Deal With The Devil

There was no reason for Lilah Morgan to personally oversee the installation of the replacement windows at Angel Investigations and, other than the usual reminder for Angel and his demon-fighting troupe of clowns that they were always welcome to return to the main office building of Wolfram and Hart, there was only one prospect that made the commute valuable. Angel Investigations had added a Slayer to their roster and that didn't happen everyday, especially now that Slayer blood was a frighteningly scarce commodity. Of course, seeing that pinched look on Wesley's face always brightened her day. It was a reminder to him that he'd tried to save her and failed. To pass the time she imagined him undressing as she waited for the installers to finish the job, remembering that his hands were scarred and rough from fighting as they moved smoothly over the buttons of his shirt. He was favoring his right shoulder and she could see the telltale shape of bandages underneath the fabric. There was something else that she couldn't put her finger on.

It wasn't that she cared. Her business was to know what was happening. Knowledge was power, gold, and blood. It was the only currency that never lost its value and she prided herself on being one of the richest women in the dimension. She did her homework and she put in the hours; now that she was little more than a well proportioned mass of supernatural energy, there wasn't much else to do. Manifest spirits didn't need to eat or sleep or worry about dying. In fact, death had been quite liberating for Lilah. Sooner or later, the Senior Partners would reward her for the long hours and extra work she had put in. They'd given Lindsey McDonald a new hand; they could give her a new body. Someday. She was content to wait.

Sunlight should have warmed her legs as it spilled through the empty windows and crept along the floor. It would have been so much better if Cordelia Chase had never woken up from her coma; if the former cheerleader hadn't wrapped everyone around her finger and taken off for the moral high ground. She'd turned on the waterworks and then the disgusting stoicism as she convinced them all to put a few more miles between them and Wolfram and Hart. With a few perks, of course, binding contracts were still binding even from the other side of Los Angeles and the Senior Partners were perfectly amenable to giving Angel a long leash. Hence the Necro-glass windows so that Angel could walk in the sunlight without catching on fire. Except, of course, Queen Cordelia's office because she had complained that sunlight through the treated glass felt cold on her precious skin. Lilah didn't believe that for a second.

After three years, they still tiptoed around her with polite greetings and questions about work that were always prefaced with the fact that they really didn't want to know the details. As if she would actually tell them. Interest lost in the tedious installation of the windows, she turned her attention to the humans and demons moving about the building. There was Angel, looking pensive as ever as he read over case reports and searched the newspapers for new evil to fight. Wesley and his Slayer were inching their way through a stack of ancient texts. Lilah could see the familiar excitement on Wesley's face and rolled her eyes. Trust him to get the one Slayer who could truly appreciate his big brain. She knew all about his dismal failure working with Faith and Buffy and could tell by the glint of determination that he was going to get it right this time. Fred was happily number crunching, Lorne was answering phones. Business as usual at Angel Investigations.

The person who really interested Lilah was the Slayer. A full inch taller than Lilah, the girl looked every inch a Montana cowgirl. Dressed in loose cargo pants and tank top, there were noticeable scars crossing her arms, shoulders, and one slicing over her left clavicle. Dark brown eyes were flecked with gold and burning with hardened suspicion. To entertain herself, she wondered how the Slayer would look without the military hair cut and more feminine clothing. She had the curves even if she didn't know how to show them off or use them to her advantage and Lilah had no doubt that there was a pair of legs to die for underneath the cargo pants. Beyond physical appearance, there was something different about the Slayer and she had begun to wish that she'd paid more attention to what the Watcher's Council had been up to the past year.

"Lilah?"

She'd been so intent in her study of the Slayer that she hadn't noticed Angel approach her, skirting the edge of the sunlight. "Angel. Come to tell me thanks but no thanks? You know I have to offer." Crossing her ankles, she leaned back against the couch and smiled politely. It was always the same exchange, the same dance, the same parry and thrust that they always used.

"I'll skip the small talk just this once." He didn't smile, tucking his hands in his pockets and watching her carefully.

"I'm wounded. I practice my lines every night in front of the mirror."

"What do you know about Cara?" Straight to business, the vampire didn't appreciate the fine art of witty banter. At least not anymore.

"Cara?"

"The Slayer." Angel nodded toward the girl. "Anything about the Council's new method of training."

"Not my sphere of influence or interest. Although, I'm beginning to wonder if I should have been paying more attention." Lilah traced a pattern along the top of the cushion with one manicured fingernail. "Behavior conditioning? Repression of empathy? Have they been tinkering with their Slayers? Shame on them."

"What do you know about it?"

"There are a million fish in the sea, Angel. And more than a million ways to make a little less than human." She shrugged casually and spared another glance toward the Watcher and Slayer. "What does Wes have to say about it? He's got himself a perfect little machine, no way he can screw this one up."

Angel sat down, careful to keep out of the light. "He wants to help her. We all do."

"Rally around the poor brainwashed Slayer." She chuckled as she shook her head. "You haven't changed at all. Always saving the damsel in distress."

"She has no inhibition. No mercy, no pity. No humanity." Angel stared at the Slayer with a touch of sadness before turning back to Lilah. "She reminds me of you, Lilah."

"I'm flattered. But you have to ask yourselves, really, why do you want her to have mercy or pity? She's a Slayer. Do you want her to feel bad for the demons she's killing? Maybe hesitate one night because she feels pity and get herself cut in half. Is that what you want?"

"Of course not."

"Good. Because she's one of the three remaining Slayers and unless they all start popping out babies, there won't be any more. Which, in itself, is a truly appealing idea."

"Can you help her?"

Lilah paused and tipped her head to the side. It was always such a pleasure to watch him swallow his pride and ask for something. "You mean reprogram her?"

"I mean un-program her. Undo the damage they've done."

"Angel to the rescue." Smiling, she checked the progress of the windows, trying to corral all the new possibilities that were taking shape in her mind. An opportunity to get their hands on a Slayer, find out what had been done to her, and maybe a few extras. It had definite potential.

"Can you?"

"We can try. There's a whole department dedicated to cerebral programming; Fred should know, she requisitioned the funding. We can make her whatever you want her to be. Still have that Slayer fetish? We could tailor her to your every whim, even give her blond hair."

"I want her to be who she really is."

"Still so naive." Lilah stood up gracefully. "There isn't a single brainwashing technique in existence, mystical or otherwise, that can give you something for nothing. So she's Little Miss Full Metal Jacket now...that was always there. No matter how sweet and innocent she might have been, she's always had the heart of a killer."

"Not according to Lorne."

"He wears rose-colored glasses and you know it." The windows would have to continue without her supervision. "I'll make you a deal. Bring your Slayer in tomorrow morning and we'll have her evaluated, see if there's anything we can do to help."

"What do you get?" Angel's voice was wary.

"A chance to get up close and personal with a Slayer. One who isn't completely deranged, that is. And we'd like to know what the Council's been up to as much as you do. Deal?"

"Deal."

"Good. Have her at the main office before ten o'clock." She headed for the doorway. "And tell her to cooperate, I'd hate to return her in less than pristine condition."

The seed of an idea began to root and grow, blossoming into a plan that even Lilah could appreciate. She'd waited three long years for the right opportunity to present itself and she fully intended to make the most of the situation. In the midst of the chaos that had overtaken the main office after the world had changed, it would be relatively easy to slip her request in underneath the radar and she had no doubt that the Senior Partners would grant her demand. It would put a Slayer in their court and she was valuable even without the endangered species tag. Discovering what had been done to the Slayer was an extra bonus and the opportunity to test out the new methods of neural transfer on something other than demons and street rats would seal the deal. It was all but hers.

Until then, there were phone calls to make and paperwork to fill out. Unfortunately, she'd have to do it herself since most of the staff was busy cataloging the books and scrolls that had decided to rewrite themselves. The rules had changed and their prophecies were adapting to the alteration. Spells and summonings that had been difficult verging on impossible in the amount of power they required were now accomplished with ease, as though the whole world had risen to the next rung on the magical ladder. They still weren't sure what had happened. A reliable source had told them that the world was going to end, dimensions bleed together, and the apocalypse that they had been waiting for would finally occur. Rumor in the underground was that the world had been saved by a vampire with a soul. Lilah also had it on good authority that Angel hadn't done anything out of the ordinary or killed any special creatures while he vacationed in Sunnydale, which meant that there had been another. And that meant someone hadn't been doing their job.

The seers reported that there was only one vampire with a soul now and they'd been relieved to see that many of the prophecies concerning Angel hadn't undergone a mystical editing job. A surveillance team was dispatched to Sunnydale once word that the government was getting involved reached Wolfram and Hart. They didn't want to share territory. Having a Slayer on their side would prove invaluable once covert ops decided to take over. The more she thought about it, the more brilliant the idea became. Best of all, it would put her into the heart of Angel's crew. Sheer brilliance.

Once she was alone in her office, she allowed a brief moment to smile and consider how her future was going to change. It would be nice to taste a glass of wine again, even a pizza with extra cheese and pepperoni. To actually feel the desk beneath her fingers and the leather against her back instead of just remembering what should be soft or hard, cold or hot. To touch and be touched without fear or revulsion. And the look on Wesley's face would be priceless when he realized what had happened. As far as replacement bodies went, it left a few things to be desired. She'd have to get the scars worked on and the hair would have to change. Being a Slayer would have its advantages. Maybe she'd try out the super strength on a few of the bitches on the second floor and break their catty, pathetic necks without ruining her manicure. The first item of business would be to kill that half-demon whore that Wesley was running around with.

"Thought I'd find you here." Buffy's voice mingled pleasantly with the sighs and whispers of the ocean waves. She settled down onto the rocky beach next to Faith, turning to gaze out toward the setting sun as it burned a crimson trail into the Pacific. Clouds and water turned coral and peach as it slipped below the horizon. "You up for patrol? Not that there's anything to kill. All the baddies are still hiding away somewhere."

"Yeah." Faith's voice wavered, hoarse with disuse. Their first days back in Sunnydale had been spent killing surplus monsters roaming the Hellmouth and now they were searching high and low for something, anything, to fight. Boring was fine with Faith. She was too tired to care.

"We could stop by the Espresso Pump or get some ice cream."

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Just don't." Faith turned away from Buffy, tucking her legs against her chest and resting her chin on her arms. "Got the whole psychotherapy in jail. I know what you're trying to do."

"I'm trying to be your friend, Faith. That's all."

Faith tried to smile. It got lost somewhere in the nerves traveling from her brain to her lips. Didn't seem too far to go but it was far enough for the impulses to get lost and end up in her fingers. They twitched and tingled and she could still feel his dust on her skin. She turned back to the ocean; safe, familiar water that never asked her to talk about it. God, she couldn't talk about it. Not yet. Not when she could still see it and feel it. When it still happened over and over again every time she closed her eyes until she wondered if the world had ended and this was hell.

"Besides," Buffy continued cheerfully. "Friday's the big pow-wow with the government types and the Council. I could use a little R and R before then."

Faith picked at a rock, lightly dragging one edge through the gravel and sand. Biting her lip, she looked back out to sea and hurled the rock toward the water. "This is where...where he..." her voice stuck in her throat.

"Where he drowned you," Buffy finished softly.

Faith kept her eyes focused on the horizon. "Supposed to go back to all the old places. Get some closure. At least that's what the prison doc said. Face the past."

"I get that." Buffy hesitated briefly. "I used to go back to the mansion. Where Angel and I fought. I'd stare at the ground for hours."

"Did it help?"

"Some days were better than others." Buffy touched Faith's shoulder lightly. "I know we haven't been the best of friends and we'll probably never really get along but I know what you're going through. I know how it feels."

"Yeah." More than one syllable was too much for Faith. She knew that technically Buffy didn't know what it felt like because Faith hadn't been the one holding the stake. But she had killed Spike just the same. Her hands had unlocked the chains and carried the stake into building. Her hands hadn't been fast enough to stop him. It was still her fault even if she hadn't been the one to pierce his heart. She didn't want to talk; she didn't have the words.

"Come on, we'll pick up a movie or something and crash in front of the TV. Nothing like good old fashioned cinema therapy. We're bound to find one about people who have suckier lives than we do."

"Doubt that." She let Buffy pull her to her feet and down the beach. The voice of reason and practicality was whispering in her ear. Pain would fade, anger would burn away, and eventually she would have to get on with her life. She listened to it without believing. Maybe it was true and maybe the pain would stop but the emptiness would never go away.

"I'm thinking of starting a club. With buttons and T-shirts and everything. Fifty Ways to Kill Your Lover. Or just drive them away and into the arms of another woman." Buffy's keys jingled in her hand.

The corner of Faith's mouth quirked as she climbed into the passenger seat of Buffy's car. She still couldn't believe Buffy actually had a driver's license, let alone a noticeable lack of tickets for the last three years. The Scoobies were full of surprises that way. Granted, Buffy still wasn't up for any awards in the driving circuit. Grabbing the armrest, Faith tried to relax as she took another turn too fast and too sharp.

"I think it'll be nice, all three Slayers in one place. Wait till you meet Cara, she's...interesting. From what Angel said when I called to coordinate travel plans, she's changed a lot since she left Sunnydale. Wesley's her new Watcher."

"How'd book boy get himself another Slayer?"

"Guess Iverson got her to head out to L.A. by sending a group of vamps after Wesley so she'd have to protect him. At least that's what Wes thinks."

"Council's a piece of work," Faith said bitterly.

"Iverson doesn't pull punches, that's for sure. But I don't think he'll be trying to kill us anytime soon." Buffy tapped the steering wheel impatiently as she pulled up behind a slower driver. "That's not the funny part though. She threw Angel across the room."

"What?"

"Apparently, our nearest and dearest Wonder Vamp was working on his sense of humor."

"That can't be good."

Buffy grinned, hurtling through an intersection a second before the light turned red. "He made a crack about Wesley being guinea pig for the Council, figured he couldn't possibly mess up more than he did with you, and she went postal Slayer on him. Wes had to pull her off and explain that he was just joking. She's got this whole touch my Watcher and die mentality."

"Borg Slayer doesn't have a sense of humor then."

"Not much of one. From what Iverson said, she doesn't have much as far as the whole being a person is concerned. Angel wanted to know why you and I have been holding out on him."

Faith laughed. It hurt a little but it felt good too. "That so?"

"Yep. Said Cara tossed him like a stick. I pointed out that she's got a good six inches on both of us, at least...and probably fifteen or twenty more pounds of solid muscle. That girl's built like an Amazon. Add Slayer strength to that and-"

"Hello Xena."

"Serves him right. I don't think he ever believed that either you or I could take him." Buffy pulled into a parking space outside the Video Palace and climbed out of the car. "It's funny. Neither of us are really up there on the size scale and Kendra wasn't exactly pushing the model envelope. In fact, Cara's taller and bigger than most of the potential Slayers who came here four years ago."

"Your point?" Faith stuck her hands into her pants pockets, glancing around the brightly lit interior of the rental store.

"Just wondering why the shamans didn't make some sort of clause that all Slayers should be big, strapping, warrior women. I mean, why chose someone who weights ninety pounds soaking wet to defend the world against the forces of darkness?"

"Yeah. But vamps probably don't think of women like Cara as easy prey. More likely to go after us."

"Not high on the comfort scale," Buffy mused as she started down one of the aisles. "What are we in the mood for? How 'bout Steel Magnolias? It's depressing as hell. Bound to make us glad for our lives."

Faith shook her head mutely. Magnolias. Would she ever be able to smell that lotion again without wanting to burst into tears? Turning away from Buffy, she grabbed a case and tried to the read the blurb on the back, her vision blurred with tears. Taking a few deep breaths, she stood rigidly rooted to the same spot until she was sure the urge to cry had passed before placing the case back on the shelf and trailing after Buffy.

"What do you think about the baby thing?" Buffy asked absently, reading the back of a movie. "We could do a Jet Li movie. I always get ideas for cool new Slayer moves. Especially from the old ones where they didn't use all that fancy computer and wire stuff."

"Whatever."

"I'm sort of chick-flicked out anyway since those are Dawn's favorites." She swapped the case for the video and headed for the checkout line. "Do you think they'll insist on watching or something like that? I mean, this is the government and all. Or maybe they'll make us do all weird tests and stuff."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Us, the Slayers, having government mandated babies."

"Don't figure it matters." Faith glanced around for listening ears. "Unless they strap me down and get with the test tubes, they're not getting shit from me."

"Faith."

"I'm not a fucking whore for the stripes and stars, B." Faith brushed the subject away. "Besides, not really looking forward to ruining my figure so a bunch of labcoats can have little Slayers running around."

"Can't say I'm happy about losing this trim waist myself." Buffy shrugged and picked up the video as they headed out of the store. "But it's sort of been a dream of mine. Kinda. For a few years now. I didn't even know Slayers could have children until I met Principle Wood. His mother was a Slayer."

"How old was he when she went down?"

"Four." Buffy frowned. "Why?"

"What kind of a woman brings a baby into this mess? Knowing she won't be around to watch 'em grow up." Faith slipped into the car and buckled her seatbelt tiredly. Buffy didn't understand what it was like. She'd had a good, loving mother for most of her life and took it for granted that everyone else had the same luxury.

Buffy drove silently for several minutes. "I guess...well...I just thought...maybe if the government was willing to help. With the demons and the evil. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad."

"Maybe you'd make it long enough to see your kid graduate from high school."

"Yeah. What about you? Haven't you ever wanted to have a baby?"

"Long time ago." Faith chewed on the edge of her thumb absently. "When I was nine. Had this doll I used to carry around, pretend it was my kid. Damn thing was missing one eye and half her hair. Just a phase. I got over it."

"I'm sorry things weren't better for you."

"So am I. So's the whole fucked up world and Boston social services. They hated me. Always fighting and mouthing off."

"Foster homes?"

"Tried a few. Always sent me back to dear old mum. She'd try to clean up her act every few months and prove that she could take care of me. Wanted the welfare money, I figure." Faith frowned as a new possibility occurred to her. "Giles says all the Slayer lines are gone, right?"

"Dead as a doornail."

"Then...if my mom was the one I got the Slayer gig from." Faith bit her lip and rubbed her temple tiredly.

"Maybe," Buffy answered carefully. "Iverson said that whoever was behind the murders was pretty thorough. Maybe you got it from your dad though. Fifty fifty chance."

"Either way, one of them is six feet under right now."

"I'm sorry."

"No worries. Doesn't matter to me."

"Faith."

"Don't want to talk about it." Faith shook her head, bolting from the car as soon as it stopped in the driveway on Revello Drive. Past was past. Didn't matter if the bitch was dead or if her unknown, nameless father was the one. She was not going to feel guilty for not protecting her biological parents. Her dumb slut of a mother deserved what she got anyway.

"Hey guys. Movie night?" Dawn smiled from the couch in the living room and closed her book. "What'd you get?"

"Action flick." Buffy closed the front door behind her and headed for the television. "Popcorn?"

"Nah. I'm good." Faith sat down, tapping the armrest restlessly. "How's the book?"

"Boring. No patrol?"

"Nothing worth killing."

"I'm sure things will pick up. Not that I want them to but it does sort of happen around here." Dawn tucked her feet against her side, playing with the cover of her book. "Is this a Slayer research type movie or can I stay and hang out with you guys?"

"You're always welcome to stay, Dawnie." Buffy slid the tape into the VCR and rounded up the remote controls.

"If you guys are gonna talk shop the whole time then I'll go amuse myself elsewhere."

"No shop talk. Strictly mindless entertainment."

"Cool." Dawn moved toward Faith, clearing space for Buffy at the other end of the couch.

Faith was a little surprised when Dawn tossed a pillow onto her lap and laid down, stretching her long legs over her sister's. Buffy threw her an apologetic look as the movie started. Credits rolled across the screen accompanied by the cheesy music that always seemed to plague martial arts movies. Tentatively, Faith reached down to brush Dawn's hair behind her ear gently, noticing that the teen smiled at the touch.

"We used to watch movies this way," Buffy offered lamely. "With mom. You can kick her off your lap if you want, she'll deal."

"It's cool, B." Faith smiled sadly, picturing the three Summers women curled up on the couch watching movies. "Remember after I got out of the hospital. Took you and Joyce hostage."

"Yeah." Dawn rolled onto her back, staring up at Faith. "Except it wasn't real. Monk fabrication."

"Hurt real enough. Hair puller." Faith grinned, smoothing Dawn's hair away from her forehead. "Sorry 'bout the shiner."

"No problem. Mom was pretty ticked but she eventually stopped ranting about having your head on a platter with an apple in your mouth. Did Spike tell you about the time she hit him with an axe?" Faith winced at the mention of his name.

"Dawn. Watch the movie." Buffy cautioned, eyes studying Faith sympathetically.

She twisted onto her side again and Faith gently combed her fingers through the long silky hair pouring over the pillow. She still felt naked without her own hair around her face, over her neck and shoulders. It had always been there to hide her from the world around her and keep her safe; a shield of thick chestnut waves. Without it, she had to work harder to keep her emotions from showing. Always hiding. Biting her lip, she closed her eyes against the tears threatening to humiliate her. She would not cry in front of Buffy. Please, don't let her cry in front of Buffy. She had to get away.

"Actually, guys." Faith nudged Dawn softly. "I'm gonna call it a night. Spend some quality time with my pillow."

"You sure?" Dawn sat up quickly. "I mean, you're not leaving because of me, right? Cause I can sit up like a normal person. Fully capable of complete sitting upness."

"It's not you, Dawnie. I'm just tired, okay?" She got up and headed for the stairs.

"Good night, Faith," Buffy called after her.

"Night, B. Dawn." She didn't look back, tense from the effort it took to force down the tears.

Up the stairs two and three at a time, she stopped herself from slamming the bathroom door behind her. Scowling into the mirror at the dark circles under bloodshot eyes, she twisted the hot water faucet, flicking her fingers through the stream as she waited for it to get warm enough. Scooping up the hot water, she splashed her face a couple of times, washing away the offending tears with soap and heat. Blinded by the water, she fumbled with the faucet for a second before reaching for a towel. She buried her face in the cloth and breathed in the scent of fabric softener, trying to calm the beating of her heart. Fingers tightened around the fabric as she lowered it, meeting her own gaze head on. It was still hard. Would it ever get easier? She felt brittle, breakable. All she needed was a good shove from someone and she would shatter to pieces.

She was sure there was a name for it in the psychology books Buffy had bought and tried to keep out of sight so that Faith wouldn't know they were trying to figure out what was wrong with her. Couldn't blame them for trying. Part of her even hoped that they would find something, a cure maybe. Something to fit the pieces together, to make sense. Turning away from the mirror with disgust, she left the crumpled towel next to the sink and disappeared into the safety of her bedroom. Stripping down quickly, she slipped into the cool sheets and fluffed the pillow. She'd never believed that she could get used to sharing a bed with anyone; now she hated sleeping alone, hated waking up and not having him there. Hated the loneliness, the emptiness, the little voice in her head that taunted her. She'd never find anyone like him. She'd always be alone. It hadn't ever mattered before and she wasn't sure why it did now.

Rolling onto her back, she stared at the ceiling listlessly. Despite her nonchalance, the meeting on Friday reared its ugly head like a dragon and threatened to send her cowering behind Buffy. The last time the Council had come to Sunnydale, they'd tried to kill her. And Riley Finn would be there. She wasn't sure the roll call could get any worse. Would they send her back to jail now that they knew she was still alive? She'd violated parole in a hundred different ways. Was it actually a trap? Far as she could tell, all they wanted were Slayer babies. Slayer Mommies weren't necessarily part of the package.

Buffy seemed to trust Iverson, at least she trusted that he wasn't going to kill them or turn them into science experiments. Faith wasn't so sure. She hadn't met him when he'd come to Sunnydale, hadn't talked to him on the phone. Hadn't really spoken to anyone but Buffy and Dawn since they'd gotten back. Willow was busy getting back into her research, Xander had new projects going and a new girlfriend, Giles flew away to England as soon as the dust settled. Hers was a very small and tight knit social circle. She had to get the hell out of Sunnydale, it was starting to eat away at her. The little comments from Dawn. This was where Spike did this or Buffy did this. Even patrolling had lost its appeal. It should have made her feel alive, instead it left her more and more dead inside. Every vamp she tried to stake, she hesitated, overwhelmed by memories. Buffy had saved her ass half a dozen times, never saying a word about it, just asking her if everything was all right.

Everything was not fucking all right. She couldn't be here any longer, couldn't lie in this bed and stare at this ceiling. In this house with pictures of Spike downstairs on the walls. With black leather jackets hanging in two different closets, one old and worn, the other new and gleaming. Willow had taken care of Spike's affairs, giving Faith a list of names and contact information in case she ever wanted to look up the people Spike had known. She hadn't opened the box since. There were nights where she wanted nothing more than to pull out one of the black t-shirts and wrap herself in it, in something that had been his. Usually she settled for clamping the pillow down around her ears and praying for sleep to come.

When it did, she wished she'd stayed awake. She'd seen every variation of the same nightmare that she could possibly think of. Back in the cage, being whipped, beaten, burned. Then she'd be trying to get to Spike, feet chained to the ground and screaming for him to stop. He never did, the stake kept going and he always turned to dust just as her fingers reached him. Ethan's laughter haunted her sleep, his face swimming through her vision. Sometimes it changed, brown eyes became blue and the hands wielding the whip would change. It was Spike who was causing the pain. Then she would be holding the knife and Spike would be in the cage. An endless kaleidoscope of violence and blood. Always changing, always the same. She'd wake in the dead of night, shivering, sweating, and more often than not, screaming. Buffy and Dawn seemed to take turns comforting her. Crawling into the bed beside her, holding her as she trembled and shook with the horror behind her eyes. They never said anything the next morning.

Frustrated, Faith pulled the pillow over her head, trying to drown out all sound and light. She wanted to sleep but she was terrified of closing her eyes. Lose-lose situation. Everything she touched burned, everything she reached for was too far away. It all went to hell. She just wanted to rest. Was that too much to ask? A little peace and quiet didn't seem like too much. She just wanted to rest.

"It's a good change," Gage offered helpfully.

Spike stared into the mirror, still shocked at what he'd done. "You hate it."

"No really. I don't think it makes you look fat at all."

"Sod off."

"What does your hair have to do with grass?"

"What? No, it's-," Spike frowned, running a hand through his now platinum blond curls. "Fuck it, Gage. I don't have a bloody clue what it means. Just a phrase. Are you sure I don't look like a bleedin' idiot."

"Where do you get these colorful metaphors?" Gage took a seat on the toilet, poking at the packaging from the Do-It-At-Home bleach kit. "Maybe you should look into this past life thing." He held up his hands defensively when Spike glared at him. "Just an idea. I'm open to anything and if it's true then it could explain what the hell is going on with you. Maybe you've got something you need to fix. Could be the dreams are trying to let you in on a big conspiracy."

"Yeah, right. I was a vampire in my past life." Spike rolled his eyes and left the bathroom, his partner trailing after him.

"Okay, I'm not that open. But it could be symbolic."

"Ripping someone's throat with my bare teeth? What's that s'posed to symbolize?"

"You tell me. You're the big brain when it comes to the depths of the human mind." Gage shrugged and stretched out on the sofa in the living room. "And I still can't believe that you called me over here in the middle of my fucking date because you wanted to bleach your goddamn hair."

"I don't even remember buying the bleach. It was just there."

"Maybe you're possessed."

"You watch way too many movies." Spike headed to the kitchen, grabbing a six-pack out of the fridge. "Remind me to pick up some decent beer one of these days."

Gage frowned at him. "What are you talking about? This used to be your favorite."

"Bloody American beers. Can't stand most of 'em."

"Now I'm officially freaked out."

"What?"

"Listen to yourself, man. You've got to be channeling someone or some shit like that cause this ain't you. Where's your phone book?"

"Under the coffee table." Spike raised his eyebrows as his partner dug the tattered book out from under the furniture. "What're you lookin' for?"

"Psychics."

"What the hell for?"

"Someone in this town has to do that past life regression bullshit." Gage flipped through the pages, frowning intently as he read through the titles. "The hair, the language, the weird voices you're hearing. Here we go. We'll start at the top and head down the list."

"In whose spare time are we going to do this?"

"Might take awhile before we round up those kids from the convenience store and get one of 'em to canary. Maybe we'll have a break before the next corpse pops up. Come on. Take a few evenings, sacrifice a few dates. It'll be worth it if we can figure this out, right? We're detectives, for god's sake. This is what we do."

"And if I've killed people?" Spike asked quietly. "If the dreams are half right and I really killed those people. What then?"

"Past life, Spike. Key words, in the past."

Spike put down his beer, rubbing his face with his hands. "It feels so real."

The worst part of the dreams, the part he hadn't told Gage, was that he enjoyed killing his victims in his dreams. He savored their terror and their pain. God, whoever he was in those dreams wanted it. Every time he closed his eyes he saw their faces and heard the strange woman's voice. He'd thought that solving their last case would ease some of the stress that had to be causing the dreams.

They'd gone back to surveillance video at the convenience store and paid more attention to the group of rowdy teenagers who left just before the shooting. Sure enough, the outline of a gun could be seen in the waistband of a pair of jeans as one of the boys left the store. The clerk said the group came in regularly, which meant that they were probably local. Descriptions were circulating among the officers and juvenile department; it was only a matter of time until they reeled them in. Spike figured it had been an accident. Shooter had been showing off his gun to his friends when it had gone off and killed Caroline Milner. The boys had left the scene before the clerk had come out to see what happened and their first round of questioning four weeks ago had been focused on if he'd seen anyone talking to Caroline inside or outside the store. It explained the unusual trajectory, since the boyfriend was well over six feet and would have been holding the gun below the hip, not the most natural of firing positions. If the kids had already been in the car, it explained why no one had seen anyone approach Caroline's car and the shouting could have been the boys roughhousing or even the car stereo. He felt sorry for the kid who'd fired the shot and worse for the Milner family if it was a case of wrong place, wrong time. Intuitively he knew he was right. As much as he knew that something had happened to him, something had changed.

Either he was losing his mind or everything he had believed was wrong. If reincarnation was real, he had a past life filled with blood and murder. Maybe even the vampire part was true. He couldn't prove he was a vampire in his dreams, he just knew. The same way he had known to add Sweet N Low to the bleach to take the sting out and that the woman he kept hearing was important. And dangerous.

Gage touched his arm lightly. "Just try. Maybe we'll get lucky and someone can hypnotize you, make it go away."

"I hope so. I just want it to stop." Spike shook his head, playing with his hair absently. What would the guys think when he showed up with a new hair color? He frowned as his fingers brushed across the scar on his left eyebrow. "How'd I get this, Gage?"

"Asshole with brass knuckles in Queens. Spring break, senior year of college." Gage eyed him warily. "Why?"

"I keep getting these flashes. This girl. Asian, Chinese maybe. She's got a sword. Somehow I keep thinking that she gave it to me."

"Davis." Gage's voice lowered with concern. "We're starting down this list tomorrow and if we don't find anything, promise me you'll talk to Dr. Coleman. Or take a vacation. You're really scaring me."

Spike took a deep breath. "Sorry, man. I know I sound cracked. Believe me, I know."

"That's a start. They say all madmen think they're perfectly sane."

"It's gotta be stress, right? Or maybe all this psychic mumbo-jumbo has some truth to it. But there has to be a reason this is happening to me."

"My grandmother used to say that everything happens for a reason." Gage smiled, punching Spike's arm playfully. "And I'd never argue with Nana Matthews. She had the evil eye, I'm tellin' ya. Scared the bejesus outta all of us grandkids."

"Probably just need a vacation. Haven't had one five years." Spike rubbed his forehead wearily. "Get used to the stress level and before you know it, nervous breakdown starin' you full in the face. Happened to my dad once."

"What'd he do?"

"Mum packed us up and headed to the country. Drove up and down the Appalachians until he relaxed."

"Then that's what you've gotta do, man." Gage's hand came to rest lightly on Spike's shoulder. "After we check out a few of these quacks just for the hell of it. And if you really are seeing a past life, who knows? Write a book, get rich, retire. Raise Corgies and a few rug rats to bounce on your knee. Course, you'd have to actually find a woman willing to bear your children and that might be a stretch."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence." He leaned back against the couch cushions, staring at the ceiling. "Tell you what. Write down three of those nutcases and I'll tackle this first thing tomorrow."

"I'll take the next three." Gage scribbled down a list of addresses quickly, ripping the paper in half and handing the top to Spike. "We're the best damn team of detectives this city has ever seen. Nothing's gonna get past us, you know that."

"Yeah, yeah. Run off to your burrow and leave the crazy man to his own devices."

"See you tomorrow." Gage patted his shoulder once more before standing up and heading out.

Spike waited until the door had closed the sound of footsteps in the hallway faded into silence before he let out the breath he was holding. There was somewhere he needed to be. Elsewhere. Not here. Not in this place. He knew it in his bones that he wasn't where he was supposed to be. Boston felt wrong, all wrong. Closing his eyes tiredly, he stretched out on couch and tried to get comfortable. Something was coming. Something was brewing. Hell. Mouth of Hell. His thoughts scattered as he tried to grab onto them.

Hellmouth?

The hotel tea wasn't half bad. Maybe Iverson was desperate enough that he'd stopped caring about quality and was reaching out for any remembrance of home. Trying to get comfortable on the shaky mattress, he pulled the phone onto his lap and dialed in Rupert Giles' London phone number. It was four in the morning in England. Iverson didn't care.

"This had better be good," Giles growled into the phone, voice rough from sleep.

"Iverson here, Mr. Giles." Iverson didn't bother to apologize and resuming sipping his tea. Too watered down and little more than colored water, it was still miles ahead of the black acid he'd been drinking for the past few weeks. "There's a plane ticket back to Sunnydale waiting for you at Heathrow. Eight o'clock flight. You may want to arrange to have your stuff sent later as well."

"What in the world are you talking about?"

"You're being relocated to Sunnydale permanently."

"I don't suppose you could have told me this before I flew back," he said sardonically.

"I didn't know then. I've only just managed to hammer out the deal. You need to be there by Friday at the very least. That gives you four days to get your affairs in order." Iverson set his tea aside. "Here's what I've managed to negotiate. The government is setting up a research base in Sunnydale and they're planning on approaching the Slayers this Friday about regeneration possibilities."

"What?" The shout came through loud and clear even across the Atlantic.

"This is where you come in. I've convinced them that they need to go through the Council to get to the Slayers and that it would be detrimental for them to try otherwise. I have suggested you as the Council's official liaison between Sunnydale and Washington. Mr. Wyndam-Pryce will take responsibility for Cara and the Los Angeles branch. Right now, they're willing to cooperative and offer the Slayers whatever they wish. I want to make sure the goodwill is maintained."

"I've seen what they want, Iverson, and I can assure you that their good will is the least of our worries."

"I won't argue with you but I'm hoping that another Initiative can be avoided if we take the offensive." He rubbed his eyes tiredly. "They're going to Sunnydale regardless of what we want and they're going to approach the Slayers with or without our input. If we can set up the Council to be a buffer between the government and the girls, we might be able to trap them in their own red tape."

"Why me?" Giles asked sourly.

"Because you won't be swayed or bribed to turn against the Slayers. I have no doubt that they will try."

"Is there anything else I should know about?"

"There will be an information packet waiting for you in Sunnydale and the military's ambassador will contact you midweek. I've done all I can to get the gears in motion. It's going to be played by ear from here on out."

"I'll be there." Giles' voice was heavy, tired, and the connection faded away with a series of clicks.

Iverson pushed the phone aside and stretched out on the bed, not bothering to undress or turn down the bedding. He was too exhausted to care about anything outside the pleasantly numb dream world beckoning to him. It had to work. It was his fault, the Council's fault, that all of this had happened and they had to make it right.