The Good Life
The red eye blinked in the shadows.
Faith hadn't decided if it was hostile or not. Just another monster to slay, a demon with wires and circuits for guts, drinking up electricity like a vampire lapping up blood. Her movements were smooth and even as she unbuckled the shoulder holster, checking the safety on the gun before she placed it carefully in the top drawer of her dresser. Guns were dangerous. The sheath on her leg unhooked and the knife took its place next to the firearm. She undid the latches on her Kevlar vest, folding it as neatly as possible before she tucked it into the drawer. None of the trappings were her idea, but the men in power who pulled her strings were right about the demons finally joining the modern age.
No wonder the New Council had decided to train their Slayers with more advanced weapons. It was a pity they'd lost all but one of the potentials and that one had turned out to be a bigger liability than Faith, something no one had thought possible.
On a good day, she laughed about it and remembered to dig a little whenever she checked in with Iverson. She had to give the man credit, he was willing to admit that they'd fucked up Slayer number three and was doing his best to make sure no one tried to screw any of them over again. Trust in the Watcher's Council was another thing she had never thought she'd live to see.
Her fingers worked the laces of her boots automatically. She watched them, numb and detached from her own movements as she placed the black shoes side by side at the bottom of the bed. The mattress squeaked a mouse-like protest as she stretched out on top of it, staring blankly at the ceiling. White T-shirt, black cargo pants and white socks. Plain, simple. That was the name of the game. Out of habit, she searched out the familiar shapes and faces in the painted plaster above her. She'd named them all, lying in bed for endless nights where sleep seemed determined to make her suffer by being elsewhere. Hair tickled her ear and she brushed it out, fanning it over the pillow. It was getting longer, brushing against her ears, falling in her eyes, and curling down the back of her neck. She twirled one lock absently in her fingers, rubbing the ends against the curve of her ear.
It had been five months and eleven days since the world ended. Her world had ended. Four and a half months since she'd left the Hellmouth behind.
Every day since Sunnydale was the same. Work. Hunt. Kill. Lie in bed and stare at the ceiling.
She didn't bother covering up the scars on her face with make-up; they had diminished to silver threads, barely visible under anything less than noonday sun or a heavy bank of fluorescent lights. Nobody looked good under the hum and flicker of indoor lighting anyway, but that wasn't why she didn't hide them. She wore them like a badge of honor. A reminder. She hid the others, somehow they were more personal; the stripes on her back that Spike had stroked and caressed, sometimes she could still remember the feel of his lips against them. She hid those from her friends and colleagues, even from the man she had taken as a lover. She never brought him home, into her space. She fucked him with the lights out and left him sleeping or pretending to; he never saw her scars.
The first time had been a mistake. Fresh off the plane from the land of sun and cellulite, she'd had too much to drink in a desperate attempt to feel something other than the emptiness and loneliness of her life. He had taken her home, mostly drunk himself, and spent himself inside her while she stared at the cracks in the wall behind the bed. She was gone the second his eyes closed, running away from him and what she'd done. Alcohol burned more coming up than going down. It had taken two hours for her stomach to stop turning inside out, trying to rid herself of the poison and the pain. The next day there had been roses and an apology, asking her to give him another chance. He'd had been sweet and caring, understanding even. Eventually she had convinced herself that it was for the best, that she needed to make the first step of moving on. After all, it was just sex. Nothing more. She warned him not to hold on to her, not to have any illusions of romance or permanency. Just sex.
A soft chime broke her thoughts apart and she rolled onto her side with a sigh, one hand reaching out to stop the red eye from blinking questions into the faint light. The answering machine whirred and hissed as it announced that she had one message.
"Faith. It's Buffy. Dawn loved the birthday present, she'd thank you herself, but she's out living it up with some friends." Pause. "Xander was hoping we could all get together for Christmas this year. It's a couple months off. Two, three, something like that. Think about it. Well…hope you're all right. Bye."
Faith stared at the machine, listening to the tick tock of the wall clock behind her and processing the words slowly. She'd known Dawn would love the vibrant sapphire pashmina as soon as she'd seen it draped over the mannequin in the window. It had been expensive, but Faith had more money than she knew what to do with. Being a hired gun for the government had its perks and the health insurance was head and shoulder above any other offer she could have imagined. Even if there was a bitch of a payoff at the end.
She'd gotten what she wanted. Greta Garbo-ed off into the sunset, traveled across the country where no one could fret or fuss over her. No one trying to make her feel better or make her happy. It was what she wanted, but when the novelty of solitude wore off, she was just alone. She had great clothes that she never wore, a fabulous apartment she hadn't bothered to decorate, a new car gathering dust of the non-undead kind, and enough money to keep the bar stocked. There was even a sort of boyfriend who was attractive, good enough in bed, and liked the fact that she was the Slayer. For a moment, she played with the idea of heading back to Sunnydale for the festivities. Back to the Hellmouth and all its glory, where the Summers girls and the rest of the Scoobies could distract her from the loneliness.
Sitting up suddenly, she headed for the bathroom, stripping off her t-shirt and tossing it on the floor. Sunnydale was one of two places Faith would never go back to. Ever. It held nothing but pain.
Peeling her pants and socks off, she dumped them unceremoniously in front of the sink and reached in to turn on the shower. Boston wasn't bad; part of her had always loved the city. She only ventured into the busy city center when she had to for work, preferring to stay on the fringes where she was close enough to something that could be considered rural. East coasters had an interesting idea of rural, but she didn't argue the finer points of their definitions. As long as she wasn't surrounded by too many curious eyes and faces, she didn't care.
Water shot from the shower head, pelting against the tiles angrily. She kept it on the roughest setting, savoring the sting as the water hit her skin. A little too hard, a little too hot. A little pain was just right. Stepping into the still freezing stream, she shivered involuntarily as she waited for the heat. Eyes closed, she let it pour over her head and face, pulling her hair down around her neck and straightening the waves. She had loved the way his hair curled around her fingers with just a hint of his natural honey color at the base.
Shaking away the images of Spike, she grabbed the bar of soap, working it into a lather with her hands before methodically cleaning away all the sweat and dirt from her body. It had taken months for the feeling to go away; the feeling that she was covered with dust, his dust.
All that was left of him.
Her throat constricted, stomach lurching dangerously as the soap slipped from her fingers. She stumbled from the shower, dripping water over the cold floor, and emptied the roast beef on rye she'd had for dinner into the toilet.
Trembling, she climbed back into the hot water, sliding down the wall to huddle in the corner. She didn't know how long it would take for that reaction to go away. It didn't seem to matter how long it had been. Memories of him dying in front her, turning to dust before her eyes, always made her retch. Everyone else had moved forward, said their peace and gotten on with their lives. She was the only one stuck, trapped, drowning in a past that refused to fade away and determined to haunt her. Some days, she wondered if coming to Boston had made the pain worse, if there was something about the city that never let her forget, never let her move on.
Mostly, she didn't think about it. Not outside the privacy of her apartment where she didn't have to worry about someone finding out. Just one more reason she couldn't go back to Sunnydale. The Scooby Gang would worry about her. She knew they were already concerned. Why else would Buffy or Dawn call every few days and leave a message on the machine? She'd hoped they'd eventually give up when they couldn't reach her but they hadn't. She still planned to send them presents or cards for birthdays and Christmas. Because he would have wanted her to keep in touch.
She remembered the promise, to find someone, which she had grudgingly tried to do even though it went down about as well as two-day-old seafood salad. His words were bitter reminders now. He had already intended to kill himself, had distracted her with the half promise of something she hadn't realized she wanted. Love. She'd been too stunned to react. Not fast enough to stop him. Shivering despite the hot water, she wondered if she would ever feel warm again.
Once the water turned cold again and her teeth were chattering violently, she spun the dial to off and crawled out of the shower, wrapping a thick towel around her body. She couldn't stand up, standing meant that she wouldn't be able to avoid the face in the mirror. Pulling another towel off of the rack, she twisted it around her hair tightly to keep the water from dripping down her back and curled up against the cupboard.
It was a soft room, done in creams and tans with warm birch cupboards and chrome accents. The rug over the latte foam tiles was thick and heavy. She liked to dig her toes into the threads and imagine that she was a little girl again, playing in her mother's make-up case; little Firecracker playing dress-up. The fantasy always ended badly. She broke the lipstick or dumped powder over the counter. Useless little brat.
Shivering subsided to the numbness that reached into her bones without ever touching the emptiness inside. Eyes staying away from the harsh reflection, she got to her feet clumsily and returned to the bedroom. Baggy flannel pants felt hot against her chilled skin and the sweater proudly proclaiming that she loved New York City began to thaw her frozen limbs.
It was all part of the routine. Another night of patrolling behind her and she didn't feel like going out in search of the ever elusive good time. Instead she fished the box of crackers out of the kitchen cupboards and poured herself a glass of white wine, dumping in a handful of ice cubes to take the edge off of the alcohol. She had tried a dark red wine, just once; it tasted like blood. Crackers to settle her stomach, liquor to dull the pain. Flicking on the TV, she curled up on the couch and wrapped the fuzzy fleece blanket she had gotten as a going away present from Xander and Jane around her legs. It was just short of black; Xander had called the color Squid Ink, emblazoned with the X-Files logo and the phrase Trust No One along the bottom. Jane said it reminded her of Faith. Just remember, Jane had written on the card, you don't have to trust to believe.
Faith hadn't figured out exactly what that meant yet.
Munching on a cracker, she glanced around the apartment. Pictures from Dawn; a painting from Willow's new girlfriend. Buffy had sent an antique dagger just because she thought Faith would like it. Found it on some demons was the explanation. It was etched with geometric designs over the hilt and blade, tucking neatly into a similarly marked sheath. A single azure stone sparkled at the end of the handle. She'd always loved knives. They were elegant, personal, up close and dirty weapons. Couldn't use a blade without getting blood on your hands and metal always washed clean even if your skin didn't.
There was nothing on TV. Reruns of shows she didn't follow or care about. Sitcoms about people who wished their lives weren't normal, who wanted to be special and important. Everyone wanted to be different and unique. To be the only one like them. Of course, Faith reasoned, that was just one more thing that made them all the identical mindless automatons. Change the names and faces, they were all the same show with bad dialogue and contrived plots. Just recycled and brushed off by the networks because they couldn't afford to risk originality. When had she started caring about the television industry? She almost smiled, imaging the teasing Dawn would give her if she knew.
Dawn was planning a backpacking trip across Europe for next year's summer. With the money from the government, she wouldn't have to work part time at the theater unless she wanted the extra cash. She'd told Faith all about it in her last message.
The twinge of guilt was brushed away with wine and a laugh track. That part of her life was over. She couldn't go back to Sunnydale any more than she would return to New Orleans. Verek had rebuilt his bookstore, had even sent her a photograph of the new and improved version with his last letter. She didn't know how he found her, but somehow she knew he would always be able to keep in touch. His letters never mentioned Spike; they were filled with news of New Orleans and descriptions of festivals. She'd sent him a book on lunar cycles that she'd found in a musty little magic shop because it had reminded her of him. It wasn't like she needed the money anyway.
A woman on the screen was selling air fresheners.
What would it be like to only have to worry about air fresheners? Faith bit her lip as she watched the woman's pretend family traipse through the house, moving the odor spewing globes from room to room and smiling brightly as it made their lives better. Ridiculous. But the idea of family caught at her impatiently. Two point five and the white picket fence. Spike had wanted her to have a normal life, have a family and someone to take away the loneliness. There were days when she would have given anything to belong to the family on the screen.
None of it was real.
Burrowing into the corner of the couch, she pulled the blanket tighter over her shoulders and closed her eyes. The wine eased the tension in her muscles, leaving her warm and sleepy. She'd wake up a few hours after dawn to an infomercial and find her way to bed. Then the routine would begin again when the alarm clock screeched its wake up call and she would hit the streets at dusk, running as though the Hellhounds were biting at her heels until everything but the sound of her blood racing faded away. One more tomorrow. Maybe Frye would call, maybe he'd found something about the last person in the world she wanted to see again. Her mother.
She had mentioned it one night, one of the rare nights where she had stayed for a few minutes, sitting in the bed next to him and they had actually talked. Dragging her feet doggedly until the nagging voice in her head was too loud to ignore, she finally asked him to look. If anyone could find her burnout mother, it was Frye. She needed to know even if the idea of seeing the woman again made her furious and terrified at the same time. If the bitch hadn't drunk herself into an early grave, picked up one too many needle marks, or gotten knocked off in the great Slayer eradication, she might be able to tell Faith who her father was. Or at least limit the pool of possibilities to a few hundred instead of the entire male population of the northern hemisphere. Stupid fucked up whore. Hadn't it ever occurred to her that her daughter might care? Might want to know the guy's name even if she didn't. Faith couldn't believe she'd gotten her Slayer genes from her mother, it wasn't possible. So she could be alive somewhere. Unfortunately.
The rancor was hollow now. No matter what her mother said or did, it was child's play compared to four days in a cage. There was nothing else that could hurt Faith more. Spike was already dead. There was nothing left in this world that could top the pain she'd already lived through.
She had a new life now, a new name, a new world to live in. Reborn as Faith Hawkins, she had finally shucked off the heaviest reminder of her past and the only tangible legacy she had gotten from her mother. If the worthless tramp had managed to off herself, Faith could get some flowers and rage to a silent headstone. Part of her hoped that would be the case because she didn't want to face the woman who had hurt her so many years before; she didn't want to pretend that part of her wasn't itching to break her fucking neck. As if her death would make it all better.
Make it better, mommy.
She hadn't called her mommy since her fifth birthday when her mother had laughed at her tears; had she really thought she deserved presents? Did she really think anyone cared enough to give her anything? Bitch.
Faith retreated deeper into her cocoon, buried in fleece and darkness; she tried to focus on the television and ignore the voices in her head. Too long ago, they didn't matter now. Now that she had a new life. The irritating voice of reason whispered that the drinking, the loneliness, the isolation, was all part of her mother; that Faith was becoming more like her mother with each drink she took. She didn't just shake it away, she raged against the thought and smashed it to pieces, sweeping it away into the back of her mind. She wasn't her mother. There was one important distinction.
When the day came to pay up, she'd take the risks and deal with the chemicals as the government harvested the only part of her they thought was valuable and sent her on her way happily medicated. Sometimes she kicked herself for not telling them to rip them out up front and put her on the hormone therapy without the wait. Funny thing about the government, if they'd just asked nicely instead of sneaking around behind her back, she would have done it willingly. But Iverson had swayed her, convinced her to give it the chance to happen naturally or at least take more time to consider the decision. A baby. A child. They wanted her to be a mother. What they couldn't seem to understand was that she would slit her own throat before she put another innocent child through the hell she had known. There was no way she could be a good mother, not when the only example she had was the perfect illustration of what not to do. She couldn't, she wouldn't. She would never bring a child into this world. Not for anything or anyone.
Lost in thought, she almost missed the ringing of the cell phone. Blinking away the haze, she clawed her way out of the blanket to excavate the coffee table in search of the offending noisemaker. Scowling as she flipped open the case and jabbed at button.
"It's three in the goddamn morning. This had better be good, Frye."
"Yada, yada, princess. We've got a problem with our favorite peroxide vigilante." The perpetually cheerful Frye Birkman was unfazed by her sharp tone.
As central intelligence for Faith's team, he acted as a switchboard and collective brain for the rest of the group. Orders and information had to travel through him, the familiar ringing of the cell phone telling her about some new bad guy trying to get away with murder. Literally. There was never any intimacy in their phone calls, business only. He knew that she would be on his doorstep if and when she wanted sex, then and only then.
"What now?" She shifted the phone to the other ear and returned to her cocoon.
The civilian in question was a detective from Boston PD with a nightlife that consisted mostly of killing demons. He'd proven to be as much of an enigma as the vampire they were looking for, eluding them for nearly three months before they managed to discover who he was. They still had no clue as to what had set him off.
"I think I figured out why he's gone Vampire Hunter. He and his partner were the homicide detectives assigned to the Dollhouse Killer case a few months back and the poor bastards actually found her. We weren't able to get there in time to keep Drusilla from snacking on the partner. His name; Gage Matthews." The sound of shuffling papers came through the phone speaker like static. "One of the field boys fessed up when we got a positive ID. I guess they found him wounded but alive when they got to Drusilla's hideout. Not bad for a flatfoot, he staked her and put a piece of wood through his partner to keep him from coming back."
Faith grimaced, all too familiar with the pain of losing someone. When she had taken the assignment for Boston, it came ready made with a Big Bad. A vampire Master who was both cunning and seemingly invisible, gradually reaching his cold, dead fingers into every pie he could buy, threaten, or just kill off whoever had owned it. The team had been tracking him for nearly a decade, finding façade after façade as they sought to untangle the maze built around the demon tyrant. They had hoped that adding a Slayer, even a former rogue, would bring new life to the search. For the first time, they'd managed to make some headway into the lower levels of the organization.
Faith didn't care about any of that. She'd come for Drusilla, the vampire who had made Spike one night in a dark alley over a hundred years ago. The insane vampire had been on the covert ops hit list for a few years as they'd tracked her across the globe, hoping to finally get someone close enough to take her out. At the time, she'd been perversely disappointed that Drusilla had managed to get herself dusted before they could have some one on one time, although the ending probably would have been the same.
Frye was still talking. "No wonder he's on a crusade. But Haddock broke protocol and filled in a few of the blanks for our Van Helsing; who he was, what he was doing there, who we're after."
"And our boy decided to go after the Master too." With a heavy sigh, she climbed off of the couch and headed into the bedroom to get dressed. Humans got caught up on revenge. The teams saw the same thing time after time, people learning the truth and going off the deep end. It always ended badly, usually the idiots turned up as vampires themselves and came back destroy what little had kept them holding on. "I'm assuming you didn't call just to piss me off."
"Our Mr. Williams has been quiet for a few weeks now. Too quiet. So I ran a full check up on the guy, credit cards, phone calls, the works. Turns out that he's been a very busy little bee. Oh, and get this, he's got a nickname. You're gonna love it. Spike. Isn't that crazy? Bet Drusilla got a kick out of that."
Faith froze in her tracks, nerves turning her muscles to concrete as they rushed to her brain in a flurry of activity. Memories she had carefully stored away so they couldn't hurt came hurdling out of their flimsy lockboxes and stormed through her, cracking thunder and numbing her ears in the pounding of blood. Dumbly, she listened to Frye's voice as he rattled on and on about something. She couldn't understand the words, eclipsed by the barrage of images and sounds she had thought were gone forever; hearing his voice after she'd bled and bruised her way out of the cage for the last time, demanding to know where she was, and the relief she'd felt, the absolute and complete trust that he would find her, save her. After that moment, battered and struggling to survive, she would have done anything for him, anything to stay with him.
No one had been more surprised than Faith when he had looked at her, drowned her again in the depths of blue eyes, and wanted her. Just her. Not just for a roll and tumble, not just for a one night stand. For as long as it lasts, he'd told her. She'd taken him at his word and prayed to Gods she didn't believe in that it would last, that she wouldn't have to lose him.
"Faith? Slayer?" Frye was almost shouting to get her attention.
"Yeah, yeah. Sorry." Covering, she scrambled back into her patrolling clothes and yanked on her boots. "What was that last part?"
"Did you hear a single thing I said?"
"Not really, but what's new? I don't hang on your every word."
He sighed and she could hear him tapping something on the counter. "I'm supposed to be your info guy, remember? How can I be the info guy if you don't listen?"
"I'm listening now, spare me the lecture."
"He's got himself an arsenal, best as I can tell. Nothing really stands out if you take it piece by piece, but put together it paints a pretty picture. I'm surprised the guys in Homeland Security haven't red-flagged him as a potential terrorist. The best part is that he managed to dig up the Vietnam vet in Detroit who started selling wooden core bullets on the black market about six months back. Good work too, we've tapped him for a few extra rounds here and there."
"Can you skip to the end?" Faith pinned the phone between her ear and shoulder, fighting with the holster and utility belt that carried extra rounds and a stake for good measure. Wasn't pretty, but it got the job done.
"You can compliment me on my brilliance later. I've had Williams under casual surveillance since he started his Zorro routine, nothing flashy. The guy must have a nose like a bloodhound because he's shaken the best surveillance guys we have, hence the not knowing who he really was for so long. Every Tuesday night he circles the same graveyard, stopping by random tombstones to make it hard to get a bead on who he's there for, kills a few vamps here and there. But he's always there at seven o'clock and stays for an hour. I'm talking clockwork; you could set your VCR by this guy. Tonight, note that it's Tuesday," Frye's voice had taken on that excited trill that usually accompanied some sort of harebrained plan. "Nothing, never showed up. I did a little checking. He was supposed to renew his lease this month, he didn't. His neighbor is the proud owner a new CD collection and the old lady down the hall has a few new plants."
"He's going kamikaze."
"My first guess too. I sent the break and enter twins to check out his apartment and the bedroom walls are covered with maps, photos, city blueprints. He's done his homework and it all adds up to the same city block down on the south side. That and a whole lotta firepower."
"You're kidding?" Faith laughed as she buckled the Kevlar vest around her waist. "He found the bastard. It took you guys three fucking years to even get a clue." They'd only been able to narrow the location of his headquarters to a few blocks and, until the undead parasite turned his back, anything less than a full army wouldn't make a dent in his guards.
"He's a good detective," Frye protested sheepishly. "I've taken the liberty of sending a car over to pick you up. Which should be there about now. Hopefully you'll get there in time for the fireworks."
"You mean in time to pull his ass out of the fire." She grabbed an extra stake from the magazine holder, nothing said Slayer like a sharp piece of wood, as a sharp knock sounded on the front door. Three taps in quick succession, pause, two more; the signal that it was another member of the squad. She snapped the phone shut without bothering to say goodbye and headed out of the apartment. One more life to save. Hopefully she'd be sober by the time she got there.
"Always guard your perimeter," Spike hissed as the stake pierced through the vampire's back.
The dust had barely settled onto the dirty pavement before he was up the fire escape, headed for the second story windows that weren't as carefully watched and would provide a relatively simple back door into the tunnel entrances. After watching the warehouse for a month, he knew it was a front. Just a cover for the underground network that was spreading through the city like the Black Plague. Insects and rats; bringing death and destruction as they teamed through sewers, tunnels, and safe houses designed to hide the monsters of the city.
Very carefully, he lowered the canvas bag through the already broken window before slipping inside and falling to a crouch, hidden in the darkness by the long black leather coat. For the last three weeks, he'd slipped through the same window and explored the darkness inside as he inched closer to the source of Boston's corruption. He'd been patient this long; he could wait a few more minutes. He waited for each tiny sound, a creak, a groan; the soft echo of voices rising from beneath him as the vampires returned from one of their raids. Were all cities like this? A shadow framework of the demonic underground that functioned, even existed, to make hiding in the darkness easier for the parasites. They were behind everything. Restaurants, nightclubs, book stores. The deeper he looked, the more he saw. Nothing was sacred, no one was safe, and the city was gradually being overtaken as the current vampire Master spread the filth of his influence like a walking, talking Hellmouth.
He shivered a little, staying down in the shadows until he was sure that any sounds he might have made coming through the window would have been dismissed as the wind or rats. The only thing missing was his partner. Teeth ground together as his jaw clenched and he took deep, calming breaths until the rage and grief passed. Losing someone hurt more when there was blood pumping through his veins. He wasn't sure why, he just knew that it did. He knew that Gage would have wanted to be there, would have wanted to be a part of it. Gage would have died for it.
But he wouldn't have died that day if Spike had just warned him. What if, what if.
It was round four thousand and sixty three of the What If Game and Spike was doomed to lose. He had only wanted to protect his partner, to shield him from the evil he knew was out there, and instead he had allowed the lamb to walk into the lion's den.
Drusilla had known, had seen in her brilliant madness that her best chance at getting her Dark Warrior back was to sever his ties to the world as Angelus had done to her. To be a family again, she had whispered before sinking her fangs into his skin. Instinctively, his hand moved to his neck and the scars he knew were there. Why she hadn't been able to drink his blood he would never know; why it had burned her like Holy water would always be a mystery. But in that moment when the memories had come flooding back and he had finally seen them for what they were, they had been the least of his worries. His partner was lying on the concrete in a pool of blood and it was because of him, because of what he had been before Davis Williams had somehow come into existence.
Watching Drusilla die, seeing her pained face crack and break into bits of dust, hadn't hurt until later when he'd had time to think back to his hundred years with her. Driving the stake through Gage's dead heart had hurt more than losing Dru and more than the throbbing wounds in his throat. Gage would have made a wonderful vampire. Even as he'd knelt next to the body, cradling him and trying not to cry like a little boy as his best friend's blood soaked through his jeans, he'd known that Gage would have been one hell of a vampire. Would have loved the night and the freedom, the power; would have laughed the same laugh, smiled the same smile.
The days after were a blur. A funeral. Soft words of sympathy. Shaking hands with Gage's father, tears in both their eyes as they spoke hollow words of comfort; Daniel Matthews assuring Spike that Gage had thought of him as a brother and Spike struggling against his emotions, knowing too well that going home would have been the first thing the vampire Gage would have done. Maybe the second. He would have tried for Spike first; tried to lure his partner into the world of shadows and blood.
Only after that was done, after he took a few weeks off and came back to the force with a new partner. After he passed the evaluations with Dr. Coleman and started into the work again. Only then did he mourn Dru; mourned what she had been, what they had lived and felt for a hundred years. Since she had lifted him from mediocrity with a single, deadly kiss. Still so beautiful even in death. There were patches of time missing from his memory, but he had no desire to fill them. After chaining Buffy Summers to the wall of his crypt, he was sure his time in Sunnydale had gone downhill from there. The six years between were still empty. Maybe the bint, Glory, had killed them all or sent them into an alternate world where he had a heartbeat. Maybe this was all a dream and he was trapped in its web.
Relief came only in the blissful adrenaline rush of fighting back; in killing vampires, demons, and anything he could get his hands on in a futile attempt to make the world a little bit safer for men and women who didn't deserve to die. Maybe he was making up for the hundred years with Dru, the decades of blood and violence that had filled his dreams even before he knew where they had come from. Maybe he was just waiting for something to find a way to beat him, a way to kill him. Something stronger and faster; a fight he couldn't win. Then he wouldn't have to remember the empty eyes staring up at him from his partner's face; the blood and dust on his hands that had meant too much for him to even comprehend.
It had led him here, driven him to seek out the monster and wage his own quiet war against the hydra. Chop off its head and more would grow back but he was determined to keep slicing until there was nothing left in him. Blood spilt, will lost, soul broken. That's when he would stop fighting. When there was nothing left to fight for.
He shook away the harsh memories of the past, of the few short days that had been full of possibilities and excitement before the world had come crashing in. With power came responsibility and Boston didn't have a Slayer. Just Spike. A former vampire who didn't have a fucking clue what he was or the reason why his heart pumped blood and the sun didn't hate him. He told himself that he didn't care. He looked at the face in the mirror and tried to convince the other Spike that it was vengeance, that it was for the sake of violence. Some days it worked. The days when he woke up and stared at his phone, waiting for the six a.m. wake up call. Those were the days that he could believe it was just about revenge. Other days, maybe it was about more than that, maybe it was about doing the right thing and maybe it was about a death wish. It didn't really matter why he fought.
A board groaned under his weight as he crept across the empty room, bag slung over his shoulder. In a few short minutes, he would finally know where the tunnels led and see the face of the vampire who was steadily gaining power. It had to be someone with connections, someone playing at being normal and human; hiding beneath the very noses of those who were looking for him. Piece by piece, he had picked up the scattered clues left behind, trying to figure out how they fit together and where they led him. It was a job made harder by the government's band of Dudley Do-Rights and their not so subtle attempts to follow him.
Spike didn't blame the vampire hunters for arriving too late to save Gage. It was cold comfort to know that the world wasn't hiding beneath their covers; that the men in high places were working against the denizens of the underworld as best they could. The Sunnydale Police Department knew when they weren't supposed to stick their noses in, leaving it to the bouncing blond and her ragtag gang of Scoobies. Easing onto the rickety staircase, he braced both hands against the walls to take some of his weight off of the stairs and wondered why he wasn't still in love with Buffy. What had happened in those empty six years to wipe away the desperate obsession that had tormented his nights? And what happened to the chip? At least the questions kept his mind off of the fact that he was probably committing suicide.
The nameless, faceless vampire, known as only as a Master in the demon circles, was rumored to be heavily guarded. Vampires, maybe a few zombies if the moon was right, probably a few other demons. Movra, Fyarl, the usual lackeys. Luckily, fire didn't care what species the flesh belonged to and his target was particularly flammable. Napalm, gasoline grenades, a few stakes, and a gun with wooden bullets. He had enough chemical cocktails to fill the room with fire and another surprise hidden in the shadows. The bullets confused him. A man in Detroit named Avery had started making them after a Slayer had come to town and cleaned up his section of the ghetto, teaching them how to fight. It couldn't have been Buffy and Faith was either in jail for eternity or dead. If she was dead, then it was a new bird. That made the most sense to Spike. Hanging out in the slums wasn't exactly the style of either Slayer and the man's description had been too tall, too plain. And too vicious.
Pungent cigarette smoke lingered in the stale humidity of night, marking where the vampires had been and hopefully where the entrance to the catacombs was hidden. From the bits and piece of information that he had gleaned from bars and demons, the shipping warehouse led to the heart of the Master's lair and the underground hub where the city of Boston came together in a monumental gathering of tunnels. It was there that the Master oversaw his spreading domain, keeping an iron grip around the throats and hearts of demons and humans alike. Only members of the upper levels had access to central core; both the entrances and routes through the passages were a carefully guarded secret.
All Spike needed was a group of demons to piggy back his way in, preferably one with a human being or two to mask the sound of his heartbeat. Even a demon with one or two hearts would do in a pinch but they were harder to come by. The black bag would come with him; it was meant for the bastard pulling the strings. Glancing around , he was satisfied to see that the explosives he'd placed since he started sneaking into the warehouse were still there, carefully camouflaged and waiting for the signal. If he could flush the monsters through the tunnels into the storage building, one press of a button would send them and the entire structure straight to hell. A cell phone was ready to dial the fire department and give them a head start toward the south district and the inferno he had planned.
A small group of demons entered, mostly Movra bounty hunters with forearm spines flexing as they carried crates through the docking bay. Spike eased forward, frowning with concentration as he tried to see their every movement. One of the creatures moved toward the wall, tough brown skin wrinkling as the muscles beneath coiled and flexed. Claws scraped across the brick until the Movra found what he was looking for and pressed against a single brick with his fist. Beneath them, gears engaged with a shudder and a thump, sliding together in a groan of metal meeting metal. The pile of crates on the platform began to sink, a dark mouth opening around them as the concrete slabs disappeared. Talking back and forth in their gutteral, growling language, the Movras climbed down onto the slabs and disappeared into the floor.
It would be easier than Spike had thought.
He allowed himself a smile before easing back into the shadows to wait for the warehouse traffic to lessen and give him enough time. Just to be sure, he kept both eyes on the brick, memorizing its position so that there would be no hesitation when he finally made his way across the floor. A few more vampires entered, exchanging greetings and snarls as they passed a group coming out of the hidden opening. When a half hour had finally passed without any coming or going, he ventured out of his hiding place.
He dropped down onto the docking bay and found the brick, pressing it firmly and stepping back onto the shifting stone. Transfixed, he watched the concrete slip away around him, lowering him slowly into the depths of the earth and darkness. Dim bulbs shivered, swaying back and forth perilously as they tenuously grasped the ceiling. The catacombs smelled of dirt and time. Ancient, musty, forgotten. Breathing shallowly, he sniffed at the different scents as he climbed off of the slab before it began its return ascent and started down the tunnel leading away from the entrance. Walls of cobbled stone had been patched with brick and concrete, wooden beams reinforced with weathered steel. Further into the tunnel, he picked up the faint scent of blood, unmistakable with its sweetly sour tang that he remembered from more than a century of being a vampire. He remembered the way it had made him feel, the smell and the texture of it on his skin and pouring down his throat; the power, the life, all trapped inside the viscous liquid and the sound it made as it rushed through veins just beneath the skin. Maybe he'd never truly forget. Grimacing at the memories, he kept moving through the barely lit darkness in search of the center. Where there was blood, there were vampires.
When the tunnel didn't branch off as he expected, he paused for a moment to listen to the dead air. Voices. Human. Silently, each footstep carefully positioned, he eased along the wall of the tunnel until he noticed that the shadows had shifted and there was light seeping into them. The corridor veered to the right, cutting off his view of whoever was speaking. More light. Slowly, carefully, he inched toward the corner and peered around the bricks.
Just beyond the turn, the tunnel opened up into a cavernous room lined with arching buttresses and thick, crimson curtains draping over dark stone. Gothic statues of gargoyles and dragons guarded the various tunnel entrances around the room, jeweled eyes sparkling in the light of torches and halogen bulbs. It was an odd mixture of new and old, with thick cables running along the ground to power a central bank of monitors and computer screens. His pulse quickened sharply as he scanned the monitors, breathing a soft sigh of relief as he realized that none of them were surveillance cameras of the tunnels. News stations filled most of the TV screens, creating the background chatter he had heard filtering into the tunnel. Surrounding the pillar of technology were sofas and cushions of thick brocades and velvets, opulent and elegantly Victorian. Occupying half a dozen cushions were females of various species and degrees of undress. Vampires in leather, a few demons he recognized as commonly found in brothels, and a handful of human females sporting angry bite marks and bruises. Interesting. And disgusting.
He unbuckled the duffle bag and began to arm himself methodically. He slipped the Beretta into its holster; the exotic bullets waiting to be tested on a few unlucky vamps. Two stakes slipped into the utility belt around his waist and book ended the business end of a dagger. His favorite weapon was a four-foot pole of solid oak with each end sharpened to a wicked point. Spinning it easily, he admired the weight and balance for a moment before hefting the bag back onto his shoulder, leaving it open so that he could easily reach in and pull out the rest of his surprise package. There were half a dozen entrances into the main room and, in less than a minute, there would only be one.
Fire cocktail in one hand, he rounded the corner and started into the room as though he belonged there, falling into the familiar swagger he had honed to perfection as a vampire. The women lifted off their cushions to gaze at him curiously, probably used to seeing unfamiliar faces.
Spike raised one eyebrow as he tossed the bottle into one of the tunnels, smiling when it exploded in a shower of flame. "Who do you kill for fun around here?"
The vampires were the only ones to attack, shifting into game face as they came off of their plush perches. Behind them, the human women were too dazed or high to do more than stumble away, while the other demon females scattered into the remaining tunnels. Dodging a fist, he caught sight of one of the demons punching a series of numbers into a keypad. Lights began flashing above him, accompanied by the screeching of an alarm echoing through the chamber. Tucking and rolling, he jabbed the pole through the back of one vampire as he tossed another bottle into a tunnel. One of the vamps latched into his arm and bit down on his shoulder, cutting through fabric and skin. He didn't bother to shake her off, reaching back to launch another grenade and twisting around to drive the sharp end of the pole through another unbeating heart.
A sickening gurgling sound followed as the vampire pulled away from him, choking on his blood as it burned down her throat. He watched as the skin on her face began to sizzle and burn, flaking away as she clutched at her neck and stomach. His blood turned her to ash from the inside out, seeping through veins and arteries as his blood torched its way through her body. As she dissolved into a pile of dust, he shook his head with disgust and looked around for something else to kill. Demon whores weren't exactly satisfying.
"Well, that's interesting." The smooth voice was so familiar that Spike didn't even turn around. Until that moment there had still been hope that he was wrong. "How? Drink a bottle of holy water a day?"
"No idea." Spike shrugged and reached into the bag, effectively cutting off another tunnel entrance in a wall of fire. He could hear voices and footsteps pounding through the catacombs as the alarm reached the notorious guard.
"It doesn't have to be this way, Davis."
Steeling himself for the inevitable, Spike pivoted slowly, jaw clenched tightly and face devoid of emotion as he turned to face the Master. "Yeah. I'm afraid it does, sir."
Lieutenant Merritt's face was almost unrecognizable with the ridges marring his forehead and the bridge of his nose, fangs glistening as he smiled. "You knew. I'm impressed."
Spike shrugged. "Knew it had to be someone with connections, who knew how to work around the law."
Merritt left the mouth of the tunnel and crossed the room, lithe as a tiger. "What gave me away? If I may ask."
"The tattoo."
Merritt glanced down at his arm quickly, smiling once more as he traced the symbol inked onto his bicep. "I had wondered if anyone would recognize it. A hundred years have passed since anyone knew this mark. The old ways are lost in myth and obscurity."
"Did some time in Sunnydale with the Annoying One. Big on ceremony and symbols." Spike changed his grip on the pole and wondered why Merritt hadn't bothered to arm himself. "'Sides, it's something I should know. Being from the line of Aurelius myself." There was a flash of confusion in the intense gray eyes before they flicked toward the tunnels where several dozen vampires and demons began to pour out of the darkness, skirting the edge of the flames that were beginning to spread into the room and lick at the tapestries.
"How do you figure that?" Merritt raised a hand to keep his guard back, signaling that this was his business to take care of.
"I was never big on the whole who sired who bullshit." Spike eased the duffel bag onto the ground and cracked his neck as he tightened fingers around the pole. "Got a bit of the family history from Darla before Angelus got himself all souled and useless. All I cared was that Dru thought it was grand." Taking advantage of Merritt's increasing confusion, Spike grinned. "Want to see another neat trick?" A single inhuman leap carried him over a row of cushions to the dais in the center of the room, landing effortlessly on the platform where Merritt was standing.
"What are you?" Merritt frowned, taking a wary step sideways.
"Don't know myself." Spike spun the pole lazily over his left hand. "Couldn't figure out how Dru could do it. Get me and Gage at the same time. Never much for that kind of thing, my Dru. But if she knew we were coming, if she had help." He shoved a sofa out of the way, widening his circle as he moved around Merritt. He paused for a second, his jaw tensing again at the memory. "At the funeral, you said you didn't want to lose both of us. You sent us there to die."
"I sent you there to live forever." Merritt began to match Spike's spiraling steps. He motioned to his guard, catching the handle of a sword easily as it was thrown to him. "To be part of this. Part of what I'm doing here."
"Why Dru?"
"She came to me. Crazy bitch told me I had her dark warrior." The sword flashed in the firelight. "A lot of nonsense about moons and stars and finding you before you destroyed the world. I gave my blessing, suggested she take you both. I'd been meaning to bring you and Gage over at some point. By the way, since you seem to know her, was she always so fucked in the head?"
Anger drove Spike to the first attack, swinging the pole in a slicing arc that Merritt dodged. He came back with thrust of his sword and cut into the already bloody flesh where the female vamp had bitten. Catching the flat side of the blade, Spike shoved it out of the way and planted his fist firmly in Merritt's face, crunching bone and spraying blood over his hand. They backed away, eying each other speculatively and circling like wolves anticipating for a moment of weakness.
"If what you say is true, Dru was your sire, how'd you get the heartbeat?" Merritt feinted left, using the split second it took Spike to change directions to deliver a sharp kick to the stomach.
"No idea," Spike hissed through clenched teeth.
Another feint. He grabbed onto the vampire's wrist and twisted him around, swiping at the back of his knees with the pole. Merritt caught hold of Spike's shirt as he fell forward, sending them both tumbling off of the platform. Landing within arm's reach of his duffel bag, Spike reached in and pulled out a handful of bottles. Shouted warnings were too late as glass shattered against the high walls and fire poured down onto the guards below. He rolled away from Merritt's sword, kicking the blade when it stuck in the floor and breaking it off at the hilt. He kept sliding, scrambling, slipping out of the way as he continued to lob grenades into all but one of the tunnels. After each exit but one was ablaze, he hurled the rest into the milling chaos of the demon guards as they fought to put out the fires.
"Are you out of your fucking mind?" Merritt landed on Spike's back with a bone shattering jolt, wrapping a muscled arm around his neck and cutting off his air.
Spike choked, twisting in the hold as he reached down to his belt. Fingers closed around the dagger, swinging back and up to plunge the blade into the soft skin beneath the ribs. The pressure on his throat lessened enough for him to spin around and grab hold of Merritt, pounding his fist into the vampire's face. They locked together in a terrifying fury of fists and fangs, crashing across the floor, bumping into burning demons and furniture. The central tower of monitors teetered dangerously as Spike tossed Merritt into one of the supports, shuddering again when he charged. It was getting harder to breathe as the air filled with smoke and heat, burning through Spike's lungs when he took another blow to the stomach, crashing backward into the stone wall.
"Brilliant plan, Davis." Merritt spat blood, wiping at his broken nose gingerly. "You're the one who needs air. How exactly did you plan on getting out of here?" The vampire yanked one of the steel rods from the tower, ignoring the crash behind him as it came tumbling down in a mass of glass and sizzling circuitry.
Spike winced as the rod connected with his ribs. "Didn't."
"How noble," Merritt sneered, missing Spike by a fraction of an inch when he tried to plunge the rod into his chest. "How human. Pathetic."
"Beats what you are. Believe me, I know."
"Maybe I'll keep you around. Cut you open and figure out what kind of freak you are. Then again, killing you would make me feel better."
"Like to see you try." Spike spun away from the metal, catching it firmly with one hand and ramming it back. It sunk into Merritt's abdomen, spilling blood onto the concrete and Spike.
Snarling, Merritt yanked the rod out of his flesh and dove for Spike. "Now I'm angry."
With a grunt, Spike untangled himself from the hands clawing at him and struggled to his feet. The room was almost completely engulfed in flames and he could see demons scurrying into the remaining unblocked tunnel toward the warehouse. He felt under his shirt for the detonator strapped to his chest, mentally calculating how long it would take for the majority of them to make the trip and climb out of the catacombs. A shout carried over the noise and demons flooded back into the chamber, trying desperately to avoid the fire. Behind them was a group of men in familiar military gear with rifles and stakes, herding the monsters toward the flames.
Turning with a grin, Spike caught Merritt's eyes. "Cavalry's here."
Merritt glanced between the group of soldiers and the fire, weighing the odds. Finally, he turned back to Spike with a furious glare. "Quite a mess you've made. It's a pity you won't be able to see the end of it."
Spike tossed his weapons aside and faced Merritt squarely. "Come on then."
The fight resumed with a flurry of punches and kicks, a pair of Goliaths slamming into each other as they each tried to stay out of the fire and away from the wicked edges of the central control tower that was now lying in a pile of sparking wires and glass shards. Pain stopped registering; their concentration only on the rhythm and movement of their battle. Raging together, struggling for dominance, they crashed through the burnt rubble. Spike choked in the smoky air, gasping for breath and doggedly refusing to let go of his opponent.
Blinded, he didn't see the shard of metal in Merritt's hand until it was arcing down through the thick air and singing pain through his nerves as it buried itself in his chest a few millimeters from his heart. The triumphant look in Merritt's eyes triggered something in Spike, flooding his veins with adrenaline. Clenching his fist tightly, he pulled back his arm and let instinct take over. Bones cracked as his fist met fabric and skin, snapping through ribs and sinking into the cold, dead flesh. Jagged edges cut and bit at his wrist as he opened his hand and wrapped his fingers around the heart inside. Blood sprayed over both of them when he ripped the lifeless organ from Merritt's chest, clutching it tightly as it began to dissolve.
"What the…?" Merritt's look of shock disappeared into a cloud of dust.
"For Gage," Spike whispered, still holding tightly onto a fistful of dirt.
His head was swimming with smoke and fire, blood seeping into his eyes. Survival instinct prodded him on, reaching for the metal spear and pulling it carefully out of bruised flesh. Fighting against the blackness threatening to swallow him whole, he clamped one hand against the wound and sunk to his knees, away from the smoke and heat.
"Spike! Spike!" A woman's voice cut through the roaring in his ears and he looked up, blinking away smoke and ash.
Numb, he got an image of dark hair and pale skin moving through the flames. A stake in her hand. A Slayer.
Collapsing on his side, tears trying to wash away the burning in his eyes, he struggled toward the sound of her voice. Closer. There were scars criss-crossing her beautiful face. Familiar. Where had he seen her? It came back like a bolt of lightning as she reached for him, scars circling her wrists like bracelets where she had been tied and bound. New Orleans, the chip. A soul.
"Faith?" he whispered.
The weight that had been dragging Faith's soul down into hell disappeared the moment she saw the first kick. The way he spun and bounced on his toes between jabs, the way he danced. There was no doubt, no questioning, no wondering how or why. She just knew. Watching him fight washed away the pain and the emptiness, charging her like no rush she'd ever felt as she pushed her way through the smoking mass of demons. There were more coming, beating out the fires in the tunnels as they looked for a way to get into the room and join the fight. The humans were outnumbered and only the fire was holding the demons at bay, keeping the odds from turning against them.
In the middle of it all was the most amazing thing she had seen in her life. Spike. Blond, draped with leather, and thoroughly pissing someone off. Some things never changed. It wasn't until she saw the metal pierce his chest that she began to worry, began to fight harder than she had ever fought before. To get to him, to save him. Smoke burning her eyes and lungs; she clambered through the rubble, eyes widening as she watched him rip the vampire's heart out with his bare hand and stumbling as she watched him collapse.
"Spike! Spike!" He turned toward her, blue eyes blinking rapidly through the smoke. Faith slid to the floor beside him.
"Faith?"
She felt as though her heart was going to break again as she pulled him into her arms. "Stay with me, baby, stay with me." Stumbling against his weight, she draped his arms around her shoulders and got to her feet. His head lolled against her neck, the wound on his chest bleeding against her as she navigated the wreckage. "Come on, Spike. You can't give up now. I've got you, I've got you." Frantic to get him away from the inferno before the next wave of demons came, she didn't notice the tears streaming down her cheeks.
"Faith!" One of the twins, Randy, waved her toward them. "We've got to get out of here!"
"Help me with him!" Faith took a deep, shaky breath as Randy took part of Spike's weight.
"Let's go." Randy shouted over his shoulder as they plunged into the tunnel, the rest of the team falling in behind them. "Move, people. Move!" There was nothing but the sound of footfall and heavy breathing as they hurried through the darkness, waiting for the inevitable sounds behind them when the demons finally found a way to pursue them.
Faith was shaking with fear, one hand soaked in Spike's blood as she tried to stop the flow. "Spike, please. Don't leave me, don't leave me. Hang on." She was begging, terrified that she had found him too late. Once again, not fast enough to save him.
The gears turned too slowly, inching the platform back up into the warehouse above them. Shouting drifted through the tunnel and the team members exchanging nervous looks, all of them injured and suffering from the smoke they had inhaled. At the top, they staggered away from the platform toward the fresh air beckoning outside.
His voice was so soft that Faith almost missed it, until she saw his lips move. "Wired."
"What?" She eased him onto a crate just outside the docking bay. "Spike? Don't try to talk, just be still."
"It's…wired." Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth, eyes still closed as he reached slowly to pull the hem of his shirt up. A cell phone and a small round case were strapped to his chest.
Faith gently unwrapped the cell phone, turning the black case over in her hands. It flipped open, revealing a single red button inside. Glancing quickly at the warehouse, she pulled Spike's weight back onto her shoulders. "Get everyone out of the building. It's wired to blow." She and Randy scrambled to get Spike's limp body away from the building as the rest of the team filed out. She called Frye while Randy dialed 911 and gave him a heads up.
"I'm going to get him out of here. Med team's on its way." Faith handed the detonator to Randy. "Wait till you see the whites of their eyes and then blow the bastards to hell."
"Will do." Randy left her with a salute and started to round up the team.
She laid Spike into the back seat of one of the team cars and dug the first aid kit out from under the seat. Her fingers found a pulse in his wrist, slow and steady. She stripped away the jacket and tore his t-shirt down the center, quickly bandaging the wound in his chest and a few more on his shoulders and arms. Bite marks, knife cuts. Tears welled up in her eyes again as she covered him gently with a blanket and climbed into the front seat.
The engine roared to life, tires screeching as she spun into the street and pressed the accelerator to the floor. Two blocks later, she heard the deep thrum of the explosion and watched the sky light up in her rearview mirror. Speeding through the streets, she swerved through traffic recklessly and ignored the red lights completely. Her destination, a tall building of dark umber brick almost as old as the city itself, rose up on the right side of the street. Braking hard, she swung the car into the dark mouth of the underground parking and sped past the booth at the front. Frye was waiting at the other end of the Headquarters parking lot with half a dozen doctors and a gurney. Yanking the wheel to the left, the car slid to a halt a few feet away and she bolted out of the door.
"Backseat," she instructed sharply. She opened the door before making way for the doctors.
Blocked off from him by a wall of white coats, she felt too far away, too distant. She ignored Frye's attempt to comfort her and trailed after them, watching Spike's pale face under the lights as they wheeled him into the building and the specialized hospital hidden underground. He would get the best possible care, she knew that.
"You know we're not supposed to treat civilians."
"If he dies." Faith turned away from him. "I'm out. Deal's off."
Frye was watching her curiously. "So much for not caring about some dumbass detective."
"Don't." She got as far as the doctors would allow before she was asked to wait outside. Fidgeting nervously, she rubbed at the soot stains on her skin and sat down to wait in the sterile waiting room. A few minutes later, Frye settled down in the chair next to her.
"Everyone got out of the warehouse," Frye commented absently. "Blew up half a city block and probably more than half of the vampires in this city. Overall, a success."
"Yeah."
"No thanks to us."
"Yeah."
"Do you want to talk about it?"
"Do I ever?" Faith stared down at her hands, picking at the drying blood with fascinated horror.
"I'll get you something to clean that up." She felt him move away, heard the chair creak and his footsteps fade into the silence.
Her fingers were shaking as reality finally began to sink in. Heartbeat. She had felt for a pulse and she had found one. Spike had a heartbeat. She'd seen his chest rise and fall as he breathed. Spike was alive. The man lying on the gurney, whose blood had turned her skin the color of rust, was alive. Had said her name with a mixture of shock and wonder, had looked at her with those same blue eyes. Had put his fist through a vampire's chest. She didn't know how any of it was even possible. Fumbling through her pockets, she dug out her cell phone and punched in the string of numbers she had tried so hard to forget. One ring, two, three, four, five. Six rings, she almost gave up. Seven. One more and she'd hang up.
"Hello?" Buffy sounded half asleep.
"Hey, B."
"Faith? Are you all right?"
Faith looked down at her hands and clothes. "Yeah…just…rough night."
"I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do?"
"No." Hot tears filled her eyes and she brushed them away.
"Just wanted to hear a sympathetic voice?"
"Maybe." There was an unmistakable quiver in her voice now as the dam broke and tears streamed down her face. "There was this guy. Police. Drusilla killed his partner and he's been dusting all these vampires for months. And tonight," her voice broke.
"Go on," Buffy prompted gently.
"He found this one vampire. Total bad-ass. We've been looking for him too." Sniffing, she took the damp towel Frye offered when he returned and wiped at her face. "I carried him out of the building. Fire everywhere, shit falling from the ceiling, demons. So much blood, B, so much goddamn blood."
"How is he?"
"I don't know. I'm…I'm waiting."
"I know how that feels."
"Yeah. Figured you did." Faith wiped her nose on the towel and shifted the phone to her left hand, allowing Frye to wash away the blood and ash from her right hand.
"It'll be alright, Faith. I promise."
"How…how do you do it?"
"Save people?"
Faith closed her eyes tightly. "Watch people die."
"If there's one thing I've learned, it's that you can't fight death. It comes and there's nothing, no stake, no weapon, can ever stop it. And it rips you up into little pieces, makes you wonder if you'll ever be whole again. We're Slayers, we think everything can be fought and defeated. Strategy, battle plans, keep everyone alive. But we can't."
"I don't know…if he dies." She couldn't bring herself to tell Buffy it was Spike, couldn't handle the kind of fear that would come if she actually said it out loud.
"It will be okay if he dies, Faith." Pause. "Maybe he'll find some peace."
"Maybe."
"I know you did everything you could."
Faith felt a wave of guilt wash over her. She hadn't even been completely sober when she had charged into the burning catacombs; hadn't shaken off the alcohol until the fight was well under way. What if it had slowed her reflexes just enough? Just enough to mean that she hadn't been able to reach him in time. Could she have stopped the vampire from plunging the jagged piece of metal into his chest if she'd been sober? Her shoulders began to shake as she dissolved into sobs. She was still fucking everything up. Still making mistakes that cost lives, mistakes that others paid for in blood and pain.
"Miss Hawkins?" The doctor touched her shoulder gently and Faith jumped, startled.
"B, doc's here, gotta go."
"Call me!"
The phone snapped shut and Faith stuffed it back into her pocket self-consciously, brushing tears out of her eyes. "Is he okay? He's still alive, right?"
Nodding firmly, the doctor smiled. "It missed his heart and all the major arteries. We've given him a transfusion to replace the blood he lost and Dr. Norris is patching him up. He'll be fine."
"Fine," she echoed with disbelief, her muscles turning to jello as she sunk back into the chair.
"Do you want me to take you home?" Frye touched her hand gently.
"No. No. I want to stay." Faith bit her lip nervously. "When he wakes up, I want to be here."
"At least let me take you home to get cleaned up. I promise I'll bring you right back."
She hesitated for a few moments before looking down at her blackened clothing, stiff with his blood. Spike wouldn't want to wake up to that. He'd wonder if she was hurt and she shouldn't worry him. At least not until he was better. She nodded quickly and let Frye lead the way back through the corridors to the parking lot. They passed other members of the team as they filtered in, oxygen masks covering their faces and most of them sporting bandages. In good spirits, Randy and his brother Jake, were regaling the group with descriptions of the explosion and the faces of the demons who had gone up with the warehouse in a ball of fire. Impatiently, she waited for Frye to finish talking to them, anxious to get back to Spike. Her Spike.
Randy removed his mask long enough to ask a question. "You alright, Slay-gal?"
Faith felt a smile spread across her face. "Never been better."