Disclaimers and story info at Chapters 1 and 4.
Faith stood before the window and watched as the night sky began to lighten. The cold continued to seep in as Buffy moved farther away from the hospital. She closed her eyes and waited a few more moments until that slayer sense went dead. They'd passed out of range. Faith put a hand to her head in an attempt to prevent it from exploding. Too many thoughts. It was only a few hours ago that she'd given birth, but all evidence was disappearing. Connective tissue was already working its way over her incision; slayer healing was back with a vengeance. She wasn't sure that it would. Return to form. Slaying's what she was built for, not motherhood. Being a slayer, she knew. Prisoner, she'd always been somewhat prepared for. But this...
It was the right decision. Mothers were the ones who had the house and the community and the friends to help. The familiar old jealousy reared its head suddenly, and in all its glory. To think that after all these years of coveting what was Buffy's, it had ended like this. Poetic justice.
Faith hadn't even held her daughter... But it was better. Everything she'd ever touched turned to shit anyway. Bad enough the poor kid had spent all those months in her body. But didn't a steady exposure to poison give you immunity? She resisted the urge to put her hand on her stomach. Enough torture for one day. Not that it mattered. It could all be pushed right out of her head if she tried. Years of practice. Just focus on something else. Anything else. Like that tired old memory - the good one, the best one. The pair of jeans with holes in the crotch and ass pockets that are just too comfortable to get rid of.
Three AM in her dank little motel room. Faith laying on her side, facing the window, and pretending to sleep. It was that moment, that subtle shift that she'd clung to all these years: the instant she'd realized that Buffy was watching her sleep. Didn't matter that Faith had really been awake, that Buffy had silently dressed and left minutes later, or the hiding-Angel-bullshit Faith had learned the next day. The memory just boiled down to the fact that, albeit briefly, Buffy had cared. Faith had held onto that knowledge for dear life over the past nine months, counting on it when she'd wrote her letter, and replaying it in a loop all night after Buffy had stormed out of the prison infirmary. It was almost always in the back of her mind. Not the short-lived friendship or even those fleeting nights spent in her bed, but the fact that once upon a time she, Faith, broken and fucked-up, had inspired someone to give a shit.
Faith looked up at the sound of her door opening, and smiled dimly at Nurse David.
"How you holding up?" He asked.
Faith shrugged and turned back to the window. "Could use a smoke."
"Against hospital policy."
"Damn."
"But..." Faith turned to see him emerging from the bathroom, big grin on his face.
"I'm making a little concession. There's a Winston and a lighter in there for you. Just close the door and turn the shower on hot, full blast. The steam eats the smell."
"Kick ass. That's the best news I've had all day."
"Here's a topper: that special little item we talked about is on the counter."
"I stand corrected."
"But remember, mum's the word. I was never here."
"Your secret's safe with me."
"Well, I better get. You've been, by far, my least difficult patient."
"Thanks."
David nodded and made a hasty retreat, closing the door behind him. Faith took another long look out the window. She pulled the IV out of her hand, wiped up the little bit of blood with the hem of her hospital gown, then shut herself in the bathroom and turned on the shower. The mirror fogged up within moments, and she lit her cigarette, sat on the toilet seat and took a deep drag, all the while gazing at the scalpel lying on the counter.
TBC