24.
Such an innocent number.
Two times twelve.
Four times six.
The number of hours in a day.

After this day, however, Buffy Summers will never look at that number the same again, because twenty four is also the number of exposures in a roll of film. Exposure, she thinks after that day, is descriptive in more ways than one.

Buffy shifts her weight from one foot to the other as she impatiently watches the clerk slowly rifle through several files before triumphantly pulling out the small package of photographs. Behind her, Buffy is aware of the native sounds of the mall, shoes muffled on the floor, whispers of conversation, music being piped through the intercom, cash registers ringing and crashing, all blended into a noiseless type of noise.

"Here we are!" The clerk smiles like a school boy expecting lavish praise for work, as if finding the packet labeled `Summers' is a difficult achievement that merits acknowledgement. Buffy smiles back as she pays and the too eager clerk blushes as he hands her the change.

It had been a magical day when the photos were taken. Bright, sunny, but not too hot. They'd gone to the beach, Willow, Oz, Xander, they'd even convinced Giles to go. A picnic lunch, a blanket, some beach towels and various other equipment assured it had been a day to remember, one where the memories are warm and fuzzy around the edges.

Sitting down and opening the packet, Buffy takes out the first photo and gasps. She can remember the exact moment that she'd taken the photo, the camera fitting in her hands easily. It had been just her and Giles, lying stretched out on the blanket as the other three had gone off playing frisbee.

The heat of the sun and the weight of the food had lulled them both into an easy lethargy. Buffy had opened her eyes, about to say something, when she looked over and saw Giles asleep. The deviously mischievous idea came to her that she could take his photo and bribe him for ever after with his nap on the beach. The outcome was totally different, however, Giles wouldn't need to pay anyone to keep this photo hidden, hell, people would pay HIM just to see it.

Buffy traces her finger over the lines of the picture and wonders how she ever missed the inherent sensuality of the man. In font of her very eyes, inside the scope of the little square of cardboard in her hand, he lies there, on his back, his arms crossed behind his head. His sleeves have been folded up and small, wiry hairs dot his wrists and forearms, the first few buttons on his shirt have been undone and the muscles of his chest are suggested beneath the shadows of more body hair.

The skin on his face has taken on a reddish glow, not the bright red of a burn, but the healthier darkening given by a day in the sun. The corners of his mouth turn upwards slightly, as if he were in that very moment of sleep, dreaming of something pleasant. The lush fullness of his lips and the way they were parted just so, suggested something not entirely pure. Looking at the photo now, Buffy wants to touch those lips, their wetness, maybe even with her own mouth, parting them further. That thought and the direction it is prepared to take, shocks her.

His mouth is framed by four small dimples, creating a strange, but definitely appealing, focus on those lips. Odd, she has not noticed this before and wonders how she could possibly have missed it. There are creases that spread out from his eyes and as she looks at them now, they seem less like the product of age, than as a mark of his character. The result of many grins he has sent her way, chuckles at her comments, frowns of worry, disappointment, anger. Emotions. She wishes that he'd been awake for the photo, for she desperately wants to look into his eyes.

She can remember the click of the shutter and the sudden jerk of his awakening, how he'd sat bolt upright, a testimony to his ever alertness. Almost immediately, he'd relaxed, saying her name with a glare, but he'd been unable to hide the smile, the laughter in his eyes or the indulgence in his face. Buffy had poked out her tongue and jumped up to join the others, leaving him to settle back down and watch them. Buffy wonders what could have happened had she stayed. She banishes the that thought as she realizes that she's been looking at this one photo too long, though no one but her is there to notice.

She flips it to the back.

The four of them sit amongst each other on the blanket. Willow, Oz, Xander and Giles. She looks at the way they all accommodate each other. A mixture of limbs and skin and cloth. The remnants of their lunch in front of them. Willow lies on her stomach, propping her chin in her hands, a dreamy smile on her face as she stares into the camera. Oz is leaning over her back, aloof and seemingly unconcerned about anything, but he cannot hide from the camera a slight possessive air as his hand comes to rest on the opposite side of Willow and his face leans into her neck as if he's whispering something into her ear. Xander assumes much the same position as Oz, leaning over, but from the other side, of Willow and appearing behind Oz. The three belong to each other and it is seen in the photo.

But Buffy is looking at Giles, once more, caught and hypnotized by the man. He sits up, leaning back on his hands, his legs spread out in front of him. Buffy smiles at the way his bare feet poke out of his trousers, his bony ankles looking awkward, boyish and adorable. Her eyes drift over the round pink bubbles of his toes, the skin a surprising smooth contrast to the weathered wear of the rest of him.

She flips to the next photo.

She hears, in her head, Willow's authoritative voice. "Okay, now one with you in it!" She can see the disparaging shakes of all four heads when she starts to refuse. It was, she remembers now with a slight jolt, Giles' soft pleading that made her finally relent and hand the camera over to a nearby fellow beach goer.

Looking at the group, Buffy remembers, she had fit herself in the only place there had been room. Kneeling up next to and slightly behind Giles. Unconsciously, for she would never do so on purpose, Buffy blocks the three other scoobies out of her mind and looks only at the two of them. It is the first photo in which they are together and she is startled by the closeness, the absolute togetherness that they exude. On her face sits a wide, bright smile, her cheeks flushed with energy and laughter, glowing with happiness. Her hair falls into her eyes and just before the photo was taken, Buffy had flipped her head to shake it off. The effect was that, in the photo, she looks as if she is leaning into Giles, sharing an intimate moment with him.

The expression on Giles' face looks, if possible, more relaxed and comfortable than in the previous photos. His posture has shifted almost imperceptibly and Buffy can see this is because he is leaning into her. She was unable to see it on the day, but Buffy now notices the tilt of his head, the direction of his eyes. He's looking at her and Buffy finds herself almost surprised to see the emotion in his eyes.

Flip.

Xander pulls a face at her from the photo in her hand. Buffy smiles fondly. Suddenly, out of nowhere, the thought comes to her that he cannot keep this innocence forever. It saddens her, to wonder when he'll lose that quality, to wonder what will make that happen when he's already been through so much.

Flip.

It takes her a moment to decipher the details of this one. There are several figures on the beach, all focused on having a good time within themselves and their groups. All at once she sees herself and, a little further down the beach, stands Willow, between them a bright red frisbee flies. Another moment and Buffy is able to place Xander and Oz, just out of sight of the camera. Giles must have picked it up after she'd dropped it. The thought makes her smile.

She flips through the next few photos, looking at each one, but finding no reason to pause over them for any length of time. Photos of them all playing games, having fun, being free. It occurs to her that, in each of the photos Giles has taken, and there are seven, whoever is in them is smiling, unconscious of the lens focused on them, forgetting for a moment that the fate of the world often rests on their shoulders.

This comes to her in a sudden physical jolt, though it doesn't surprise her. She's never thought about it before, but it seems perfectly within Giles' nature to long to see them carefree and happy. She wonders just how much she automatically knows by instinct about Giles, about how much they are attuned to each other.

The instant she thinks about it, concentrates on explaining and detailing it, her knowledge about Giles becomes elusive and blurs, melding into the `safe' opinions she has built up around him. She decides that she must, sometime soon, sometime very soon, sift her real thoughts from the defensive ones she has created because it was expected.

Flip.

They're in the water now. One of the few times she'd been able – Buffy pauses to correct herself without thinking, though later she wonders if her first phrasing had been more accurate – they'd been able to convince Giles to join them. Oz, however, had refused, claiming he didn't `do the water thing'. She looks at the fine spray of water that leaps out of Xander's hand and covers Willow, the way that Willow turns away, but is laughing, calling something out.

Her eyes search out the two figures that stand nearby and she finds them with little effort. Giles stands waist deep in the water, reluctant to go any further, while Buffy holds his hands, pulling him deeper, leaning back with the effort. He looks as if he's deciding whether to laugh or growl at her. She's pouting and looks as if she's about to cry if he doesn't give in.

Flip.

Oz must have taken the photos in quick succession, for Buffy can recognize this one as occurring moments after. Willow has turned the tables and has leapt onto Xander's back, pushing him under the water. Both are laughing. Giles, she remembers, trips on something, losing his footing and being pulled forward by her. She, not having seen him trip, falls backwards, taking him with her. Her mouth is stretched wide in shocked laughter.

Flip.

Xander and Willow have disappeared from view, leaving in their wake splashes and odd limbs. Giles, finding coordination and his footing faster than Buffy, has grabbed her by the waist and twisted her around, off her feet, to stop her from falling. Buffy looks at the way she throws her head back and laughs. She can remember the total feeling of safety as he lifts her in the water. She can also remember the few moments when, lifted up, she wraps her legs around his waist, feeling a sharp contrast between the harsh salty coldness and the smooth heat of his skin.

Quick flip.

Willow and Xander resurface, spluttering, but still laughing. The photo is at an angle, as if Oz has been caught unawares. Buffy wonders whether he had been startled by Willow and Xander, or her and Giles. Maybe it had been either. She looks at herself, now several feet from Giles, wading towards her friends. Buffy traces a finger over the face of Giles, suddenly sad and angry at herself, because she can now see the confusion and disappointment on his face as he watches her race away from him as fast as she can go.

Quicker flip.

Xander has the camera now, she can tell, because the photos are of surprised faces, blanked out with shock at the intrusion, or clouded with anger and threat. She can hear the low growls forming in each of their throats. "Put it down, Xander." The faces flip by, Willow, Oz, Giles and herself.

Flip, flip, flip, flip.

The next photo surprises her, she hadn't known any one had photographed her as she'd napped, the late afternoon sun having leached all her energy. It is a good photo, though, it surprises her that her sleeping posture unconsciously mirrors that of Giles in the first photo. The thing that puzzles her, is who held the camera.

Flip.

Giles, Xander and Oz, in the midst of building a sand castle. It answers her question, she thinks, because the castle had already been built when she'd woken up. Willow had taken the photos. It makes her giggle, this photo, the total boyish innocence of the act. Xander, maybe Oz, she'd thought had been the budding architect. Never Giles, but there he was, his face clouded with intense concentration as his hand reached out to smooth the lines of the castle. A thin layer of sand granules crust his naked wrist.

Sigh. Flip.

The sky is darkening now, the air taking on an eerie quality, readying itself to be bleached of color before nightfall. Moments after this photo is taken, Buffy knows, they will rouse themselves to ensure that they get home before true nightfall, an unspoken and therefor unacknowledged reminder of their reality, a none to gentle reminder of why they'd all needed they day in the first place. For now, though, for the purpose of the photo, it is a moment of peace, contentment, a second to be savored and remembered.

Buffy now has control of the camera again and the photo is a side on view of the others. Oz sits with his back against a rolled up towel, on his face is a contented expression, in his arms lies a drowsy Willow. The photo gives the illusion that she is asleep, but in reality she is drifting along the waves of an almost semi sleep but never quite reaching it. Willow is leaning back against Oz's chest, his arms surrounding her, his legs nestling her. On the far side, Xander sits, unaware that Buffy is holding the camera, a fist digging into his eye, much like a tired child would do, his face is slack, as if he had just yawned and his skin is a bright pink that will turn into a vicious burn the next day.

Giles, in the front of the photo, is the only one aware that it is being taken. His face is stretched taut into an awkward, self conscious smile, his posture looks as though he cannot really decide what to do with himself. His head is bent forward, as if to shade himself from view, but this attempt is negated by the way his eyes are angled upwards, looking to the person behind the camera, to Buffy, as if sharing a joke, something secret and intimate between them.

Flip.

The next photo makes her laugh out loud. She'd forgotten this. Xander stands, his feet planted firmly in the sand, his arm outstretched, in his hand is a towel, springing back towards him. Giles stands a foot away, a murderous glare aimed at Xander. A fine spray of sand rains down upon them both. To the side, Willow has thrown her head back with laughter and even Oz looks amused. Buffy remembers laughing before Giles turned his glare to her and they continued packing in silence.

Flip.

The last photo and everything is packed up, the sun is struggling to give off the last rays of light and they are making their way back to the car. Buffy had carried the large, unwieldy folded blanket, Giles a bag of sports equipment, Willow and Oz carried the picnic basket between them and Xander had followed with the left over bags. Buffy hadn't realized that Xander had managed to juggle the bags enough to find the camera and use it. Willow and Oz walked, side by side, their heads leaning into each other, saying something that will stay between them, with nothing but their backs to suggest their closeness.

It is the couple ahead of them, once again, that catches Buffy's eye. Her and Giles. Buffy has the blanket hoisted under her right arm, her left hanging loosely by her side. Giles has the bag in his left hand, his right also hanging by his side. Both are looking forward, not talking to or leaning into each other, but they stand so close that their hands are almost touching.

Buffy shifts the bundle of photos back into its pouch and sits there, tapping her fingers on the table, lost in her own thoughts. She wonders whether the photos have changed her way of thinking, or if they have just illuminated it to her. She prefers the latter. There is no doubt in her mind, now that she thinks about it, how he feels for her. A smile dances across her lips. She is startled by a glass being placed on the table in front of her.

"Half caf, double mocha, yes?"

She looks up at him, looking down at her.

"Sorry I took so long, did you get what you needed?" He waits for a response and, when he gets none, becomes concerned. "What's wrong? Is everything alright?"

Buffy blinks, smiles and stands up, though she doesn't seem to snap out of the trance she is in. He stutters, confused, as she reaches for him and pulls him into her by his collar. Her lips are searing, searching, slightly cautious, but hungry. He feels he should resist, but knows he cannot. When she pulls back, he lets out an involuntary groan of disappointment.

"Buffy? What…?"

"I love you, Giles." Her eyes widen and she giggles as if saying this aloud both startles and delights her. "I love you."

He cannot help but smile back.

END.

One thing that catches her attention is the resounding echo of their footsteps along the abandoned hallway. Click, click, click. It is a very lonely sound. Buffy tries to imagine hearing that sound every day, each footstep hammering into your brain. She does not like the suggestion of this feeling, so she buries it deep. Something she has become quite expert at this year.

Every sound is amplified, striking nothing but tiled floors and marbled walls. She has not, not even once, over the past years imagined how it must be like being in here. Previously, any thought given to the matter, has been centered on how deserved it was. She has not, not even once, tried to think about that famed `other side'.

Next to her, the weathered warden walks passively, seeming not to care that this is a momentous step for Buffy, which she doesn't. This is just another day in her life, another day on the job. Buffy wonders if it has occurred to her that this is a prisoner who gets so few visitors, if any at all.

It has not yet occurred to Buffy, but it will later, that many prisoners in this section of the jail do not get any visitors. Very few actually get regular contact with people from the outside. This is, she will soon learn, the section whose very inmates have given up on themselves. Not the most violent, not the ones who have committed the most heinous of crimes, but the prisoners who no longer care and are no longer cared for by anyone.

They are, by their very nature, the most dangerous of prisoners. For there is nothing to compel them to follow the rules, no incentives to stop them from snapping. There is, for many of them, no hope of release. Nobody is counting down the days for them, nobody is keeping their room the way they like it.

Buffy looks at the walls carefully, studies the marks on the floor, trying to distance herself from the actual place. Deep down, if she cared to look, which she doesn't, she knows that she's not far from being here, she knows how very close it could have been.

The keys jangle loudly and Buffy is surprised by the amount of keys that are on the actual key ring. In other circumstances, it would have been comical, but today it is nothing more than a reminder of just how many locks this building is made of.

In the middle of the room stands a table, with two chairs facing each other. There is, on the other side of the room, another door, strong, metal, its little window heavily marred by bars. Buffy can see the face of a male guard standing there. Watching.

Sitting on one of the chairs, her ankles chained to the legs and connected to her wrists, also in chains, is Faith. She has, Buffy thinks in a moment of odd concern, lost weight and she hunches over in a way that Buffy does not ever remember seeing her do before. Then she turns around.

The shock on Faith's face is obvious, as is the sudden tightening of her body, the instinctive preparation for an attack, the sudden collection of guilt. It is Faith's eyes that hold Buffy's attention, for she sees pain, remorse, a touch of fear and, surprisingly, genuine emotion and concern.

"You were expecting someone else?"

Faith's mouth slackens and this is the only response she can muster for several seconds, then she shakes her head. It is not, Buffy understands, a negation, just an attempt to collect thoughts. She watches as Faith gestures to the empty chair opposite her, she hears the door behind her close with a definite finality.

Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly.

This is a moment that changes everything. There are so few in each lifetime, Buffy thinks, and surely she has used up her share. A sly tooth of thought pierces her brain and it almost makes her laugh out loud with a spray of bitterness that shocks her.

This is a new lifetime.

"Shoulda known it would be you, B." Faith watches her as she sits with an intensity that borders on uncomfortable. "I knew you were gonna come sooner or later."

Although the words are simple, they are offered and interpreted as a peace offering. An awkward gesture that is slightly endearing. Faith is making an attempt and Buffy knows she has to accept this, just as she knows it will be all she gets for the moment. She also knows it is all she deserves. Buffy makes her face intentionally blank, trying desperately to fight her built up instincts of fighting the woman sitting in front of her.

"It might have been Angel."

A look of pain crosses Faith's face, leaving it with only an echo of sadness.

"No." She whispers. "He stopped coming over a year ago."

This doesn't shock Buffy as much as she thought it would. It hurts, though. There is a moment of awkward silence, in which the two women try to sneak glances at each other, try to think up something to say. They are both painfully aware of the guards that stand at each door. The eyes that watch.

"How is it?" Buffy finally makes a gesture, waving her arms in a general motion around the room. "In here, I mean."

"It's okay." Faith shrugs. "It's hard. But I'm harder, dammit."

This statement strikes Buffy as incredibly sad. It is this that makes all the hardness finally melt away.

"I'm sorry."

Faith widens her eyes, she has been expecting a confrontation, perhaps the usual exchange of hurtful remarks. Her brain is still searching for the reason for Buffy's visit. At first, she suspected Buffy was looking to clear her conscience, make an obligatory visit, claim you care, you tried.

"You're sorry? You?" She fights not to let a little hysterical giggle escape. "Just so we're clear, you're Buffy and I'm Faith, right?"

"I'm sorry." Buffy's tiny little voice tries again. "For not understanding, for not trying harder."

It is this moment that Faith begins to understand that this is more than an attempt to bring her over to the `good' side, this is more than a frontal attack, a wave of blame. Buffy is honestly trying to make a bridge. It almost hurts to think about, for Faith knows now, she's had time to think about it, the damage that she has done to Buffy, the sacrifices that Buffy made for her.

For the first time that day, indeed, for the first time in years, Buffy and Faith meet each other's eyes. There has been, they both discover with a little shock, incredible pain introduced into the other's life, pain that has marked their gaze.

It seems a lifetime ago, that night at the Bronze, when they first met. Those all too brief months in which they had both reveled in the thought of each other's friendship, before jealousy and competition and the loss of trust marred their relationship. How innocent they'd both been.

The moment passes, neither woman particularly wanting the onrush of emotion, and Faith attempts to bring the mood a little higher.

"The food sucks here, B." A tentative smile crosses her face and she leans back in the chair. "You wouldn't believe the things I'd do for a plate of your mom's fries."

Buffy tries to hide the flinch that crosses her face, she tries hard.

"What?" Faith is immediately on alert. "What I say?"

"She's dead." Buffy's hands are working on each other, clenching, twisting, desperate for something to do. She fidgets when she's avoiding issues, when she doesn't want to reveal pain, this is a trait that Faith remembers in Buffy. "My mom. She… last year…"

"Oh god, B." Faith wants to say she's sorry, but the last thing she wants to do is sound trite and insincere. A moment from the past flashes across her brain, an angry Buffy, warning what she'd do to Faith if she apologized. She knows it's going to take more than words to make up to Buffy all the damage she has caused. "What about Dawn?"

Again, a flinch, but it passes too quickly to decipher. Faith begins to realize, truly comprehend, how much she is missing in here. Time has been a vague concept, a vague passing of meals and outdoor exercises, sleepless nights and confrontations. Marks on the wall, the passing of cell mates, the transfer to solitary, the slow seepage of her soul, the torturous rebuilding. This has been a personal journey for Faith, she has begun to use her time wisely.

There are nights when she does not sleep, lying on the slender bunk, staring at the ceiling, listening to the ugly sounds of the jail at night. It is preferable, almost welcome, compared to the ugly sounds and sights of her dreams, the memories she fears. There are so many faces to atone for, so many wrongs that can never be righted.

If any thought at all has been given to the daily passing of their lives, Faith has assumed a gentle continuation of the normal regime. The scoobies, Giles, Buffy, a plethora of monsters to be fought and vanquished. There has never been, in Faith's thoughts, true struggle and pain. For what, as has so long been her way of thinking, does not come easily to Buffy?

"Dawn's… fine." Buffy raises a hand as if to stop the conversation, but she continues to speak. "It's harder some days, but we're taking each day as it comes."

In a moment of uncharacteristic girlishness, Buffy leans forward, smiling.

"She had her first kiss a few months ago."

"Baby D?" Faith lets a rush of air whistle through her lips. She's honestly surprised, but she can't help tease Buffy just a little. "She's old enough to be kissing? Better keep an eye on her, if she's anything like her sister."

Buffy can't do anything for a moment, but plaster a polite smile over her face, hiding her true thoughts. The jibe, a little too close to home, sends Buffy's thoughts whirring. Dawn in the back of that car, with a vampire, the things that could have happened. Herself with Angel, with Spike and even, if she let herself admit it, with Dracula. That strange attraction, the brief and all too quick vanquish of death, that desperate need to feel.

"Nothing serious." She forces herself to say, dreading the reaction her truth will inevitably bring. This truth thing, Buffy tells herself wryly, gets harder and harder. But she has promised herself that this will not be a wasted trip. There is so much between her and Faith, between her and the world, that she must either do this or die. "Besides, I had to stake the guy before it got too serious."

Faith does not disappoint. Her eyes widen in shock, a flash of concern and anger, then settle into a comical silence, with nothing but the twist of her eyebrows to convey her amusement, the slightest curve of her lip to suggest the comments she could make.

"Jesus." A conciliatory nod towards Buffy. "Our lives are fucked up, aren't they?"

A sudden burst of laughter. It's too loud and the following silence is awkward. Buffy reigns herself in.

"Well, both of mine are."

Faith smiles along with Buffy, but it's not reflected in her eyes. She's slightly puzzled by the comment, her skin is prickling at the too loud voice, the erratic, hyper movements that Buffy is making, the almost hysterical quality of everything.

"What's going on, B?"

"What?" Buffy splays her hands, palms upwards. She knows, even before Faith quirks an eyebrow, before the stubborn set of her jaw, that Faith will not let this die down. There has always been a visceral connection between the two, the ability to get underneath the skin and find the most sensitive nerves. She sighs.

"How do you do it?" She asks, not quite meeting Faith in the eye. "Live in here and not go crazy?"

A slight hardness enters Faith's posture, instinctual.

"I've never been crazy."

"I know, I know." Buffy's voice is rushed, apologetic, trying to brush away the implication. "What I mean is, how do you feel? I mean, the things you did, they made you feel alive, didn't they? That's why you did them?"

Faith sits, transfixed, there's a glassy quality to Buffy now. She leaning forward in her seat, talking so fast that Faith has seen more than one fleck of spittle fly across the table. Buffy's hands are still now, gripping each other so tightly that her knuckles are bleached white.

"You had to do them or you'd just melt away, float off, dissolve? It was like breathing, wasn't it? The cost, the consequences, they were nothing compared to the ability to feel. That's why, isn't it?"

"Buffy!"

At the sound of Faith's voice, Buffy snaps out of her agitated state, she seems almost confused as to what she is doing here. Her hands extricate themselves from each other and she clasps the ends of the chair arms. Tightly.

"Yes." The words come out of Faith as if being pulled from her with great pain. "Yes and yes. A thousand fucking yeses, B. That's why I came here, that's why I made them take me in. Everyone's safer with me in here. Don't you get it? I did nothing but hurt everyone, especially you. Everyone is better of with me in here."

Buffy looks at her for the longest moment, forcing Faith to catch her breath at the longing that she sees buried in Buffy's eyes.

"I wasn't, Faith. I wasn't safe. I died."

Faith is silent long enough to study the anticipation in Buffy's gaze, she sees the slight tremor that shakes Buffy, though she tries to hide it. Buffy almost stops breathing. By this, Faith knows that the declaration is not only true, but more serious than she wants to realize.

"Yeah." Faith juts her chin out, ever so slightly, looking at Buffy through the lids of her eyes. It's almost subconscious, this change of posture, a defense she has built up since childhood. "But only for a second, right? Like the drowning thing?"

She laughs, hollowly, at the space that is left when Buffy says nothing.

"Right?" It's a little too desperate.

"Yeah." Buffy smiles. A small, tight smile. "Nothing big."

It's familiar, this game of forced deceit. Faith has played the follower for so long, that Buffy is once again forced into the role of leader, of guide, of responsibility. She feels a weight descending on her shoulders, making her slide down a bit further into her chair. Protect the ones at home, protect the ones who care, never let them know.

A slice of bitterness cuts through Buffy's head as she is, once again, reminded of the fact that the only person she has been truly able connect with wasn't even a person. How utterly fitting, she thinks, how well deserved.

It's been a waste of time, she tells herself, this trip. There's nothing that Faith can do, nothing that any of them can do. It's unfair to expect someone else to fix her problems. In a flash, so intense it hurts, Buffy comes to the conclusion that Spike is all she deserves.

"I'm sorry." She says it again, this time her lip trembles. "I'm going."

"You sit." Faith's voice is nearing anger. For so long she had trained her sense to spot a weakness and lunge, now she no longer feels the need to attack. But the instinct is still there. "You sit down and you tell me what the hell is going on. And Buffy? Don't lie to me."

"It's so loud. Do you remember how loud it is out there?"

"B? What are you talking about?"

"Remember the story I told you about Angel? When I killed him? Gods, I loved him then, more than I thought possible. But I still did it. I took that sword and I killed him. It hurt, I can't tell you how much it hurt. I don't know if I'd do it now. Screw the world, right? What the hell has it ever done for me?"

Faith doesn't move, but on the inside, she feels a slap against her face. She has never heard Buffy talk like this, never been witness to this bitterness.

"They took my mom, Faith, they took her. They gave me a sister who wasn't real and made it hurt so much just to see her frown, let alone anything else. Then they told me she wasn't real. They wanted me to kill her, kill my own sister, a part of me.

"I couldn't do it. I didn't want to. I have had everything taken from me. Everything I cared about and I just couldn't live like that anymore."

"Tell me, Buffy."

"I died, Faith, they wanted to take Dawn and I wouldn't let them. I sacrificed myself to save her. Do you know how much it hurt? When my body hit that portal? When hundreds of lightning bolts were frying my insides and draining every last ounce of blood I had? I've never felt that before. But do you know something? I felt it!"

There is a triumph in that last sentence that seemed out of place. Faith blinks, trying to absorb what Buffy is telling her. She watches as Buffy seems to center herself, breathing in and collecting an energy from somewhere inside. Buffy's eyes look straight at her.

"Do you believe in heaven, Faith?"

"What, you mean like God and shit?" Faith's upper lip curls into a bitter snarl. "Fuck that, B, there ain't no such animal."

"Not God, Faith. I don't…" Buffy leans her head to the right, stretching her neck, as if reaching for the right word to say. "… know about religion or gods or devils. I mean, like, do you believe in rewards? That there's something waiting for us, something better than here?"

There's a silence in the air and Buffy watches as Faith looks down at her hands, watches as Faith's hands twitch just a little.

"I don't know, B, but I guess it doesn't really matter for me, does it?"

"I went to Heaven." And Buffy can see the wave of confusion, she can see the momentary urge to make some sarcastic comment, it dances over Faith's face. She waits. The expressions pass and in their wake lies a concern mixed with denial. "All good girls, right?"

"What?" It's all she can blurt out and Faith wants to reach out and take it back, say something else, something worthy of the revelation she senses Buffy is trying to make.

"I was dead for three months, Faith, I was buried and I had…" Buffy pauses to think about this. "… still have I guess, I haven't gone back, a headstone. They… they bought me back."

It's almost a reflex, that spiteful voice inside her head that shrieks, of course, Buffy defeats even death. And then Faith lets the bitterness of Buffy's voice seep into her brain and she thinks about that. They.

"You didn't…" How strange, Faith thinks, this trying to be delicate. "… want…?"

Buffy smiles, a vague and vacant little shimmer over her mouth. Her eyes are clouded and she loses herself in a memory, or the chasing of a memory.

"I didn't want. I didn't feel. It was beyond that, it was…" Buffy searches for the right word. "warmth, serendipity, bliss? I don't know. I just know I was there and now I'm not."

Faith leans forward, putting forth an eagerness she doesn't exactly feel, trying to hide the fear that comes with the question.

"And you want to go back?"

"I…" Buffy is struggling, she's trying to form her words before they've even become thoughts. "I don't think so. No, I know so. I don't want to. Not anymore. I did."

Another silence, then Faith leans forward.

"What was it like?"

Hunger. That's what Faith's expression reminds Buffy of. Yearning.

"Soft."

The word could describe itself as Buffy whispers it. She thinks that the sound of her voice is a perfect mirror for the expression she read in Faith just before. And it does surprise her, how much she still wants to go back, how easy it would be if she was ever offered the choice. Because she has come so far, has anchored herself so deeply into this world again that she doesn't want to think how distant and unreal she was when she first came back.

"I wish…"

Faith immediately blushes, cutting herself off in an instant. How foolish, even now, to let her defenses fall so far. She wants to take it back, possibly ignore the blunder, but it's too late and Buffy is looking at her with understanding. Perhaps a little pity and that's what hurts. She can't stand the pity, never could.

"You will." Two words and Buffy says them with utter confidence that it almost makes Faith breathless.

"How can you know, B? How can you be so sure? Look at who I am, look at what I've done."

Buffy shakes her head. Faith bristles, just a little, it's as if Buffy's trying to explain something to a dim child. How the hell can she dare to act so superior?

"I don't think it's about keeping score, it's not about how many ticks you have in the `good' column and in the `bad' column. It's about the overall. Nobody's keeping score, Faith."

"How the hell do you know?"

"Because I felt it. When I was there, I knew everyone I cared about was safe, that they'd all be safe eventually. I didn't have to worry, I felt that."

They meet each other's eyes again. A smile grows on Faith's lips, slowly, testing the waters. It's mirrored in the question that grows in her eyes, but isn't spoken. She's not sure if she can ask the question, despite the emotion that's already been shed. She's not sure if she can take a harsh blow to her psyche right now.

"Yes, Faith, that means you, too."

A rush of air that Faith hadn't realized she was holding. It's getting too heated in here, emotionally, for her taste. She needs to tone it down before she does something completely absurd and embarrassing like cry.

"How's the gang? Still all scooby like and shit?"

Okay, Buffy thinks, that ends that line of conversation. She can almost hear the emotional bricks being laid down between them. She wonders at the breadth of feelings that they've both crossed just in the past hour. Giles would be so proud.

"They're… fine."

"They're… fine?" Faith drawls out the word, hesitatingly, completing a pretty fair imitation of Buffy's reluctance. "I don't think so, B. What's up?"

Buffy sighs, deep, drawing from some reserve she hopes she still has.

"Giles moved back to England when I died. He visits now and then, but he's essentially gone. Willow got dangerously addicted to magic and when Tara was killed she went crazy with grief and nearly ended the world. Xander left Anya at the altar, she's a vengeance demon again, Xander seriously wants to kill Spike, for what he did to Anya and what he did to m…"

And she stops, just like that, in the middle of her speech. Faith bites her lip, already having tried to stop herself making loud exclamations as Buffy listed each item off as casually as if she were reading a shopping list.

"Spike?" Even after the day, Buffy still can't hide the flinch in her face. Faith pounces on it. "William the Bloody? What did he do?"

"He, uh, he slept with Anya."

"No." Faith narrows her eyes. "You were going to say `me'. What did he do to you, Buffy?"

She can't meet Faith's eyes. Buffy looks everywhere but Faith's eyes. The walls, the ceiling, the floor.

"He, uh…" Buffy breathes in and let out the next sentence in one rapid breath. "… we were sleeping together and when I tried to end it he tried to rape me, but I stopped him and now he's left town and we don't know where he is. So, you don't like the food in here, huh?"

"Jesus, Buffy." Faith feels her fist tighten. "Forget Xander, I'll kill the fucker myself."

"Don't, Faith." Buffy closes her eyes and tries not show the bitterness on her face. "Don't. Okay? If he shows himself, it's my fight."

Faith raises her eyebrows and wags her head, once, twice, to show her complete disgust at Buffy's attitude, but her acceptance of it, nonetheless. She tries another tactic.

"You were sleeping with him? What the hell is it with you and vamps, B?"

"He was there, okay? He was there and he understood."

Faith gots, probably more than she wants to.

"And they weren't?"

"They wanted to be."

"But they just couldn't understand."

"He saw the blood on my hands, Faith, he saw it and he knew what it meant."

Faith waits a second, maybe two, before Buffy meets her eye and then she deals the harshest blow she's dealt all year.

"I had blood on my hands, once, too."

A flash, painful and clear hits Buffy and she cringes, but she doesn't retaliate. It's a fair call. The night is suddenly clear to her and she can almost smell the slight scent of sweat that they'd both worked up with their eager slaying, could almost taste the saliva she'd had in her mouth at the time, anticipating the ribs they'd been planning to get. Could feel herself distancing herself from Faith at that moment.

"I didn't know, Faith, not then. I didn't know."

And Faith smiles. Large. Genuine.

"But now you do."

END.