JEWEL
TONES – SAPPHIRE
(Five Faiths That Never Were, Part 4)
The sky is cool blue and calm, smooth, unmarred expanse stretching out as far
as the eye can see, filled with dreams of another place, another time, and hope
for the future that carries to the edge of the horizon. She always waits for
the sun to rise, always stands atop this building like a dark silhouette cut
from the fabric of night, still lingering like a wraith along the edges of
dawn. One foot on the stone ledge, the other planted firmly against the
concrete roof, hands held straight down at her sides, shoulders high as she
stares up into the morning sun. She imagines she paints a tragic image in the
minds of any who glimpse her there, and perhaps that is only because she
imagines herself as such. One girl against all the world, head and shoulders
held high beneath its pressing weight.
But that's only her imagination, only dreaming, as she's given to do when she
stands here like this beneath the dawning day and imagines that anything is
possible. She's not the only girl in all the world—never has been. The world is
filled with Slayers now, and she learned a long time ago that that being chosen
didn't make her any more special than anyone else. She's gotten used to that.
As used to it as she can get, anyway.
She looks down at the streets below; gray and solemn, just struggling from the
sleep of night as people stream from their homes, blinking with sleep filled
eyes, and head off to their offices, their wives, their mistresses. All caught
up in the doldrums of everyday life, slugging through another day, trying to
find a reason to make it all worth while.
She may not be special, but at least she's not like them. Not anymore.
Angel has LA, Buffy has rebuilding the Council and finding Slayers. She has the
Hellmouth. It isn't glamorous, maybe, but it gets the job done. It gives her
something to live for, gives her something she hadn't been able to find in the
cozy streets of Sunnydale or anywhere else on the planet.
Cleveland doesn't have the charm of
Sunnydale—and that's saying something—but it's hers.
The sun climbs higher in the sky, and somewhere nearby, a church-bell tolls.
With its ring, she tears her eyes from the promise of the horizon, and turns to
start the short walk home.
Another night, another slay. It's what she is built for, what she loves.
Nothing thrills her like the hunt, nothing compares to the kill. She's happy.
It's enough.
Of course it is.
She turns her back to the sun and descends down the stairwell from the roof,
the warmth of the sun leaving her with a momentary feeling of longing.
* * * * * * * * * * *
One beer in the morning. Just one. It's become her ritual after a night of
slaying, and she keeps it, despite the memories that it brings. Or maybe
because of them. She can't tell anymore.
Robin used to say that she'd use any excuse to drink. But he'd always smile
when he said it, teeth so white against the warm brown of his skin, gorgeous
and dazzling and so filled with life. They'd make breakfast, him cooking
sausage and scrambling eggs while she cracked a beer and the blender whirred
along with one of her infamous power shake mixes, hip-hop music blaring in the
background. He'd carry the food to the table—the same chipped, blue linoleum
that she ran her hands over even now—and they'd sit and they'd eat. Sometimes
they'd talk about the night before, work on fighting strategies. Sometimes
they'd joke and laugh about their lives and how one day they'd find a way to
make slaying pay the bills. And sometimes, if Faith was in a particularly good
mood, they'd even discuss the future. Never anything very specific. Maybe how
they were going to get a widescreen TV, or replace this 50's refugee of a
dining room table. Never anything too deep or too meaningful, but always with
the tacit agreement that they were together; that they would be together. That neither of them—despite her reluctance to
talk about her feelings—was going anywhere. And always, no matter what they did
or what they talked about, or even if they fought, they'd scrape their plates
and fall into bed and make love until they fell asleep. Almost like normal
people.
Robin. She stares at the mouth of her beer bottle and misses the sound of his
voice, misses the sound of the whirring blender and the bustle of activity the
kitchen once held. And she is still surprised to find that she didn't
appreciate those moments more when she'd had them—her, who'd never had enough
in life, who'd always wanted more than she ever dared to admit. She never
realized how much they'd meant at the time, and she guesses life is just kind
of like that. You get happy, you get content, and you begin to take for granted
everything that you have, especially when you aren't trying to think too hard
about how much you really do have. And it's no wonder, the way people are
afraid to fall in love, the way they seek out the worst possible matches for
themselves and sabotage every relationship they ever have. You let your guard
down for just one second, let someone in, and then there's the very real
possibility that they might go away and leave you with nothing but memories.
Bitter memories. Memories that won't go, even when they should.
She stares at the opaque brown bottle and it reminds her of the color of his
eyes, so deep and rich. Blood smeared around their edges… all over her hands…
all over the ground… so much of it—too much. And it's as clear as yesterday, as
perfect as if she had recorded the moment to be watched over and over again on
the tiny, dusty screen in their living room. The rattle of his breath, her
fervent whispered words, and then the focusing of his eyes on a distant point
she would never see. Deep brown and flecked with hazel, empty and flat. And
still they were beautiful. Still she had stared into them with stupid hope and
murmured prayers to a God she'd forgotten she didn't believe in anymore.
After her tears had gone and the world returned with harsh reality, she had
closed his eyes. She'd risen from his side and walked straight home, and she
had never looked back.
Who needed to look back when you had memories like this?
She squeezes the neck of the bottle in her hand, and she barely notices the
dull pain in her hand as it breaks. Blood drips down the dark glass, obscuring
the label, and she lets it run, watching its trail, watching as it swallows
everything that gives the bottle meaning, save its shape.
She wishes it was as easy to swallow her memories.
* * * * * * * * * * *
There is darkness in her dreams, always. It has always been there, always part
of her, and nothing has changed now, even though she has. Nothing… save one
thing. She doesn't fear the grim embrace of the reaper that seeks to claim her.
She no longer shrinks from its cold reach, though she does still run. Runs
straight into its waiting arms and begs for it to take her home.
* * * * * * * * * * *
She wakes to a pounding on the door, and she sits bolt upright in bed, senses
sharp and bright, for a moment like an animal in a cage as she stares at her
surroundings and bristles, not knowing where she is. And then the thundering
knock comes again and she breathes, recognizing the sparse, dark shapes around
her, the scent of her own bed. Only her scent now; his dissipated months ago,
though she waited for every last trace to be gone before she had burned the
sheets. She sleeps on crisp white cotton now, her bed normal and unremarkable
in a way that helps make the empty space next to her more bearable.
She rises from the bed, clad in a tank top and underwear that would also be unremarkable
were it not for the body that filled them. Unafraid now, she walks to the door
and pulls the chain, opening it with an air of impatience.
The landlord maybe, come to yell about the rent. Maybe the Mormons who
persisted despite her best attempts to convince them she was a heathen, and she
had a feeling they stopped by more for a glimpse of whatever she might be
wearing than for any saving of her soul. Saints; yeah right. Animals, just like
all the other men she'd ever known. Suckers for a glimpse of cleavage or belly
skin, slavering dogs for the receding line of low-cut jeans.
Animals all. Even this one, though he'd never let it show. Especially him. She
supposes she isn't even surprised to see him. But she is surprised at the deep
brown of his eyes, the emotion that lurks, unspoken in their depths. Not the
same color or shade of emotion as Robin's, but close enough to give her pause.
And then the moment passes, and she runs a tired hand through her unruly hair
and sighs.
"What are you doing here, Angel?"
* * * * * * * * * * *
He makes her get dressed, feeds her coffee and stands patiently to the side
while she yells at him and tells him to get the hell out. She doesn't want him,
doesn't need him. Doesn't need anyone. Doesn't know why she invited him in in
the first place, except for that moment where his eyes had touched hers and
made her feel something. He's always been able to do that to her. Reach right
inside her and lay hold of her heart without even trying. Like he has a right.
Like he understands. She hates him for it.
The beer bottle still sits where she left it, blood still obscuring its
identity though the wound on her hand has already begun to heal. And if he sees
it, he says nothing. It sits on the table between them like a silent sentinel,
its presence the space of years and words.
They walk down bitterly cold streets in silence, her arms folded over her
chest, face just as surly and brooding as his for once. The sky is dark, filled
with a tapestry of velvet and tiny lights, and she hates it, too. In her mind
it is still smooth and clear, the deep blue calm of a sapphire's depths. And
she hates the memory. Hates it for making her search for something no one can
ever give her. Hates it for filling her with the feeling of possibility, with
the faint ghost of hope.
"I'm so glad you dragged me out of bed to do this," she finally speaks up with
a sneer. "I mean, why rest up to go out killing and saving the world when you
could be walking down the insanely cold city streets next to a guy who makes
statues look talkative?"
He gives her a sideways brooding glance, the one he holds a patent on, then
looks back to the sidewalk ahead of them. So like him to judge with a glance
and never speak a word. Does he think she doesn't know what's going on inside
his head?
"Why don't you just say it, Angel?" she spits, glaring fiercely at him.
"Say what?" he asks, voice so low and calm she could just punch him. How can he
be so stoic, so fucking calm when she's so furious?
She snorts derisively, a misty swirl of white on the cold air. "I know why
you're here. Word finally got back to LA about what went down in Cleveland, and you took the time out of your
glamorous schedule to waltz down here and sweep me up in your arms and offer
your petty sympathy before swooshing back to LA in swirl of black trench coat,
your heroic duty fulfilled. Well, spare me the pity party. I don't need it, and
it's not going to put any plusses in the column for saving your soul."
He stops walking, looks up at the tall city buildings as if momentarily
stymied, and then slowly bows his head. "I'm sorry about what happened, Faith.
I… tried calling you, but you never pick up the phone."
"Oh." She laughs, a bitter sound that blends into the harsh background city
noise all too easily. "You called.
Well! Stop the presses! You really went out of your way there, didn't you? And
me, being all ungrateful." She snorts again and rolls her eyes, working herself
up into a righteous fury.
"I'm sorry," he says again, and simply looks at her, and God she hates him for
being able to look at her like that. For making her believe him when all she
wants to do is lash out and hurt him, make him pay for the hurt she's suffered.
She sighs and the anger drains from her in an instant, leaving her tired,
washed out, worn and weary.
"I know it hurts, Faith," he begins hesitantly, and a thousand stinging retorts
leap to her lips, ready to be flung—but then, with his next words they are
instantly forgotten, the ground seeming to rise up and swallow every thought
she could produce. "But Robin's dead."
"Fuck you!" she yells, voice raw and hoarse as emotion rises within the void
and seizes her. "You don't know the first thing about it. You… you…" She trails
off, burning insults vanishing into nothingness as the weight of emotion hits
her, crushing her beneath the wave. She wraps her arms tight around herself and
stares up at the night, remembering smooth blue, blameless sky, ignoring the
way the moon doubles and triples through the blur of her eyes.
"Robin's dead," he says again, and the words slice through her heart with
poison truth. "And I'm sorry for that, Faith, I really am." He pauses, as if
gathering his thoughts, or maybe the courage to say what comes next. Unable to
speak, unable to think, she lifts her eyes to him, and he pins her with his
stare, sadness and resolution in him like a leaden weight. "But you're not."
She shakes her head and breathes out with derision, tearing her gaze from him.
"So, what? Now you're gonna save my
soul?"
"When I didn't hear from you, I wondered. I wanted… I wanted to see you."
"Yeah," she says, still seething. "You were just too busy, right?"
He licks his lips, drops his eyes, just a little boy, so ashamed of himself,
and yet there is acid on his tongue as he replies. "Well, apocalypse and all,
kind of takes precedence."
"Look Angel, just save it, okay? You think I don't know this tap dance? You
think I'm not used to this routine? I've seen it all my life. My dad spent his
whole life crippled because of the war. You know what they did? Pat on the
back, 'you were so brave' and oh, here's a medal, sorry about the leg." She
laughs hollowly. "They don't even give you medals for slaying, but that's okay,
because really, what's the point? You come down here with your condolences and
concerns, but it doesn't change anything. Nothing changes." She tosses her
head, dismisses him with a glance. "You've made your intervention, put in your
shiny, heroic two cents and patted me on the back. You can go back to LA with a
clear conscience."
"Faith… you think I've never been through this? That I don't know what it's
like?" he asks, and his words cut into her like tiny knives, bleeding her soul.
He holds out his hand, naming off every sin with another finger. "When I first
got my soul. When I left Buffy in Sunnydale. When Buffy died. I know better
than most people what it means to be cut off from everyone. What it means to
hold it all in and carry it with you."
"Yeah, you're a real expert, Angel," she shoots back at him, voice dripping
venom. "You figure that gives you the right to come here and lecture me?"
"No," he says, so quick and explosive that she thinks it probably got away from
him before he could stop it. He pauses, takes a moment to compose himself; a
rustling of trench coat, a shifting of posture. "No," he says again, more
firmly this time. "Faith, I know how hard it is. But you're alive, and there
are people that need you. Something else I learned over the years, is that when
you carry around as much as we do, you need
other people. You hold yourself away from them for too long and you forget what
you're fighting for. Forget that you're even alive. You lose that, and how long
before you end up in your apartment, broken beer bottle in front of you, glass
laying there, looking like temptation? How long before you lose hope and think
it's easier to give it all up?"
"Looks like you got through it all okay," she retorts, voice snide, fury in her
heart. "Where the fuck do you get off coming to me with this shit when you're
the poster boy for repression?"
"Faith…" he trails off, and she notices how his breath makes no mist against
the crisp air. No heat, no life. What must it be like to go through life, dead
but still walking, still trying, still hoping, knowing that you're damned
before you even start?
"I know it hurts. But you're alive, and there are people that need you."
She sniffs and tosses back her hair, light breeze catching it in a sudden rush
of cold. And she can't let him see, can't let him see any of it. How close to
the truth of the matter he is, how close to tears she is. She swallows hard
against the lump in her throat and forces the words out. "So I was right the
first time. You came to save my soul." She pauses, grips her elbows in her
hands and pulls down hard against herself. "Angel… listen. The world doesn't
need me that bad, okay? There's hundreds of Slayers now, maybe more. I'm not so
special. I don't think anyone's gonna notice if I go missing—if that even happened."
"Only one other that's as experienced as you," he contradicts, immediately.
"So they'll learn," she says harshly, tipping her head to the side and raising
her shoulders with impatience.
He says nothing, just stands there and stares at her in that way that makes her
want to scream. After a moment, she turns, starts to walk away. There's nothing
here left to say, after all. She'd thought maybe there was. Despite all her
belligerence, all her anger, she'd really thought maybe he had some kind of
answer tucked up his sleeve; something to make everything better, something to
make it all right again. She should know better than that by now.
"Come with me," he pleads, voice low, verging on that breaking note that always
got straight to her heart. And despite herself, she stops, cold winter air so
clean, everything so bright and sharp, within and without.
"There's someone I want you to meet."
* * * * * * * * * * *
The girl is tiny, gaunt even by today's thin standards. Pale skin, neck too
long, face too angular, too much eyeliner, not enough love. She doesn't know
the girl from Adam, but the fear in her eyes; that, Faith recognizes well
enough.
"So what? You brought me here for the gothic Disney club?" she asks Angel in a
heated whisper. She rolls her eyes and begins to turn away, and Angel grabs her,
turns her about by her elbow.
"She needs help."
"Yeah? So help her!"
"Angel Investigations does a lot of things, Faith," he says with a low, bitter
laugh. "But it doesn't train Slayers."
She stops, reassess the situation. "She's a Slayer?"
"Yeah."
"So why didn't you send her to Buffy?"
"Gee," he says, and she can hear the searing sarcasm. "Because Buffy's in Europe, maybe?"
"So what do you want me to do?" she asks, heavy sarcasm returning and raised by
arched brows and challenging shoulders.
"Talk to her."
"I don't want to."
"Just talk to her," he pleads, and he's looking at her with those eyes again.
She raises her shoulders even higher, shrugs. "Fine." It can't hurt right?
Nothing changes, nothing makes a difference. And just maybe it'll get Angel off
her back and out of her life again.
"Faith." He grabs her by the elbow again, turns her toward his glowering brow.
"Her name is Marie."
"Okay," she replies testily, annoyed by his persistence. "Not much with the
gratitude, are you?" she mutters as she shrugs him off, takes a step nearer to
the barstool. The girl must be old enough to get in here at least—or at least,
she appears to be. And Faith doubts Angel would bring her to a 'den of sin'
like this if there were any real danger. Then again, at this hour, there isn't
much open besides restaurants and bars.
And still he persists at her side as she steps forward.
"Marie, this is Faith," he says, stepping in front of her.
She elbows him out of the way and cuts him a look. "Just talk, right?" she
asks.
He nods, and she turns to the girl with some semblance of a smile. "Hey Marie."
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Sad, sob story. Parents cut down by creatures of the night, poor girl,
untrained, unable to do anything to help, barely able to save herself. Marie's
in tears by the time its all over, eyeliner running down her cheeks like some
dime store hooker on a weekend bender, and Faith finds herself uncomfortable
with the intensity of the girl's emotion. And Angel, he just stands unhelpfully
to the side, head bowed and far enough away that he might as well not even be
part of this, though he's clearly listening to every word that's being said.
She searches for words and at last clears her throat, resigning herself to the
fact that she's never been good at this and she's probably never going to be.
Heart like soldier, Robin always said in those times when they would argue;
heart like a stone. And though his words had burned she'd always taken their
sting with a swelling of pride, because he was right, damn it. She was hard, she was made of stone; it was what kept her alive.
"That's a tough break, kid. Really tough." She shifts, tries not to see the
girls weeping eyes. "But when you're a Slayer? You see a lot of that. You lose
a lot of people you love, and time just marches on and the bodies keep piling
up until at last you fall on top of the heap."
"Faith," Angel interjects, his voice heated, eyes angry.
"What? I'm telling her the truth, Angel. Ask Buffy about what a happy ride it's
been, she'll tell you all about it." She looks back to the girl. "I'm sorry,
kid, but being a Slayer isn't a fairy tale, it's not some kind of magical
answer. I don't know what Angel told you, but I'm not going to pull a rabbit
out of my ass and make your life all hunky-dory." She lifts one shoulder in a
half shrug, then rises, turning to go.
"I… I don't want you to do that," Marie says, and her voice wavers, but there's
a strength in it now that Faith hadn't heard earlier. "I… I know you can't do that." She turns back
around and looks at the girl, interest piqued despite herself, and wide, round
eyes stare back at her from a horror of make-up. "I just want to do something."
"Yeah," Faith says with a snort. "That's generally what lands you on top of the
pile. Look, Marie." She looks the girl dead in the eye, hoping the message will
get through. "I can't help you. Get Angel here to help you. That's what he
does," she says with a pointed glare at the vampire.
"That's what I'm doing," he replies.
She shakes her head and starts to walk away again.
"What about you?" the girl asks, her voice gaining another notch of bravery,
and Faith stops dead at the ring of challenge it holds. "What about the people
who helped you?"
She spins back around and paces the girl down. "Yeah. Helped me so that I could
watch everyone else around me die—or better yet—watch them die. You think that's good? You think that's the right thing
to do? Last man standing and nothing to show for it. Hooray for the heroes,
right?"
"At least you're still alive," the girl says, matching the rancor in Faith's
tone, and almost against her will, Faith feels her appraisal of the girl rise a
notch. "You can still do something. You can still fight, maybe save the world,
maybe get revenge. Maybe those people that helped you died because they thought
what you were doing was worth it."
She advances on the girl with raging eyes and burning heart. "Listen Mary Sue,
you don't know the first thing about--"
Angel steps between them with a grace his large frame belies, his voice a low
warning, an urgent plea. "Faith."
She stops, lowers her head and shakes it, then brings trembling fingers up to
her mouth. "No," she says, fingers tightening into a fist and creeping back
down to her side. "No. You're right. I'm not gonna do this." She takes a deep,
steadying breath and turns and walks from the bar.
The cold night air is a welcome relief, and it freezes the heat in her veins,
the explosion of emotion in her heart. She breathes deep and watches her breath
turn to mist on the frosty air, and just before her mind can turn to lighter
things, before she can wonder if winter will come early this year, she hears a
shuffling step behind her.
So predictable.
She spins on her heel and turns to face him.
"Where'd you find her, Angel? She's good."
He smiles, oh so faintly, and she can see a measure of the respect the girl has
earned in her come to life in his expression.
"Why do you think I ended up bringing her here?"
She nods slowly at that, and then the moment fades and the thin string she's
been holding herself together with all night begins to unravel. "Angel… I… I
understand. But I…" She raises her eyes to him, and despite all her will they
are filled with hated tears. "I just can't do this. Not right now."
His mouth curls in a disappointed simile of a smile, and with the avoidance of
his eyes, he nods and lets her go.
"Call me," he says quietly, and it's so LA that she can't help but smile
through her tears.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Time passes, and all manner of demons and vampires fall before her. Every
morning she waits for the sun, standing atop the building come snow or rain,
and waits for the golden light to break through and touch her face. Times
passes, and the morning comes and she drinks her beer and she revisits the
memories, but it is different now. She remembers with that same, deep sadness,
yes, but the edges of his smile are touched with hope now, etched in clear blue
and wreathed in the clouds of possibility.
He still talks to her sometimes. Not clothed in the apparition of insanity like
a ghost before her eyes, but his strong voice ringing in the back of her mind
like the church bell at daybreak. He is no longer bloody and ravaged, no longer
the wraith of memory that haunts her every waking hour. He rests inside her now,
at peace, and she can hear his voice more clearly with every passing day. She
trusts him to guide her, and at some point the melody of his tone recedes, and
she can only hear the voice of herself speaking like a narrator in her head,
telling her right from wrong.
Grief slowly recedes, leaving in its wake the faint aftertaste, a constant that
will always be with her, but it is muted now, it's shade blended and lost
beneath the colors of life. She often thinks of Buffy, herself, Marie, all the
other young Slayers who fought against the First. She thinks most often of
Buffy and all her sister Slayer has lost, how she bore it all alone for so long
and held it inside… but she also thinks of the people who surrounded her, who
still surround her, who love and believe in her. That was always the difference
between the two of them; Buffy had people who cared, who helped her because
they wanted to. Who believed in what she did. They had a choice that Slayers
did not, and still they chose to help, to place themselves in danger despite
the very real threat of death. Giles, Willow, Xander, even Anya had done that.
Robin had done that. And much as it hurt her to lose the one person who had
believed in her, she cannot choose not to see how valiant a gift it was. Sure,
she could have always been alone, and then she wouldn't have had to suffer like
this. Her life could have been easier, maybe… but she can't help thinking that
her life would have been emptier without him. She might not have a choice but
to fight, her life might not be filled with joy all the time, but she's alive,
and as long as she's here, she might as well make it mean something. She's
spent too long isolated inside these four walls, too long behind the barrier of
her sorrow. It's time to make a choice of her own.
The realizations are slow, and long, bitter winter gives way to spring. Choice
takes its own time in coming, stopping to pick flowers and sight see along the
way. But when it finally comes, it comes without further question, without a
second thought.
It's a morning like any other morning in Cleveland, and the sky is gray with the
promise of rain, not unlike most days, as she picks up the phone. He would want
this, she knows. More than that, she
wants this. She hasn't let him go—doesn't think she will ever let him go—but
she knows she has to go forward. She's ready. As ready as she'll ever be.
The other end of the line rings once, twice—and then a voice picks up.
"Angel. Hey… Yeah, I'm…good," she answers, running a hand through her hair with
a melancholy smile.
"No, I'm okay, really."
"Yeah, I've been thinking…"
"No, nothing's wrong. In fact, I just killed a Dagobeast the other day and…"
"I'm thinking maybe it's time for me to put a Cleveland group together."
She listens to the voice on the other end and smiles.