. A spirit quest slash vision of the future inducing edible bit of organic material that would probably make her toes curl when she tasted it.

She glanced up hesitantly at Spike, dark eyes meeting blue.

"You sure about this?" Spike asked.

"Is that concern I hear?" she countered, teasing.

"Just don't want you going into convulsions and sicking up all over my place." He shrugged, seeming nonchalant, and if she didn't look at him too closely, she could almost buy it.

"I promise, if I have a seizure I'll try to do it quietly." She gave him a wink to go with the sarcasm, and lifted her hand, looking at the grayish, faintly sticky lump in her hand. "Bottoms up," she said with a shrug, and tossed the lump into her mouth.

It was bitter, dry, and tasted of old, moldy closets. She grimaced and forced herself to bite down into it, flinching as the disgusting flavor burst from the lump in a flood of earthy excrement. Her saliva glands contracted, then released and made moisture with haste, doing their best to stave off the hideous flavor. She gathered it on her tongue, and blanching, swallowed.

"Fuck," she gasped, blinking hard as she opened her eyes. "You don't have anything to drink around here besides blood, do you?"

He looked at her for a moment as if debating, then turned and stalked to the small refrigerator.

"Oh, sod off," he spat, becoming defensive when she eyed the little bottle he produced with a look of disbelief. "Evian was all they had. I only use it for tea, anyway."

She rolled her eyes and gave a snort of laughter, reaching out for the bottle with eager hands. "I don't care if you use it to baptize babies. I haven't tasted anything that bad since—"

Her fingers, which were clutched tightly around the bottled water, suddenly clenched, broke through the plastic and sent the contents spraying in every direction, covering everything in cold wetness.

Surprised, water dripping from his face, Spike took an uncalculated step backward and blinked. "Slayer?" And then he leaped forward, grabbing Faith's hand as she fell backward, nearly toppling from the stone coffin. "What the bloody hell--?"

But she was gone. Gone baby, gone.

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

The world fell away in sweet, colorful waves, washing over and through her with blessed wetness, cleansing the pathways of her mind and body, sweeping away the needs of flesh and the immediacy of emotion. She thought she might have laughed, but perhaps it was only the rain of sound bubbling all around her. The world carried her a moment more, then fell over the edge of the horizon like the swollen, setting sun. Night fell, and for a moment there was only blankness, an instant of no identity, or care… and then she was rushing forward, pushed forcibly through space and time. Further from her life, from her mortal shell, from everything that seemed to matter so much. She felt blessedly free, unshackled from her fragile, human emotions, freed of her fleshly prison, frail in the end, for all its supernatural strength.

She opened her eyes and found herself in the barren wastelands of the desert, clothed now in spirit flesh that itched and irritated, bright white grains of sand so reflecting in her eyes, so blinding she could hardly stand it. Ahead, in the distance, she could make out tangled strands of black slowly coming into focus as the creature they were attached to came closer.

"So," whispered the First Slayer in her gravelly voice. "You would see?"

For a moment, she knew total clarity, was completely aware of everything, as if this place allowed her a perspective denied her in waking life.

"This is where I came from, isn't it?"

"You think you know. Who you are, what's to come. You haven't even begun."

Head on fire, she slipped from her skin with shiver of delicious enjoyment. "It's just the drugs", she replied blithely, and then felt herself propelled forward like a rocket, once again substance without form.

Silence.

She opened her eyes, eyes that didn't exist here. Whatever this place was, it wasn't where she had been. This place was tumbled in confusion, shards of understanding and fragments of knowing. Images passed by and through her as if she were a ghost, moving so quickly she could hardly see them.

With an effort, she intensified her grip on the things around her, forcing herself to slow, to focus. This was… important. This was why she'd come.

Snap! She was made flesh again, but not her own flesh. Somewhere outside of her, a voice spoke in heavy tones, invoking words of power, words she didn't understand, but nevertheless felt the intent of. Dark, evil, wanting… and they were coming from her mouth.

Her hands outstretched she called upon vile deities to fulfill her wish for power, drawing forth something wicked and evil that had lain buried, forgotten beneath the earth for centuries.  She saw someone… someone she had loved once, before the terrible pain came, before the power had come. They cried for her to stop and she couldn't, filled with the living hatred of her rage, the feelings so strong they had become a form unto themselves, moving her in ways she had never imagined. She had to make it stop! They didn't know! Didn't understand! And she stretched out her hands, as if to embrace the person before her… and sent bolts of killing rage into their insubstantial form.

Snap!

Blood dripped in streaming rivulets from slashed wrists that were not hers… but somehow were, and for a blurred moment she shared two perceptions at once. And then she was pushed back into her own body as the earth itself seemed to gibber in uncomprehending terror, the ground trembling beneath her feet, screaming in the pain of birth as it pushed out something hideous and unthinkable, it's bald, bat-like face leering at her evilly as she stepped up to combat it. Talons wrapped around her throat, choking her with fire, and she struggled to fight back as the world slipped away again, sliding into darkness as the thing killed her, and she understood that she had been right, she couldn't do this alone—

Snap!

The bodies of all the Scoobies lay in disarray all about her, their broken, twisted limbs and blood a sight of joy. Angel's tortured face stared up at her, gasping, pleading silently, and she shoved a stake through his heart, sending him to the same fate she'd already sent Spike, sealing her treachery with a final kiss. Her own dead face stared up at her from the pile of bodies, eyes filled with horror and betrayal, and she raised her fists triumphantly to the sky and brayed maddened laughter, knowing that at last she was truly free—

Snap!

Her lips split in a horrid grin too wide for her face as she grabbed Willow's neck and snapped it, laughing at the ease—

Snap!

Angel cried out, his body limned in bright white flame, his arms outstretched to her as he burned and writhed in agony—

Snap!

Her own face stared back at her, shocked, light fading from her eyes, and she looked down and saw her hand, knife buried to the hilt in her own dying breast—

Snap! Snap! Snap!

The images flew by, too fast and too hurtful for her to hold and she turned, an imagined moan slipping from her as she grasped desperately for something to hold onto, something she could comprehend!

Snap!

She stood before a mirror, somewhere calm, somewhere comforting, somewhere she could take a moment and breathe and understand. A face, her face, stared back at her, scared, cold, alone, and she favored it with a pitying glance, unable to feel the sorrow she should have. Was she even human? Who knew? Who could tell? She giggled, a cold and frightening sound in this quiet room, and it startled her into understanding, into knowing—

A demon peered back at her from the mirror; its features mingled with her own, and bared its teeth in a welcoming grin.

Snap!

The colors and sounds streamed past her, too fast and strong to be understood and she was swept away by them, caught in their inevitable current. She felt her awareness sliding away and she struggled to surface—but the pull was too strong and she went under at last, drowning in sensation, drowning in sounds and sights of horror she could hardly comprehend—

And there was more. Oh, so much more.

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

"Slayer?" Spike asked with more concern, shaking her prone body worriedly. "Slayer!"

Her eyes opened, rolling back in her head, and she laughed, a terrible, keening laugh, unlike any he had ever heard outside of his nightmares.

"We're all going to die," she proclaimed with delirious, horrific wonder. And then she slipped back into the trance, eyes and mouth closing, leaving him with a feeling of dread deeper than any he could remember.

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

Time passed, and at last Faith shifted from her murmuring trance state, beginning to lapse into a semblance of peace as the drug wore off.

Spike sat and watched throughout, and wondered over and over again why in the hell he'd agreed to do this in the first place. Her laughter still lodged in his spine, sunk deep with icy claws that made the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. Whatever she'd seen, it hadn't been pretty, and he wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Seizing the moment, the nightmare tidbit crept to his forebrain, unbidden and unrealized.

He'd told her he was doing this for the same reasons she was. Didn't want the world to end, now did he? But now, watching over her, her dark hair a spill around her pale, tired face, he wondered if that was the only reason. She'd hit on something earlier, when she'd mentioned… whatever it was going on between them. He didn't know what it was anymore than she did, didn't like it, didn't want it… but he did feel connected to her in some way, and it seemed to have less and less to do with his love for Buffy, and more and more with who this girl was.

Maybe he was—

Faith moaned and shifted on the coffin, snapping him back to reality.

The tidbit squealed in annoyance as it was kicked into place at the back of his mind. It curled up, resentful, and glowered at him, biding its time.

Was that all of it? Maybe not. But it was all he was willing to deal with right now.

He returned his attention to watching Faith, sensing that her journey was coming to an end.

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

When it was over, she whispered for him to take her home, let her rest.

To his chagrin, he found he was happy to have her gone.

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

The night passed fitfully for some, but for Faith, it passed with a sense of sweet and quiet bliss she would hardly remember or appreciate.

And when it was over, for the first time since she'd come to Sunnydale, Faith awoke feeling refreshed. She felt calm, clean, somehow, as if the drug had flooded her head, scoured the stained hallways of her mind and cleared the junk from its cluttered corridors.

The cool, pale light of early morning filtered in between the curtains, giving the room an ethereal glow, and she realized that she must have slept more than thirteen hours straight. Startled, she sat up abruptly, black sheets slithering from her body in a wave of silk—and came face to face with Buffy's sea-green eyes.

"Are you sure you're ready for this, Faith?"

Faith stared at her a long moment in silence, unsurprised by the former Slayer's appearance, then glanced away with a slow nod. "I have to be."

Buffy moved to sit next to her on the bed, and Faith scooted away slightly, mistrustful. Buffy only smiled at her though, golden face glowing, eyes warm and happy in a way they'd never been in life. She leaned down and dipped her hand into a battered, old, tan leather bag, fingers bringing up thick, sandy mud. She held her mud-filled fingers before Faith's face, looking at her with an expression that bordered on grave, though her girlish beauty and warmth still shone through.

"It's just ceremonial," she said as if to reassure Faith. "You know, to make it official."

Faith gazed at her, untrusting, for a moment more, then closed her eyes. She felt Buffy's fingers paint swirls and lines over the curves of her face, careful to avoid her eyes and mouth, gritty mud—desert mud—scraping the skin in gentle strokes that caused it to tingle. It felt solemn and warm and intimate all at once, Buffy's fingertips touching her so gently, with love and reverence that spread from her into Faith with a quiet, golden glow, connecting them, drawing them together in a feeling Faith could only imagine existing between mother and child, or sisters. The images her fingers painted in Faith's mind were tranquil and intangible, like endless sheets of rippling white silk, and for a moment, the dreaming Slayer knew absolute peace. For a moment she knew her purpose, knew her mind, and was at ease with it.

A single tear rolled down her cheek, and though she couldn't feel it through the layer of heavy mud, she knew instinctively the moment that Buffy's fingers passed over it, massaging it lovingly into the sand, not erasing it, not denying it, but making it part of her.

"There."

Faith opened her eyes, and Buffy sat back, smiling. "It won't fix everything, but it gives you a better chance."

"What?" Faith frowned, confused.

"Don't you feel it?"

She did feel something… that odd sense of being connected to Buffy hadn't subsided. The feeling of being joined still pulsed and throbbed in her veins like a low level electrical charge. It made her feel whole, healed somehow, as if she were no longer alone and was somehow saved by that knowledge.

Buffy's smile turned radiant, as if she saw the understanding in Faith's eyes, and for an instant, the light shining in from the parted curtains flashed a brilliant white, blinding her with cool serenity.

Faith blinked and smiled, feeling as if she were surfacing, the laughter of the young and guileless echoing in her ears like ghosts of memory. The white light streamed away in rivulets and bubbles, revealing the room exactly as she had left it a moment ago, only now, Buffy stood by the window, back to Faith, staring out endlessly at nothing.

"It's getting harder," she said, her voice hushed, and Faith felt a ripple of discord pass through her at the words. "To be here like this. There's not much of me left. But I had to come. Had to bring you this." She touched her face, and for an instant the colors of the world turned inside out, like a photo negative, and Buffy's face was covered in the same mud as Faith's. The image appeared and dissolved, quick as an eye blink, and then it was just Buffy standing before her again.

Faith blinked, surprised, and shook her head with a rueful smile. "How much of this is the drugs?"

"I don't know," Buffy shrugged. "Some of it. Maybe none of it." She hesitated, looking away. "I'm sorry you had to see all that, before."

Faith tensed, remembering the visions all too vividly. "How much of that was the drugs?"

"Some of it. None of it." Buffy shrugged again with an enigmatic smile. "Maybe all of it."

"Don't mean to be knockin' on you, B, since you're dead and all, but you're not being a big help here."

Buffy winced at that, seeming troubled. "You're… I'm not…" she trailed off, confused, and then shook her head, seeming to regain her train of thought. "I'm sorry. There are only parts of me here. It's… hard to think." She frowned, expression becoming attentive again as she focused on Faith, eyes unreadable. "What you saw before… it all depends on what you decide."

"That's what I was afraid of." Faith gave a ragged sigh.

"You'll have what you need."

There was a sadness and finality to the words that struck Faith with sudden, deep sorrow. "Will I see you again?" she asked.

Buffy looked at her, eyes sad and resigned, as they had often been in life. "You have to be ready. You'll have to give your gift. I can't stop that. Everything's already started." She sounded distressed, mournful. "I won't be able to help you."

"But you'll still be… here, right?" Faith asked, motioning vaguely at the room to indicate wherever "here" was.

"You're going to have to let me go, Faith," Buffy said unhappily.

"But—"

"Shh," Buffy whispered, walking back over to Faith and putting a finger over her lips. Again, Faith felt that delicious warmth, like the glow of a candle emanating from her touch. "The parts of me that matter are still here. Here." She moved her hand down to touch Faith's chest above her heart. "And here." She touched Faith's forehead. "Remember that."

"This is all I have left to give you." She held out her hand and placed a stake into Faith's. Faith gazed down at it and watched as it shimmered and stretched, transforming; stake, ancient stone dagger, wooden stick with symbols carved into it, stake again. "I can't use it anymore."

"Don't go," Faith pleaded, looking up at her.

"Close your eyes." Buffy smiled sadly.

Faith closed her eyes, wanting to say more, but unable to find the words that might halt this moment, take it back from Time's eager clutches.

Buffy leaned down and kissed her lightly on the forehead, in exactly the same spot she had touched her a moment ago, and the white light grew again, expanding and exploding like a supernova, carrying her into infinity.

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

For the first time since she'd come to Sunnydale, Faith awoke feeling refreshed. She felt calm, clean, somehow, as if the drug had flooded her head, scoured the stained hallways of her mind and cleared the junk from its cluttered corridors

The cool, pale light of early morning filtered in between the curtains, giving the room an ethereal glow, and she realized that she must have slept more than thirteen hours straight. Startled, she sat up abruptly, black sheets slithering from her body in a wave of silk—and came face to face with Buffy's sea-green eyes.

"Are you sure you're ready for this, Faith?" Buffy asked.

Except that she didn't. Not really. The words echoed in her mind, but the head of the Buffy-bot sat wordless on the shelf where she'd put it, staring back at Faith with dull, lifeless eyes, its expression blank.

Faith stared back at it for a long while, thinking.

At last, she pushed aside the sheets and rose from the bed.

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

She didn't spend a lot of time pondering the significance of the dream. She knew instinctively, somehow, what it meant. It existed in broad, emotional brushstrokes that defined nothing she could explain in rational terms. And yet, she understood it intrinsically. She didn't take time plan anything out, didn't think it through on any kind of deep level. She did as she'd always done and followed her heart—and she never doubted, because this was the clearest voice her heart had ever spoken to her with.

For the longest time, she'd never believed that God, or Fate, or Destiny or any higher powers would waste their time trying to manipulate her life. If there was a power, a logic behind being Chosen as the Slayer, then it was one lost to nature and time, one she could never hope to fathom. Let others be fascinated by mysteries of the unknown; the maybes, the possibilities, the what-might-have-been's? As far as she'd known, she only had one life, and she was going to live it the way she chose.

She'd loved that girl. That girl had embodied everything Faith thought of as free and happy, tied to no one and nothing.

Too bad that girl had never existed at all.

Eyelids widened and shaped by lines of blackest coal surrounded irises of deep brown that stared back at her with years of cynicism and dark humor. They studied with interest the slimming lines of her face, which were just passing beyond the roundness of youth into true womanhood, the sharp curve of her jaw becoming more pronounced, cheekbones more hollow. She ran a finger along the curve of her lower lip, which was painted dark as blackberries and made the contrast of her pale skin against her dark eyes and hair even more striking. Those stained, lustful lips pushed the careful balance of her face over the line, tipping the scales in favor of darkness and sin. Innocent and wicked, carefree and careworn, virgin and whore. Her face… the same face she'd looked at in the mirror for the last 21 years, exactly the way she remembered it in every detail.

Perfectly painted, carefully expressed, poured into clothing that declared her rebel status without need for a second glance. She looked every inch the part of the character she'd been playing all her life.

"The outside is easy," the guttural voice of the First Slayer echoed inside her mind. "The inside is much harder to change."

She'd never been this carefree, tough girl that stared back at her from the mirror. The girl she'd been had never made a free decision in her life except to turn herself in to serve her time in jail. That girl had spent all her time at the whims of the universe, pretending to be apart from it. That girl had followed only the muffled voice of fear in her heart; had never recognized her place in the larger picture.

Once, she'd accused Buffy of getting dressed up in big sister's clothes, but it was Faith who was clad in an outfit and an attitude two times too large. It always had been.

She capped the eyeliner pencil and set it down on the sink, metal touching porcelain with a light clink that sounded to her like the ring of finality.

She'd known for years who she'd wanted to be.

Now it was time to find out who she was.

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

"Well, there's nothing in the Pergamum Codex," Giles declared with a sigh, shutting the book and leaning back in his chair.

"I'm not having a lot of luck online, either," Willow chimed in, disgruntled.

"It's actually good news," Giles explained, motioning to the Codex. "If it were in the Codex it would come to pass for certain. At least there's still a chance we can thwart it."

"Do you really think there's an apocalypse coming?" Willow asked, curious. "I mean; it's not like we have any proof."

"I think that Tenth is sincere enough about his Oracle, though how reliable she is, we can't know for certain. But that aside, I don't believe Faith would lie about such an instinct… especially since she's clearly so frightened by the idea of having to face this apocalypse."

"Have you heard anything from her?" Willow frowned.

"N-not since yesterday," Giles replied, adjusting his glasses, uncomfortable.

"That doesn't bode well," Xander commented blackly, glancing up from his book.

"No," Giles agreed with quiet reluctance. "It doesn't."

"Okay." Anya glanced at them all, impatient to move on. "So no apocalypse stuff. Has anyone turned up anything about our variety vampire?"

"Nada." Xander sighed.

"No," Willow replied, moody.

"Whatever this creature may be, I suspect it may be exceedingly rare. It may take us some time to find anything about it," Giles reassured them. "And there are multiple references to coming apocalypses to get through."

"It's like a box of chocolates without a map. Only with less chocolate-y goodness," Xander added.

"Perhaps we should—"

Giles broke off as the door to the Magic Box flew open.

Faith stood there, one hand on her hip, eyes uncertain but burning with determined fire as she surveyed everyone in the shop.

"So." She licked her lips and gave a slow smile. "We gonna kick this thing's ass, or what?"