A.N. So, I thought I could update this little novella sooner, but I guess I miscalculated the amount of time homework, work, school and sleep take up. Turns out it's actually alot. Who knew? So, I hope everyone is ready for this chapter. Great news guys! It isn't a flashback!

A.N. 2. We finally get to meet the 'other'! Gasp! I had fun with this character. Made drawings and everything. If you're interrested in seeing what I thought this character looked like, have a look at my homepage in my profile. It's not a homepage, more like a photobucket account, but hey. I suggest (if you don't want to be spoiled) to have a look after reading the chapter. I drew this person myself, I can't draw for diddlysquat,those three years in Visual Arts did nothing for me at all, but I have fun doodling once inawhile.

Summary: Buffy and Terry are stuck on a deserted highway near Pasadena. As coincidence would have it, Faith (whom Buffy hasn't seen for five years) lives in Pasadena. What happens next? Read on. And if you're still confused, just re-read the first chap.

"Hello?"

"Faith?"

"Buffy? Is that really you?"

"Fuck, I've missed you so much."

"Me too, Baby."

"Terry misses you too. Come home."

"Tell Terry I'll be there soon."

Right. So, no chance in hell that would ever happen or ever win the Best Adapted Screenplay Oscar. Let's just face the music, shall we? I have no imagination what so ever, and I'm the queen of procrastination. I've been sitting on the hood of the car for the past half hour, just staring at the screen of my mobile.

7:27 AM

7:28 AM

7:29 AM

What are you afraid of, Buff? Afraid? Who said anything about being afraid? Fear has nothing to do with this. It's just a silly phone call. So why haven't you called yet? Well, that's one good question. And I blame nerves. Fuck, I haven't spoken nor seen her for five years. A simple phone call doesn't seem so simple anymore.

Well, that tire ain't gonna fix itself, darlin'. My thumb hovers over the little green phone button thingy for what seems like hours now. Realistically, it's only been a few minutes, but being in the desert with a scorching sun doesn't help time go faster, somehow. And then, in a fit of delusion and insanity, my thumb, by some means, presses down upon that little green phone, and my hand brings the phone over to my right ear.

Both my legs have straightened out onto the hood of the car, paralysed in fear. My left arm braced on the left side, near the headlight; my fingers drumming restlessly onto a patch of rust near the tire… oh yeah: Nerves. It rings once, twice and another half before someone picks up. The voice is tired and somewhat slurred.

"Faith's phone, Page speaking." The voice says.

It's a manly voice, and my stomach does the flip thing it does so well when I'm nervous. Page? How many men do you know named Page? Says the woman named Buffy. And then I'm hit with a tidal wave of guilt. I'm intruding. On her personal life. On this guy's personal life. Who do you think you are? Guilty as… But I haven't been charged with anything… yet.

I have a problem, don't I? I have a right to try to fix it.

I manage a sound that sounds like something Animal from the Muppets would say. Smooth.

"Hello?" Page says, a little uncertainty laced in his voice.

Deep breath, Buffy.

"Sorry, is uh, Faith around?" That's better! I'm sure he understood that one. Less Animal and more Fozzie Bear.

"Uh, yeah, she's just in the shower, though. Can I take a message?" He says in smooth, cool voice. He sounds like he belongs on the high tides of Maui. Kinda like Keanu, but more coherent and… flowy? And no, that wasn't a Point Break reference. Well… Okay, so it was.

"Huh, could you just—" I start, but Neo cuts me off.

"Hold on, she just came out. Here she is." He says.

There's a pause as I hear him muffle the receiver with his hand and some muttering makes its way to my ear. I can just picture Mnemonic handing her the phone, and her staring at the caller id on her mobile screen. Yeah, it's me. Who else could it be? Suddenly my heart starts racing, as if it's ready to attack or pounce or… something.

I hear a sigh on the other end and I swallow the lump that's been forming in the back of my throat. My phone slowly slides from my hand and I struggle to keep it flush to my ear. Sweaty palms, indeed.

"What's wrong?" She says finally, and I catch my breath.

That voice. Like melted dark chocolate. And indulging is like a sin or something. Sinfully good. I wish I could listen to her and not say a word. Wish she could read my mind from where she is and do all the talking. Whoever said 'wishful thinking will make it so' must have been drinking. Fucker.

"Buffy? Is Terry alright?" She says, and I realize that I didn't answer her first question. Oh. Right. It's called talking, Brainiac.

"Huh? Oh, Teresa's fine." I say, and I never imagined those would be the first words. In my unlikely scenarios, it was always "Faith? Fuck I've missed you so much."

Another perpetual silence. Another one of those, and I swear, my quota for my lifetime will be achieved.

"So." She says.

"So." I repeat pathetically.

"Is there a reas—problem?" She asks in a cool tone. Is there a reason why you're calling? A problem? She must know that I would never call if there wasn't.

"Um, yeah. I'm sort of stuck and I don't have a spare." Way to skip over the important details. Thankfully, she does the mind reading thing that she was –is- so good at.

"You got a flat or something?" I can tell she's being patient with me, and I hate that. Hate that she's being level headed about this. Hate that I still love her. Wait. You what? Oh, for Pete's sake, just fuck off.

"Yeah." On both counts.

"Where are you and what kind of car do you have? Year and make."

Huh? Did she suddenly transfer me to a garage or something?

"Um, it's a Dodge Neon, '01, and I, uh, have no idea on what highway I am." That's me. Buffy Summers. The Duchess of Sense of Orientation.

"That hunk o'junk still running?" She asks, and I realize we're about to have a conversation. Like a real one.

"If it gets me to point A to—,"

"—To point B, then it's okay for you." She says softly, remembering. Yeah, it hurts. A memory is just like heartburn, Babe.

We both stay silent for a while until she starts being professional again.

"Where are you? Landmarks would help."

I get up from the hood and walk about 50 feet from the car. There's a sign, maybe 200 feet out.

"There's a sign that says Tessa's homemade lemon meringue pie, 18 miles."

There's a slight chuckle on the other end of the line and her voice inadvertently chills me as she finishes the call.

"Hang tight. Lucky for you I know a mechanic." She chuckles again, as if it's a joke I'm supposed to understand. Of course, I have no clue what she's talking about. "Gravis'll be there in 'bout a half hour."

Teresa's been running along the highway, staying near the car, of course, for the past ten minutes. She's the kind of kid who just has tons of energy to spend after waking up. It's insane and inhuman. I swear. I don't remember Dawn ever being like this.

"Teresa! How many times do I have to tell you? No running on the highway!" I shout.

Okay, so the road's been deserted for the past forty five minutes and we'd hear a car coming from miles away, but that's not the point. The principal of the thing is that running on a highway is just plain dangerous. Am I right? Hell, I don't know anymore.

Terry suddenly stops scampering, and jumps onto the hood of the car to sit next to me. Her chocolate coloured hair is in a loose ponytail and free strands of hair fall into her eyes. Kids have the most beautiful hair. Crazy highlights that my hairdresser, Karlos, would kill for. Scary thought. Terry's got these wild blonde streaks, all natural, that tame her fierce dark chocolate locks. It's unreal.

She gives me this strange look and cocks her head as her eyes drift to the right.

"Ter?"

"Do you hear the truck? It'll be here soon." She says, handing me her hair elastic, and turning her back to me. "Can you fix my hair, Mommy?"

I can't hear the truck. Maybe I will when it'll be in Slayer hearing range. Give or take ten minutes or so. I try my best to ignore her comment, but it gets to me that she can do that. Hear things from afar.

"How far is the ocean?" She asks as I finish fixing her ponytail.

"Not that far. Maybe a few hours." Can you hear it?

She nods and stands up on the hood, making a little dent in the metal. Her little hand goes above her eyes as she scans the horizon, and I can't help but smile. It's the Captain Jack pose that Andrew taught her.

"Can you see the truck, Babe?" I ask, humouring her as best I can.

"Yep." She says, and she jumps down to the ground, ignoring my "careful!"

She kneels down to undo her shoelaces and does them up again. Then she dusts her jeans off as best she can with her hands and tries to remove the wrinkles from her tee shirt. I guess she wants to look presentable for the mechanic. Sometimes she's just so cute.

Unconsciously, my hand roams my coat pocket for another cigarette and my eyes light up when I find the pack. I usually don't like to smoke in front of people, but somehow, I don't think the mechanic Faith called will mind. I light up the Lucky Strike as Terry finishes cleaning herself up and hops back onto the hood next to me. She rests her head on my shoulder and waits.

I can finally hear the truck. Sounds like an old beat up thing, reminding me of the sound Spike's old DeSoto used to make. Probably Diesel. After a few seconds, I finally see it. A simple dot in the horizon that grows bigger with every passing second. Kinda like those sponges you throw in the bath and then watch as they grow into blue dinosaurs and pink elephants.

The truck stops about 20 feet in front of the Neon and Terry and I jump off the hood. The passenger side door opens revealing a white poster on the side with red lettering. Page's Garage.

My heartbeat quickens as I finally understand Faith's little joke. Lucky for you I know a mechanic. Fuck.

A man steps down from the truck and gives us a little wave. My mouth is dry and my tongue feels like cement. He starts walking towards us and the nearer he gets, the more I find myself involuntarily scrutinizing him. This is my replacement? I take a long drag from the cigarette and stream the smoke out from my nostrils. Nerves.

This guy is tall and built like a hockey player. He's got JB Goodhues on his feet and he's wearing faded blue Dickie's workpants. He's got a torn jean jacket on over a grey work shirt. Page's Garage is written over the left side of his chest. He's got short strawberry blond hair, a pinch under his lower lip, a barbell in his left eyebrow and wraparound Ray-bans. He's probably in his late twenties, maybe a bit younger than Faith. Gravis Page is hot. And he doesn't look a thing like Keanu.

He stops in front of Terry and me and gives us a little smile. Perfect white teeth. God. What is up with this guy and perfection? I look down and notice Terry. She's staring at him, wide eyed, clearly in awe. Her little mouth is hanging open as she frantically tries to understand who this guy is. He's not just the mechanic, Babe.

It's not until he starts to speak that I realize he's the one who answered the phone.

"You lovely ladies wouldn't happen to be Buffy and Teresa, now would you?" He says, looking very much like a biker, but sounding very much like a surfer.

I don't give him a real answer as something else has drawn my attention. Behind Gravis, the driver's side door to the truck opens up. Boots land softly on the dusty asphalt and as my eyes travel north, my breath catches in my throat and I can feel Terry wrap her little arms around my left leg tightly.

Aviator glasses stare back at me, hiding the eyes, but it doesn't matter. I see those eyes every day. But right now, it feels like the first time. Like the first time in five years.