Hellmouth Calling

For a second, one foot on the top step and the other already through the doorway and committing me to enter Verek's apartment; I feel like a teenager trying to sneak in after curfew. There are still a few hours till dawn but, unfortunately, anything worth killing has learned to stay out of my way. Not that the lesson actually helps once they're dead.

"Hey." Faith looks up at me from a bowl of stew. I could smell the vegetables and beef halfway down the block. Dark eyes flicker in the soft lamplight. Damn. She looks uncomfortable. Embarrassed.

"Hey." It was awkward. I was beginning to bounce lightly on the balls of my feet, flexing and clenching my hands into fists. What had Buffy said about my never standing still? That was enough to stop me and I shrug off my jacket, settling for tapping my fingers on the arm of the overstuffed chair across the room.

It was inevitable. The awkwardness. As soon as she came back to the land of the living enough to remember who and what I was. Vampire, murderer, general all around bad guy who had a sick fetish for Slayers. Kill them, fuck them, all the same to me. It's been a while since I've felt like a little boy waiting to be rapped on the knuckles for trying to kiss a girl's cheek. I would have done it badly too, messed it up by getting mud on pretty dresses of lace and silk. Or pulled her hair and cried when she smacked me up the side of the head. Where the hell had that pre-vamp flashback come from?

A quick glance over. She was completely focused on her food, short dark hair bouncing slightly as she bent her head to meet the spoon. What had I expected? A Welcome Home, Honey kiss at the door? A Stepford Wife? Bloody hell, we didn't even know each other. Yeah, I killed her. Yeah, she'd cried in my arms like a fallen angel the night before. We'd had one conversation in our very short and extremely traumatic non-relationship and it wasn't up to break any records in the annals of Getting To Know You.

Not that I cared. I didn't. Just hated the stammering and aw-shucks hopping from one foot to the other that always came after too much intimacy with strangers. Should I ask her how she was feeling? Was I supposed to do that? Or was it better to just avoid the whole how-are-you-recovering-from-being-brutally-tortured question? That brought back memories of the cage I'd found at the warehouse. And that brought back the rage.

They'd caged her. Never mind the cage had been meant for me. They'd locked her up like a vicious animal. Bound, restrained. I knew what it was like to be trapped, leashed, confined. I'd lived it for years. And good fucking Lord, she still smells of drying blood. It crawls over my skin, into my nose, and taunts me.

I'm pacing now, back and forth at the other end of the room. Can't look at her. Not without wanting to hold her, tell her she didn't have to be the Slayer, didn't have to be Faith. I shouldn't have come back so soon. There were other things out there still waiting to be killed. Worth beating into a bloody pulp, cracking tendons, bones, ripping apart. Killing was simple, straightforward. No questions, no wondering what was the right thing to do.

"Spike?"

Her voice cuts through my internal rant, I look up for just a second before resuming my assault on the carpet. "Slayer?" Even in my own ears, my voice is rough and harsh. Doesn't matter. Harsh reality, cold, cruel world, and all that bullshit. She was a Slayer. I was a vampire. Nothing ever changed.

"Sunnydale." Only that word could possibly make my night worse. She kept going despite the growl that rose unbidden from my throat. "We need to get back. That bastard said he could kill the whole gang. B, Dawn. Everyone."

"You're ready?" Again, it came out more callous than it had sounded in my head.

"Five by five." Her voice was casual and solid. The girl was made of titanium. Less than forty-eight hours from being carved like a turkey, beaten, and probably whipped if I'd gauged the marks on her back right; and she was chomping at the bit to get back into the battle.

"Right." My fingers tug through my hair painfully, demon blood making clumps out of some of the curls. "Where's Verek?"

"Out. Said he needed to pick up a few things." She's looking everywhere but at me.

I'm hoping the bookworm will be able to work the portal mojo again and send us both back to SunnyHell. A fraction of the time and half the price. I'll be spending the rest of my unlife trying to repay him for what he's already done.

"Do you still love her?" The question comes from so far out in left field that at first I wonder if she's still speaking English.

"What? Who?"

"Buffy. Do you still love her?" Dark eyes are watching me seriously.

I shake my head, confused. "I mean...it's not. There's nothing." My words are jumbled and tripping over each other.

"It's cool." Her voice is carefully neutral. "Just think she still cares about you is all." At my shocked expression she falters. "She said she'd forgiven you. For whatever you did before you left. She was talking to Willow and I overheard." She stops and starts pick nervously at the bandages on her wrists.

The attempted rape in the bathroom had been the furthest thing from my mind. My feet slow of their own accord as the rest of her words sink in. Buffy still cares? When did she fucking care in the first place? When she was beating the shit out of me in that alley behind the police station? She'd forgiven me? Full stop. I'm staring into space above Faith's head, listening absently as part of me screams about the shampoo commercial, self-righteous bitch Slayer and what she can do with her forgiveness.

"I haven't forgiven her." My voice is small, awed by the sudden inspiration. Since when did a vampire have the right to even beg for forgiveness, let alone met it out for wrongs done to him. A vampire was an animal. No one had to worry about hurting feelings or causing pain. A vampire was just a thing.

"Not that I want to go into whatever you two had going." Faith is back peddling, eying me with a strange mixture of surprise and curiosity. "It's still got both of you tied up in knots so it had to be damn painful and wicked crazy. Just saying." She looks lost, not knowing what to say or how to get out of the mess she unwittingly stepped into.

"Old news, luv. Vampire, Slayer. Always ends badly. Bloody amazing we're both around."

"Right." She nods with the cool efficiency of closed ears and the label of New Subject Please is firmly stamped on the conversation. "Any idea what's going on?"

"Far as I can tell, Watchers decided to off the lot of you." Scanning the room, I locate the folder on the lamp table and bring it over to the couch. "Files on Sunnydale and the hard drive of the wanker's computer. At least, I think that's the bloody hard drive. Maybe Willow can get something out of it."

"Guess they figured you'd kill us all."

"New Slayer's job actually." Her head jerks up. "Turnin' the girls into assassins. Bint's probably already there."

"What day is it?"

"Monday. Barely."

"She was supposed to be there a couple days after I left. Friday. She's been there for over a week." Faith frowns, digging through the folder. Silence hangs heavily in the air, identical thoughts running through our brains. Were we already too late?

"You know the number? I'm sure Verek has a phone somewhere."

She shook her head sadly. "Didn't plan on checking in. Ever. Just wanted to get out of that hellhole. Make a life."

Turning my head, I watch her for a moment before sitting down beside her. "I get that."

"Yeah. Figured you would." There's a smile now, looking only slightly grotesque with the wounds and bruises covering her face. "Card toting murderer and all. Not to mention the whole pack of Scoobies would probably like to see both of us sucked into the Hellmouth one of these days."

"Never let you in either?" It wasn't really a question.

"No." There was sorrow in her voice. And regret. Mostly resignation that what was done was done and there was no going back.

"Could let them deal with the bitch themselves. Can't be too hard after everything else they've faced." I'm not sure where my mouth is taking me, what conclusion I'm trying to find at the end of this particular string of words. "Take off. See the world."

"I'd like that. But." Her voice is soft and full of longing.

"It'd be wrong. Yeah, yeah." I nod and roll my eyes, wishing for a pack of smokes. "Here's to us. Champions of the Bloody Ignorant Masses. If we're the last hope this soddin' world has, might as well let it burn." She's smiling again and I'm not sure if I've ever seen anymore more beautiful. "How 'bout this? We save their ungrateful asses. Do some traveling. South America, Europe, wherever you want." I wince slightly, wondering if I'm coming across as lonely and desperate.

"It's a deal. Just have to get me a new identity while we're trekking. Since the old one technically can't leave California. There's also the little problem of being dead."

This was a conversation. A nice, pleasant conversation that wasn't stiff and awkward with the specter of unnatural intimacy looming over us. Of course, just like everything else in my life, when things get comfortable is about the time it all goes to hell.

"Spike?" The folder closes beside her, fingers smoothing the flap nervously. "Could you? I mean, if you don't mind." She picks up the jar of salve and holds it out to me. "I can't. Not yet." There's shame in her voice and in her eyes because she can't face the mirror and her own reflection.

"No problem." I feel stiff, rigid and impersonal, as I take the jar, twist the cap off and move closer to her. Her eyes are closed and she trembles slightly as my finger begins to trace the first crimson line, coating it with the gel. She hates it. Hates not being able to do it, having to ask for help. I can see it in the tension that keeps her shoulders tight and the way her fists clench around the fabric of the blanket wrapped around her waist. I should have gotten her some clothes. "I'll get you something else to wear before we leave."

The edge of her lips twitch. "Not that I don't love the busting out all over look." She motions to the buttons straining to keep the shirt closed over her breasts. "A little too stuffy for me. Reminds me of Giles and not in a good way."

Smiling, I continue painting her wounds carefully and gently. She's perfectly still, breathing shallow as I work. Her face is done but she doesn't move, just waits with her eyes closed. Biting my lip, I move on to the burns and cuts marring her neck, pushing aside the collar of the shirt to get to them. I'm playing with fire. Caressing something that should be turning me to ash. Maybe it is. Maybe her skin is slowly burning me away from the inside out and I'll finally be rendered to dust sitting next to her on this couch.

"Could you get my back?" She's unbuttoning the shirt and turning around, letting the fabric slip over her shoulders before I can register what she's doing. "I'll never be able to wear a bikini again. Think I can get away with a tank top?" She glances over her shoulder, trying to see the extent of the wounds.

My fingers are shaking, just slightly, as I start on her bare back. If I concentrate on the motions, smooth, dab, keep it gentle; then I can keep the anger from turning my world red again. Don't think about the man who did this. Don't think about the pain she was in. Just finish and lapse back into the discomfort of two strangers who had shared too much. Shaking my head, I realize she's waiting for an answer. "Nothin' wrong with a few scars, pet."

"The wounds heal, chicks dig scars speech would be more effective if I were Willow."

"Men like 'em too."

"Yeah," she snorts, a hint of the old defiance back in her voice. "Like I'm ever gonna find a guy who won't care that I can kick his ass. Men are pigs. Pretty face, big tits. What else do they want?"

"Good legs."

"See?" She laughs and casts a speculative look over her shoulder. "You like petite blondes, I'm betting."

"Dru had dark hair. Nearly as tall as I was too." I'm avoiding her eyes and trying to keep my hands from shaking as I spread salve over her lower back.

"Variety. Good for you."

"Hear you like to keep your options open."

"Yeah." Too fast and a little defensively. "Tall, dark, and handsome mostly."

"Explains Peaches. And Captain Cardboard."

"Who told you about that?" She nearly turns around, sounding both angry and wounded.

"Who do you think?"

"Bastard. I should have killed him."

"No lack of trying according to Harris."

"Told you about that too?" She winces under my touch but I'm not sure if it is because of my hands or my words.

"Git likes to talk."

"He told me about the Buffy sex bot. And his finance, Anya."

"Figured."

"And probably everything else terrible he could remember you ever having done." I can hear the smile back in her voice again.

"No love lost there." The silence is more comfortable than before, despite the inherent intimacy of my actions. "Sure you're ready to head back?"

"They need me. Us." Her voice is steady and confident.

"Home Sweet Home." With a sigh, I cap the jar and pull away from her respectfully, averting my eyes as she buttons up the shirt once more. "I'll nab you something to wear before the sun comes up. Just rest."

"Something practical. Loose." Straightening the collar, she's back to the brisk professionalism of earlier. "We should leave soon. Sunset at the latest."

"Back in an hour then." It's a relief to finally escape the apartment and sooth my own rattled nerves. Killing, maiming, I can do that. Those are things I'm good at. I managed to get a handle on keeping Dawn out of too much trouble the summer Buffy was dead and I had a hundred years of taking care of Drusilla under my belt, but nothing in all my years had prepared me to deal with this. Should I have taken her to a doctor? A psychiatrist? With disgust, I turn down the street in search of a clothing store open at three in the morning. A hundred and thirty two years and I still didn't know how to talk to a woman.

"Real smooth, Faith." She thought about putting her fist through something and decided it wouldn't help. Settling for angrily ruffling her now short and surprisingly well-trimmed hair, she washed the bowl Verek had given her and absently wiped down the kitchen counter.

The apartment wasn't as nice as Spike's. She had fallen in love with the high ceilings and elaborate moldings of his loft the second she had climbed through the window. The vampire's taste was a little old, a little new, and a lot of in between. Undeniably masculine. Comfortable and sexy at the same time. Perfect.

"Better than a cage." A wry smile curled up the corner of her mouth, kept small and safe. Any wider and the pull of the wounds on her face would begin to sting.

Energy had slowly returned to her limbs, leaving her restless and stifled in the apartment above the bookstore. She didn't dare leave. Didn't have the nerve go down the stairs and risk someone seeing her. Not like this. She couldn't even muster the courage to glance at her own reflection. Not yet. The only remaining options were sleep, delving into the ubiquitous stacks of books, or going over the Council's file again. None of them rated high on her Scale-O-Fun. She needed to hit something.

When Spike had come through the door, she could see, even smell, the violence around him. He'd been out killing things. It ached to be stuck inside when she should be out slaying. She was a Slayer; it was what she was meant to do. The rational part of her argued that she wasn't exactly at the top of her game. Despite her quickly returning strength and energy, her hands still shook after she had been on her feet longer than half an hour and she would be a convenient snack for any vamp or demon with more than two brain cells knocking together.

Frustrated, she adjusted the blanket around her hips and curled up on the couch, watching the doorway. Waiting for something to happen and end the mind-numbing boredom. She could always beat herself up over the latest pathetic display of weakness in front of Spike. Could she have been any more lame? Shockingly weak compared to his strength.

He radiated power. He coiled, paced, stretched with the seamless movements of something much further up on the food chain and confident of his status. Predatory, lithe. Every carved and sculpted muscle beneath alabaster skin linked together with steel cable tendons and hinting of supernatural speed and force. Everything about him was strong; she had never felt as safe as she had in his arms. Was it even possible to feel that safe? Damn him. Damn his eyes, looking at her as though she was loved. Damn his hands and the way they felt against her skin. Gentle.

It had been years since anyone had touched her with affection. Scratch that. Had anyone ever touched her like that? A few brushes, a hug, a squeeze of her shoulder. All from Mayor Wilkins. From someone who had twisted morality all around her until she hadn't known which direction was which and what to believe anymore. Strangely enough, the Mayor was still the only man, demon, whatever he was, that she had trusted since her first Watcher had been killed. Joyce Summers had been kind; Giles had been tolerant at first and almost worried later. More worried about Buffy than Faith, but she had to believe some of it was for her. Angel had cared but had never reached out to her of his own volition. She'd collapsed in his arms and clung to him like a life preserver, but it had never been affection. Just compassion and mercy.

Angel was about higher purposes and redemption, grand sweeping ideas and feelings. Spike was here and now. He saw her for who she was. Not just another lost lamb to shepherd on the way to salvation. With Spike, she felt protected. She felt cherished. And she made him feel awkward and uncomfortable with her tears and pitiful weeping over a few scars. Well, more than a few scars. She still felt foolish. Slayers were supposed to be stronger than this.

For a moment, as he had spread the salve over her wounds, the awkwardness had fallen away. Feather caresses along her skin had reassured and eased her mind. He was touching her. She couldn't be that ugly if he was touching her. Taking off the shirt had been spur of the moment; part of her needing the feel of his hands, wanting it to go on forever. Old Faith had waited for him to press for more, to take the opportunity of a half naked woman and make the most of it. Deep down, she had to admit that she wanted him to. If for no other reason than to prove that he hadn't been lying, that he really did think she was beautiful despite her new face. He hadn't pursued anything beyond tenderly caring for her injuries. She was both disappointed and grateful.

Sex had always been a double-edged sword, cutting her painfully regardless of how she wielded it. A release, an escape; it had almost been meaningful once. Almost. When she'd worn Buffy's face and taken Commando Boy for a test drive. Sex didn't mean anything to Old Faith and New Faith was too afraid to try.

"Are you alright?" The bookworm's voice startled her. She hadn't heard the door open.

"Fine." She pulled the collar a little higher up to hide more of her neck. "Just tripping down memory lane."

"Not good, I see." His eyes watched her, always curious and bright.

"Haven't had a Hallmark life or anything, but I do okay."

"Restless?"

"Like you wouldn't believe." Faith cracked a smile at her host. "Spike, the lucky bastard, has been out most the night getting all the action. I'm still stuck here, looking like the Bride of Chucky."

Verek laughed, light and easy, as he settled into the chair and pulled a book onto his lap. "I doubt Spike feels lucky right now."

"Looks happy enough to me. Getting back in the game and all. He's a vamp, soul or not. They get off on violence."

"This isn't violence, Faith." The pages paused for a moment as he adjusted his glasses. "He hasn't rested and his wounds haven't healed. He can't rest."

"Bad week."

"It's more than that."

Faith frowned. "I know that voice. Giles does it too." Raising one eyebrow, she adjusted the blanket around her feet and waited for the other shoe to drop. "You know something."

"And intelligence to boot. Is there anything you don't have?"

"Little short on patience and empathy. According to the shrink in prison anyway."

"Those things come with experience."

She noticed that his fingers lightly trailed over the pages in smooth lines, as though he was tracing each line of text, his eyes unmoving. "You're blind." It should have been a question but somehow she wasn't surprised.

"Very observant."

"How? I don't understand. You seem normal."

"My kind makes use of a range of the electromagnetic spectrum beyond human eyes. We see things a bit differently than humans do. " Inquisitive eyes pondered her briefly before he turned back to her book. "Auras, souls. Light and dark. The written word is a bit difficult, letters tend to blur together when the print is quite small and ancient, as in this text."

"You're demon then?"

"Yes. But a peaceful race. You need not worry about my motives."

"Does Spike know?"

"On a basic level, yes. Consciously? I don't think it matters to him." Another page fluttered and landed quietly against the others. "As long as I do not intend to harm you, he doesn't care what I am."

Faith felt her cheeks color and looked away. "I'm not that important to him. We don't know each other at all, actually."

"Is that what you believe?"

"It's the truth." She wanted him to disagree with her even if it was a lie. She wanted to be important to someone. Ethan Rayne had to be wrong, she wasn't nothing.

Verek regarded her thoughtfully. "Where does your value lie?"

"Obviously not my good looks." She gestured to her ruined face.

"Your sense of humor then." He smiled when she looked surprised. "And your control."

"Radar's way off on that one. Not exactly the poster girl for restraint. That's Buffy." If her lips weren't sore she would have started gnawing on her thumb nervously.

"Is it?" The book closed softly. "You hate feeling weak or showing weakness. When did you last allow yourself to love?"

"Love?" she snorted bitterly. "That's fucking useless in my line of work. I'm a Slayer. I kill things."

"And the last time you felt compassion? Or friendship?"

"Friends get in the way."

"They distract you?"

"They get hurt. Not worth the risk." She gave up and gingerly bit down on the end of her thumbnail.

"What keeps you safe?"

"I do."

"How?"

"By kicking ass." Even as she said it, the pit of her stomach was sinking into the couch without her. He wasn't talking about physical safety. What kept her safe from those who could hurt her? People who wanted to betray her, use her, lie to her. Closing her eyes, she took a deep breath and answered his question. "By being in control."

"A good Slayer must have control. An excellent Slayer must know what she is controlling and why."

"You should've been a Watcher." Scratching at the healing wounds on her forehead, she reminded herself to be careful and not reopen any of them. Damn things itched like hell. She had no idea how the little man had managed to twist the discussion into a pop psychology session. "How did we get here?"

"I was about to explain Spike's sudden inclination for violence." He smiled cheerfully across the room, seemingly unperturbed by whatever was going on.

"Assuming it's more than just a vampire getting his rocks off."

"It is." He adjusted his glasses. "You can't hear it because you're human and I doubt even Spike realizes what is going on. The soul tends to muddy the waters, so to speak."

"Anything to do with what's going down in Sunnydale?"

"Possibly." Verek tapped his book lightly, staring somewhat wistfully toward the west. "It's a siren song to all demons, pure or hybrid. A voice that speaks all tongues, unites all cultures. The demon in Spike is restless, as you are, and it will become more violent and more destructive the longer he remains here. I'm sure he's noticed. The rage, the power it gives him."

"What is it?" Her voice was sharp with apprehension.

"The Hellmouth is calling him home."

"Buffy? Is that you?" Dawn peeked into the kitchen and found her sister cleaning and bandaging several large cuts on her arms. "What happened? Slayerfest 2006?"

"The whole town's gone crazy, Dawn. It's Night of the Living Dead on speed." Buffy rubbed her eyes wearily. "I'm glad Cara's here."

"Borg Slayer's actually useful, huh?"

"I've got a gazillion less bruises to prove it. You know, I think she's beginning to warm up a bit. She almost smiled last night." With a tired grin, the Slayer gave her sister a quick hug. "What are you doing today?"

"The usual. A little work, a little play, industrial espionage and gratuitous violence."

"Afternoon shift?"

"Yep. Home by the nine o'clock show." Working at a movie theatre hadn't been Dawn's first choice but Slaying was hardly the most lucrative profession in the world, with its salary of nothing, so every little bit made paying the bills that much easier.

"Classes?"

"Already back. You have checked a clock haven't you?" She pointed at large numbers illuminating the time.

"Ten?" Buffy groaned. "So much for getting a head start on my day off."

"I've already started the laundry and the grocery list."

"You're an angel."

"Nah. Just a key. But it's close enough for government work." She gave her sister a wink and pulled a box of cereal out of the cupboard. "Betting you haven't eaten either."

"Always knew you'd be the smart one in the family." Buffy pulled up a stool and pushed aside the first aid supplies to make room for two cereal bowls. "There was a squid monster in the sewers that would not die. I'm telling you, I'd chop off an arm or leg, whatever you call those things squids have, and it would be growing back before I could turn around."

"Eww, gross."

"Major ick factor." Crunchy sugar starfish clattered into the bowl. "I'm almost jealous of Cara. She was already trained when she got called. Knows all this stuff about weapons and demons. Giles would have loved her to get one like her. She's even better than Kendra."

"Nah. You're his favorite Slayer in the whole world."

"Not hard when you consider the options." Buffy grinned a little between bites. "Speaking of Giles."

"Upstairs pretending to rest. He's actually looking through some of the musty books he brought for evil preteens who haunt cemeteries and make Faustian deals with soul-having vamps."

"Any luck?"

"Nada. Buff?"

"Yeah?" Milk splashed in the bowl as she looked up from her spoonful of cereal.

"Have you noticed anything weird? I mean other than hyper demons and squid monsters."

"Just the usual Hellmouthy stuff. A bit more intense than usual but it usually gets perkier this time of year. Anything specific I need to know about?"

"I don't know. Maybe." Dawn hesitated, still unsure of her instincts. "Probably just dreaming but I thought I heard a voice last night. Whispering."

"What did it say?"

"No clue. It was just whispering. I thought it was a radio left on or something. Maybe Giles talks in his sleep."

"Have you asked him?"

"Didn't want to bother him. I'm sure it's nothing." Since she'd probably just been dreaming or listening to the wind in the trees, she decided to change the subject. "Why don't you head up to bed and catch some shut-eye? I'll keep the laundry monster fed and happy until I have to go to work."

"Thanks, Dawn. Best sister ever." Buffy finished off her cereal in a few quick gulps before heading upstairs for a long hot shower and a nap.

Dawn cleaned up the kitchen without actually seeing what she was doing and headed down into the basement. The pricking at the back of her neck hadn't gone away. She wondered if that's what Slayer senses were like, someone tickling just above the shoulder blades with a feather duster. When she succumbed and glanced over her shoulder, looking for what or who was the source of the sensation, there was nothing there. Obviously. Telling Buffy would only make her worry needlessly and if the demon community had gone slightly wacky, a worried Slayer was a bad thing.

Wet clothes thumped as they hit the back of the dryer and she slammed the door shut with a frown. Not even the steady rumble of the machine could drown out the whispering in her ears. It wasn't really frightening. Just odd. It was almost like singing, leaving her with a vague desire to follow it like a rat after the pied piper. She didn't, of course, since this was Sunnydale and she wasn't stupid. But it was tempting and seductive. That was the word she was looking for. Seductive.

It was evil. She could feel that deep inside where intuition and instinct resided, but had nothing she could show Buffy that would be proof. Giles might know something, but asking Giles would be asking Buffy. There would be no Buffy asking and therefore no Buffy worrying over nothing. Something was always brewing, sinister plots were always hatching, and Big Bads always on the rise. What harm could come from not telling Buffy right away?

She pushed her thoughts aside and started into the pile of laundry that needed folding. It was amazing how many clothes three women could go through in a week. Especially Buffy. With a sigh, Dawn pulled out a new bottle of stain remover and started on yet another streak of grass and dirt. Occupational hazard. At least they had an excuse to go shopping later.