Chapter 8

I, Robot… You, Jane

Monitoring the morgue was proving to be a piece of cake with the Trojan horse you had installed. Giles was baffled by the whole thing of course, and initially raised his concerns about the legalities and risks of such an endeavour.

You asked him how legal it was boiling ex-cheerleader witches heads and the matter was closed. Naturally Kennedy was not around when you said that. Actually, Kennedy not being around was kind of becoming a theme lately.

And so it fell on your shoulders to investigate the most recent mystery the morgue had uncovered. A young woman who, after easily throwing a man through a window at a party, fell down on the spot, stone dead.

She was scheduled for autopsy the next day, so you wanted to pay her a visit that night. Make sure whatever she was stayed dead. Giles agreed that it was 'a rather pertinent course of action'.

He was less impressed to find the girls corpse on his dining room table when he came down for breakfast the next day.

"What the bloody hell Faith! Are you out of your mind?"

"She's a robot." you grin, jabbing a screwdriver towards the circuitry and wires splayed out over the table like entrails. "She's a freaking, honest to god Robot."

You step aside to show him.

"Only in Sunnydale." he says and starts to make the tea. "I want that thing off my table and hidden by this evening."

"Oh, that's right. Your big date." you sing-song. "Ooooh, Jenny, I say would you like some tea and crumpets, wot?" You short something and the arm twitches to life.

"Good god, will you leave that thing alone. You have no idea what you are doing."

You shoot him smile and tug some cables apart. The robot's fingers curl down. All but the middle one.

"Charming, as ever, Faith."

"Well, Giles, you have to consider the bigger picture. You see, I know Jenny Calendar and Jenny Calendar loves technology. Trust me, you show her this and you won't need candle lights and soft music. Or foreplay. She will be good to go."

"Please Faith, try on a little decorum." he paused, rubbing his stubble. "But, perhaps you are right. I mean..". Blush. "I mean about her being able to help with the technical aspects… not of course… the other, er, subject."

You smile sweetly. Tug.

The robot's hand gives a thumbs up.

Love seemed to be in the air at Sunnydale High. Not only had Rupert Giles finally climbed over his stiff upper lip and asked Jenny Calendar out, but Amy had fallen head over witches boots for a guy named Oz.

Now, Oz you liked. He was the definition of chill. Saying very little, but what he did say was deep, considerate and thoughtful. Oz turned out to be the guitarist for Dingoes Ate My Baby, a band that Kennedy adored. They played often at the bronze, and it wasn't long before Kennedy dragged Amy to see them. Amy had little witchy love heart eyes from that day forth.

Oz was also super smart, and another of Jenny Calendars star pupils. So when you finally made the connection that this Oz was Amy's Oz, you quickly set about matchmaking with ruthless efficiency.

They were sickeningly adorable together, but for once you didn't care about the sappy stuff. Buffy had seen to that aspect of your personality too.

You both sit at the Slayer's table in the cafeteria waiting for Amy. Naturally Kennedy seems to be playing hooky, or just plain avoiding you. Oz is strumming David Bowie's Changes on his guitar. It is remarkably fitting. Oz stops playing, seems to think about something.

"So you and Buffy. I think it's cool." You are surprised he picked up on what was happening at all, considering how careful you and Buffy had been with your secret make out sessions in hidden locations around the school. "I just need to know if Amy knows. I wouldn't want to out you without your permission."

God, you dig this guy.

"I dunno Oz. It's all kinda new. For me, at least. I... hey, It may be nothin'. Maybe keep it on the down low?"

"Cool." he says. And that was that. The subject was dropped, and he went back to strumming.

You are getting ready for your "study sleep over" with Buffy.

Translation? Absolutely no study and very little sleep will be involved.

Freshly showered, plucked, shaved and moisturized, you are now fretting over what to wear, and how you suddenly feel like a blushing virgin. For god sake, you are Faith Lehane, proud owner of 'mad skills' in all matters sexual.

Confident of your skills in regards to guys? Hell yes. Any idea what to do with a girl? well, (insert head exploding here).

"Hey."

You are surprised to find Kennedy watching you from your bedroom door.

"The white shirt and tight black sweater." she says. "Alluring, classy. Buttons make the undressing all the more satisfying. If teasing is your thing." She is playing it cool, like nothing ever happened. So you can too. She plops down on your bed, back against the wall, and pulls a pillow onto her lap.

"She's a lucky girl." she says. "Not sure such an airhead like Summers deserves a brainiac bad ass like you."

"How does everybody seem to know about…"

"Oh please. Don't insult my gaydar." she says, launching the pillow at your head. You catch it. "I'm the queen."

You sigh, toss the pillow back to Kennedy and pick up the shirt she mentioned. The brat is right.

"She's actually smart, when you get to know her. Buffy, I mean."

"Yeah well, none of us are open books. We all hide things." she says, and hugs the pillow to her chest.

Shirt on, you turn back to the mirror to apply your finishing touches.

"He died you know." Kennedy says.

"Who?"

"The boy I put into a coma."

You say nothing. Nothing needs to be said.

"You were never going to tell me." she says. "You know, I remember you showering me down and putting me to bed."

Kennedy's face is emotionless. She looks tired. Her cheeks sunken, eyes like bruises. The huge cut on her brow from slaying yesterday night just a pale faint line now.

You say nothing, just nod and apply your lipstick.

"Well." she says. "Don't you look the dish. Go slay, sister."

"Battery operated candles?" you say. "How romantic."

Buffy flips the switch and puts the last one on the table. Fake or not, the ambiance she has created for your "study sleep over" is definitely something. Light years beyond those first stumbling dates with teenage boys in Boston.

"I… am not so good around fire. Especially after what happened to Amber. I am terrified this place will go up in flames. You understand, right?" Buffy says. "Wine?"

You haven't had real wine before. It looks like an old bottle, something right out of a fancy TV show. Buffy says her mother has great taste, so it is probably good. That it better be good- because there will be hell to pay later when her mother finds out.

You marvel at the taste of the thick, smooth liquid. Buffy watches you intently. You feel her eyes on your throat as you swallow, on your exposed collar, down your sternum to your cleavage. As if she was following the path of the sweet wine. She sighs contentedly.

"You're beautiful." she says. You think of a dozen barbs to counter with, but you hold them in. Trying a compliment on for a change. Let it seep in. Like the wine.

Buffy sits across from you on the floor. She has built a nest of pillows around the spacious living room floor, complete with bowls of fruit and finger food on little ornate dishes. A candlelit picnic. Around the room is hung many beautiful paintings, with a strange assortment of sculptures and masks. You remember now that Buffy said that Joyce, her mother, is an art dealer. Which is why she was currently in New York, acquiring some expensive knick-knack or other. Buffy had promised her no parties and absolutely no boys whilst she was away. Poor choice of words, doncha think?

You try to think of a compliment for Buffy, but they all seem too trite. No surprise that you are flunking poetry. Her skin is radiant, pale golden and smooth. Her makeup is perfection. Her hair tumbles and curls about her shoulders, two strands frame her face. In this light, her dark roots and highlights add fascinating depth. And you could write a lot of really, really bad poetry about her hazel eyes.

Tonight she wears for you a low cut little black dress. Barefoot. A few rings. A simple silver cross around her neck on a chain. You smile.

"You like my cross?" she says. "I know, I know, a bit out of place considering what we have planned tonight. But it's precious to me. Like you."

"No. Keep it on. Trust me. You want to keep that on." you say. She looks flattered. It's funny, you have seen all manner of demons from hell, seen vampires shy from crosses, but you have never really considered how God fits into the picture, if at all. You can't help feeling if there was a God, he seems set on torturing you in particular. Oh, the irony of your name.

"Do you believe in all… that?" you ask. Buffy tips her head back, rolling the wine around in her cheeks, considering the question. Or what to tell you.

"Well, when I was really young, yes. Yes, I did. My folks were Calvinists, believe it or not." she smiles at a memory. "Now? A world of no. Which works for me. Calvinists aren't exactly yay for the gay".

"Tell me about it. Irish Catholic family."

"Ouch." she says. The matter seems closed. Buffy seems to get the unspoken rule about never discussing your past. One of the many things about her you admire. There is a lot more going on behind those hazel eyes than she ever lets anyone catch on. But you are the exception. Buffy finished her wine, her expression purely wicked.

"Well, I think it's about time you and I do something that would really piss them off."

You wholeheartedly agree.