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Upstairs it’s all guns. And Faith can hear Buffy still fighting. The way she yelps from the back of her throat, soft and guttural all at once, as she lands a kick. And Faith can hear her boots on the metal stairs too, the rickety spiral staircase shaking, her boots are heavy, her pace is quick, and then she’s at the ground floor. No footsteps behind her, so no one’s noticed she’s slipped out yet.
And then, mostly, Faith just hears her own heart. Thumping away somehow, still. So loud. So fucking loud. And, when she gets down to it Faith just wants it to stop being loud, for once. It’s been loud forever, forever, nothing ever gets to be quiet in here.
(The last time Faith remembers it being quiet she was sprawled across the big soft bed with the expensive mattress that when the Mayor told her how much he spent on it, she spit out her soda all over his desk, and he just smiled as he mopped it up. Faith was sprawled across that bed and there was a magazine in her hands, she still remembers what it said, she was reading some bit about how some chick from a band accentuates her eyes with dark liner but a bit of bright in the corners, and Faith was sucking on a Twizzler, thinking she could do the same, her eyes always look nice when she draws them out—they get all huge, and it’s her favorite part of her face maybe. Sometimes when she was little she would stare at her own eyes in the mirror for what felt like hours and just think about nothing, till her vision got fuzzy and soft.
It was quiet, on that big bed, or she thought it was, but then there was Buffy and Faith’s knife and a fall and all this blood and it’s been blood ever since and won’t ever not be, and it’s Faith’s fault. She’s gotta let it be her fault, this time, she knows, but it’s so loud when she does).
Faith’s gonna make it quiet.
Upstairs there’s still scuffle and machine guns or whatever they are, but the gunshots sounds are getting further apart. She’s pretty sure that means one of the gunmen is down. Because otherwise it would mean they’d gotten Buffy. And they haven’t. Faith would feel it, somehow, if Buffy was gone. And anyway, this isn’t how Buffy goes down. This isn’t how any of this happens.
She’s in Angel’s office now, and she would turn on the light but it feels wrong somehow, and anyway she can see through the streetlamp pushing through the blind slats, and there’s a map of the city sitting on one of the desks, and that’s good, okay, just gotta find where they are, and then she can find the nearest police station, and then all of this can be done, and then everything will be quiet, for once, finally, finally. And she’ll be the one to make it quiet, too. Not Angel and not Buffy and not anything but her. No one’s fixing this for her.
Not this time.
She finds the precinct on the map and it’s not far from here, she reckons she can make it there fast if she takes back alleys, or she could try to grab a cab, but since the evening news said she’s apparently LA’s Most Wanted, maybe that’s too risky. But anyway, she’ll get there and then—
Footsteps.
Faith flips around and in the corner, in the threshold, all in shadow, is a dark head of hair and she jumps for a second, but then her senses kick in.
Cordelia says: “What are you doing?”
“Doesn’t concern you,” Faith says, steals a last look at the map, tries to fix the location of the precinct in her head, and moves towards the door. “Look, I gotta go. Now”
Cordy moves to stand in front of the doorway. Like that could stop Faith, if she really wanted to make her move she could do it without flinching, without thinking, without—
Fuck. Okay. Okay. Deep breath.
Faith stops.
“No, I think it does concern me, Lady-Hits-a-Lot,” Cordy says, and flicks on a desk lamp, tilts her head towards Faith so the shiner on her cheek is visible. Faith shudders, looking at it, and Cordy sees her do it. “You don’t get to try to kill my friends and then just vanish into the night when you’re tired of destroying things.”
“I’m not. Vanishing, I mean. I know it looks like I was, but that’s only ‘cause I was—”
Cordelia hold up a hand: “No. I wasn’t done talking. You wanna know what I saw, when I came into the building? Angel. Fighting for you. Climbing up a fucking hellicopter to punch out some scary looking dude trying to kill you. Putting his life on the line for you. And you’re just gonna run away.”
Faith can hear her heartbeat again, and it’s so loud. It’s so loud in here.
“What’s it to you if I do, huh?” Faith says, and her voice comes out all scratchy. Upstairs, the gunfire is still going, but it’s slowing even more, only one gunman left, she reckons. Buffy must’ve gotten the second one. And she’ll get the last one before long. She always does. “Why do you care?”
“Oh, about you? Don’t care, not one bit. But Angel, Wesley? I care about them. And Angel cares about you. He’s stupid like that. And Wesley cares about Angel, would do just about anything for him, so I figure they’ll keep on fighting for your sorry self, probably way past the point when you give up on doing it yourself. ” Cordelia rolls her eyes, a mean little grin creeping onto her face. “And I guess I just want to see you deserve that. Deserve them. They’re good people.”
“That’s—”
“Plus, you elbowed me in the face and it still hurts like a bitch. I couldn’t even moisturize this morning. So I personally think? Well within my rights not to want you to get off scot-free, while the rest of us suffer in your pathetic little wake.”
The mean grin is gone. Cordy’s voice is all bright and holding nothing back. And her face is stone cold.
“I’m not— fuck . I’m not running, Cordelia. Opposite. I’m — I’m turning myself in.”
Cordelia just blinks. “What?”
“I’m turning—”
“Are you stupid or something?” Cordelia asks.
Upstairs, there’s no more guns. There are footsteps though. Bunch of pairs of them. Faith tenses, but then she recognizes the steps. Buffy always walks the same. Quick and flitty and excited to be alive and go kill something. And then Angel, behind her. Plodding and heavy and decisive. And then another set of feet, with the rhythm all off, that must be Wes.
“Well, color me confused,” Faith says, and she wants to just be out the door by now. This is too much. Her insides feel all itchy. “You want me to atone, or whatever? But you don’t think I should give myself up to the cops?”
And then Buffy and Angel and Wesley are in the doorway behind Cordy.
Everyone is staring at Faith.
Faith asks, “The … the guys, those Watcher guys, they’re … ?”
“Dealt with,” Angel says. “You’re safe.”
Faith exhales. “Right. Thank you, I — and B, thank you. For the hand up there. You didn’t need to, and you did. And that’s …”
Buffy just looks at Faith, eyes narrowed. Then turns to Cordy. “Cops?”
Cordy sighs. “Good to see you too, Buffy—but yeah, cops. She’s turning herself in, apparently.”
Buffy says, “And that’s bad because?”
Angel’s tone is all warning: “Buffy.”
Faith interjects— “No. B’s right. I gotta do this.”
Buffy meets Faith’s eye again. The air is all out of the room. “See?” she says to the group. “She agrees. She’s earned this.”
The hard thing that’s been grinding in Faith’s stomach all day twists a little tighter. Nothing she’s not used to, though.
Nothing she doesn’t deserve.
“That’s not for you to decide, Buffy,” Angel half-growls, and there’s a part of Faith that still jumps to glee, seeing them at each other’s throats. It’s a loud part. Under that, though, is this quiet ache she can’t stop hearing.
The ache sounds like your fault, your fault, your fault .
Wesley clears his throat. His face is so cut up. And Faith put them all there, all those gashes. God, it’s so loud in here.
He says, “It’s not for any of us to decide, Angel. There are laws for this sort of thing. Faith’s not above them.” He turns to her, eyes all squinty, like it hurts to look at her. “I’m sorry, Faith. But it’s true.”
“Really not arguing,” Faith says. Stares at her shoes.
Damn, she really likes these ones. Gonna suck to give them up, once she turns herself in. Didn’t even steal them. Well, okay. She stole the money she used to buy them. And now her toes feel all squeezy in the leather, remembering. God, was so easy to make that guy, the one whose wallet she grabbed, fall to the ground, like he was nothing. Nothing. All just nothing.
In the corner, Buffy won’t stop looking at her. Faith looks back, and everything aches.
“Yeah, well I am arguing,” Cordelia says, which makes Faith do a double take. “Cause, and correct me if I’m wrong, but do we all for some reason think that Faith— the Slayer, two girls in all the world, yada yada yada, who has the power to save lives better than anyone else—”
Buffy tries to hide it, but her eyebrows go all offended.
“Oh, ‘cept you, Buffy! Sorry. And Angel, I guess? Whatever, all of you are way skilled at punching,” Cordy says. “Back to my point? You can’t seriously think the best way for Faith to go all redemption is to lock herself up where she can’t help anybody. ‘Cause, no offense, but that’s stupid. And you’re all stupid for thinking it. So, some offense, I guess.”
It’s so silent for a moment.
Faith says, “Um. Thanks for the vote of confidence, Cor? But I’m not—”
Cordelia scoffs. “Oh, don’t get it twisted—I violently dislike you. You make me fear me for my life every single time I see you! And objectively if I never saw you again, it would be just swell.”
Faith screws her eyes shut until she doesn’t feel like hitting anything, and the urge passes quicker than usual. She explains: “But that’s exactly why I gotta go—I can’t, I can’t be here. Around people. I gotta make it better. I gotta try.”
She tries not to meet Buffy’s gaze again, but she can’t help it—she looks, and Buffy’s staring at her, and there’s something wet in her eyes. All Faith wants to know is what that something is.
Cordelia says, “Suuure. So you go to jail. That makes it ‘better’,” She draws her fingers up into air quotes. “But meanwhile our friendly neighborhood serial killer over here gets to waltz around doing good deeds to quell his conscience, like some kind of fucked up Christmas carol?”
Angel says, “Hey!”
Cordy shrugs. “I call ‘em like I see ‘em.”
“You don’t get it ,” Faith says. “I need to stop running.”
Her heart is so loud, so loud, so loud. She can’t stop looking at Buffy—is Buffy’s heart quiet? Is it soft? Maybe. Maybe when Faith’s not around.
Cordelia crosses her arms. “If you lock yourself away, that’s just what you’re gonna be doing. Running . And, just underline the point, once again, so no one’s confused—this isn’t ‘cause I believe in you, or trust you, or think you’re worth all this.”
“Really wasn’t in question,” Faith says, gritted teeth.
“But Angel believes in you. He thinks you’ve got all this potential. Can do something other than hurting people, for once.”
“She can,” Angel murmurs. “I feel it. Know it.”
Buffy swallows, hard. Faith sees the lump move down her neck and vanish.
Cordelia tells Faith: “Well, you being in jail is just gonna hurt people. Your birthright is literally to save the world. So what do you think happens to those people if you’re not there?”
Faith says, “They have someone already. Buffy. Angel. You. They don’t need me.”
Cordy says, “Right, because we can all be in all places at once. Oh, wait, we can’t. But that’s fine too, I guess! I mean, saving some people is good enough, right? I bet all the ones we can’t get to in time just, like, deserve to die?”
Well that’s just—
Okay. Okay, thing is, Cordy’s right. Of course she’s right. And everything in Faith is loud again, loud, so loud, and she remembers.
(Remembers the woman in the alley, when Faith was wearing Buffy’s skin, and the lady was just on her knees, grabbing Faith’s hand, Buffy’s hand, whatever, and saying thank you . Remembers the feeling again, from her first slays. Back in Boston, she was down by the wharf one night, and she was so young then, and was it only a year ago? Two? This coma’s made time go all funky in her head.
But whenever it was, there was this girl. This little thing, not more than ten, some man had her, had her by the wrist, yanking her along. Wasn’t even a vamp. Not that it matters. Monster’s a monster. So Faith still knocked him down, kicked him till he stopped moving. Faith scooped the girl up, and the kid was shaking, so cold, so Faith slung her leather jacket over the kid's shoulders, long enough it looked like a cape, that’s what the kid said, and they walked like that, a long way. Kid said she didn’t have anyone. And Faith knew all the group homes, from when she used to run away at least once a summer. Knew the ones where they were nice to you. Treated you like a person.
When Faith dropped the little girl off at the doorstep—Dodie, said her name was, and she had freckles like Faith sometimes still gets when the days get long—she clutched so tight around Faith’s middle. Desperate squeezing kind of hug that Faith tried not to give anyone anymore. That she did give though, to her Watcher, when she was called, though she tried not to. Faith dropped the Dodie off and Dodie said thank you. She said thank you so many times while Faith walked back off into the night, kept screaming it, even when the group home people brought her inside, Dodie just kept yelling it through the windows.
Been so long, since Faith thought about any of that.
Not since she stopped being the Slayer, found out she was just a Slayer.)
Faith says, “Oh.”
Buffy blinks at Cordy, “When did you get all insightful?”
The brunette rolls her eyes. “I’ve always been insightful. Maybe if you weren’t so self-involved you’d have noticed earlier.”
If Faith’s insides weren’t currently melting down into something hot and wet and metal, she’d probably chuckle at that.
Faith says, “Say I do want to. Do it. What I was … chosen for. How? Feds on my tail, wanted for murder? Ringing any major bells?”
“Gosh, if only we knew anybody who has the power to bend the law to their whims, huh?” Cordelia says.
Angel grits his teeth. “No. Not them.”
Faith says, “What, hot scary lawyer chick? Pretty sure she’s not too bent on getting me off now that I gave up being her pet murderer.”
Wesley says, “She wanted you to murder pets? Oh, wait no, I got it. Sorry.”
Buffy says, “Someone wanna clue me in here?”
Cordy explains: “Wolfram and Hart. Think: if the Mayor was a millionaire lawyer and also if the snake thing was like, way more literal in his personality? Oh, but it’s a bunch of them.”
Faith’s stomach tightens. It keeps doing that.
“They have that power?” Buffy asks. “They can just make a whole slew of murder charges go poof?”
Faith says, “So … so, you’re in on the plan?”
Buffy’s voice cracks out sharp: “I’m not in on anything. But Cordy’s right. You owe it. To all of them.”
“Ahem,” Wesley says. “It occurs to me that Wolfram and Hart might not be totally un-amenable. Provided we speak their language.”
Angel shakes his head. “I’m not getting into some sort of deal or trade with them. Nothing they can reverse as soon as it suits them, and then suddenly there’s a price on Faith’s head again.”
Still feels off—that anyone cares about her head.
Wesley says, “I’m not talking about a deal. I’m talking about convincing them that we want the same thing they do—whether or not that’s accurate, doesn’t matter. Just as long as they think it.”
*
Hot scary lawyer chick—Lilah, apparently that’s her name, which she told Faith the first time, only Faith wasn’t listening—is staring across the conference table at Faith and Wesley.
“So,” Lilah says, folding her hands like a pyramid at her chin. “You want us to expunge her record because—and please correct me, if I’m not hearing you right—you think it would be fun? ”
“I think it would be interesting. And your firm is certainly in the business of interesting,” Wesley says.
Right. Fuck. This isn’t gonna work. That’s what she gets, isn’t it? Trusting Wesley. Guy’s never been able to do a fucking thing right, not about anything, least of all about her, and it’s done now, and she’s going to jail, which she felt fine about yesterday, but now it makes everything in her head feel loud again and—fuck, fuck, fuck. Maybe she can get out now. Deck Wesley, he’s easy enough to knock out. The lawyer bitch would be trickier—got security, probably. Right then, can’t get out the main way. Maybe she could jump for it. But they’re so high up in this building, and Faith can’t take another fall, not like that, but maybe, maybe she can fight her way down the stairs, claw out if she has to, maybe she can, maybe someone will take her out trying, and all of this will finally be—
“Actually, we’re in the business of destruction and chaos, but I see how you could make that mistake,” Lilah says. “Nevertheless, I’m listening.”
Faith exhales, settles back into her chair, drags her nails over the sleek seat.
Wesley says, “I’m sure you’re familiar with Faith’s track record, just as well as we are.”
“We do our research,” Lilah says, with a smile.
“Then you know the kind of … liability she can tend to be. She’s tried to go on the straight and narrow before. Never lasts long on it. If anything, her stints trying to be good usually only serve to make her falls from grace all the more severe.” Wesley says.
He doesn’t look at Faith as he says it. She wishes he would. Then maybe she’d know where to put the hurt.
“Uh huh,” Lilah leans back in her seat, narrowing her eyes at the two of them. “Gotta say, English, negotiation’s not your game. But don’t get me wrong, it’s cute watching you try.”
Faith should have brought a knife
Doesn’t have much of a plan for what she’d do with it, if she has one. But a knife just tends to simple things up in her head, when she’s got it in her palm. Cuts through all the bullshit, and then it’s just her. Then it’s just everyone around her getting quiet.
Wesley says, “We’re simply asking you to weigh the odds.”
Lilah rolls her eyes, “I’m weighing them. And I know you have too. And I know you wouldn’t be here if you didn’t think little miss leather wasn’t gonna play for your team.
“Oh, we do think Faith can be rehabilitated. Of course,” Wesley says, and flashes this smug smile that sends Faith right back to the Sunnydale High library. “But, then again, we’re the good guys. Traditionally, and I think you’ll agree, that makes us liable to be rather stupid. Overly gullible. Too trusting for our our own good.”
“Well, yeah,” Lilah says. “Glad to see you’re so open about it.”
Wesley continues, “Our leader is the most sadistic vampire in history, for crying out loud. We’re plenty practiced at ignoring when one of us is, at their core, simply an animal. An animal that will one day need to be put down, no matter which way you slice it”
He told Faith, that he was gonna say it.
She still wishes she’d brought the knife. Wishes she could bury something sharp in his thigh—and then she’s gotta reel her breath in again, because she did bury something sharp in him. So many sharp things, and him tied to that chair, and Faith just burying another piece of glass, in him, in his flesh, and then another, and laughing. Laughing into the cold window and cracking off another piece.
She grits her nails against the seat again.
Wesley goes on: “But, of course, she is a Slayer. Stronger than any of us, stronger than Angel, even. She goes off the rails, there’s a more than good chance there’s not a thing we can do to stop her. And then you’ve got another source of, what was it? Chaos and destruction?”
Lilah sucks in her lips, thinking, and then turns to Faith. “Well, kid? What do you think about all this?”
Faith blinks, her heartbeat skittering like crazy. “I … I think … I, I can try. I mean, I … I don’t know, I just …”
Wesley tells Lilah: “Once again. Just asking you to play to odds.”
*
“Can’t believe that fuckin’ worked,” Faith says.
They’re in Wesley’s car, which feels all funny to her—that’s Buffy and Giles shit, isn’t it? Loving Watcher driving around the cherished Slayer like a Father’s Day card.
Then again, Giles probably never tried to tell anybody that Buffy’s a rabid dog who’s gonna have to be shot in the street, just to get her murder record expunged. And, far as she knows, Buffy’s never tortured Giles for hours with blunt force trauma. So they’re pretty solidly back in Faith and Wesley territory, huh?
“Faith,” Wesley says, his voice all dry and strained. “I, I hope you know, what I said in there—”
“—Didn’t mean any of it. I got you. We’re five by five.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say that. But, I do want to … I’ll just cut to the chase. I don’t have the trust in you, that Angel has. But, at the same time, I wouldn’t have gone to Lilah if I didn’t think that you’ve got the potential to change. To be better. What you were born to be.”
“Okay,” Faith says. God, was so much easier to talk to people when all she was trying to do was knock them unconscious.
“And I do …I do want to make things better … with us. I want to try, at least. I wouldn’t presume to try and, and be your Watcher again. But I hope I can be your ally, and you mine.”
They’re parked now, in the little lot on the side of Angel’s office.
Faith skims her fingers up on the sun visor, flipping it back and forth lightly.
“Uh. Thanks, Wes.”
“Right.”
Faith’s breath is all in her throat and won’t go down to her lungs, as she says, “While we’re, uh. Doing the apology thing? Or whatever that was? I jus wanna. I’m sorry, okay? For what I said to you, yesterday.”
Wesley actually laughs, it barks out of him all dry and surprised. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t laugh. It’s just—you want to apologize … for the things you said to me? Yesterday?”
“Yeah.”
“... While torturing me. You thought you’d lead with the verbal aspect of that.”
Faith coughs a little. “Right. Yeah. The uh … Jesus, I’m sorry about all of it, okay? I just, I didn’t know where to start. Still don’t know. That’s kinda my whole thing right now. Not knowing jack shit.”
It’s silent, for a long spell. In the distance, in the city, Faith hears shrieks and car horns and sirens. Sounds like home.
Wesley says, “You weren’t wrong, though, yesterday. If I’d been a better Watcher, if I’d, if I’d trusted you. If I’d tried to see you, hadn’t been so caught up in being right, being in control. Maybe it wouldn’t be like this.”
Faith scoffs. “Was always gonna be like this, Wes. You and me are all kinda of fucked up. We couldn’t’ve been any other way.”
“Maybe so,” Wesley says. “But we’ve got nothing but time now. Might be hope for us after all.”
Faith laughs a little, can’t help it. “Yeah. Maybe.”
And then it’s silence in the car again, and wordlessly they get out of it, shut the doors behind them, and walk over to the building entrance.
Inside the office, it’s dark and empty.
Except for Buffy. Sitting in Cordelia’s chair. Staring at the door, green eyes going even wider as Faith comes in.
Wesley says, “I’ll just—I’ll let you two … I should be getting home, to sleep. Er, Buffy, lovely to see you as always.”
Buffy’s eyes don’t leave Faith as she says, “Yeah. You too, Wes.”
When he’s gone, Faith leans against the wall, but it feels wrong, so she sits in a chair, and that feels wrong too, but it would look weird to move again, so she just stays there, just a few inches from Buffy.
It’s quiet for so long that Faith thinks maybe her ears stopped working.
Buffy’s hair is all drawn up into this curly ponytail, tendrils poking out. And she’s got her brown jacket from before all balled up in her lap. In the black tank she’s got left on, the points of her shoulders look all small and sharp. Like little hard seashells you find when the tide washes up—the kind Faith used to collect on her windowsill, when she was small, clacking her nails against their hard edges. Only Faith knows Buffy’s shoulders are anything but—she knows they’re soft. When she was in Buffy’s body, running her hands over her new skin in the Summers bathtub, that’s all she could think about. How soft.
She wants, so bad, to ask what Buffy thought of Faith’s skin. Wearing her body around. Was it surprising? Was it anything?
“Where’s Angel?” Faith asks instead.
Buffy exhales through her nose. “You two are really jonesing for some quality time together, huh?”
Faith says, “Not like that, B. He’s just … he’s helping me.”
“Yeah. He’s a helper,” Buffy says, voice all wounded. “You know what he told me? Told me to go home. Get the hell of out his city.”
Faith says, “Then why didn’t you?” Buffy’s eyes go wide, all shock, so Faith adds. “I didn’t mean it like that! I … I don’t want you to … it just, it seemed like you were, were waiting for me. Or something.”
Buffy looks at her hands in her lap, as she murmurs: “Just wanted to see if you were okay. If it worked, with the lawyers.”
“Worked,” Faith croaks out. “I’m a free woman. Whatever that means.”
Buffy stands, “Well. Just, don’t screw it up, okay?”
She’s still not looking at Faith, just heading for the door, and it’s not loud, in Faith’s head anymore. It’s quiet, so quiet, and that’s worse, actually.
Faith says, as soft as she can, but it comes out all needful and half-shouting anyway: “Buffy!”
And it works. Buffy turns around. Looks Faith in the eye.
“Yeah?”
“I wanna make it better, with us. And I don’t know how? And I know there’s no way to—what I did to you. Trying to—”
“—Steal my life? Violate my body? Ship me across the ocean to answer for your crimes?”
“Sorry doesn’t cut it. Never can. But I wanna change, Buffy. I wanna make it good. I want … ”
“Say it,” Buffy says, whispers. “Just say it.”
“I want to be the Slayer again. Just don’t know how.”
Buffy shakes her head, walks up close, just a few steps. Not touching Faith. But close enough that she could.
“You know how,” Buffy insists.
And then she’s walking towards the door again, hair all gold in the streetlamp light, almost out on to street. She opens the building door, and it’ll be morning soon. Faith sees it in the sky, everything getting lighter.
“B?” Faith says, and Buffy doesn’t turn around this time. “Could I, uh. Call you, sometime?”
Still facing away, Buffy says: “Give me time.”
And then the door shuts. And it’s quiet. And Faith is alone.
*
The shopping mall is loud and full of people and pretzel smell seeping into perfume smell seeping into three different blaring pop songs streaming out of different teenybopper boutiques.
(Faith hasn’t been to a place like this since the Mayor took her in—they strolled around Sunnydale Plaza and he bought her that stupid pink dress she can’t think about without getting teary, and a bunch of leather jackets she actually wanted, and she taught him how to get the same free sample from the food court like five different time. And even though he said a law-abiding citizen shouldn’t do such things, he still did it. Just ‘cause it made her smile).
Only one smiling now is Cordelia, who damn near orgasmed when they passed some store having a two-for-one sale. Wesley looks so physically uncomfortable he could combust. And Angel just looked really pained, but also he always does, so it’s not much of a difference.
“I don’t need any of this,” Faith reminds her as they head into the shop, and Cordelia starts loading up everyone’s arms with shirts and pants and dresses.
Cordy just glares. “Yeah, you absolutely do. You were just in a coma for eight months, and you have like, two outfits? Both of which I’m pretty sure you stole?”
Faith says, “Hey! I got three. And, I stole the money for the clothes, didn't steal the actual clothes. If that counts?”
Wesley says, “It doesn’t.”
Cordy holds up some flowy purply top. “Okay, what do we think of this one?
Faith shrugs. “Fine?”
Cordelia rolls her eyes. “You’re impossible. Angel, what do you think?”
Angel furrows his brow, like he’s thinking real hard about it. “I think I’m physically incapable of having an opinion about any of this.”
Faith drops the clothes Cordy piled in her arms on the edge of a table full of folded shirts, and drifts over to a rack full of miniskirts.
“Hey, how bout this one?” she says, holding up a leathery-looking skirt, this dark green that’s nearly black.
Angel makes a face like she just shot someone. “ That ? You’re kidding me? Jeez, would you look at at thin fabric? What is that, pleather? Plastic garbage that’s gonna rip in three months. You know, in my day, clothes were built to last.”
“No opinion, huh?” Cordy says, eyebrows raised and grinning.
“I don’t!” Angel insists. “I just think think there’s nothing wrong with investing in some sturdy staple pieces. Maybe it’s not, you know, ‘hip,’ or whatever. But hip only takes you so far.”
Faith grins at him. “You should never say hip.”
Cordy nods. “I’m with stab girl on that one. Not a good look for you, Angel. You’re so right about the pleather though. Faith, if you walk out of here with any mass-produced synthetic fabrics, we’re gonna have a problem.”
“Can our problem start with you not calling me stab girl ?” Faith requests, and the tension’s building up in her chest again. But also, like she always does when the tension goes high, she just wishes she could impale someone, something, anything. Which isn’t really helping her case.
Wesley coughs a little. “Perhaps you’d have more ground to stand on in a week when you haven’t actually stabbed any of us?”
Faith exhales.
“Uh, yeah, okay. That’s fair.” She runs her fingers over a pile of dark shirts, and yanks one out of the stack, holding it up. “Uh, how about this one?”
Angel says, “Now that’s what I’m talking about! You see that fabric? Thick, sturdy. You know, I once bought a pair of britches in 1802 and they lasted me all the way to the 1830s, with proper mending. Just goes to show you.”
“Goes to show us you’re a total grandpa,” Cordy tells him. “But yeah, that top’s great. You’re trying it on whether you like it or not.”
Faith says, “I was the one who picked it out! ‘Course I like it.”
Even though actually she just wanted something to do with her hands and the shirt was there and actually it’s like, fine, at best, now that she gets a better look.
Cordelia smiles at her though. “Right, grab a few more, in different colors? ‘Cause, remember people? Buy one, get one? Holy grail of sales.”
Faith pulls up a few more shirts at random, and then Cordy’s dragging her along by the arm to a back wall that’s full of shelves of folded-up jeans. And Angel’s complaining about how they’re selling pants with holes already in them, and Wesley’s just slinking back in a corner, trying to avoid Cordelia’s gaze in case she tries to make him do a task. And all the while the tension is still there, inside Faith’s chest, brimming and too loud and too quiet.
And then she doesn’t have any more brain space to think about the tension, at least for the moment, because Cordelia is dropping some sweaters into Faith’s arms and pushing her off towards the dressing rooms.
When she comes out to show them, the sweater really is all kinds of soft. And everyone’s still there, waiting for her. And for a second, just a second, but a good one, it’s quiet, inside of Faith. The good kind of quiet.