Monsters

Someone's arm was wrapped around Faith's waist. Strong, male. Her first impulse was to tense in anticipation of the stinging pain of a blade or a zippo lighter. Maybe the asshole had treated himself to an early Christmas present and splurged on that chainsaw he saw in the window. But the arm didn't move and when she opened her eyes the wire cage had been replaced by a softly lit apartment even Mr. Rogers would have been proud of.

Soft fabric rubbed against her legs, warm and soothing. Tentatively, she touched the arm around her. Cool skin. Room temperature. That meant vampire and vampire meant Spike. It seemed like an eternity passed as she stared incredulously at the pale skin. Strong, angular fingers splayed across her stomach, steel corded tendons connecting undead tissue and bone. She had never really wondered how the demon inside reanimated the body, kept them young and beautiful. If they'd been beautiful in the first place.

Both of her wrists had been expertly bandaged and she could feel the telltale pull of surgical tape on her face, neck, and torso. Muscles were still tense, wondering if this was just a dream or hallucination. Any minute she would wake up in her godforsaken cage and fight for her life. Fighting to live. Was that what this whole crazy world was about? She'd fought because she liked it. Liked the charge, the power, the rush it gave her. Fought because she wanted to hurt and destroy the way she had been hurt and destroyed. Lashing out because it was the only way to drown out the quiet voice nagging her from the lost childhood she'd never had. But she'd never had to fight so hard just to keep breathing.

Her thumb began to trace a slow arc along the back of Spike's hand. She watched it, as though it wasn't an extension of her. Someone else's hand, someone else's thumb. He was still as death against her back, not warm but not cold either. Just there, solid and comforting. As long as he was asleep she didn't have to pretend or put up walls or be something she wasn't. She didn't even know what she was. She'd never paid any attention to the tight-ass Watcher lectures about her sacred calling or speculation on the origin of the Slayers. It was the killing, the chase, and the hunt that she had wanted. The adrenaline that flooded, cleared, wiped clean everything inside her.

This, peace and relaxation, was foreign. When had a man ever held her like this? She was protected. God, she was safe. She felt safe. He had found her, fought for her. He didn't even know her. Was this what had drawn Buffy to the vampire? The sense of security and power. She wanted to roll over, press her face against his chest, be so wrapped up in his arms that nothing would ever touch her again.

She didn't. Couldn't. Muscles wouldn't move, still frozen by the same old fears that had followed her into prison and right back out again. Every moment was a war against the Old Faith, still threatening to raise her ugly face and spread blood with her poisonous touch. It wasn't her. She was different now, had changed. Clinging to that was all that had kept her sane in prison. She wasn't that girl. Not anymore. Never again. Old Faith was gone. Dead. Drowned in the Pacific by a vampire. This life belonged to New Faith. If she could just hold on tight enough, push Old Faith down hard enough.

Maybe that's why Angel had understood her when Buffy couldn't. Buffy didn't have a dark side. Buffy was whole and complete where Faith had been split, fractured into two immiscible personalities. Buffy had had years to develop coherence, a lifetime to gel and self-discover. Faith was a newborn, still crawling on her knees and searching for a place to call home, a face to call hers, and an emotion that didn't taste of ashes.

Too much thinking. She shook her head, trying to clear the somber discourse her mind was delving into. Thoughts had never been her friends. They were such lousy guests, never helping to clean up after the party and always sucking the life out of you. All she wanted was for this moment to last a bit longer, keeping the darkness and pain at bay enough for her to rest. That was all she wanted, to rest.

Old Faith twitched and lewdly suggested that she make the most of the situation to check out what exactly had kept Buffy going back for more. New Faith scowled, closing her eyes tightly against the unbidden images her fertile imagination was all too willing to supply. There was nothing seductive about his embrace, nothing sexual in his touch. She was not going to go after another one of Buffy's men. No way in hell, not if her fucking life depended on it. If she could possibly find someone who had never even laid eyes on Buffy, she'd take him. Second Hand Faith had been kicked out the door with Old Faith and she wasn't going to accept any cast offs. Not anymore.

She almost moved away, wanting to throw his arm off of her and scream to the whole world that it just wasn't fair. Wasn't fair that she was always second best, a step behind Buffy, a day late and a dollar short. Did she do it on purpose? Was there some sick part of her that thrilled at the rejection? Closing her eyes tightly, she tried to roll away from him. He followed, his hand twisting, palm down on the couch beneath them and sliding up to her bicep. Fingers curled around her arm just below her shoulder. She was completely trapped now and could feel the pressure of his cheek against the back of her neck.

With a frown, she looked for a way to disentangle herself from his limbs. As wonderful as it felt to be cherished and protected, it was too much. It was too good. She didn't deserve to feel this way. She didn't deserve to feel loved. Tears stung her eyes and she bit her bottom lip to keep them away, wincing as the already wounded skin protested this latest attack.

At least she was ugly on the outside now, matching the inside. She needed to find a mirror and see for herself what the bastard had done to her. Vaguely, she remembered Spike saying she was beautiful. So reassuring, so gentle. So wrong. She was ugly, inside and out. Ugly with hatred and despair. Couldn't he see it?

She had to get away from him. Panic was starting to build, sending shivers through her nervous system and preparing to incite violence if need be. She could push him away, hit him if she had to. Kick, punch. It was simple. Shove him off of her, show him how ugly she was. Hit him until he struck her back. Until he hurt her the way she deserved to be hurt, deserved to be punished. Anything but his tenderness. Pain bit a thousand bantam teeth into skin and muscle when she finally began to move, pulling his arm away from her and struggling to find her balance as she tumbled from the couch. She just had to get away. Her head was swimming as she teetered across the room, searching out the bathroom she hazily remembered.

There was a stranger's face in the mirror. Short dark hair and the wide, terrified eyes of a little girl pretending to have grown up and figured everything out. Still the scared little girl desperate for love. She tore at the bandages covering her wounds, tears spilling from dark eyes as she unveiled Ethan Rayne's masterpiece. Someone was sobbing uncontrollably. Was that her? She could feel her lungs choking on air, fighting for breath as she shook her head in fierce denial, horrified at the destruction of her beauty.

Nothing was left but angry, wretched carvings in her skin like a spider's web of blood and bits of flesh. Bruises over her eyes, cheekbones, and the bridge of her nose. Swollen lips crusted with dried blood. A morbid, sickening patchwork quilt staring out at her with a child's eyes. Who would want her now? Her knees buckled and she sunk to the floor, violently shaking with the force of her sobs. No one would ever want her. No one would ever love her. Who could love the hideous monster she had seen in the mirror? How could she face anyone again, looking like a creature from a bad horror movie? Her fists pounded ineffectually against the cupboard, cheek pressed against the cool surface.

Strong, consoling arms surrounded her, pulling her tightly against his chest and stroking her butchered hair. Soft words fell over her, whispered against her skin. Quieting her, holding her like a precious treasure instead of a monster.

"I've got you." He was rocking her, cradling her in his lap, speaking to the frightened child behind her eyes.

What would become of her? What would happen when she tried to smile at someone, only to watch them look away and pretend they hadn't seen her at all. She would be a pariah, a leper, an outcast even among outcasts. How could he look at her? How could he touch something so hideous?

"Faith." He was saying her name with that honey gravel voice that could be anything and everything in a woman's ears. How could it sound so beautiful coming from his lips? Fingers brushed away her tears, light as butterfly wings against her skin. Couldn't he see she was broken? Ruined? "Faith, luv. Don't let him win."

She turned her face away, ashamed by her ugliness, her voice destroyed by the shuddering sobs venting a lifetime of unshed tears. The world was crashing down around her, only pain and harsh light filling her, blinding her.

"Faith." Cool hands caught her face, blue eyes hazy through her tears. "You're beautiful."

"Y-you're fucking c-crazy," she managed to choke out between sobs. "L-look at me. I'm a f-freak show."

"I am looking at you." Fingers trailed through her hair and she watched as his human face melted away, revealing the ridges and bumps of his demon. Fangs glistened as he smiled, yellow replacing sapphire. "Got you beat for ugly hands down." His voice was huskier and richer in this form.

She laughed. Just a little. It wasn't that far away from crying after all. "At least yours goes away."

"You'll heal." Vampire eyes blinked. "I've been around for one hundred and thirty two years, Faith. I know a beautiful woman when I see one." Lips curled around sharp canine teeth. "And the woman in my arms right now is gorgeous. She's unbelievable."

"You're a sap." She tapped his shoulder weakly with her fist, sniffing and wiping her eyes with embarrassment. "Sorry to go all needy female on you." Old Faith was digging in her heels, disgusted by the display of weakness and mortified by her acceptance of his comfort. New Faith gagged her and shoved her into a closet, burying her face in Spike's neck and holding onto him tightly. He was a lifeline of hope and sanity in the devastated wasteland of her psyche. Her voice wasn't even loud enough to be a whisper. "Hold me."

"I've got you, Faith. I've got you."

She closed her eyes, collapsing into his embrace. She didn't need to be strong in his arms, didn't need to hide from him. She was falling. He would catch her.

I had slept all day, curled up against Faith, soaking up her warmth and life like a lizard basking in the heat of the sun. Had woken to find her gone and then found her on the bathroom floor, breaking into pieces because of what he had done to her. There were no words for the type of monster who had taken a knife to her face. And there was nothing I could do to take away her pain or bring back her flawless skin.

She was sleeping when darkness settled over the city, tear stained and exhausted from her inner turmoil and physical torture. It would be at least one more night before she would be ready to travel. Unable to contain my rage at her violation and my own impotence, I took to the streets determined to vent my pain the only way I knew how.

The warehouse where I found her is the first stop. All I see is blood and dust as I tear through the building, destroying anything and anyone within reach. Drawn to the basement by the scent of her blood, I find the cage. The ropes that bound her hands. Pieces of a broken chair. I can see what was done to her. I can taste the pain and hatred in the air. Wire cuts into my hands as I rip into the cage, tearing away strips of metal and hurling them as far as vampire strength allows.

Where's Dru when you need her to come up with some hare-brained scheme to suck the world into hell? Where's Angelus when you need him to pull it off? This world doesn't deserve to exist. Men don't deserve to live. Humanity and all its nobility is just a facade for a demon more depraved than anything that lives within me. They are the real monsters, hiding behind innocence and false pretenses. Playing at compassion and mercy while their cruelty is ignored, unnoticed, even tolerated. I hate this fucking world. Down to the last blade of grass and cherubic two year old with golden curls and deceitful purity. There is no such thing as innocence. No man who wouldn't turn against his friends and neighbors for the right about of money or a good lay. No woman who wouldn't claw and manipulate for god knows what.

All I know, standing there in the ruin of what had been Faith's hell, is that I have never felt such rage. My fist connects with the concrete wall, breaking skin and bones and finally cutting through to the pain and guilt inside. Why Faith? What had she done to deserve this? I hadn't really saved her. I had only kept her alive. She would look in the mirror every day of her life and know that I hadn't saved her. That I had failed her.

I can't even give her revenge. The bastard who tarnished her beauty is long gone, leaving only demons and vampires to suffer for his sins. Tears are bitter; burning like acid down my face and darkening patches of the concrete. I'm raw; every emotion is sandpaper abrading my tattered soul.

Slumping down against the wall, my eyes stare unfocused at the wall in front of me, not seeing the water stains and graffiti. Seeing only the brutal torture the walls had witnessed. At the hands of a man. Just a man. Flesh, blood, and bone. A man with a soul. A soul he didn't deserve. Hands he didn't deserve to move, breath he didn't deserve to draw, a heart that didn't deserve to beat.

Tired and drained, I lean my head against the concrete and close my eyes. I have clung to this life when there was nothing left for me, nothing to keep me here. Taken lives, saved lives, rained down both vengeance and protection during a life that now seems too long. How peaceful it would have been to have simply died in that alley, drained but not turned. Or to have lived out my life, never seeing the other side of this world, never knowing the depths people were willing to sink to. I had bitterly told Clem years ago that Buffy would never lower herself far enough to be with me. Who was actually beneath who? Where was it written that mortals owned this world and demons were the parasites? What law kept them steadfastly riveted on the moral high ground? Had she come down or had I? Had I lowered myself to be with her?

How can there be a God? How can there be anything good in this world if there are men like this? Why fight for this world? Why not send the whole bloody thing to Hell with a pat on the head and a Thank-You fruit basket for the Devil himself? Why do demons run from a Slayer when the real monsters walk around unfettered and protected?

What am I fighting for?

The stained pizza flyer burned a hole in Kraqin's pocket as he hurried through the darkened streets. Scrawled on the vibrant neon pink were the three words that had tipped the demon community on its head. William the Bloody. A quick phone call had reaffirmed that the souled vampire known as Angel was still merrily dispatching demons on the Pacific Coast.

No one had believed him. He hadn't believed it himself. But he had seen the soul, its golden glow swirling around the vampire, reflecting in blue eyes where there should have been nothing but the darkness of the demon within. William the Bloody had a soul.

It changed everything. That was the understatement of the eon. It damn well took the snow globe by the base and shook the stuffing out of it. The vampire might as well have rearranged the cosmos or marched through the gates of Heaven to mingle with the angels. This world was not so much screwed as, well, completely fucked.

Spike's recent rampage through the city had done little to ease anyone's mind. What was the vampire doing? As far as Kraqin could tell, William the Bloody was acting like William the Bloody Maniac. He'd cut a swath of carnage and destruction across the city, leaving demons and vamps alike either running for the hills or plotting his untimely demise. Something had set the vampire off his rocker. Whatever it was, it needed to be fixed before the New Orleans underground took a serious hit. Even Cable had gone into hiding. Granted, Cable was a leech and a sadist, and no one was really sad to see the coward tuck his tail between his legs. But anything that could scare the Armani clad poser was something to be feared and avoided at all costs.

"There's a balance," Kraqin mumbled as he knocked three short raps on the back door of the club. "Doesn't he understand? Balance is shot to hell now."

"Password."

"Aperio, gartaka-breath."

"No need to be insulting," a polite voice responded.

He heard the bolt slide away and the door swung open, revealing a tall, reptilian demon with bright eyes and a narrow snout. "Where's Chronos?"

"Lounge," the guard answered simply, shutting the door firmly behind them.

"Drinking martinis like he's got all the time in the universe, no doubt. As if we didn't have enough problems to fill the Great Schism and the Grand Canyon besides," Kraqin muttered as he moved through the dimly lit hallways, following the sounds of a saxophone and Frank Sinatra. Predictable as the sunrise, Chronos was sitting in his usual booth marinating an olive.

"So, Almighty Seer of the Future and General All-Purpose Pain in the Ass." Kraqin scowled as he pulled a chair up to the table and tossed the pizza flyer onto the varnished wood. "Any idea why no one mentioned that there were two, that's deux, dos, a pair, double the fun, double the trouble, vampires with souls? One of which happens to be doing a pretty good Harbinger of Death imitation right here in our fair city."

Chronos glanced down at the flyer, dark unfathomable eyes reading the curving script with a casual interest. His long gray beard swished against the table as he moved his glass to the side. "There are as many possible futures as there are grains of sand."

"Yeah. What about this one? Any pearls of wisdom as to how we're supposed to fix this?"

"That implies there's something broken."

"Little thing called balance, keeps dimensional walls in check. Heaven and hell from bleeding together, the usual End of Days nastiness."

"Balance takes care of itself."

"Not exactly high on the comfort scale, old buddy." Kraqin frowned at table. "We've got enough trouble with the new Slayer that's gonna be breathing down our necks. All that matters to humans is that we're not one of them. They think we're all monsters. The Slayer's not gonna care which side we're on."

"Which side are we on?"

"Don't go all cryptic on me. I'm not a black and white guy. I'm a gray. Balance Demon, remember? We're all about the gray."

"Events are already in motion." Chronos turned back to his martini. "The rest is up to the Fates."

"And we all know about their twisted sense of humor." Kraqin threw his hands up in despair. "If he keeps this up, the other side's gonna notice and they're not going to be happy campers. This wasn't supposed to happen. There was only supposed to be one."

"Every action has a reaction."

"They're going to turn this world into a war zone when they find out we've got two of them. Who knows what they'll send to counteract it?" He tapped against the table, the squishy pads of his fingers thumping loudly in time with the music. "They're getting creative. How'd they get into the Slayer line anyway? Makes me jumpy."

"Relax. Have a martini."

"Easy for you to relax. You're an incarnation. You're forever. You'll never die. Front row seats to the panorama of past, present, and future. You've got nothing to lose." Kraqin shook his head. "Me? I've only got one crack at this life and not a clue as to what's waiting for me afterwards. What if those monks are right and I come back as a Losha demon? Huh? Doomed to scuttle around on two thousand legs and eat Toremok dung? Not exactly my idea of a good time."

"It is beyond our reach now."

"That's the problem. The fate of the world is the cold hands of a very pissed off vampire."

"No need for hyperbole."

"Call it hyperbole when the Hellhounds start baying for blood." The Balance Demon was at the end of his patience. "Could you at least let me in on the whys and hows? Did he slip in underneath the radar? How did we miss it? And for the sake of all things linear, how in the name of thundering Zeus did he get his soul back?"

"He won it back. For love." Chronos shrugged but his eyes were twinkling mischievously.

"Love? He decided to play tinker toys with the fabric of the universe because of love? What is wrong with this dimension? Bunch of bleeding heart romantics, the lot of them."

"Don't underestimate love. It grounds their reality."

"So do death and taxes," Kraqin argued sourly.

"This too shall pass, dear friend." Chronos turned his eyes back to the sax player next to the piano, his thoughts far away and in a much happier place.

Kraqin rubbed his head glumly, wondering if he should head for the bayous, leave New Orleans to avoid the wrath of whatever hellspawn would inevitably be spit out to keep the souled vamp in check. If the good guys didn't get him first. No one liked a loose cannon. As long as William the Bloody was wrecking havoc and tipping the scales, there would be no rest for the wicked. Or the righteous.