jedibuttercup (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
jedibuttercup) wrote2020-12-02 11:40 pm
jedibuttercup) wrote2020-12-02 11:40 pm
Entry tags:
Fic: Hell of an Epilogue (The When One Door Closes Remix) -- Angel; Faith-centric; PG-15
Round 10 of the Circle of Friends Remix is now open for reading at ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
circle_of_friends.
Well, now that she was already dead, and not getting any worse, Faith wasn't exactly keen to finish the job. At least one part of the plan had gone right. Unlike all the rest of it.
Title: Hell of an Epilogue (The When One Door Closes Remix)
Author: Jedi Buttercup
Disclaimer: Angel is property of Joss Whedon &etc.
Rating: M/PG-15 (language)
Spoilers: Set after an AU version of A:tS 4.14, "Release" (Late Season 7 B:tVS).
Notes: Written for Round 10 of the Circle of Friends remix. Original story: Faith, the Vampire...Slayer by![[archiveofourown.org profile]](https://p.dreamwidth.org/b164c54b26e4/-/archiveofourown.org/favicon.ico)
frogfarm. Because the concept really intrigued me, but I am a what-if/fix-it writer by nature. So, what comes next! Posted late, because 2020 is 2020, ugh.
Summary: Well, now that she was already dead, and not getting any worse, Faith wasn't exactly keen to finish the job. At least one part of the plan had gone right. Unlike all the rest of it. 3600 words.
(art by aadler)
Faith laid still for a moment after dizziness took her legs out from under her, waiting while the world whirled nauseatingly behind her eyelids. No idea what for, unless it was for the thud of a heart that would never beat again; she still wasn't sure what the fuck had happened to her after Angelus had got his fangs in her throat, but she definitely wasn't among the living anymore.
Nor the unconscious either, apparently. The drug she'd shot herself full of hadn't been fucking around, and what Angel's evil twin had done to her had definitely taken its toll, too. She felt pretty damn gross, and not just from the grime and blood painted all over her from their fight. But somehow, it still wasn't as bad as she'd been expecting. Angelus had almost bled her dry before feeding some of her own tainted blood back to her; there must not have been enough Orpheus left in her system to knock her all the way out, after that.
Nobody's bitch but my own, she'd told Wes. She'd kinda been expecting to fade out and wake up in Angel's cell under the Hyperion, though-- if she ever woke up at all. She'd gone into the fight expecting to trade her life for Angel's, if she had to; after that, leaving her fate in Wes' hands had seemed kinda... poetic.
Things weren't turning out to be that simple, though. Faith wasn't exactly out... and Wes was, the hitching breaths of a man in too much pain to sob fading into a faint, unconscious rasp. And the longer she lay sprawled half-over him regaining her equilibrium, the more her skin crawled at the idea of just peacing out until Gunn and company showed up and made that decision for them.
Disgruntled, Faith blinked her eyes open again, turning her head to stare at her erstwhile Watcher's face. Angelus had really done a number on him, too. He'd survived worse in the past-- gunshots, torture, cut throat, just that she knew of-- but he still looked like a thousand miles of bad road. A shudder worked through her at the remembered taste of his blood on her tongue, and she felt her face shift as she stared at the jaggedly torn wound below the corner of his jaw. Angelus had deliberately not torn deep enough to kill, but that was definitely gonna scar, and she could smell the sluggish trail still oozing down his throat from this close up.
It smelled good. Better than whiskey, or gourmet cheeseburgers, or sex, none of which she'd had in... well, longer than she cared to remember. Long enough that she really got what the word craving meant, even worse than her old Want, Take, Have phase back in the day.
Of course Angelus hadn't gone deep enough to kill, Faith realized suddenly; he'd been leaving Wes for her. A deep shudder passed through her as she wrenched her gaze away, untangling herself from him as she sat up slowly to test how much of the dizziness had passed.
Enough to stay upright, at least. She patted at her face, wondering how to make the bumpies go away again, wishing that she had a mirror-- and then startled herself with a rough laugh. Vampire 101, duh. Wes would be so disappointed in her.
The laugh, or maybe the emotion behind it, took care of the problem for her; her face rearranged itself again with a disconcerting crunch that made the rest of her bones ache in sympathy. Whatever had happened when she'd turned-- Wes would probably know; she thought she'd heard Angelus say something about books-- had been a lot more violent than anything she'd heard about before. A lot quicker, too. To the extent she'd been thinking anything in the moment he'd stuck his wrist in her mouth, she'd pictured having to stalk him again after she rose, figure out how to get another dose of the drug into him to finish the job. Because surely even all darkside, she'd want to fuck up Angelus' day more than ever; so why not roll the dice. But it had taken minutes, not hours or days, and it had left her feeling....
Well, she wasn't sure what she was feeling. Like the bruised and beaten victor of a cage match, maybe, as much on the inside as the outside. Other than that, and the sheer weird stillness of her body, she didn't actually feel all that different than before. Just... hungrier.
Faith's gaze drifted back down to Wes again, and she shuddered, turning her face away. If she wasn't going to wait for Angel's crew, if she wanted him to answer her questions... then she was gonna have to take him with her somehow. Not like they were really equipped to care for him, anyway, unless they wanted to take him to the ER. But the way things were-- she could practically feel the itch in her throat as the bite wound knit itself back together, and the more she healed, the hungrier she was gonna get.
Good old H and H's. They'd been strong enough before; she really didn't think now was the time to test her resistance to temptation. Which meant... feeding the demon, before she really did become its bitch. How had this become her life? What was she supposed to do, go outside, find some random civilian, and hope her new instincts didn't overwhelm her shaky control? That way lay a slippery fucking slope, enough denial to flood Egypt, and making every damn thing these two men had done for her pointless. In the moment, determined not to die before finishing the job, the consequences hadn't been top of mind, but now she couldn't not think about it. And she wasn't that kind of bitch either, apparently. Soul or no soul.
Well, there was one other option. As much as just the thought of it made both her sets of instincts, old and new, want to gag. Faith took an unnecessary breath-- laughing at herself again; it really was the little things-- and made her way shakily to the stairs, picking her way back up to the top level. "I really hope whatever you use for blood's the kind I can use, and not poison or some shit," she said, lifting her lip as she stared down at the body of Lorne's friend. "Sorry man."
It was gross. It was so gross. Cold and still and flat, not at all like Wes'-- not at all like a human's would be. But it quieted the growl in her stomach, a little. And this time when she jumped back down to the wrecked lower floor, she was able to pick her Watcher up without falling over. Good enough.
The phone fell out of his pocket as she moved him; she stared at it for a long minute, then decided to leave it lie. Might need it; but Fred might be able to track him with it, or Willow when she got there, and god knew how that was gonna go. 'Cause someone would definitely call Sunnydale with this mess left behind. And the thought of Buffy seeing her like this-- of any of those do-gooders seeing her like this--
Well, now that she was already dead, and not getting any worse, she wasn't exactly keen to finish the job. Fucking Angelus, raking coals into old wounds. Faith dug a toe into his side as she walked past him; he muttered something, fingers twitching, but seemed pretty solidly out. At least that part of the plan had gone right. Unlike all the rest of it.
A vampire who used to be a Slayer. With a slightly battered Watcher who could use a little patching up-- and not the way that flashed through her mind again as her gaze drifted back to the wound in his throat. He might not be hurt anymore when she got through with him, but he wouldn't be him either, and as badass as he could be with a soul, she wasn't sure she wanted to see what he'd get up to without one.
"Doin' the lineage proud," she murmured to herself, grimly amused. "Not where I saw myself a week ago, that's for damn sure."
Find a clinic, stay anonymous, find a place to stay: figure out what the hell she was now, and what she was supposed to do next. That's what she figured the next week had in store. But after this? She wasn't actually dumb enough to take that bet.
The clinic idea, it turned out, was a blessing in disguise. The woman who treated Wes was appalled, but not too surprised by his condition, and didn't bother trying to redirect them to an emergency room. She had a cross on a chain around her neck, and seemed to take the fact that Faith had been the one to bring him in as license to turn her back and hint really strongly about how much blood was still in their fridge after she topped him up.
Given Orpheus, and the things she'd heard about suck houses, well. Faith supposed that made a sick kind of sense. Just how big was Los Angeles' demon underground, anyway? No wonder Wolfram and Hart had such a big, shiny building and fat petty cash fund for assassins. If it benefited her and Wes, though, she wasn't gonna kick the golden goose to death for, what. Impugning her honor? Better to just get hers, then get gone.
Like it used to be. Like it would always be, apparently. Life was just full of those little ironies these days.
If she could call what she was doing life. Faith used the little sink in the restroom to get the worst of the blood off her skin and clothes, trying not to look at the absence in the mirror, then clenched her fists until the urge to punch the glass until it looked like Wes' shower had faded. Then she straightened her back, finger-combed her hair out of her face, and went back out to wait for the chick in the scrubs to move on to her next patient. Conveniently leaving Wes somewhere with a clear route to an unattended exit.
Slick. Something to remember, maybe. She'd spent enough time in hospitals for one lifetime, even if she wasn't daylight-challenged now. Her Watcher was starting to stir a little; he really had grown some serious balls in the years she'd been gone. Faith got him mostly upright, using her as a crutch, and guided him out the door.
The less said about the short trip to the nearest cheap hotel, the better. Wes was nearly out again by the time they got there; Faith had to leave him listing on a bench outside the lobby while she went in to lean over the counter and distract the poor sap on desk duty from remembering anything about either of their faces. But he had perked up again-- a little, anyway-- by the time she got back to him with a hot Styrofoam cup of burnt coffee and a key card paid for with bar money lifted out of Angelus' pockets. Once she got him in behind the door and sprawled in one of the overstuffed seventies-chic chairs framing the flimsy little table in the corner, that familiar steely glint was back in his eyes, dulled only a little by the pain. If he'd still had any of his weapons on him, Faith had no doubt she'd be at gun or sword-point already.
Between the bruises flowering dark and ugly around the cracked cheekbone, the thick bandage taped to his throat, the wrap around his ribs, and the splinted hand, Wes really shouldn't have still seemed intimidating. But somewhere in the last few years, he'd picked up some genuine gravitas. It looked good on him. Aside from, you know. Everything else.
"Well, look who doesn't wanna die either," she managed, reaching for her usual light tone. "Sure you Watcher types don't have a little something extra, too? I mean, the number of concussions the G-Man's had, shit. And you've got more scars than I do."
"You would know," he observed. It was the first thing he'd said since waking up. His tone was nice and frosty; but there was something in his expression--
Faith swallowed and looked away. "Got some meds," she said, digging the pill packs the clinic gal had pressed into her hands out of a pocket and tossing them to the table. "Don't plan on keeping you long. But since my grand heroic exit kinda failed...."
"You have some questions," he rasped. Turned out it didn't help not to look; the pity, grief, whatever it was, was just as audible in his voice. "You may not want the answers."
"'Course I want the fucking answers," she replied, throwing her hands up. "What happened to me, Wes? Got to tell you, I've seen a lot of vamps over the years, and I've never seen one turn like-- like I did."
He went quiet for a minute, almost long enough for her to worry he'd passed out again; but when she glanced back to check, he was still staring at her, studying her, not an ounce of quit in him. "There's a reason," he finally said, "that vampires never attempt to turn other part-demons."
"Other-- what?" Faith blurted. Of all the possible explanations she'd thought of on the way from Maury's wrecked bookshop to the clinic, that hadn't even made the list.
"And... that Slayers were historically isolated and trained from a young age," he added, carefully.
"Because there's demon in us?" Faith objected, dropping down on the edge of the bed as the dots connected. "Well, that would have been good to know back before the whole, you know, murder phase. Wait, was that why the hair-trigger goon squads? And why they kept fucking around with B?"
God, there was no way the other Slayer knew-- or did she? A lot could have happened since Faith went inside. How well did she really know Little Miss Tightly Wound, after all this time? And would she have told Faith if she'd found out?
Probably not. It wasn't the kind of thing you wanted to share over the phone. And it made a hell of a lot more sense than she really wanted it to. No wonder Watchers usually didn't intervene in their charges' fights, and why Travers and company weren't fond of Faith and Buffy. Scared that their weapon would wise up and turn on them, probably; scared, too, that the rank and file would get too involved and get corrupted.
Exhibit A. "Angelus used the term, 'ultimate demon championship'," Wes said, mouth set in a grim line. "From the texts.... it's rare, but not an entirely inaccurate description."
Faith processed that, fisting her hands in the bedspread. "But I still got the, you know." She waved a hand in front of her face, and winced as the bones shifted again. "And the whole guilt complex, too," she added, waving a hand at him next. "Thought that was supposed to be a perk of the vampire gig. So, what. I'm fucked coming and going?"
"The few Slayers historically known to have been so affected... typically have not lasted very long," he said, then took a long sip of the coffee, grimacing. "What we refer to as the Slayer Spirit is not actually a complete entity; it is... a part of one, connected back to the greater whole. In adhering to a human soul, it creates a new Slayer, a hybrid entity that apparently remains knit even after that Slayer's death. And it is the vampire demon's mortal enemy. In your case... when the vampire demon tried to take possession, it only partially succeeded; the Slayer in you fought back, and won. That isn't... always the result."
She swallowed. That would explain it, yeah. Also, how Buffy was even still the Slayer after dying twice over. Good old Chosen Two. Or-- Chosen Three now, probably? God help the new girl, wherever she'd woke up.
Faith pressed her hands to her gnarly forehead, holding them there until her new second face shifted away again. "In other words... yeah. Hell of an epilogue. I guess I get why no-one talks about it. But what the hell am I supposed to do now?"
She hated the plaintive note that crept into her voice; she wasn't that weak child anymore, in need of anyone else's approval. She'd owed Wes, sure; owed Angel more. But she'd kept herself in check the last few years. For her.
A wave of exhaustion passed over Wes' features, and he glanced away. "Angel would have sheltered you," he said, obliquely.
It was the closest he'd come yet to asking why she hadn't stayed at the shop. But he knew. He just didn't want to admit it. "Angel has enough trouble sorting his own shit out right now," she reminded him in turn. "And you really think it'll help to have to look at this every day?" She waved at her whole... everything. "I'd be painting a target on both our backs."
He winced, but didn't disagree. He seemed a little less guarded than he had when the conversation began-- but weary, down to the bone, as if his well of determination was starting to run dry. On her behalf, which was almost more surreal than anything else about this evening. "That will be difficult to avoid regardless... unless you allow everyone to believe you're dead and find somewhere to go to ground."
"Thought about that," she frowned, shaking her head. "Don't think that's gonna fly, either. Sure, there's gotta be a new Slayer. But Angel'll tell B what his evil half did. Or someone will. They'll know I made it out of there since I called Gunn. And it's not like I can disguise myself and join a suck house or something, even if I wanted to. You said it yourself; whatever I am now, there's just the one of me. And it's not like I had the best impulse control before."
That surprised a rueful laugh out of him; then a sharp indrawn breath as he clutched at his ribs. "Then... if you cannot avoid being a target... you need to be prepared to do what you have to do to survive. If discovery is inevitable... then you must force it on your terms."
She leaned back, frowning at him. "You think I should go to Sunnydale. You think I should go to B?"
"Sometimes.... there is no good choice," he replied. "Sometimes you won't know if you've done the right thing until the consequences have blown up in your face. I'm sorry, Faith. I'm hardly the right person to advise you, especially after today. But I'd argue that you already made this choice, three years ago."
Good old Wes, Angelus' voice seemed to echo between them. Always count on him to tackle a bad situation and make it worse. I mean, hey, look how you turned out.
But then again, Angelus was a gaslighting fucktard; it had been her choice to go with the Orpheus strategy in the end, not Wes'. When every other option had had a much higher chance of getting Angel killed-- Wes might have broken her out of prison, given her a pep-talk or two, but she'd put her own feet on this path. Just like she'd been the one to turn herself in, the last time the consequences of her actions had caught up with her and threatened to put worthier people in the cross-hairs.
"No one likes a smartass," she replied, returning his rueful smile. "Yeah, all right. Not like I really wanted to run, anyway. Here." She fished the keycard back out of her pocket and tossed it onto the table. "Room's paid for the night. You can call someone to come pick you up tomorrow; they oughtta have straightened out the Angel sitch by then, one way or the other. Guess I'm hitching a ride to Sunny D instead."
"I'd offer to come with you, but...." Wes gestured minutely with the splinted hand, lines of pain deepening around his eyes.
"Nah. I'm good," she said, barely biting her tongue on the you've done enough already that wanted to follow it. "I'll call the Hyperion when I get there."
He said only one more thing as she crossed the room to leave, reaching out to gently touch her wrist. "Faith...." he pleaded, quietly.
She gave him a crooked smile, then turned her hand barely in his, clasping their fingers briefly together before reaching for the door. What else was there to say?
The sound of the door clicking closed behind her was like a death knell; like hitting the floor after she'd stuck that syringe in Angelus' butt all over again. No turning back.
She took another deep, unnecessary breath, then started walking.
Faith got three blocks away before a car stopped to pick her up: a beaten-up old thing with a broken passenger-side door handle and a guy in a priest's collar behind the wheel.
He seemed real excited to see her, for some reason. And real surprised when she objected to his bullshit speech about dirty girls and delivering a message to 'the other one'.
Fun fact: it turned out vampire Slayers were stronger than the regular kind, by several times over.
Well. Nothing like showing up in Sunnydale with an offering to ease the way.
(x-posted tocircle_of_friends and at AO3)
circle_of_friends.Well, now that she was already dead, and not getting any worse, Faith wasn't exactly keen to finish the job. At least one part of the plan had gone right. Unlike all the rest of it.
Title: Hell of an Epilogue (The When One Door Closes Remix)
Author: Jedi Buttercup
Disclaimer: Angel is property of Joss Whedon &etc.
Rating: M/PG-15 (language)
Spoilers: Set after an AU version of A:tS 4.14, "Release" (Late Season 7 B:tVS).
Notes: Written for Round 10 of the Circle of Friends remix. Original story: Faith, the Vampire...Slayer by
Summary: Well, now that she was already dead, and not getting any worse, Faith wasn't exactly keen to finish the job. At least one part of the plan had gone right. Unlike all the rest of it. 3600 words.
(art by aadler)
Faith laid still for a moment after dizziness took her legs out from under her, waiting while the world whirled nauseatingly behind her eyelids. No idea what for, unless it was for the thud of a heart that would never beat again; she still wasn't sure what the fuck had happened to her after Angelus had got his fangs in her throat, but she definitely wasn't among the living anymore.
Nor the unconscious either, apparently. The drug she'd shot herself full of hadn't been fucking around, and what Angel's evil twin had done to her had definitely taken its toll, too. She felt pretty damn gross, and not just from the grime and blood painted all over her from their fight. But somehow, it still wasn't as bad as she'd been expecting. Angelus had almost bled her dry before feeding some of her own tainted blood back to her; there must not have been enough Orpheus left in her system to knock her all the way out, after that.
Nobody's bitch but my own, she'd told Wes. She'd kinda been expecting to fade out and wake up in Angel's cell under the Hyperion, though-- if she ever woke up at all. She'd gone into the fight expecting to trade her life for Angel's, if she had to; after that, leaving her fate in Wes' hands had seemed kinda... poetic.
Things weren't turning out to be that simple, though. Faith wasn't exactly out... and Wes was, the hitching breaths of a man in too much pain to sob fading into a faint, unconscious rasp. And the longer she lay sprawled half-over him regaining her equilibrium, the more her skin crawled at the idea of just peacing out until Gunn and company showed up and made that decision for them.
Disgruntled, Faith blinked her eyes open again, turning her head to stare at her erstwhile Watcher's face. Angelus had really done a number on him, too. He'd survived worse in the past-- gunshots, torture, cut throat, just that she knew of-- but he still looked like a thousand miles of bad road. A shudder worked through her at the remembered taste of his blood on her tongue, and she felt her face shift as she stared at the jaggedly torn wound below the corner of his jaw. Angelus had deliberately not torn deep enough to kill, but that was definitely gonna scar, and she could smell the sluggish trail still oozing down his throat from this close up.
It smelled good. Better than whiskey, or gourmet cheeseburgers, or sex, none of which she'd had in... well, longer than she cared to remember. Long enough that she really got what the word craving meant, even worse than her old Want, Take, Have phase back in the day.
Of course Angelus hadn't gone deep enough to kill, Faith realized suddenly; he'd been leaving Wes for her. A deep shudder passed through her as she wrenched her gaze away, untangling herself from him as she sat up slowly to test how much of the dizziness had passed.
Enough to stay upright, at least. She patted at her face, wondering how to make the bumpies go away again, wishing that she had a mirror-- and then startled herself with a rough laugh. Vampire 101, duh. Wes would be so disappointed in her.
The laugh, or maybe the emotion behind it, took care of the problem for her; her face rearranged itself again with a disconcerting crunch that made the rest of her bones ache in sympathy. Whatever had happened when she'd turned-- Wes would probably know; she thought she'd heard Angelus say something about books-- had been a lot more violent than anything she'd heard about before. A lot quicker, too. To the extent she'd been thinking anything in the moment he'd stuck his wrist in her mouth, she'd pictured having to stalk him again after she rose, figure out how to get another dose of the drug into him to finish the job. Because surely even all darkside, she'd want to fuck up Angelus' day more than ever; so why not roll the dice. But it had taken minutes, not hours or days, and it had left her feeling....
Well, she wasn't sure what she was feeling. Like the bruised and beaten victor of a cage match, maybe, as much on the inside as the outside. Other than that, and the sheer weird stillness of her body, she didn't actually feel all that different than before. Just... hungrier.
Faith's gaze drifted back down to Wes again, and she shuddered, turning her face away. If she wasn't going to wait for Angel's crew, if she wanted him to answer her questions... then she was gonna have to take him with her somehow. Not like they were really equipped to care for him, anyway, unless they wanted to take him to the ER. But the way things were-- she could practically feel the itch in her throat as the bite wound knit itself back together, and the more she healed, the hungrier she was gonna get.
Good old H and H's. They'd been strong enough before; she really didn't think now was the time to test her resistance to temptation. Which meant... feeding the demon, before she really did become its bitch. How had this become her life? What was she supposed to do, go outside, find some random civilian, and hope her new instincts didn't overwhelm her shaky control? That way lay a slippery fucking slope, enough denial to flood Egypt, and making every damn thing these two men had done for her pointless. In the moment, determined not to die before finishing the job, the consequences hadn't been top of mind, but now she couldn't not think about it. And she wasn't that kind of bitch either, apparently. Soul or no soul.
Well, there was one other option. As much as just the thought of it made both her sets of instincts, old and new, want to gag. Faith took an unnecessary breath-- laughing at herself again; it really was the little things-- and made her way shakily to the stairs, picking her way back up to the top level. "I really hope whatever you use for blood's the kind I can use, and not poison or some shit," she said, lifting her lip as she stared down at the body of Lorne's friend. "Sorry man."
It was gross. It was so gross. Cold and still and flat, not at all like Wes'-- not at all like a human's would be. But it quieted the growl in her stomach, a little. And this time when she jumped back down to the wrecked lower floor, she was able to pick her Watcher up without falling over. Good enough.
The phone fell out of his pocket as she moved him; she stared at it for a long minute, then decided to leave it lie. Might need it; but Fred might be able to track him with it, or Willow when she got there, and god knew how that was gonna go. 'Cause someone would definitely call Sunnydale with this mess left behind. And the thought of Buffy seeing her like this-- of any of those do-gooders seeing her like this--
Well, now that she was already dead, and not getting any worse, she wasn't exactly keen to finish the job. Fucking Angelus, raking coals into old wounds. Faith dug a toe into his side as she walked past him; he muttered something, fingers twitching, but seemed pretty solidly out. At least that part of the plan had gone right. Unlike all the rest of it.
A vampire who used to be a Slayer. With a slightly battered Watcher who could use a little patching up-- and not the way that flashed through her mind again as her gaze drifted back to the wound in his throat. He might not be hurt anymore when she got through with him, but he wouldn't be him either, and as badass as he could be with a soul, she wasn't sure she wanted to see what he'd get up to without one.
"Doin' the lineage proud," she murmured to herself, grimly amused. "Not where I saw myself a week ago, that's for damn sure."
Find a clinic, stay anonymous, find a place to stay: figure out what the hell she was now, and what she was supposed to do next. That's what she figured the next week had in store. But after this? She wasn't actually dumb enough to take that bet.
The clinic idea, it turned out, was a blessing in disguise. The woman who treated Wes was appalled, but not too surprised by his condition, and didn't bother trying to redirect them to an emergency room. She had a cross on a chain around her neck, and seemed to take the fact that Faith had been the one to bring him in as license to turn her back and hint really strongly about how much blood was still in their fridge after she topped him up.
Given Orpheus, and the things she'd heard about suck houses, well. Faith supposed that made a sick kind of sense. Just how big was Los Angeles' demon underground, anyway? No wonder Wolfram and Hart had such a big, shiny building and fat petty cash fund for assassins. If it benefited her and Wes, though, she wasn't gonna kick the golden goose to death for, what. Impugning her honor? Better to just get hers, then get gone.
Like it used to be. Like it would always be, apparently. Life was just full of those little ironies these days.
If she could call what she was doing life. Faith used the little sink in the restroom to get the worst of the blood off her skin and clothes, trying not to look at the absence in the mirror, then clenched her fists until the urge to punch the glass until it looked like Wes' shower had faded. Then she straightened her back, finger-combed her hair out of her face, and went back out to wait for the chick in the scrubs to move on to her next patient. Conveniently leaving Wes somewhere with a clear route to an unattended exit.
Slick. Something to remember, maybe. She'd spent enough time in hospitals for one lifetime, even if she wasn't daylight-challenged now. Her Watcher was starting to stir a little; he really had grown some serious balls in the years she'd been gone. Faith got him mostly upright, using her as a crutch, and guided him out the door.
The less said about the short trip to the nearest cheap hotel, the better. Wes was nearly out again by the time they got there; Faith had to leave him listing on a bench outside the lobby while she went in to lean over the counter and distract the poor sap on desk duty from remembering anything about either of their faces. But he had perked up again-- a little, anyway-- by the time she got back to him with a hot Styrofoam cup of burnt coffee and a key card paid for with bar money lifted out of Angelus' pockets. Once she got him in behind the door and sprawled in one of the overstuffed seventies-chic chairs framing the flimsy little table in the corner, that familiar steely glint was back in his eyes, dulled only a little by the pain. If he'd still had any of his weapons on him, Faith had no doubt she'd be at gun or sword-point already.
Between the bruises flowering dark and ugly around the cracked cheekbone, the thick bandage taped to his throat, the wrap around his ribs, and the splinted hand, Wes really shouldn't have still seemed intimidating. But somewhere in the last few years, he'd picked up some genuine gravitas. It looked good on him. Aside from, you know. Everything else.
"Well, look who doesn't wanna die either," she managed, reaching for her usual light tone. "Sure you Watcher types don't have a little something extra, too? I mean, the number of concussions the G-Man's had, shit. And you've got more scars than I do."
"You would know," he observed. It was the first thing he'd said since waking up. His tone was nice and frosty; but there was something in his expression--
Faith swallowed and looked away. "Got some meds," she said, digging the pill packs the clinic gal had pressed into her hands out of a pocket and tossing them to the table. "Don't plan on keeping you long. But since my grand heroic exit kinda failed...."
"You have some questions," he rasped. Turned out it didn't help not to look; the pity, grief, whatever it was, was just as audible in his voice. "You may not want the answers."
"'Course I want the fucking answers," she replied, throwing her hands up. "What happened to me, Wes? Got to tell you, I've seen a lot of vamps over the years, and I've never seen one turn like-- like I did."
He went quiet for a minute, almost long enough for her to worry he'd passed out again; but when she glanced back to check, he was still staring at her, studying her, not an ounce of quit in him. "There's a reason," he finally said, "that vampires never attempt to turn other part-demons."
"Other-- what?" Faith blurted. Of all the possible explanations she'd thought of on the way from Maury's wrecked bookshop to the clinic, that hadn't even made the list.
"And... that Slayers were historically isolated and trained from a young age," he added, carefully.
"Because there's demon in us?" Faith objected, dropping down on the edge of the bed as the dots connected. "Well, that would have been good to know back before the whole, you know, murder phase. Wait, was that why the hair-trigger goon squads? And why they kept fucking around with B?"
God, there was no way the other Slayer knew-- or did she? A lot could have happened since Faith went inside. How well did she really know Little Miss Tightly Wound, after all this time? And would she have told Faith if she'd found out?
Probably not. It wasn't the kind of thing you wanted to share over the phone. And it made a hell of a lot more sense than she really wanted it to. No wonder Watchers usually didn't intervene in their charges' fights, and why Travers and company weren't fond of Faith and Buffy. Scared that their weapon would wise up and turn on them, probably; scared, too, that the rank and file would get too involved and get corrupted.
Exhibit A. "Angelus used the term, 'ultimate demon championship'," Wes said, mouth set in a grim line. "From the texts.... it's rare, but not an entirely inaccurate description."
Faith processed that, fisting her hands in the bedspread. "But I still got the, you know." She waved a hand in front of her face, and winced as the bones shifted again. "And the whole guilt complex, too," she added, waving a hand at him next. "Thought that was supposed to be a perk of the vampire gig. So, what. I'm fucked coming and going?"
"The few Slayers historically known to have been so affected... typically have not lasted very long," he said, then took a long sip of the coffee, grimacing. "What we refer to as the Slayer Spirit is not actually a complete entity; it is... a part of one, connected back to the greater whole. In adhering to a human soul, it creates a new Slayer, a hybrid entity that apparently remains knit even after that Slayer's death. And it is the vampire demon's mortal enemy. In your case... when the vampire demon tried to take possession, it only partially succeeded; the Slayer in you fought back, and won. That isn't... always the result."
She swallowed. That would explain it, yeah. Also, how Buffy was even still the Slayer after dying twice over. Good old Chosen Two. Or-- Chosen Three now, probably? God help the new girl, wherever she'd woke up.
Faith pressed her hands to her gnarly forehead, holding them there until her new second face shifted away again. "In other words... yeah. Hell of an epilogue. I guess I get why no-one talks about it. But what the hell am I supposed to do now?"
She hated the plaintive note that crept into her voice; she wasn't that weak child anymore, in need of anyone else's approval. She'd owed Wes, sure; owed Angel more. But she'd kept herself in check the last few years. For her.
A wave of exhaustion passed over Wes' features, and he glanced away. "Angel would have sheltered you," he said, obliquely.
It was the closest he'd come yet to asking why she hadn't stayed at the shop. But he knew. He just didn't want to admit it. "Angel has enough trouble sorting his own shit out right now," she reminded him in turn. "And you really think it'll help to have to look at this every day?" She waved at her whole... everything. "I'd be painting a target on both our backs."
He winced, but didn't disagree. He seemed a little less guarded than he had when the conversation began-- but weary, down to the bone, as if his well of determination was starting to run dry. On her behalf, which was almost more surreal than anything else about this evening. "That will be difficult to avoid regardless... unless you allow everyone to believe you're dead and find somewhere to go to ground."
"Thought about that," she frowned, shaking her head. "Don't think that's gonna fly, either. Sure, there's gotta be a new Slayer. But Angel'll tell B what his evil half did. Or someone will. They'll know I made it out of there since I called Gunn. And it's not like I can disguise myself and join a suck house or something, even if I wanted to. You said it yourself; whatever I am now, there's just the one of me. And it's not like I had the best impulse control before."
That surprised a rueful laugh out of him; then a sharp indrawn breath as he clutched at his ribs. "Then... if you cannot avoid being a target... you need to be prepared to do what you have to do to survive. If discovery is inevitable... then you must force it on your terms."
She leaned back, frowning at him. "You think I should go to Sunnydale. You think I should go to B?"
"Sometimes.... there is no good choice," he replied. "Sometimes you won't know if you've done the right thing until the consequences have blown up in your face. I'm sorry, Faith. I'm hardly the right person to advise you, especially after today. But I'd argue that you already made this choice, three years ago."
Good old Wes, Angelus' voice seemed to echo between them. Always count on him to tackle a bad situation and make it worse. I mean, hey, look how you turned out.
But then again, Angelus was a gaslighting fucktard; it had been her choice to go with the Orpheus strategy in the end, not Wes'. When every other option had had a much higher chance of getting Angel killed-- Wes might have broken her out of prison, given her a pep-talk or two, but she'd put her own feet on this path. Just like she'd been the one to turn herself in, the last time the consequences of her actions had caught up with her and threatened to put worthier people in the cross-hairs.
"No one likes a smartass," she replied, returning his rueful smile. "Yeah, all right. Not like I really wanted to run, anyway. Here." She fished the keycard back out of her pocket and tossed it onto the table. "Room's paid for the night. You can call someone to come pick you up tomorrow; they oughtta have straightened out the Angel sitch by then, one way or the other. Guess I'm hitching a ride to Sunny D instead."
"I'd offer to come with you, but...." Wes gestured minutely with the splinted hand, lines of pain deepening around his eyes.
"Nah. I'm good," she said, barely biting her tongue on the you've done enough already that wanted to follow it. "I'll call the Hyperion when I get there."
He said only one more thing as she crossed the room to leave, reaching out to gently touch her wrist. "Faith...." he pleaded, quietly.
She gave him a crooked smile, then turned her hand barely in his, clasping their fingers briefly together before reaching for the door. What else was there to say?
The sound of the door clicking closed behind her was like a death knell; like hitting the floor after she'd stuck that syringe in Angelus' butt all over again. No turning back.
She took another deep, unnecessary breath, then started walking.
Faith got three blocks away before a car stopped to pick her up: a beaten-up old thing with a broken passenger-side door handle and a guy in a priest's collar behind the wheel.
He seemed real excited to see her, for some reason. And real surprised when she objected to his bullshit speech about dirty girls and delivering a message to 'the other one'.
Fun fact: it turned out vampire Slayers were stronger than the regular kind, by several times over.
Well. Nothing like showing up in Sunnydale with an offering to ease the way.
(x-posted to
circle_of_friends and at AO3)