Tell me who doesn't love - What can never come back - You can never forget how it used to feel
The illusion is deep - It's as deep as the night - I can tell by your tears you remember it all
I am paralyzed by the Blood of Christ - Though it clouds my eyes - I can never stop - never stop
~The Blood, The Cure
________________________________________________________________
CHAPTER 3: LAMENTATION PT. 1
“Now, now, let’s not be hasty,” Quentin Travers rasped hoarsely.
Dimly aware of the smell of oiled leather all around her, Faith raised her head from the
seat of the Cadillac to see Quentin Travers pinned against the opposite door, a huge hand wrapped around his throat. It was amazing the man could get the words out at all, she thought, much less sound so reasonable about the
situation.
“You okay?” The owner of the vise-grip clamped around Quentin’s throat looked at her intently, familiar dark eyes filled with concern, seemingly oblivious to the man he held pinned like a bug.
She
nodded, mind still trying to catch up with everything that had happened, then smiled. “Angel! What’re you—How did you--?” She pushed herself up from the seat and sat up, looking around with a dawning grin. “That was
wicked cool!”
Angel’s mouth curved in a slight smirk and he turned to look at Quentin. “Did you hear that? I’m ‘wicked cool’.”
Seemingly at a loss for reply, Quentin simply nodded.
“So, what’s the plan?” Faith asked earnestly, settling in as if she were eager to get down to business.
“The plan,” Angel said, still looking at Quentin, ”is that Quentin and I have a little chat about
‘business’, and then I escort you to beautiful Sunnydale, where we’ll spend several weeks experiencing Hellmouth fun.”
“You’re coming with me?” Faith asked, so surprised and excited that she actually had to restrain herself.
“Business first.” He let go of Quentin’s throat, pinning the man with his eyes instead of his hand.
“Let’s not waste time or mince words, Quentin. I knew you guys would probably try a stunt like this with Buffy out of the way. All I had to do was put my ear to the ground and wait for you to make your move. And now, here
you are, with the same old little Hitler routine.” He stopped, clucked his tongue as if in sorrow and shook his head. “Guys like you never learn, do you? See, the problem with being a bully is that there’s always another
bully out there who’s bigger and stronger than you, just dying to put you in your place if you step out of line,” he said meaningfully, smiling face devoid of humor.
Quentin pulled together the last vestiges of his
dignity, chin rising fractionally. “Are you threatening me, Angelus?”
“Not at all, old pal.” He faked a laugh and clapped the Englishman on his shoulder, a bit too roughly. “I just thought I’d share some
friendly advice. I mean, after all, this Slayer has friends, just like the last one. If you make her into your little puppet, someone’s bound to come along and cut the strings, and well…” He made a show of shrugging,
finishing with polite sarcasm as he leaned over conspiratorially, whispering, ” …it probably wouldn’t go well for you.”
Quentin regarded Angel in glowering silence and Faith watched, recognizing the feeling he
was experiencing as the same one she had felt mere minutes ago. He was making a grand show of it, but she could tell the Watcher knew he was beaten.
“You know Faith needs our guidance,” he said more quietly.
“Guidance yes. Cattle prod, no. Be careful how tight you pull the strings, because someday,” he paused, glancing at Faith then back to Quentin, ”she’ll be a real girl.” Angel let the words hover between them, making
sure they sank in, and at last the Watcher lowered his eyes. Nodding in satisfaction, Angel sat forward and tapped on the tinted window that separated the front seat from the back seat. Almost instantly, the car began to slow,
and Angel sat back, exclaiming with false brightness, “Oh, look Quentin! It’s your stop.”
The Watcher blinked in surprise, then glanced around anxiously, trying without success to see through the tinted windows of
the car. “We’re still miles from any kind of city.” He said it matter-of-factly, as if Angel might not be aware of where they were.
“Oh, I’m sure your men will have no trouble finding you. Eventually.” Angel
reached over Quentin as the car stopped, popping the release on the door.
Quentin grabbed the edge of the doorjamb to keep from falling out of the car, and then, with more dignity than Faith would have believed possible,
pulled himself up and stood. Straightening his tweed jacket, he fixed Angel with an imperious look. “The Council will hear of this. If anything happens to Faith—“
“Oh, come on now Quentin, there’s no need for
idle threats between old friends, is there?” Angel asked with a friendliness that bordered on threatening. “If the Council were as powerful as you like to pretend, it wouldn’t need the Slayer. I think it’s safe to say I
have Faith’s safety more in mind than the Council ever will. I’ll see her safely to Sunnydale and her new Watcher.” He paused, reaching for the door handle. “There will be one waiting?”
“Yes,”
Quentin hedged, seeming reluctant to give any further information. Angel merely waited, staring at him, and at last he sighed. “Ms. Beatrice Hall, 325 Oak Street.”
Angel nodded once, then started to close the door.
He paused halfway, leaning his head out a bit further as if in concern. “Oh, and Quentin, if I were you, I wouldn’t make too much noise while I waited.” He glanced around furtively, lowering his voice. “I hear the
Sasquatch are partial to this territory.” He gave the Watcher a last smirk and slammed the door shut.
Quentin watched the car squeal away into the darkness until it was gone. He could hear nothing but the chirping and
buzzing of insects in the surrounding trees, and he could see no more than a few feet into the trees by the roadside. He thought about moving to the edge of the paved road, but stood in its center, as far from the trees on
either side as possible, hoping the team of soldiers would find him soon.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Inside the car, the window separating the front and backseat buzzed, sliding downward, and Faith was surprised to hear a streetwise voice speak from the front seat.
“We all good here, boss?”
“Yeah,
Gunn. Straight on until Sunnydale from here.” Then, almost as an afterthought, “Faith, this is Charles Gunn. Gunn, Faith.”
Faith seemed startled by the introduction. “That’s Gunn? I mean, you told me he was
cute, but you never said how cute!” She could only see the upper part of Gunn’s face in the rearview, but it was enough.
Thick, dark brows drew together in comical confusion as Faith watched the mirror. “He said I
was cute?” She wasn’t sure, but she thought he sounded surprised, flattered and offended all at once.
“Thanks Gunn. That’ll be it for now,” Angel cut in quickly.
With a last, odd look at Angel, the
window obediently buzzed upward and slid into place, Gunn’s face in the rearview disappearing.
“Cute?” Angel asked, with a look at Faith.
She shrugged and gave him an impudent grin. “That’s what you said.”
Angel smirked, nodded, and seemed to dismiss the topic. “I thought he would be a good… neutral… choice for this.”
“You mean
someone who didn’t hate me with the fiery passion of a thousand burning suns?” Her tone was not without rancor, but Angel could sense that it was directed more at herself than those she spoke of.
He looked uncomfortable and almost seemed to squirm in his seat as he answered. “Well… yeah.”
She hesitated before asking the next question, glancing down at the floor, not sure she wanted to know the answer.
“Does that mean Wesley and Cordelia still haven’t forgiven me?”
She didn’t look up at him, but she could hear the strain in his voice as he replied, and she could tell he didn’t really want to answer her.
“They… they haven’t forgotten.”
She nodded. It was about as straight of an answer as she was going to get without pulling teeth, and she didn’t really have the strength to deal with the pain more specific
answers might bring anyway. “I doubt that anyone in Sunnydale has ‘forgotten’ either,” she said, folding her arms over her chest and turning her head to gaze out the window.
Angel looked at her for a long moment,
considering her, considering the circumstance, considering the choice of his next words. He’d never known exactly how to deal with Faith. She came across so blunt and straight and tough… and yet, most of it was an act to
hide how very soft and vulnerable and secretive she really was. He understood the pain she carried; the blood of innocents and the not so innocent on her hands and in her heart, but she could be so volatile, so unpredictable
that he was never quite sure what would reach her at any given moment.
“It’s what you have to do,” he said quietly. “You’ll never know peace until you make amends with your past, Faith. Sunnydale is the perfect
place to do that, and fulfill your role as the Slayer at the same time.”
She turned, looking at him almost helplessly, but he could see the anger smoldering beneath those dark brown eyes, the anger that so
threatened to smash all her dreams. “I’m going to have to see them.” She hesitated, swallowing hard as if the words were difficult. “They hate me,” she said plaintively.
He nodded, considering that in silence. Then, “They hated me, too, for a while.”
“It’s not the same,” she cut in, her voice taking on a harder edge as she turned away toward the window once again.
“No,” he said slowly. “But you at least you have a chance to show them that you’ve changed. I know it’s hard Faith, but you can do this. I’ve always known that you could.”
She slowly shook her head, turning to look at him again. “What if they never forgive me?”
“Then you keep trying. Faith…” he paused, and now his words came with difficultly, too. “All that really matters is
that you forgive yourself. If you need them to forgive you to achieve that, then you’d better work for it really hard.”
“Is that what you do?” she asked quietly, looking at him intently.
He shook his head as if shrugging it off. “It doesn’t matter what I do.”
She laughed cynically, and tossed her head, dark hair flying back away from her face. “That’s just great. A couple hundred years to
figure out all the answers and this is what you give me?” her voice was hard-edged, bitter.
“Nobody has all the answers, Faith. All we can do is the best we can do.”
She thought for a long moment, gazing out
the window at the trees rushing by. “How—how do you deal with it?”
“One day at a time,” he said with something like a chuckle. “If it hadn’t been for you, I’d be in Sri Lanka right now, soaking in the
spiritualism.”
“Sri Lanka?” she asked, wrinkling her nose. “What’s there?”
“Monks.”
She stared at him uncertainly. “Oh.”
“I… I thought maybe a spiritual retreat might help.
You know, set me right.” He shrugged, uncomfortable again.
“You think there’s hope for that?” her tone was flippant, and she smiled, but she was genuinely curious.
“I think there’s always hope,” he
said with a small smile of his own. “Even when things seem at their worst.”
She regarded him in silent wonder. “You’ve changed.”
“I sure hope so,” he said so quietly she almost didn’t hear him.
He sounded so uncertain, so lost and yet so hopeful. She knew exactly how he felt. And though they talked of many other things, those were the words that haunted her the rest of the way to Sunnydale.
* * * * * * * * * *
Xander sighed and rubbed his eyes, blinking at the bright red numbers that told him it was 3:07am. Giving sleep up as a worthless pursuit for the moment, he slipped his arm from beneath Anya and rose from the bed.
Shrugging into his robe, he stopped and stared down at her, a faint smile tugging at his lips as watched her snuffle, gently shifting position in the wake of his absence, and he wished he could sleep so soundly.
Sleep
had pretty much become a non-issue for him of late. He’d finally figured out that if he just accepted that it wasn’t going to happen, it wasn’t an issue. He crossed the open area of their apartment to the kitchen and
opened the refrigerator, bright yellow light nearly blinding him. Averting his eyes, he reached for the milk, closed the door then fumbled for a glass in the half-light provided by the streetlights outside. It was becoming a
nightly ritual, this glass of milk, and he was beginning to think that maybe he should try it earlier in the night, because sometimes it seemed to help.
But those thoughts only came late in the night when he was silly
with sleeplessness, and the deeper, more cynical part of him knew there was nothing milk could do to drive away the demons. Or, more accurately, the ghosts.
He sat at the kitchen table, sipping his milk and staring out
the window into the darkness. He didn’t see the cars or the streets below; all he could see was a face… a beautiful, sad face that he hadn’t been able to save.
In his mind’s eye, he watched her swan dive from
the tower over and over again, like a record skipping endlessly on the same, discordant note.
* * * * * * * * * *
He was almost there! He could hear the pounding of his feet on the metal ramp, could feel the metal rungs sliding in the grip of his sweaty hands as he climbed the ladder to the top. He could see the top of the platform
now, could see just the crown of the young girl’s hair and the back of the man’s head he thought he had already killed. And well, there was an obstacle, but his heart leaped for joy; he was there in time! He was going to
make it!
“Well. What do you know? It's just about that time,” the man said.
The girl cried out his name, but he ignored her. He didn’t have a moment to spare her just now. The man spun, turning on him.
“Doesn't a fella stay dead when you kill him?” he heard himself ask, as if from far away.
There was more talking; mostly bravado, and then he lunged at the man, realizing the mistake he had made even as he felt
the man’s arm slide around his neck, spinning him around. He knew what was coming next—the knife in his back, the plunge from the platform—all of this had happened before.
But this time he went with the momentum,
letting the spin carry him toward the edge of the platform. They balanced on it precariously, the man struggling to bring his knife to bear, and then he leaned forward over the edge—vertigo rising up as if to grab him and
swallow him whole—and grabbed the man’s arm tight, flipping him over his shoulders, sending his opponent into the air, watching him sail down several stories to hit the ground with a gruesome crunch. He teetered on the
brink of falling himself, then with an effort threw himself backward, landing on his backside with a grunt.
The girl called his name again, with joy and relief rather than concern this time, and he heaved himself up from
the platform to go free her. He heard a noise and turned, ready to battle again if he had to, then relaxed.
“Oh,” the woman said, covering her face with her hands, tears of happiness and relief streaming down her
beautiful face. “She’s okay. You’re okay.” She rushed to the girl and untied her, both of them collapsing into a heap, crying and hugging. He stood back, watching them, a smile on his own face, knowing he had done it.
He had saved them. Saved her.
She finally stood and hugged him tight, kissing him on the cheek. “I would have died if it weren’t for you. Thank you.”
He tried to hug her back, to tell her that he didn’t
need thanks; just the fact that she was alive was thanks enough for him—but she was gone. Like smoke, she evaporated from his embrace.
Spike woke with a sudden start, sweating and cold in the darkness. Like the woman
in his dream, he covered his face with his hands, unsurprised to find the wetness of tears there. Every night he saved her, and every night he woke to find that she had died after all.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Giles sat hunched over inventory sheets in the dim light of the Magic Box. He didn’t even pretend at sleep anymore, the nightmares were all too real, all too fresh. He supposed he looked rather haggard these days, but
he really didn’t care. After all, there was no one around to impress, no one around even to hound him anymore now that Buffy was gone; they were all too wrapped up in their own grieving.
He had always known it was
bound to happen. He above all knew that the life of a Slayer was fraught with peril and mortal danger, and most did not live to see their twentieth year. Buffy had been an exception by living just beyond that, but then, Buffy
had been an exception in many ways, and he had begun to believe that she might just survive forever.
Wishful thinking, he knew now. He had wanted her live, to succeed, to flourish and grow and have all that she wanted
from life. He was bitter that all of that had been stripped from her time and time again, that in the end she had been forced to give up the only thing that was truly hers; her life itself. It wasn’t fair, this calling. Not
fair to Slayer or Watcher. And yet, it was necessary. He knew that, even if he couldn’t completely accept it.
It troubled him to think of all that had been taken from Buffy, from him, from all of them… and yet, what
troubled him most was the nagging thought that perhaps Buffy had been the luckiest of them all, because at least now she knew peace. That was more than any of them would have again for a very long time.
He held his head in his hands and waited for the sorrow to become bearable again.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Willow slept peacefully, her sleep only occasionally broken by a passing bad dream, like a shark’s fin through murky water. She alone slept secure in the knowledge that Buffy would return.
* * * * * * * * * * *
Far beneath the streets of the city, a lone vampire returned to its mistress and made its report.
* * * * * * * * * * *
And so it was when Faith returned to Sunnydale.
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