Who Are You?
Beyond the pain radiating throughout his body and the cottony taste of antibiotics at the back of his throat, Spike knew there was a very good reason that he should be waking up; she had dark brown hair, chocolate eyes, and she smelled of magnolias. Beneath the pain, he could feel his wounds healing. Swelling faded and bones knit. He could feel the tug of surgical tape and stitches in his skin where he had been bandaged and sewn up. Floating just on the edge of consciousness, he let the parade of memories march through his drug addled brain. He would have laughed if his ribs hadn't felt as though they were on fire every time he inhaled. At least he hadn't ended his career as a vampire by chaining Buffy to a wall. That was too pathetic even for a depraved, blood-sucking fiend.
And the world hadn't ended.
Maybe he'd actually done something right when he dusted himself in that basement with Faith. Now that he could remember the look of pain on her face as he died, he was anxious to see her again; to touch her, feel the silk of her skin and the heat of her body. From the vague memories of the fire, he thought he remembered dark circles under her eyes and the impression that she had lost weight. Of course, he'd been halfway to Neverland at the time and wasn't sure if he could trust his memory at all.
Light began to filter through the darkness, awakening the tired nerves in his eyes and brain. His ears began to pick up the sounds of machines and the humming of light bulbs. Just a few minutes more, he told his aching muscles. Just a few more minutes of quiet and rest. Then he realized that he could feel her; her presence, her power, the strength that emanated from every inch of her body was washing over him in waves.
"Can I get you anything?" It was a man's voice. Unfamiliar and softly concerned.
"I'm good. Thanks." Faith's voice was strained and awkward, as though she was uncomfortable answering the question.
"I'll be back in an hour or so."
"I'm fine…you don't need to."
"I'll bring back some Chinese or something. What sounds good?" the man insisted. "And I want you to stay with me tonight."
"Frye, please." She sounded so tired that Spike wanted to reach out for her.
"And I mean the whole night, not just long enough to get your clothes back on."
The rest of the conversation faded into whispers as Spike realized that Faith was talking to her lover. She had a lover. Of course, she did. He'd told her to find someone. Idiot that he was. He couldn't have known that he would end up back in her world somehow.
Torn between two worlds, he teetered between sleep and wakefulness. Not wanting to face the reality sitting beside his bed and not wanting to drift back into the comforting cocoon of sleep either. What was he supposed to say to her? In a way, he was touched that she'd listened to him and moved on with her life instead of falling apart over his death, the way he had fallen apart after Buffy died. That was a memory he would have been glad to have never gotten back. One of many.
"Spike?" Hope lifted the tone of her voice several notes.
A dry throat took care of any questions about what he would say first, rendering him unable to do anything but croak as he squinted against the bright lights and struggled to move his limbs.
"Don't move." Her warm hands fluttered over his chest and shoulders. "Do you need anything? Water?"
He nodded slowly and let her help him into an almost sitting position, enough that he didn't have to crane his neck to look at her. The hospital gown was puffy with the bandages underneath, wounds itching as they healed beneath layers of surgical bandages. Her hands were shaking as she filled a glass of water, coming back to his side and helping him drink carefully.
"Easy…easy." That voice could drive a man insane.
Throat soothed and the sterile taste gone from his mouth, he took the glass from her trembling hands and held onto it tightly. She had lost weight; her clothes hung too loosely and her collar bones more pronounced than he remembered. The dark circles under her eyes were also new, accompanied by the haunted look of someone with too many sleepless nights behind them. The scars were familiar, each one just where he had left it. Unconsciously, he reached out to trail his fingers over the circlets around her wrists, noticing the tremor that passed through her as he touched her.
It was different. Touching her had always been heady and erotic, but this was a charge that he couldn't explain. A jolt of electricity and energy through his hand, up his arm, and spreading through his chest like fire. She was a Slayer; he could feel that in a way he never had before. Was it anything like what Buffy had referred to as her 'vampire sense'? he wondered.
She took his hands gently, mindful of the broken fingers. "Hey."
"Hey." Great first words there. Still pathetic after all these years. "Faith…I…you…how are you?"
"Good."
"Good."
"Yeah." Hesitant, she pulled her fingers away and returned to the chair, sitting on the edge like a child waiting to be set loose for recess.
"Probably have a lot of questions." Spike rested back against the bed.
"You could say that."
"I don't have any answers."
A dozen expressions crossed her face, almost piling on top of each other as she struggled with her emotions. "You don't know how you got here? How you're..." She nodded toward his chest.
"Not a clue."
"Research then. Frye's a whiz at that kind of thing. He's like a male Willow only taller and…not gay." She stumbled over the last part and looked down at her hands for a moment. "But you are Spike, right?"
"One and only." He tried to give her a reassuring smile. "Go ahead and quiz me if you want."
"Buffy Summers."
"Slayer. Blond, holier than thou attitude. Or as you so eloquently put it while you were joyriding, a stuck up tight-ass with no sense of fun."
"Xander?"
"Bloody awful taste in women."
"Angel?"
"Now you're just being cruel. No need to torture me." For a moment, the tension faded and she smiled brightly at him. The same smile he'd seen that night in Sunnydale when he'd realized that he wanted her, had taken her into his arms and let her heat burn everything else away. After a moment, she seemed to remember as well and the smile faltered as her cheeks colored, eyes returning to her lap.
"Your accent's…different."
"Yeah, s'pose it's all those memories of growing up in the states." Shifting carefully, he avoided the curious look for a second before giving her a faint shrug. "Whole life time of memories that aren't real. Of running around in the sun, college, friends. Least I know how the Bit feels with all those monk memories she's got."
"So you have a life here. With family and everything?"
"Not anymore." He closed his eyes against the fake pain of his parents' deaths and the very real pain of Gage's death. At least he had known Gage. Some of those memories were real.
"What happened?"
"The usual. Dad had a heart attack and Mum got cancer." Pausing for a moment, he frowned and opened his eyes. "Dru got Gage and he was all I had left. Of that life, anyway."
"Oh." She sounded lost.
"Faith, luv." It was a strain to use the term of endearment. "You don't have to stay here. And you could probably use a rest yourself."
Her brow furrowed. "You're sure you're all right? You've been out for about a day."
"Right as rain. Really. I'm sure they'll take good care of me and I'll be out making a nuisance of myself in no time." He really wanted her to leave before her boyfriend came back. He wasn't sure if he could handle the little things, the touches and glances that would give away the fact that they were lovers. The intimacy that he no longer had with her.
"I can stay, it's no problem." Her hands were tight fists in her lap, teeth showing as she gnawed on her lower lip. "But if you want me to leave."
"Yeah. Don't want to keep you."
Turning his face away from her, he closed his eyes against the sound her standing up and moving toward the door. His own heartbeat was loud in the silence as he waited for the door to open and close. When it didn't happen after nearly fifty beats, he opened his eyes again. Faith was standing at the bottom of the bed glaring at him. Warily, he straightened further despite the tugging of his wounds. "What is it, Slayer?"
"You son of a bitch," she ground out angrily.
"Hey!" Spike held up a hand, moving the glass of water to the table beside the bed. "I've only been awake for five minutes. What the bloody hell have I done now?"
"You're fucking lying to me." Scowling, she wrenched her jacket off of her shoulders and tossed it into the chair.
"Don't know what you're talking about." He raised one eyebrow as she undid the laces of her boots and tossed them into the chair as well. "And what the hell are you doing?"
Ignoring his question, she climbed onto the bed and straddled his legs, grabbing hold of both wrists tightly enough to leave bruises on already injured skin. She was careful, despite her anger, to keep her weight off of his wounds. "You left me. You fucking left me in that fucking basement. Left me sitting there with your goddamn dust all over me."
"Faith." He didn't want to hear how badly he'd hurt her. Leaving her, causing her pain, felt as good as swallowing a spoonful of tacks even though he knew that there hadn't been a choice.
"Shut up." Furious, she tightened her grip on his fingers for emphasis. He could tell she wanted to hit him, a bare sliver of restraint away from sending him back into unconsciousness. "I had to go back to Sunnyhell and get fawned over by the bloody Scoobies. And you? You were here, in Boston, playing detective with your new friends and your family. You didn't even…you…and you told me to find someone, so I did. I haven't slept, I haven't eaten. Just sat on that chair waiting for you to fucking wake up and now you're telling me to leave." Tears slipped down her cheeks as her anger faded into pain. "Just tell me why, just tell me."
"Come again?" Spike stared at her, bewildered.
Her shoulders slumped dejectedly. "Did you even look for me at all?"
Speechless, he pulled her as tightly against his chest as the thick bandages would allow, filling his lungs with the familiar scent of her skin and lotion. Rubbing her back gently, he waited until her tears had subsided before straightening her up again and catching her eyes. "I'm sorry. I don't know what else to tell you. I'm sorry."
"I just don't understand how you could be here, alive, and not even call. Not even pick up the fucking telephone."
"I didn't remember." Spike cradled her face in his hands, brushing at the streaks left behind by the tears. "I swear I didn't remember anything at all until I saw you. Faith, if I'd known, if I'd had any idea. You know I would have found you."
"Amnesia? That's convenient." She sniffed quietly, sarcastic and hopeful at the same time.
Slowly, Spike managed to gather his thoughts together. "I think it was part of the deal. Heartbeat, life. Don't think I was meant to remember anything at all. Probably wouldn't have if I'd never run into you."
"Guess I have to believe you."
"Don't have to. Go ahead and hate me, luv. For being the bloody pillock I am." He kissed her forehead gently before pulling her back into his arms, basking in the heat of her body and the way it curved against him perfectly. "Can't say I'm not glad that you missed me."
Her voice was soft, dangerously so, and her face turned away so that he couldn't see her expression. "When you died, you took me with you. There was nothing left. Nothing."
That emptiness was something he knew agonizingly well. He'd felt it when he had seen Buffy's body lying in the rubble, incredulous and in denial of what was before him. He'd felt it again when his hands touched Gage's dead skin and dull, sandy hair that had gleamed in the sunlight just a hour before; watching as meaning and life were stripped away, wondering if he'd ever find something to fill the crater inside his soul, to ease the constant ache gnawing away at his emotions. The pain of loss ignored all barriers, striking down its victims with impunity and not caring who they were, what they did for a living, or if they deserved that kind of pain. He wanted to tell her that he would never leave her again, never let her go, but he wasn't sure of his place with her. She had taken him at his word and moved on. Where did that leave him?
"He's good to you, right? This bloke you've found."
"Spike." She pushed away quickly, her eyes shining as she looked up at him.
"S'alright, luv. I wanted you to find someone."
"He's not someone…he's just…someone." Burying her face against his chest, she clung to him like a lifeline. "He's not what I want."
"Good." He smiled when she blinked up in surprise. "Cause I was gonna have a helluva time not killing him."
It was such a foreign sound that Frye stopped outside the door to listen. Puzzled, he leaned to the side and glanced through the blinds of the hospital room to see what was going on inside. Faith was lying in the hospital bed with her head on the detective's shoulder and one arm wrapped around his waist. Laughing. She was laughing. He'd never heard her laugh. She looked like a completely different person. Younger, happier. Vulnerable.
The familiarity between them hit Frye like a sledgehammer. He watched the man nuzzle her hair softly, fingers stroking her arm with a gentleness that she had never allowed. She curled against him with complete trust and openness. With affection. They fit together like puzzle pieces, locking tightly into a whole. Fingers tangled together and their voices were intimately low as they talked. As he made her laugh. They looked like old friends catching up after years of being apart; more than old friends.
Minutes ticked by slowly as he watched the scene through the blinds; watched her cuddle against him, watched her lips brush against the bandaged knuckles of the cop's hand. His teeth grinding together, he tried to think of an explanation. He had to be someone she knew from when she was in Boston before, maybe an ex-boyfriend even. She probably hadn't known it was him until that night. It would explain why she'd been so worried, so adamant about being there when he woke up.
He'd known it wouldn't last.
Every time he'd put his arms around her and kissed her, he'd known that she wasn't thinking about him. That in her mind, there was another man he could never compete with. But he'd hoped the bastard who had broken her heart was gone forever. Even if he did come back, Frye had believed that she would know better than to trust him again. Maybe not. Davis Williams was not a stranger to Faith and he couldn't think of another explanation for the closeness between them.
Wincing, he exhaled painfully as he watched their lips meet, but he couldn't look away.
When he finally managed to turn away, his breathing was ragged and pained. He left the overnight bag he'd taken from her apartment outside the door. She had never been his and she never would be. She would never love him.
Faith Hawkins was already in love.
"You're sure this came from Detective Williams?" Benjamin Moore looked up from his computer screen as the door to the lab swung shut. His desk was neatly organized into piles, drawers, and file folders. Around him was the heart of the Boston teams research facilities, equipped with all the latest technology to study demons. What made them tick and preferably what made them stop ticking.
Frye nodded, crossing his arms as he pulled up a chair. "Faith had his blood all over her. I helped her clean up."
"And hijacked a sample. You have a devious mind, Birkman."
"Just tell me what he is, Ben."
"Honest answer? No fucking clue."
"But he's not human."
"Oh, he's definitely not human." Ben clicked through a series of folders, navigating through files to pull up a series of charts and images. "He's got the basics of human blood. Type, the general structure, and ratios are all the same. But when you go deeper, crack open the DNA and take a peek. Worlds of difference."
Frye frowned at the screen. "And these differences, what could they do?"
"They could do just about anything really. Most of them are where normal humans have sets of inactive genes. The genes that evolution turned off centuries ago. His are not only active, they're entirely different base pairs." Ben was typing a series of numbers into the computer. "I got a looksie at the medical files for your mystery man and I think I can give you an idea of what they might be doing. The guy bounced back like the Energizer Bunny when he should have bought the farm. He was already healing when the doctors got to him. Norris didn't even want to put stitches in because, and this is a direct quote, he could watch the tissue healing. Real time. You read any comic books as a kid, Frye?"
"A few."
"Well, our Mr. Williams would make Stan Lee proud."
"Who?"
"X-Men?" With a long sigh, Ben hit the enter button and sent the electronic brain away to think. "I'm surprised the doctors didn't stow him away in an Erlenmeyer somewhere. Probably didn't want to piss the Slayer off and find themselves at the wrong end of a pointy weapon."
"Randy saw him put his fist through a vampire's chest and rip the heart right out."
"If you believe Randy."
"I do." He tapped his pencil on the counter as he considered the possibilities. "Anything else?"
"There is one more thing." Ben glanced around the lab a little nervously. "We're not supposed to be messing with this stuff. After the shit that went down in Sunnydale, if you even look at one of the Slayers the wrong way you're up for a court martial."
"But?"
"I pulled a sample of Faith's blood and ran it against Davis'."
"And?"
Ben motioned to another set of diagrams, dragging the two imaged double helixes side by side with a quick swipe of his mouse. "General Crazy Ass isolated which genes are the Slayer genes, they're highlighted in yellow here. It's a specific set that isn't seen in regular people like you and me and they only become active when the girl is called. No idea on how that works. Now look at Davis'."
To Frye, it was a colorful patchwork of fancy blocks and lines. "What am I seeing here?"
"The same goddamn genes."
"So he's a Slayer? A male Slayer?"
Ben grinned. "Safe to say he can do anything a Slayer can plus a bit more on the side."
Frye looked back and forth between the two sets of pictures for a few moments before he reached down for his backpack. "I want to show you something. It'll probably just bring up more questions." Pulling a folder out of the pack, he opened it carefully and pulled out several glossy eight by tens. The familiar face of Davis Williams stared out of the pages, identical down to the leather jacket and bleached hair.
"Nice prints, what kind of resolution?"
"You're missing the point. Who's the guy in the photos?"
"Detective Williams," Ben answered, puzzled. "You sent a photo with the blood sample."
"Check the time stamp."
"A year ago. So what?"
"Those pictures are from the Watcher's Council and they aren't pictures of Davis Williams." Frye picked up the pencil again and began to tap it absently on his knee. "They're pictures of Spike. Also known as William the Bloody, sired by Drusilla in 1880. Dusted about six months ago in New Orleans according to the Council."
"A vampire?"
"A vampire."
"It's possible that they're identical by chance. Odds are pretty steep but not technically impossible. You're sure this isn't Williams?"
"The Council's pretty sure." Frye shrugged, staring at his pencil as though it had the answers he was looking for. "As sure as I am that Davis Williams has a heartbeat and no sunlight issues." He'd seen Davis and Faith together, hand and hand, looking for all the world like a newlywed couple as they laughed their way down the sidewalk. He'd seen them fight together. Two angels of death in black leather, each movement perfectly in synch and evenly matched in strength and speed.
"This isn't because she's sleeping with him. Is it? The guys talk, you know, and-"
Frye interrupted him sharply. "According to the Council, she was fucking Spike the vampire before she killed him." The words tasted bitter, poisonous, and he wished he'd never made that phone call. Never asked the right questions and gotten all the wrong answers.
"Twisted."
"I hear it's a Slayer thing. So no, it's not about her and Davis." He shifted in his seat and stopped tapping for a moment. "I'm curious. I want to know what he is and where he came from. If he is Spike reincarnate or brought back to life somehow, I want to know how and why."
"Asking the unanswerable questions here."
"There have to be answers out there somewhere. Someone has to know what happened."
Spike closed the cupboard door and turned back to the Slayer watching him. "You know there's not a drop of alcohol in this place?"
"I know." Her voice stayed casual even though she stiffened just enough for him to notice the change in demeanor. It wasn't the first time he'd mentioned liquor and watched her go distant. She'd ordered a glass of water at the restaurant the night before and artfully skirted his questions with offhand comments about not being in the mood and driving home.
"Don't remember you having anything against a drink now and then." He pressed a little, trying to find his way into the maze that was Faith. He knew that she had let him further into her world than she had let anyone, let him see inside her where she was human and fragile, but there were pieces of her still locked tightly away from his questions.
"Things change." Dismissing the topic casually, Faith headed into the living room and settled onto the couch with a magazine.
He wasn't sure if he was supposed to follow her. They were still feeling out the boundaries and expectations of their relationship. The spacious apartment had more than accommodated his arrival and the few things he had decided to keep as reminders of his brief months in idyllic human ignorance before the past had come back to haunt him. Clothes mostly, odds and ends, photographs of a past that had never happened. They'd fallen into an easy rhythm of work and play. Living apart had never been considered, never a possibility now that they had managed to find each other again. He returned to the Police Force as soon as he could shoot straight and after he'd worked out all the lies in his head.
Lying to the men he had considered friends and colleagues was difficult, lying to the press was easy. Lying to Dr. Coleman had fifty-fifty odds of blowing up in his face, but if she had doubts about his story, she hadn't voiced them. In the end, he didn't have the heart to ruin the name and legacy of Lieutenant Scott Merritt. There was a detailed story, aided in fabrication by the team of misfits that Faith worked with. The government also had a vested interest in keeping the truth under wraps, supplying the evidence Spike needed and sneaking in through the technological back doors to make the numbers add up. Davis Williams was once more in the headlines, his face and words splattered in ink everywhere he turned until the next story came along.
The simplest lies were always the best.
The cover story was that Merritt had been working with the Drug Enforcement Agency, investigating a drug ring operating out of the warehouse district and spreading throughout the east coast. Believable enough. Suspecting that someone inside the force was either turning a blind eye or taking in something on the side, the Lieutenant had turned to Spike as a cop he knew he could trust. The story unraveled from there. Mistakes made, reconnaissance gone south and Merritt had died in the crossfire as the criminals panicked. With two fingers crossed behind their back, the boys on Faith's team had managed to produce half a dozen types of drugs at the crime scene like a bouquet of mild-altering rabbits out of a smoking hat. Beyond that, they'd found a worn section of pipe in the underground gas line that had been struck by a stray bullet, incinerating the building above it and half of the surrounding block. It was all wrapped up in a neat, tidy package of lies and falsification. The Lieutenant had gotten a heart-wrenching tribute at his funeral, an American flag draped over a casket with someone else's body inside, and a twenty-one gun salute. He'd died a hero in the war against crime.
Life was a funny thing.
He knew why Faith was afraid to tell the Scoobies he was alive; he was terrified himself of what would happen if they knew. Every time his life seemed to be making a turn for the better was when it all went to Hell. Here, now, he felt as though his most incredible dream had come true. He was almost too afraid to even breathe, afraid that it was all going to fall apart again. There was plenty of tension in their own backyard as it was. The crew had uneasily welcomed him into their midst, never truly vocalizing the fact that he wasn't quite like the rest of them. Stronger and faster, he and Faith left the rest of them milling around with nothing to do as the Slayer and her Who-Knows-What boyfriend took the demon world to the cleaners. Beyond that, he didn't know what Faith had told her former lover, but Frye was uncharacteristically quiet and a little pinched around the edges when he spoke to Spike.
Spike couldn't blame him. He knew what it felt like to imagine Faith with someone else, knew how infuriating and painful it must be. He wasn't about to rock that boat either. She was his, in the bedroom and out of it, and there was no fucking way any other man was going to lay a finger on her. Machismo and testosterone aside, he knew it was her decision and he was determined to hold on to her as long as he could. As long as she wanted him, he would be there.
He heard the cell phone ring. Knew from the way her voice dropped that it was Frye and he had to take a deep breath to keep from getting close enough to hear the conversation. It wasn't any of his business. Almost inaudibly, the phone clicked shut and the silence thickened to the consistency of molasses, giving the impression that time and light slowed down in their furious racing and were stuck in the conspicuous absence of sound, like wild beasts with invisible hooves firmly planted in a tar bed. He waited until he heard the couch shift as her weight left the cushions and the soft footfalls as she returned to the kitchen.
"He found her," her voice was stone cold and heavy.
Spike only nodded and opened his arms, hugging her tightly when she came to him. "Right then. We'll make a day of it. See the sights, do some shopping. Sound good?"
"Yeah." She pulled away, looking around aimlessly as she collected her things. Car keys, wallet, a jacket in case the weather turned. Fall was in full swing, leaves changing and lighting up the New England area in a blaze of color. Cold air had crept into the city, leaving a chill in the wind even when the sun still shone down brightly.
Tugging the keys from her fingers, he took her hand as they left the apartment. "Got the address?"
"Here." She stuffed the crumpled piece of paper into his jacket pocket, eyes still darting around nervously.
"Hungry?"
"No. I'm good."
Conversation was kept light and superficial as they drove, commenting on the weather or the color of the leaves. About places they'd heard about and a new dance club opening up that might be worth trying. It was the idle banter of two people talking to reassure each other that they were still there, still together.
He broke the unwritten law of subject skirting with a quick glance toward the passenger seat. "You're gonna be fine, luv."
"I can't even tell you how much I hate her." Faith kept staring out the window.
"It's over now."
"It's never over, is it?" Shifting in the seat, she sought out his hand, thumb stroking the back of his fingers lightly. "The past is always there. Always comes back. I tried running away. That turned out fucking fantastic with an extra serving of jail time. Tried fighting back, tried forgetting about it. Tried drinking." She stopped abruptly, as though there had been more to the sentence, but she didn't want to finish it. "But it never goes away."
"No. It never does."
"Then what's the point of doing this? So the bitch is still alive. Why should I care?" Her voice dropped, tired and strained. "Why should I care?"
Unable to think of a good reason and knowing that despite her protests, she actually did care, Spike kept his eyes on the road as he drove toward the address in his pocket. He took the longest route he could think of that wouldn't cross state lines or require a plane ticket. They wove through Boston, closing the circle on the rundown apartment complex that would bring Faith back to her past. It was a line he'd crossed more than a century before and it had scarred him. He wasn't sure which was worse, having a mother who doted on him turn into a demon or a mother who had never loved him at all. The experience was so far beyond his experience and imagination, he couldn't begin to understand.
Shaking herself visibly, she smiled. "Been crazy moody for the last few days. Sorry."
"Woman's prerogative." He grinned when she punched him lightly on the shoulder. "I have to use that arm, Slayer."
"Really? What for?" She raised an eyebrow, brown eyes raking down his chest suggestively.
"Killing vampires, of course."
"Just that?"
"Maybe a few other demons, throw down a beating or two." Winking playfully, he made a right turn and slowly eased into a parking space outside their destination. He left the engine running, half expecting her to change her mind and want to go home.
"It doesn't seem real," she mused as she stared out the window at the rundown building. "New address, same shitty apartment building. Wonder if she still wears that cheap perfume. Supposed to smell like wildflowers."
"Didn't fill your head with images of poppy fields?"
"Couldn't smell anything but the schnapps." Visibly steeling herself, she climbed out of the car and took up a patch of concrete to stare up at the building.
Spike followed her, one hand raising enough to rest comfortably against her shoulder blades, letting her know that he was with her every step of the way. She wasn't alone. Despite the cool air outside, the hallways of the building were stifling and oppressive. Stained carpet and peeling wallpaper added to the gloom, building images of shouting tenants and kids in second or third hand clothes with dirty faces; of broken bottles and cigarette burns. It wasn't a place that welcomed or brought back memories of Grandma's cooking, crackling fireplaces, and hot cocoa. It was a place where dead end lives collected behind battered doors lining the narrow hallways and tainted the air with pent-up anger and despair as thick as the smoke.
"206. This is it." Faith took a deep breath as she squared off against the door, looking more like she was preparing for battle than meeting her mother.
"You don't have to do this, luv." Spike caressed her shoulders gently, kissing the back of her neck.
"Yeah, I do." She turned her head just enough to press her temple against his lips and give him a smile. "And it was your idea in the first place."
"I'd offer to bite her."
"But no fangs."
"Pity."
"Yeah, well, stakes work just as well on humans as they do vamps."
Spike brushed his lips over her hair, squeezing her shoulders one last time before he moved back and took a deep breath. "Let's do it then. Those hot fudge sundaes won't wait forever."
"Right." With a brusque nod, she raised one fist and rapped hard on the flimsy door. They waited. Nearly a minute had passed before they heard footsteps behind the wood and the sound of a lock sliding away. The door opened, chain still attached, just enough for a woman's face to peer into the hallway.
"Whatever you're selling, I don't want it," she snapped angrily before moving to close the door.
Faith put her hand out to stop the door from shutting completely. "Mom?"
More silence. The woman stared at them for a few long seconds with a puzzled look on her face before she reached for the chain, pulling open the door once it was unlatched. Spike was amazed how much she resembled Faith when he finally got a good look at her. Same bone structure, same wide brown eyes and dark hair. It was streaked with gray, tugged tightly into a severe ponytail that conflicted with the flamboyant pants and snug tank top. Gaudy earrings dangled from her ears, wrinkles deepening as she sucked at her cigarette.
"Well, well, little Firecracker's finally come home." It was the same rich, husky voice that came from Faith's lips, but edged with the hardness of someone who'd lived a long, hard life.
"I was in the neighborhood," Faith offered vaguely.
"Almost didn't recognize you. What the hell happened to your face?"
"Car accident." She was getting more agitated, more defensive by the syllable.
"Who's the babe?" Faith's mother eyed Spike appreciatively and held out her hand, complete with long, lacquered nails at the end. "I'm Emma. Don't suppose she told you that, did she?"
Spike glanced at Faith quickly, seeing her look down at the floor as he shook her mother's hand. "It didn't come up, ma'am."
"Don't ma'am me, I'm not that old." The laugh was harsh from years of smoking, her thumb rubbing against the back of Spike's hand as she pushed open the door with her hip and nodded toward the dim interior. "Come on in, handsome."
"We don't want to take up too much of your time." Spike kept one hand on Faith's lower back protectively as they stepped through the threshold.
"I have a few minutes to spare." Emma shoved a pile of magazines off of the battered sofa before settling into an equally ragged easy chair. Cigarette smoke curling around her fingers, she reached for a tumbler sitting on the table beside the chair and sipped at her drink. "So you've come back to check in on your dear old mother."
"Something like that," Faith answered stiffly as she took a seat on the sofa, hands clenched into fists in her jacket pockets.
"Looks like you're doing well for yourself." Brown eyes raked over Faith with casual dismissal. "Nice boots."
"They do."
"Expensive."
"They were."
Spike sat back uneasily, wondering if he should have come fully armed in case the two women decided to fight it out. The room was unkempt and shabby, whatever money she earned was obviously spent on something other than furnishings and cleaning supplies. Faded magazines, a few empty beer bottles tucked into corners, and a layer of dust accumulating over every flat surface. One of the lamps was giving off a faint buzzing noise, the bulb flickering. There were pictures hanging on the walls and some without frames tacked to the plaster. None of them were of Faith.
"How much did he cost?" The rough voice jerked him back from his perusal of the rooms. A gentle touch from Faith let him know that he didn't need to interfere.
"What is that supposed to mean?" Faith demanded coolly.
"Come on, you expect me to believe that you snagged this guy with that face? Are you even wearing cover-up?" One eyebrow arched disdainfully. "I taught you better than that."
"You taught me," Faith repeated incredulously. "What exactly do you think that you taught me?"
"Everything you know."
"You don't even know me."
"Don't I?" Fake nails scratched against the ashtray as she stubbed out her cigarette. "I carried you in my body for nine months. I raised you. Like hell I don't know you."
"And where were you for the rest of my life?"
"You're the one who left, Faith. Not me."
"I left because you were too drunk to even remember who I was. I left because you cared more about getting your fix than stopping that bastard Shane from coming into my bedroom at night."
"You always were an ungrateful brat."
"And you're still a worthless bitch."
Spike reeled as the conversation whipped past him. It was one more piece of the Faith puzzle, one more piece of her that she had carefully locked away and kept from him. His first impulse was to pull her out of there, pick her up and carry her away from the harpy with painted claws, spitting whiskey scented barbs. He wanted to take her away from the woman who was still doing damage years after the events.
Emma's hand trembled as she finished off the glass of liquor and reached for the pack of cigarettes. "So you came back to tell me how all your problems are my fault. Blame it all on me. Go ahead. I don't give a fuck."
"Did you ever?" Faith's knuckles were white.
Emma laughed, cruel and mocking. "You were a goddamn mistake. Asshole told me he was fixed and I believed the fucker. I was fifteen."
"Who was he? Do you even know that much?"
"Hell no. Even if he told me his name, I was too high to remember."
Faith crumbled a little, eyes dropping to the coffee table in front of them. Instinctively, Spike slipped his arm around her back for reassurance. His own fists were aching for a go at the older woman. It hadn't occurred to him that Faith might be looking for her father, that she might not know who he was. That her own mother didn't know the father of her child.
"This was a waste of time." Faith tensed to get up.
"What? No hug?" Emma sneered bitterly. "Always thinking about yourself. Poor Faith, her mother did her wrong. Did you ever think about me? About my life? What I wanted?"
"What did you want? Cause it sure as hell wasn't me."
"Having you ruined my life. Screaming needy little brat, couldn't get a moment's peace until you ran away. And now you come waltzing back with your fancy boots to show me how well you're doing." Puffing furiously, she leaned back in the chair and propped her feet up on the table. "You were worthless from the day you were born and you're still worthless. Fucking everything with a dick. You didn't think I knew about that, did you? Didn't think I knew about the boys climbing in your window at night? Does your pretty boytoy know all about that? How much is he paying you to fuck him? Cause you aren't worth shit."
"Do not bring him into this," Faith snarled, shoulders tensing.
"The only thing you ever did for me was get Shane to drop the price a few bucks."
Spike came off the couch cushion a second before Faith, hurling the coffee table across the room where it shattered against the wall, sending a cascade of photos crashing to the floor and rattling the lamps. Grabbing Emma's hand hard enough to crunch the bones together and make her cry out, he wrenched the cigarette from her fingers and yanked her out of the chair. One hand closed around the bitch's neck, but all Spike could see was her twisted smile as she let her dealer destroy her own daughter.
"Spike! No!" Faith dragged him away, pulling his fingers off her mother's throat and shoving him toward the far side of the room.
"Sorry," he spat out, hands still itching to kill.
Emma gasped for air, collapsing back into the chair and staring at him with wide, frightened eyes. She managed to cough, reaching for her empty glass. "I'm calling the cops."
Faith put both hands down on the armrests and looked her mother squarely in the face. "He is a cop. And believe me when I tell you that no one will listen to you. No one will miss you if you suddenly disappear and no one will look for your body." Ignoring her mother's spluttering denials, Faith continued. "Do you want to know what you taught me? You taught me that the world is an ugly, horrible place. You taught me that I was nothing, that I would always be nothing. You taught me to hate, to be angry. You taught me that there is no such thing as love, that it's all about money and taking care of number one."
Emma glanced at Spike warily, cowering in the chair. "He's a cop?"
"In fact, he's a goddamn American hero." Faith snatched the newspaper crumpled on the floor and tossed it onto her mother's lap; Spike's picture filled the front page. "What's the matter, mom? Can't you read?" Her mother's face paled as she blinked down at the newspaper, comparing the image to Spike.
"Well…I…" she stammered nervously.
"Do you want to know something else?" Faith pulled away. "You were wrong about all of it. The world isn't ugly or horrible. Maybe it's not perfect but there are still good people out there. There are people who care, people who are capable of love. People who aren't like you, who aren't so fucked up that they don't even know what it is to be happy. And I am not nothing. I'm part of something you wouldn't even understand." She paused to take a deep breath. "This man, he doesn't pay me, I don't pay him. He wants me. Me. And when he looks at me, he sees what you never could."
Spike heard her voice break and stepped forward to take her arm. "Let's go, luv. We're done here."
"It's over now, mom." A muscle ticked in Faith's jaw. "You're dead to me." She turned so sharply that she nearly ran into Spike and headed for the front door like a freight train. He turned to follow her, not daring to even look back.
"Is it true?" Emma croaked behind him. "What she said?"
He stopped halfway down the hall. "Every word."
"Do you love her?"
He glanced back over his shoulder at the suddenly frail looking woman sitting in a rundown living room; at the image of what Faith would and would never be. Her hair would streak with gray and wrinkles would line her face as the years marched by, but Faith would never be weak, never be broken. In that moment, he realized that he did love her. Not the way he had loved Dru or Buffy, but it was just as real. A new kind of love that he didn't understand and hadn't felt before. He nodded, waiting for a caustic remark from the bitter woman's lips.
Instead, she sighed and rubbed at her throat. "Then she did okay for herself. Didn't turn out like me."
"No. She didn't turn out like you."
"Good." Reluctantly, she turned back to the armchair and pulled out another cigarette. "We always hated each other."
"I've only known you for twenty minutes and I hate you."
Emma cackled, snorting with laughter as she began picking up the pieces of the coffee table. "Yeah, well, that makes two of us."
"Why'd you do it?" He had to ask. Morbidly, stupidly, he had to ask. "Hurt her like that. You didn't have to. You could've acted like her mother. Just this once."
Straightening, she waved to the door. "Get out of here. I've had enough of this fucking soap opera for one day. You won't be back so don't bother saying goodbye. Just shut the door on your way out."
"My pleasure." He slammed the door hard enough to knock the remaining pictures off of the wall and hurried from the building, looking around anxiously for Faith. She was sitting in the car, eyes closed and head resting on the arm draped out of the car window.
"Did you kill her?" she asked without opening her eyes.
"Not worth the effort." He crouched down on the curb beside the car and took her hand in his.
"Too bad." The corner of her mouth quirked and her lashes fluttered for a second before they rose. "You owe me a double hot fudge sundae with sprinkles."
"I don't know about the sprinkles," he teased.
"That was totally sprinkles worthy."
"All right, sprinkles it is."
"And a cherry on the top."
"And a cherry."
It was a bright and sunny day in the photograph.
Cordelia glanced at it curiously before dropping it on Wesley's desk. Warm sand, warm azure water capped with white frosting as it lapped up against the miniscule people captured in that happy moment on the beach. Brazil. Rio de Janeiro.
Wesley stared at it. He looked as though he'd never gotten a postcard before and she was pretty sure he didn't know anyone in Brazil. Mostly sure. There was one person who might be there but she wouldn't have a reason to send him a postcard. She knew that he wanted it to be from Cara, but he didn't dare hope for it. He didn't dare flip over the stiff paper and read the handwriting on the back just in case it wasn't from her and he would be left wondering if she was still alive. Wondering if she was still trapped in the Hell of Lilah's making and if she'd killed any more human beings since Sunnydale. They were all asking themselves the same questions.
"Aren't you going to read it?" Taking her cue from Angel's surreptitious nod, Cordelia took a seat across from Wesley and continued to stir her coffee lazily. "Usually the whole point of sending a postcard is to, you know, keep in touch. Kinda helps to read it."
"I was just thinking." The postcard slid through his fingers and scraped against the tabletop.
"I can see the signature from here, do you want me to tell you who it's from?"
Wesley smiled tolerantly. "Why don't you read the whole thing, Cordy? I know you're dying to get your hands on it."
"All right then. All you had to do was ask." She snatched the postcard out of his hand and made a big show of getting ready to read it. It was addressed to 'Watcher', which could only be Wesley and that meant it was from Cara. Good, maybe he'd stop moping. She kept reading. The connotations of the message sent her blood draining from her face and head, leaving her dizzy and shaking. She wondered when the world had started spinning and playing musical chairs with her sanity.
"Cordelia?"
"It says," her voice trembled as she stared bleakly at the postcard. "Watcher."
"Yes?" There was obvious relief in his voice, knowing it was from Cara.
"It says. Wolfram and Hart betrayed you. She isn't what they said she is." More silence. She could feel Angel's eyes on the back of her head and knew that Wesley had turned to stone, his face losing all expression as his brain processed those five words.
The first to break the silence, Angel left his seat and moved toward them. He reached for the card. "I wonder what it means. Lilah?"
"Possibly," Wesley said hesitantly. "Perhaps it wasn't truly Lilah at all. We accepted their explanation, her explanation. I looked into breaking her contract with Wolfram and Hart, but never wondered if she was something else entirely."
"This cannot be good." Cordelia looked between Angel and Wesley, suddenly expecting a Wolfram and Hart SWAT team to come barreling through the windows at any moment. "What were we thinking? Of course, the lawyers betrayed us. Are we all stuck in eternal contracts too? Did we even look?"
"Cordy-" Angel began.
"I'm not going to be at the beck and call of Wolfram and Hart for eternity, Angel."
"You won't be." Lilah's voice cut short her rant. She smiled at Wesley as she closed the main door behind her. "Hello lover."
Wesley stood up slowly, both hands flat on his table. "What are you doing here?"
"Saying goodbye. But you could've figured that out by yourselves. Always knew that brain of yours would come in handy." Lilah touched her neck absently. "Now that you know, time's up and I'm headed back to Hell. I'd just distract you if I stayed. Something about a vampire who tends to become obsessed with revenge." She crossed to one of the bookshelves, running her fingers lightly over the books. "I'd love to say it's been fun working for you but it really hasn't and I don't feel like lying anymore." She didn't turn around, continuing to scan the bookshelf and speaking quietly, almost absently, as she moved back toward the office door. "I can't tell you anything else without getting into more trouble with the higher ups and believe me when I tell you that the shit hit the fan over this Slayer nightmare." Finally she turned around and smiled. "I can tell you this much. Everything I know, she knows."
"What do you mean?"
"Cara. Your Slayer. Do you have any idea how much it costs to change that many passwords? They're even replacing the regular locks. You'll get your keys on Monday."
"No more riddles, Lilah." Anger had crept into Wesley's voice.
"No riddles, no games. The world is changing and the Slayers are number one on the hit list. But it's bigger than that, bigger than you and me, bigger than Wolfram and Hart."
"And Cara knows this?"
"She doesn't know what she knows, hasn't put the pieces together yet. It'll take her a while to make sense of the alphabet soup stuck in her head and figure it all out. The Senior Partners were hoping that she wouldn't be lucid enough to write that postcard, but she's got a better grip on sanity than we'd like." Lines formed over her brow as she frowned. "Whoever messed with the neural transfer knew what they were doing, exactly which memories to give her. It's been right there in front of you the whole time and you never even saw it."
"Why are you telling us this?"
"Because I have nothing left to lose. Except the witty banter and the pleasure of your company which, actually, can't say I'll miss it all that much."
"And you're saying that Cara knows what's going to happen to the Slayers?" Angel was watching her like a hawk, indecision warring across his face.
"More than that, my sunlight challenged nemesis. She knows how to get your Shanshu."