Getting Off The Griefmobile
By Annakovsky
See part 1 for all relevant info and disclaimer.
***********
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
***********
Their taxi drove into Jerusalem in the early afternoon and they immediately went to their hotel to sleep off the jet lag. Giles's meeting with the antiquities collector who owned the tablet wasn't for a day or so, so there was nothing to do for the moment but sleep.
Faith was woken by a loud chanting call some time later, confused and sweaty. She fumbled for the bedside lamp and a clock. 8:47 pm. It took her a minute to realize that the chanting was the Muslim prayer call, coming from the minaret across the street. She cursed organized religion under her breath, rolled over and tried to go back to sleep.
It was damn hot in Jerusalem in August. She was sleeping naked but it was still too hot to be comfortable. She tossed and turned, the sheets sticking to her sweaty body. Eventually she gave up on sleep, got up and took a cold shower before getting dressed.
She wandered through the Old City, its narrow streets and lit shops. Orthodox children, boys in yarmulkes and side curls, played with a soccer ball in a square in the Jewish quarter. Eventually Faith turned down a street and saw the Wailing Wall with the Dome of the Rock hovering above and behind it, lit up and golden. The night was cooler outside than in her hotel room, a slight breeze blowing. She went through the security check at the Wall, glad that her stakes were wooden and didn't set off the metal detectors. She went all the way up to it on the women's side, touched the stones and looked at all the people there, pressing prayers into the cracks and belonging. She was the outsider, walking through the open plaza full of worshippers - she hadn't realized there was so much empty space around the wall. Empty and dark. She was restless.
She left the Old City, made her way to the more modern part of the city, to Ben Yehuda street, where she found a club. This was familiar, this was home. Justin Timberlake was playing, for God's sake, and Shaggy, Michael Jackson. She gave herself to the dance beat, soon had a crowd of guys around her. Moths to a flame, baby. She moved her hips, watched her complete control over them, watched how she was the only thing that existed to them at that moment. Felt that she mattered, reflected in their glassy eyes.
Drunk off her ass, she took one back with her to the hotel, gave herself up to another rhythm. She had picked the one with the worst English, so they didn't have to speak. He kept trying to look into her eyes, but she wouldn't meet them. It was just bodies banging together in a desolate room. His hair smelled like smoke.
Sex was never enough anymore. Twenty minutes and she was back in the world again, but sweatier and with a dark-eyed guy she wished were already gone. At least now she'd probably be able to sleep.
Another ten minutes and she was putting him out in the hall. He had a broken look in his eyes, not understanding, and she flashed to Xander, at another hotel a long time ago.
Giles came out into the hall at that moment, looked startled when he saw the two of them, Faith only wearing a sheet, the guy half dressed. She met Giles's eyes defiantly, chin up, daring him to speak. He looked away quickly, a tinge of hurt on his face. Quietly he excused himself and went back into his room.
"So long," Faith said to her soup du jour, forcing a cheerless smile and shutting the door in his face.
Right before she fell asleep she wondered what it felt like to be happy.
She woke the next morning to the minaret call at 4:30, then again at six, then to church bells at eight, and finally to someone banging on her door at noon. She had a hell of a hangover, almost overbalancing when she stood up. She stumbled to the door and pulled it open, eyes crusty feeling and still half closed. Giles was standing there. He quickly looked pretty damn shocked.
It took Faith a minute to realize that she'd been sleeping naked and was still clothes-free. Her head was pretty fuzzy.
"God," she said. "Sorry. Hang on." She shut the door and tried to find her clothes, eventually pulling on jeans and a tank top without underwear, since she couldn't find any. She shook her head slightly, trying to clear it, and immediately regretted it. She opened the door again. Giles seemed to be somewhere between amusement and embarrassment.
"Hey," she said, repressing an urge to cross her arms over her chest. "What's up?"
"I wondered if you wanted lunch," he said, very carefully not looking any lower than her face. She felt queasy at the idea of food.
"Uh...." She must have looked green, because Giles was immediately concerned. He reached over a hand and felt her forehead.
"Maybe some water would be a bit better," he said, understanding. His hand felt warm and dry, welcome. She started walking back to bed, but stumbled. He caught her and, holding her arm, walked her across the room. His grip was strong and firm, reassuring. She felt like she was going to throw up.
He filled up a glass of water and brought it back to her with a few aspirin, as well as a cool, wet washcloth. He watched her take the pills, and placed the washcloth carefully on her forehead. His expression was kind, almost loving, until she looked up at him. Then he was distant.
"I'll check on you this evening," he said quietly. "Feel better." She heard the door shut behind him, but didn't feel like lifting her head.
She slept for a long time.
******
TBC...
******
NOTE: Nothing like hearing a prayer call at 4:30 in the morning to make you glad you're Christian. Lazy American Christian, to boot.
Also, despite the fact that I previously said in Chapter 17 that they were going to Damascus, I changed my mind and sent them to Jerusalem instead. It may be less exotic, but the story needs a more Westernized place. Anyway, I changed it in the previous chapter too, but I hope I didn't confuse anyone. The hazards of a poorly thought through WIP.
By Annakovsky
See part 1 for all relevant info and disclaimer.
***********
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
***********
Their taxi drove into Jerusalem in the early afternoon and they immediately went to their hotel to sleep off the jet lag. Giles's meeting with the antiquities collector who owned the tablet wasn't for a day or so, so there was nothing to do for the moment but sleep.
Faith was woken by a loud chanting call some time later, confused and sweaty. She fumbled for the bedside lamp and a clock. 8:47 pm. It took her a minute to realize that the chanting was the Muslim prayer call, coming from the minaret across the street. She cursed organized religion under her breath, rolled over and tried to go back to sleep.
It was damn hot in Jerusalem in August. She was sleeping naked but it was still too hot to be comfortable. She tossed and turned, the sheets sticking to her sweaty body. Eventually she gave up on sleep, got up and took a cold shower before getting dressed.
She wandered through the Old City, its narrow streets and lit shops. Orthodox children, boys in yarmulkes and side curls, played with a soccer ball in a square in the Jewish quarter. Eventually Faith turned down a street and saw the Wailing Wall with the Dome of the Rock hovering above and behind it, lit up and golden. The night was cooler outside than in her hotel room, a slight breeze blowing. She went through the security check at the Wall, glad that her stakes were wooden and didn't set off the metal detectors. She went all the way up to it on the women's side, touched the stones and looked at all the people there, pressing prayers into the cracks and belonging. She was the outsider, walking through the open plaza full of worshippers - she hadn't realized there was so much empty space around the wall. Empty and dark. She was restless.
She left the Old City, made her way to the more modern part of the city, to Ben Yehuda street, where she found a club. This was familiar, this was home. Justin Timberlake was playing, for God's sake, and Shaggy, Michael Jackson. She gave herself to the dance beat, soon had a crowd of guys around her. Moths to a flame, baby. She moved her hips, watched her complete control over them, watched how she was the only thing that existed to them at that moment. Felt that she mattered, reflected in their glassy eyes.
Drunk off her ass, she took one back with her to the hotel, gave herself up to another rhythm. She had picked the one with the worst English, so they didn't have to speak. He kept trying to look into her eyes, but she wouldn't meet them. It was just bodies banging together in a desolate room. His hair smelled like smoke.
Sex was never enough anymore. Twenty minutes and she was back in the world again, but sweatier and with a dark-eyed guy she wished were already gone. At least now she'd probably be able to sleep.
Another ten minutes and she was putting him out in the hall. He had a broken look in his eyes, not understanding, and she flashed to Xander, at another hotel a long time ago.
Giles came out into the hall at that moment, looked startled when he saw the two of them, Faith only wearing a sheet, the guy half dressed. She met Giles's eyes defiantly, chin up, daring him to speak. He looked away quickly, a tinge of hurt on his face. Quietly he excused himself and went back into his room.
"So long," Faith said to her soup du jour, forcing a cheerless smile and shutting the door in his face.
Right before she fell asleep she wondered what it felt like to be happy.
She woke the next morning to the minaret call at 4:30, then again at six, then to church bells at eight, and finally to someone banging on her door at noon. She had a hell of a hangover, almost overbalancing when she stood up. She stumbled to the door and pulled it open, eyes crusty feeling and still half closed. Giles was standing there. He quickly looked pretty damn shocked.
It took Faith a minute to realize that she'd been sleeping naked and was still clothes-free. Her head was pretty fuzzy.
"God," she said. "Sorry. Hang on." She shut the door and tried to find her clothes, eventually pulling on jeans and a tank top without underwear, since she couldn't find any. She shook her head slightly, trying to clear it, and immediately regretted it. She opened the door again. Giles seemed to be somewhere between amusement and embarrassment.
"Hey," she said, repressing an urge to cross her arms over her chest. "What's up?"
"I wondered if you wanted lunch," he said, very carefully not looking any lower than her face. She felt queasy at the idea of food.
"Uh...." She must have looked green, because Giles was immediately concerned. He reached over a hand and felt her forehead.
"Maybe some water would be a bit better," he said, understanding. His hand felt warm and dry, welcome. She started walking back to bed, but stumbled. He caught her and, holding her arm, walked her across the room. His grip was strong and firm, reassuring. She felt like she was going to throw up.
He filled up a glass of water and brought it back to her with a few aspirin, as well as a cool, wet washcloth. He watched her take the pills, and placed the washcloth carefully on her forehead. His expression was kind, almost loving, until she looked up at him. Then he was distant.
"I'll check on you this evening," he said quietly. "Feel better." She heard the door shut behind him, but didn't feel like lifting her head.
She slept for a long time.
******
TBC...
******
NOTE: Nothing like hearing a prayer call at 4:30 in the morning to make you glad you're Christian. Lazy American Christian, to boot.
Also, despite the fact that I previously said in Chapter 17 that they were going to Damascus, I changed my mind and sent them to Jerusalem instead. It may be less exotic, but the story needs a more Westernized place. Anyway, I changed it in the previous chapter too, but I hope I didn't confuse anyone. The hazards of a poorly thought through WIP.