"It Isn't Even Past"
Disclaimer: Joss and Mutant Enemy own 'em. I just love 'em. Well, the Faith and Buffy and Spike parts of 'em anyway.
I. Portrait of a Lady
She had been in a coma, in prison, in hell. Her passport said she was twenty-five years old, and her body didn't give the lie, but in a nice hotel, in a warm foamy bath, she was still a girl child. She had heard things about Europe -- no soap, no water pressure -- but in this well-appointed room, she got what Roger Wyndham-Pryce and the slowly reassembling Watchers' Council paid for. The same people who had once tried to buy her a one-way ticket to the funny farm or worse. Now it was, "Whatever you need to be comfortable while the two of you are in Rome, Faith," "Spare no expenses, Faith."
Faith hadn't liked the Watcher's look when he said it. Neither had Robin, who stood there and glowered. He was good at that, the moody jealous stay-away-from-my-girl bit. She found it alternately cute and annoying, but under those haughty Wyndham-Pryce eyes she thought it, for once, justified. It was almost enough for her to understand how old Roger's kid got to be such a jumpy, fawning, tightass; why, when Wesley's inner compass finally went haywire, it sent him so far off course. This creep knew what Faith had done to his son, and he wanted to do her. Probably thought he was buying her off with minibars and bubble baths.
"I'll take their money but it won't buy me," she whispered in Robin's ear, burrowing against him on the way from the mansion's door to the private car, on the small stretch of drive where it might be harder for the Council to eavesdrop. Brushing his ear with her lips, she added, "I'm no one's to buy." And that means you, she hoped that part came across. She suspected him of falling in love with her, the bastard. When had she asked for that?
Faith settled into the circular soaking tub, blew a wisp off bubbles off of her fingers, and turned a page in her book. It was a cheap paperback, though a hefty one, almost overstuffed. She was barely halfway through, but the pages were threatening to fan loose any second, and scatter into the bubbles. Robin would have a fit -- you didn't treat books that way, even cheap ones -- but what good were the things if you couldn't have them when and where you wanted them? Faith worked at night, but the days were hers. She liked her afternoons in the tub, and a story while she was soaking.
She had picked the book up when they were trying to look inconspicuous in a Notting Hill bookshop, waiting for the Council's contact to pull some corny cloak and dagger shit. The author's name might have caught her eye because she remembered her first watcher telling her about this other story the same guy had done, the crazy babysitter and the creepy kids. Sounded like this Henry James knew his hauntings. Faith liked the dead to stay that way, and she didn't really trust these drafty English country houses to be spectre-free. It was all in the name of research. But really it was just something to hold, thick and satisfying in her hand. Her fingers closed around it and Robin chuckled, "Won't get far with that one." Faith lowered her chin and stared at him, telling him without having to say it. "Don't you know what happens when you tell me what I'm not going to do?"
Faith reached to the shelf by the tub, broke off a chunk of swiss chocolate, and chugged from a small bottle of cognac. This book might be about to go kaput on her, so she folded back the cover and looked at the first page again. Blah blah blah blah, afternoon tea. This guy was long winded, no question. It was like spending 700 pages at a Watcher's convention. But Faith kept at it and it was kind of like listening to Giles. After a while, even though Mr. Henry James kept refusing to get to the point, she was seeing the story. This spoiled American girl -- Buffy Summers, in Faith's mind, wearing petticoats and some kind of ridiculous hat -- shows up in Europe, comes into some money. And right off the bat there's some handsome English lord wanting to marry her. Faith figured the guy was bad news, that Miss Isabel Buffy Dumbcluck would go off with him to his castle and find his dead wives chained behind the walls. Some magical portrait (wasn't that what the title was about?) holding her soul captive, getting older while her body stayed young and a prisoner. Wasn't that how these kinds of stories went?
But no, Lord Charming had turned out to be a perfectly decent guy, but Lady Dumbcluck ran off to Italy to attach herself to one of the most obvious vamps Faith had ever encountered. Holed up in his villa, collecting beautiful things, staring hungrily at the innocent blonde. And then there was the daughter he was forcing into a convent, who he wouldn't let out of the house. That was the key to the story -- His own daughter, and he'd sired her, and she didn't even know it. Could you be a vampire without knowing it? Robin might have answered that, but in Rome he was all with the guidebooks, the paintings -- Michelangelo! Leonardo! -- the old old buildings, and she'd finally pushed him out the door on his own. "We're not attached, Robin. You want your Ninja Turtles, I want a bath." And, she was too embarrassed to add, the only Rome she cared about right now was the one inhabited by Isabel Archer and Lord Warburton and Gilbert Osmond.
This wasn't a conversation she could have with Robin, anyway. He was the one who had started shoving books at her, but when she asked about Sherlock Holmes -- vamp, maybe, telepath demon? -- he sighed, "Faith, you can't talk about fictional characters that way." It went with all those things he liked to go on about, symbolism and metaphor and irony. Who knew he'd really been a high school teacher, that the "Principal Wood" thing wasn't entirely an act? The only one who had stuck up for her at all was that weird blonde kid, Tucker's brother, who informed her that, "Many reliable accounts support the conclusion that Sherlock Holmes was a Vulcan." Whatever kind of demon that was.
Now Angel, he would know about this Osmond guy. End of the nineteenth century, if you could believe James, this Eternal City was fat with juicy tourists. How could he and Darla not have spent time here? Faith sunk deeper into the bath and imagined making that phone call. Yes, this is a known fugitive, calling for the CEO of Wolfram & Hart, I just wonder if I could have a word with Mr. Angel. What's it regarding? One Mr. James, comma, Henry. Yes, Angel, was Gilbert Osmond a demon? Are Donny and Marie his Satanic spawn? And, oh yeah, what the hell are you doing in bed with the psychos who once upon a time, you know, tried to pay me to kill you?
Out in the suite, something fell. The book dropped from Faith's hand to the tub. Pages floated loose in the water, but her mind was with her fingers, finding a weapon on the shelf between the chocolate and the liqueurs. Daytime and no invitation, but this wasn't strictly her hotel room, but no chances here. She picked the knife in one hand and the stake in the other. No time for clothes before she wrenched open the door, jumped over the threshold and saw --
The back of a girl's blonde head bent over the minibar.
"B?" Faith demanded.
"Hiya," said Buffy Summers, cheerful as you please.
Faith backed into the bathroom before Buffy could turn. She set the weapons down slowly, and picked up a robe. "Sorry about the no-knock," Buffy was saying. "I ran into Robin on my way in, and he gave me this keycard thingy. Hey, do you think these truffles in here are like the mushrooms or the chocolates?"
Casting a sorry look at the water and her soaked book, Faith knotted the robe around her waist and walked into the room. "So you're hanging out in the Eternal City these days?"
"Mmm-hmm. Good place for vamps. Do you think the cheese is supposed to be this color?" Buffy finally looked up. "And, hey, umm, how are you these days?"
"You know." Faith shrugged. "Five by five."
(Yes, there's more, this is just warm up.)
Disclaimer: Joss and Mutant Enemy own 'em. I just love 'em. Well, the Faith and Buffy and Spike parts of 'em anyway.
I. Portrait of a Lady
She had been in a coma, in prison, in hell. Her passport said she was twenty-five years old, and her body didn't give the lie, but in a nice hotel, in a warm foamy bath, she was still a girl child. She had heard things about Europe -- no soap, no water pressure -- but in this well-appointed room, she got what Roger Wyndham-Pryce and the slowly reassembling Watchers' Council paid for. The same people who had once tried to buy her a one-way ticket to the funny farm or worse. Now it was, "Whatever you need to be comfortable while the two of you are in Rome, Faith," "Spare no expenses, Faith."
Faith hadn't liked the Watcher's look when he said it. Neither had Robin, who stood there and glowered. He was good at that, the moody jealous stay-away-from-my-girl bit. She found it alternately cute and annoying, but under those haughty Wyndham-Pryce eyes she thought it, for once, justified. It was almost enough for her to understand how old Roger's kid got to be such a jumpy, fawning, tightass; why, when Wesley's inner compass finally went haywire, it sent him so far off course. This creep knew what Faith had done to his son, and he wanted to do her. Probably thought he was buying her off with minibars and bubble baths.
"I'll take their money but it won't buy me," she whispered in Robin's ear, burrowing against him on the way from the mansion's door to the private car, on the small stretch of drive where it might be harder for the Council to eavesdrop. Brushing his ear with her lips, she added, "I'm no one's to buy." And that means you, she hoped that part came across. She suspected him of falling in love with her, the bastard. When had she asked for that?
Faith settled into the circular soaking tub, blew a wisp off bubbles off of her fingers, and turned a page in her book. It was a cheap paperback, though a hefty one, almost overstuffed. She was barely halfway through, but the pages were threatening to fan loose any second, and scatter into the bubbles. Robin would have a fit -- you didn't treat books that way, even cheap ones -- but what good were the things if you couldn't have them when and where you wanted them? Faith worked at night, but the days were hers. She liked her afternoons in the tub, and a story while she was soaking.
She had picked the book up when they were trying to look inconspicuous in a Notting Hill bookshop, waiting for the Council's contact to pull some corny cloak and dagger shit. The author's name might have caught her eye because she remembered her first watcher telling her about this other story the same guy had done, the crazy babysitter and the creepy kids. Sounded like this Henry James knew his hauntings. Faith liked the dead to stay that way, and she didn't really trust these drafty English country houses to be spectre-free. It was all in the name of research. But really it was just something to hold, thick and satisfying in her hand. Her fingers closed around it and Robin chuckled, "Won't get far with that one." Faith lowered her chin and stared at him, telling him without having to say it. "Don't you know what happens when you tell me what I'm not going to do?"
Faith reached to the shelf by the tub, broke off a chunk of swiss chocolate, and chugged from a small bottle of cognac. This book might be about to go kaput on her, so she folded back the cover and looked at the first page again. Blah blah blah blah, afternoon tea. This guy was long winded, no question. It was like spending 700 pages at a Watcher's convention. But Faith kept at it and it was kind of like listening to Giles. After a while, even though Mr. Henry James kept refusing to get to the point, she was seeing the story. This spoiled American girl -- Buffy Summers, in Faith's mind, wearing petticoats and some kind of ridiculous hat -- shows up in Europe, comes into some money. And right off the bat there's some handsome English lord wanting to marry her. Faith figured the guy was bad news, that Miss Isabel Buffy Dumbcluck would go off with him to his castle and find his dead wives chained behind the walls. Some magical portrait (wasn't that what the title was about?) holding her soul captive, getting older while her body stayed young and a prisoner. Wasn't that how these kinds of stories went?
But no, Lord Charming had turned out to be a perfectly decent guy, but Lady Dumbcluck ran off to Italy to attach herself to one of the most obvious vamps Faith had ever encountered. Holed up in his villa, collecting beautiful things, staring hungrily at the innocent blonde. And then there was the daughter he was forcing into a convent, who he wouldn't let out of the house. That was the key to the story -- His own daughter, and he'd sired her, and she didn't even know it. Could you be a vampire without knowing it? Robin might have answered that, but in Rome he was all with the guidebooks, the paintings -- Michelangelo! Leonardo! -- the old old buildings, and she'd finally pushed him out the door on his own. "We're not attached, Robin. You want your Ninja Turtles, I want a bath." And, she was too embarrassed to add, the only Rome she cared about right now was the one inhabited by Isabel Archer and Lord Warburton and Gilbert Osmond.
This wasn't a conversation she could have with Robin, anyway. He was the one who had started shoving books at her, but when she asked about Sherlock Holmes -- vamp, maybe, telepath demon? -- he sighed, "Faith, you can't talk about fictional characters that way." It went with all those things he liked to go on about, symbolism and metaphor and irony. Who knew he'd really been a high school teacher, that the "Principal Wood" thing wasn't entirely an act? The only one who had stuck up for her at all was that weird blonde kid, Tucker's brother, who informed her that, "Many reliable accounts support the conclusion that Sherlock Holmes was a Vulcan." Whatever kind of demon that was.
Now Angel, he would know about this Osmond guy. End of the nineteenth century, if you could believe James, this Eternal City was fat with juicy tourists. How could he and Darla not have spent time here? Faith sunk deeper into the bath and imagined making that phone call. Yes, this is a known fugitive, calling for the CEO of Wolfram & Hart, I just wonder if I could have a word with Mr. Angel. What's it regarding? One Mr. James, comma, Henry. Yes, Angel, was Gilbert Osmond a demon? Are Donny and Marie his Satanic spawn? And, oh yeah, what the hell are you doing in bed with the psychos who once upon a time, you know, tried to pay me to kill you?
Out in the suite, something fell. The book dropped from Faith's hand to the tub. Pages floated loose in the water, but her mind was with her fingers, finding a weapon on the shelf between the chocolate and the liqueurs. Daytime and no invitation, but this wasn't strictly her hotel room, but no chances here. She picked the knife in one hand and the stake in the other. No time for clothes before she wrenched open the door, jumped over the threshold and saw --
The back of a girl's blonde head bent over the minibar.
"B?" Faith demanded.
"Hiya," said Buffy Summers, cheerful as you please.
Faith backed into the bathroom before Buffy could turn. She set the weapons down slowly, and picked up a robe. "Sorry about the no-knock," Buffy was saying. "I ran into Robin on my way in, and he gave me this keycard thingy. Hey, do you think these truffles in here are like the mushrooms or the chocolates?"
Casting a sorry look at the water and her soaked book, Faith knotted the robe around her waist and walked into the room. "So you're hanging out in the Eternal City these days?"
"Mmm-hmm. Good place for vamps. Do you think the cheese is supposed to be this color?" Buffy finally looked up. "And, hey, umm, how are you these days?"
"You know." Faith shrugged. "Five by five."
(Yes, there's more, this is just warm up.)