Archive of Our Own

Giles tells her about it in the car.

“A kid.”

“Yes.”

His voice sounds a lot firmer than she’d expect, given his typical … Giles-ness.

Buffy stares out the car window, wondering where that certainty came from, and also why he chose to break this news to her while she’s sitting in the passenger’s seat of his rented Honda Civic, of all places. That seems much easier to contemplate than the fact that Giles has just informed her that the real reason he’s leaving is that he has a kid. Like, his own human child. And with Ms. Calendar, no less, whose very existence Buffy has done her best to avoid acknowledging since she left town four years ago.

Which, now that she’s thinking about it, probably made it a lot easier for Giles to pull this off. Buffy might give him credit for that, if she wasn’t more concerned with the way she can’t stop shaking, whole body tremoring with something perilously close to rage.

When Giles first told them that Ms. Calendar had left town he’d said it was for a family emergency, pushing his glasses up his nose and not making eye contact with any of them, and Buffy had thought she knew exactly what that meant. Ms. Calendar had cut and run, giving Giles a lame — and obvious, like, hello? Family emergency? That’s the same line Buffy used to bring out when she hadn’t done her Algebra homework — excuse before she dropped out of his life completely. She remembers thinking it was kind of sad, that he didn’t realize.

It was weird that Giles didn’t seem angrier about it, maybe, but Buffy was, like, sixteen at the time, and mostly trying to avoid the topic completely. She does remember a few years later, when someone — Anya, probably; that seems like the kind of conversational china shop she’d trample her way right on through — brought up the gaping void that was Giles’ social life. Buffy had looked at the expression on his face, tight and resigned, and thought — okay, yeah, he does know. So then she’d just figured that the real truth was that he was too embarrassed to admit it, and that he was lying to save face. It hadn’t seemed like it mattered much either way.

She had not, at any point, figured that the truth was … this. It’s embarrassing, and it makes her angry, and underneath the anger it makes her hurt. Like when she’s not paying enough attention and she misses the last step of the staircase, her whole body feeling the jolt.

She doesn’t want to look at the photo Giles hands over, but she forces herself to take it anyway — as much to give her hands a distraction as anything else, because if she throws up in here — or worse, rips the handle off — it’s gonna be a whole thing. She can’t afford to pay to get this thing cleaned.

“She’s cute,” Buffy allows, finally, because it’s true. Of course it’s fucking true. Personal feelings aside, Buffy can admit Ms. Calendar was a knockout. And Giles is — well. Buffy guesses he’s not hideous, if you can get past the fact that he’s, like, ancient. Ms. Calendar was into that, though, apparently, which — okay, ew. No point dwelling on that right now.

Buffy stares down at the photo until her eyes get dry and the image starts to blur. There’s a carefree smile on the girl’s face, and she isn’t quite looking at the camera, like something distracted her at the last minute. Big eyes, a cute little nose; tiny white teeth. Hair in two sloppy pigtails that probably started the day out nice and neat, but have clearly been subjected to several hours on the playground.

Her shirt has Minnie Mouse on the front.

She doesn’t really look that much like Giles. Brown hair, brown eyes: she could be anyone’s kid. It isn’t until Buffy turns the photo over that it really sinks in. 2002. Stella, age four, written in Giles’ familiar spidery cursive.

Buffy’s mom used to label their pictures the exact same way. Buffy Anne, age five. Play group. Buffy Anne, age seven. Skating practice.

They’re all in albums, somewhere in the house. Buffy hasn’t taken them out since she’s been back. Her stomach hurts, remembering.

“Stella’s a pretty name.” Her throat hurts too, suddenly, swollen and sore. It’s hard to force the words out. “Ms. Calendar chose it?”

“Ah, yes,” Giles answers right away, shooting her a nervous smile. Buffy has to fight the urge to roll her eyes and, under that, the urge to give up and just burst into tears. “She’ll tell you something about the stars, if you ask her, but the truth is someone gave her that children’s book while she was pregnant — I don’t know if you’d know it. The one with the — ”

“She named your kid after a bat?”

Dawn used to love that book. It came with a little stuffed toy, Buffy remembers suddenly. Whatever happened to that thing? It must have gotten lost when they moved.

Or — no. That isn’t right: Dawn wasn’t real before they moved. The toy never existed at all.

When Giles laughs there’s a hint of hysteria at the edge of it.

“She did, yes,” he admits, and Buffy hates the expression on his face — fond, with a softness she’d honestly thought him no longer capable of. Hates that she hates it, even more. When did she become so bitter? “Don’t tell her I told you that.”

Buffy honestly cannot imagine a scenario in which she will be telling Ms. Calendar anything, but she nods her agreement anyway. When she smiles it feels plastic.

“Stellaluna Calendar,” she says, trying it out. “That’s kind of an insane name, you know that, right?”

“Just Stella,” Giles corrects her gently. “And, ah — Giles, actually.”

“Huh.” Buffy tilts her head, considering. The name is definitely better; the way it makes her feel is definitely way, way worse. “Ms. Calendar never really struck me as the traditional type.”

Giles makes a vague flailing movement with his hand, like he’s thinking about his adjusting his glasses, and then thinks better of it, letting it drop back down to his knee instead. In some ways he hasn’t really changed all that much since she met him. Buffy tries to imagine him holding a small child — his own small child — and finds herself drawing a total blank.

“Jenny doesn’t have much family,” Giles says, finally; enough time has passed that it takes Buffy a few seconds to remember what he’s even responding to. “I think she wanted — I don’t know. If anything were to happen — she wanted Stella to belong somewhere. At least in name.”

Buffy kind of wants to throw up. She could, she’s pretty sure, if she let herself think about the real reason this is bothering her so much.

“And Ms. Calendar was just cool with the rest of it, too? Raising the kid all on her own?” she asks instead, fixing her gaze on the house across the street, as though there’s anything interesting about it at all. As though it doesn’t pretty much just look like every other house in Sunnydale.

“Not, ah — cool isn’t the word I’d use, no,” Giles stammers, and Buffy misses when she used to find it kind of endearing, the way he never seemed to be able to find the words he would use. Now it just makes her tired.

More tired.

“It wasn’t so much that she was fine with raising Stella alone, so much as — staunchly opposed to the alternative,” Giles tries, which clarifies absolutely nothing.

“You mean —what? She didn’t want to get back together?” Buffy asks, trying to make sense of what he’s telling her. It isn’t that she cares, she reminds herself. It’s just — a thought experiment, or whatever. Didn’t she learn about those in that Psych class? Not like it mattered much. She never even took the final.

“I mean, she wanted the world to exist for her to raise Stella in,” Giles says quietly. “Jenny understands what your job entails, Buffy. She knows how much you’ve done. I know the two of you parted on, ah. Less than friendly terms. But she doesn’t resent you for anything.”

“Good to know,” Buffy says, voice hollow.

Her stomach hurts so bad.

“Me, on the other hand….” Giles trails off, squinting into middle distance. Buffy grimaces. She can’t imagine four-ish years of total separation did much for the relationship, especially with a kid involved. She’d be sympathetic, probably, if she still remembered how to feel things like that. “Well,” Giles says, shifting in his seat. “It’s a — a work in progress, I suppose.”

“Yeah?” Buffy asks vaguely, already feeling herself start to drift.

“She’s let me back in the house, at least.”

“Yikes.”

“Quite,” Giles agrees.

“Do you have a picture of her, too? Ms. Calendar?”

She doesn’t know what makes her ask. That sick urge to press down against a bruise, she guesses. These days it seems like that’s the only way to feel anything at all. Giles squints at her, and for the weirdest couple of seconds Buffy thinks maybe he can tell. But of course he doesn’t; when has he ever been any good at understanding things like that?

“Here,” he says quietly, handing a second photo over.

Buffy doesn’t know what she expected; at this point in the conversation, she guesses she’s kind of given up on expecting much of anything. But Ms. Calendar really looks almost exactly the same. Hair a little longer, clothes a little more casual; Buffy doesn’t ever remember seeing her wear jeans before. In the photo she’s got one hand on her hip, a pair of sunglasses dangling from her fingers, half-turned towards the camera with an impatient expression on her face, so familiar Buffy can practically hear her voice just looking at it.

She recognizes Ms. Calendar, but would Ms. Calendar recognize her? The walking corpse of the girl she used to know?

Buffy swallows down bile.

“I’m happy for you,” she lies, not even trying to make the words sound sincere. “Tell her hi from me, when you go.”

The conversation doesn’t go on much longer after that. There doesn’t really seem to be much more for them to say.

“Are you sure you don’t need me to take you to the emergency room?”

Giles cracks one eye open from where he’s leaning his head back against the neck rest, bracing himself for the drive back, and then shoots her a look of such patent disbelief Buffy’s honestly kind of offended. Like, sure, fine, she’s still not the most confident driver in the world. But she has improved, okay, and she’s not the one who took a hit to the ribs at full strength.

“I could drive you there!” she protests.

“I’ll be fine,” Giles assures her, but there’s a certain wheeziness to his voice that makes it hard to believe him.

“You’re old now,” Buffy says, and then she stops, thinking about. “Like old old,” she clarifies, because he’s always been old. When she met him she thought he was practically a grandpa, which, looking back, okay, he was — what? Mid-40s? Not exactly geriatric.

By a normal person’s standards, anyway. If Buffy makes it to mid-40s she’ll be a Guinness World Record.

“Thanks ever so much,” Giles says dryly.

Buffy offers an awkward, apologetic smile.

“Buffy,” he starts, but then he just kind of sighs, like she’s stumped him.

There was this tone her mom used sometimes when she said Buffy’s name. When Buffy brought home a discipline slip because she forgot to do her homework again, or when she failed another test. Those few times the school called their house and got through before Buffy could run interference. Buffy doesn’t think she’ll ever forget the way her mom sounded, like Buffy’s whole existence just made her so tired.

It feels mean to think about it, now that she’s dead. Buffy knows how hard she tried.

“Buffy....” she repeats, gesturing impatiently, a clear — if silent — spit it out, already.

She wants to reach down his throat and pull his thoughts out of his mouth. Buffy wants to cover his mouth until he can’t even breathe, never mind speak. Buffy wants everything. Buffy doesn’t want anything at all. Buffy’s scared she’s forgotten how.

Again.

“Are you really not going to tell me why you’re here?”

He doesn’t raise his voice or anything; the opposite, actually. Buffy jerks back anyway.

“I’m not upset,” he hastens to add, still in that horrible soft voice. “Whatever it is, it’s fine — I’m happy you came, even. I’m just — concerned.”

It’s basically the same thing he said last night, but she believes it a little bit more now, hearing him repeat it even after she roundhouse kicked him in the ribs ‘by accident.’ Not a great look for her, but there you have it.

“It’s really nothing,” Buffy says, only for Giles to level her with a look of disbelief so potent it throws her back about eight years. She feels like she’s sixteen years old again, standing in the library at Sunnydale High and complaining about — god. She can barely remember. What did she complain about?

It doesn’t really matter now. That was a lifetime ago.

“It was stupid,” Buffy tries. Giles says nothing, only waits for her to continue. It’s strange: the expression on his face is so familiar, even if in some ways he’s become a total stranger.

He was a part of her life for what? Six years? Seven? A fraction of a life, all things considered. Even taking into account her inevitably shortened lifespan.

“They asked for an emergency contact at the hospital,” Buffy admits, finally, clenching her jaw and staring straight ahead. “And I just — it was always my mom, you know? And then I guess I just didn’t think about it, but I can’t put Dawn, she’s in another country, and I just — I have no family left. Just a roommate who’s only even home half the time.”

It’s what works for them; she may have reached a truce with Faith, but they both need space to breathe, too. Like an elastic band, stretching then snapping back. Buffy tried to explain it to Willow, once, but the look on her friend’s face made her regret it so badly she hasn’t tried since.

“And I don’t resent Dawn, I really don’t,” Buffy continues, filling the silence when it becomes clear Giles won’t. “Dawnie’s smart, she’s so smart, of course she was always gonna — ”

“You’re smart, too,” Giles says very quietly, interrupting her rant. Buffy’s mouth snaps shut so hard it makes her jaw click.

“That’s not the point,” she manages, finally.

“Perhaps not,” Giles says. “But I don’t like to think — it’s worth saying. Worth repeating, even.”

Buffy’s grinding her teeth so badly her entire skull has started to ache. At her last dentist appointment the guy tried to get her to start wearing one of those mouth guard things at night. She’d laughed it off — she’s way too young for that, right? — but maybe she should have taken him up on it.

“You can give my name, you know,” Giles continues, still in that horrible soft voice, which kind of just makes her feel worse. “If — in an emergency, you know. I’d come. I’ll come when you need me.”

And what if I need you all the time? Buffy thinks, and feels a wave of shame so immediate and so intense that it actually makes her kind of lightheaded, her whole body burning with it. She presses a hand against her mouth; whatever words are trying to come out of her, she needs them to stay in.

“Buffy? Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” she croaks, the sound muffled by her fingers. She coughs, clearing her throat, and takes her hand away to try again. “Yeah, sorry. I know I’m being so — I’m just sorry.”

“I wish you’d stop apologizing.”

“It kind of makes it worse, you know,” Buffy hears herself say, her attempt at silence having lasted all of about a minute. “You being so nice about everything.”

“Makes what worse?”

Closing her eyes, Buffy tries to imagine the look on his face. Is he concerned? Is he frustrated? Annoyed?

“Buffy?”

“Nothing,” she says, opening her eyes again. She isn’t a high school delinquent anymore. She isn’t a depressed college dropout, either. “I know I’m acting like a child.”

Giles frowns, obviously gearing up to disagree with her, so Buffy raises her voice and barrels on.

“We should get you back home!” she says, way too loud, forcing herself to smile along with it. “Gotta get some ice on those ribs.”

“Right,” Giles says, making no actual moves to start the car.

Buffy takes in one breath, then another.

She needs to buy that damn return ticket.

“I do mean it, you know,” Giles says, quietly, not quite looking at her as he speaks. “You can list me as your emergency contact, if you need. I hope you don’t think that’s — overstepping, or anything like that. I hope you know you could never do that.”

Buffy laughs, wet.

It’s just that she doesn’t think her mother actually liked her very much, and sometimes she looks at Giles and she wonders — did he, ever?

Does he, now?

Or is he only being polite?

It’s embarrassing, that Buffy still can’t tell. And what the hell was she thinking, coming all the way out here? What did she think it was going to solve?

“Buffy.”

A hand on her cheek, coaxing her to look up. A father’s love for the child, that jackass from the Council had said, but it wasn’t, was it? Buffy just wanted it to be.

Buffy loved her mom so much. It never really seemed to make any difference.

The way he says her name is different, she’ll give him that much. Not tired so much as concerned, and comically out of his depth. He better figure out how to start swimming, Buffy thinks bitterly. Stella’s not gonna stay little forever.

“Forgive me,” Giles says quietly. “I should have — that is. There doesn’t have to be an emergency. I shouldn’t have said it like that.”

“Right,” Buffy agrees, voice tight, and she knows she doesn’t sound like she believes him.

Probably because she kind of doesn’t.

“I always want to see you,” Giles says, and she hates that his voice sounds like that, like he really loves her, when —

“You left,” Buffy bites out.

“Yes,” he agrees. Buffy wants to hit him.

She’d aim for his bruised ribcage, right where it would really hurt. She’s good at that; making it hurt. He’s the one who taught her how.

“You know it isn’t as simple as that,” he continues. “You know it doesn’t mean I don’t care.”

Buffy does know that.

It doesn’t really make her feel any better.

“Thanks for coming to get me,” Buffy says dully from the passenger’s side seat, after taking three times longer than usual to fasten her seatbelt just to give herself something to do.

“No prob,” Faith says cheerfully, one eye on her mirror, looking for a window to pull out. “I was just chilling.”

“That’s lucky,” Buffy says absently, turning her gaze out the window, staring at the airport entrance. There’s a family struggling towards the taxi line, and a young couple with a single carry-on consulting some kind of guidebook. What they need a guidebook for in Cleveland, Buffy has no idea.

“So, uh.” Tapping her fingers against the steering wheel, Faith blows a bubble with her gum, then sucks it in with a too-loud snap. “Any reason for your little impromptu trip, or…?”

“What?”

“What the hell were you doing in Seattle,” Faith clarifies, and for a moment Buffy can’t figure out how Faith even knows that’s where she was, before she remembers she gave her the flight number when she called to ask for a ride.

“None of your business,” she says stiffly.

Faith snorts.

“Kind of is, sister,” she counters. “You left me covering your shifts, remember?”

“Okay, that is not how that works,” Buffy says hotly. “This isn’t the Doublemeat Palace, alright — ”

“ — still can’t believe you worked there — ”

“Worked,” Buffy snaps, annoyed at the interruption. “Past tense. Are you doing this on purpose?”

“Kinda, yeah.”

God.

“I went to Seattle to see Giles, okay? Are you happy?”

“Whoa,” Faith frowns, nose wrinkling in confusion. “Really? I thought he was in England with his sweater vest buddies.”

“No,” Buffy says miserably. “He’s in Seattle. With his kid.”

“Hang on, hang on,” Faith interrupts, freeing up one hand from the wheel to stop Buffy mid-sentence. “G’s got a kid?”

Buffy presses her lips together and nods.

“Like, a baby, or — ?”

“Like a kindergartener.”

“Oof,” Faith says with a grimace, and Buffy really doesn’t like the way she’s looking at her as she says it.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” she snaps.

“Jeez,” Faith laughs, switching on her indicator, like, a half a second before she pulls into the left lane. A car somewhere behind her honks; she laughs again. “You’re even touchier than usual. Rough flight?”

“It was fine,” Buffy says dully.

“Rough visit?” Faith tries, swerving abruptly back into the right lane. Buffy, used to it by now, hardly even notices. The chorus of angry honking is kind of comforting, bizarre as that sounds. At least it’s something familiar.

“Weird visit,” she says distantly. Gazing straight ahead like this, the highway’s kind of hypnotizing: just an endless painted line. It’s a really good thing Buffy’s not driving.

“Makes sense, I guess.”

It takes a few seconds to process what Faith said.

“Why?”

“Yeah, I was trying to find a good time to ask,” Faith drawls. “You really showed up all the way in Seattle with nothing but that little armpit bag? To see Giles and his kid?”

“I know, okay, obviously. I was being a freak, whatever,” Buffy bites out, and then frowns, as the rest of what Faith said sinks in. “There’s nothing wrong with this bag,” she adds with a pout. “I get compliments on it all the time.”

“Sure,” Faith agrees. “Not exactly roomy, though, is what I’m saying.”

“And no one asked for your opinion, is what I’m saying.”

“You’re so weird about him,” Faith says, and Buffy wishes she was driving the car, just so she could crash it and end this conversation.

“I’m not,” she protests immediately. “I’m so normal. I’m Normal Girl! Everyone always says that about me!”

“Nobody says that about you,” Faith says on a laugh. “You literally have superpowers, B. You saved the world, like, a half a million times.”

Buffy wrinkles her nose. She doesn’t want to think about saving the world right now. Every time she saved the world, Giles was right there with her. Sometimes he didn’t want to be there, sure, but what the hell does that matter? Most of the time Buffy didn’t want to be there, either. But she did it because she had to, and so did he.

And now neither of them have to, and she doesn’t know what to do with herself anymore.

“Seriously, nothing weird happened? ‘Cause you look pretty majorly haunted right now, B.”

“Nothing happened,” Buffy breathes out tightly. She wishes Willow was here, except if Willow was here it would be even weirder, probably, because Willow has, if possible, even more baggage about the Ms. Calendar — Jenny — thing than Buffy does. “It was just. Weird energy. I shouldn’t have gone.”

“Probably not,” Faith agrees, and Buffy’s gaze snaps over to her, offended.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Faith raises her eyebrows, obviously surprised by the vehemence of Buffy’s response, and immediately tries to backtrack.

“I mean, you’re not really in his life anymore, so….”

It’s the way she says it: matter-of-fact, not trying to hurt Buffy at all, but like she’s taking it for granted that they both know. Like it’s just something everybody knows.

Buffy bursts into loud, messy tears.

“Jesus christ, B,” Faith swears, and then Buffy’s too distraught (ugh) to really process what’s happening, exactly, but eventually she calms down enough to realize Faith’s pulled them over on the side of the access road.

“Someone’s gonna think the car broke down,” Buffy manages, voice all choked and snotty and disgusting. “You should have gone further.”

Faith laughs tightly, obviously uncomfortable. It might be kind of funny trying to watch her figure out how to deal with it, if Buffy wasn’t the one needing to be dealt with.

“Backseat driving never quits, does it?”

“I’m in the front seat,” Buffy snaps, because bickering with Faith is a lot easier than thinking about basically anything else they’ve talked about in this car ride so far, up to and including the reason she just burst into tears like a baby. Like a kindergartener. Like little Stella, back in Seattle, only not, because she’s such a happy kid.

Buffy never once saw her cry.

Faith lets out a slow breath, tapping her fingers against the wheel.

“Is it really that hard to admit that you’re jealous?”

“I’m not,” Buffy says hotly, but Faith only lets out a dismissive snort.

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re good for it, right? Not like the rest of us.”

“That is so — when did I ever say that?”

“You didn’t have to say anything,” Faith says. “I’m hearing you loud and clear, babe, trust me.”

“No you aren’t,” Buffy insists, “because that’s not what I’m saying.”

Faith snorts again. She’s got her hand on the key in the ignition, like she’s thinking about just starting the car and being done with it. Buffy doesn’t see how she thinks that’s gonna end the conversation, unless she’s planning on kicking Buffy out before she gets the car in drive.

Honestly, Buffy kind of hopes she tries, and how fucked up is that? That part of her is always longing for a fight?

“Would it really be so bad if you were?” Faith asks, then. “Everyone gets jealous sometimes. It’s not like it’s something to be ashamed of.”

Buffy frowns. Is that the part she’s ashamed of? Ugh, no. It’s not that. She’s embarrassed, yeah, but it’s not —

“You wanted G to want to be your dad, he didn’t,” Faith continues. “It sucks. It’s fine to just feel bad about it, dude. If you keep repressing this shit it’s gonna make you insane.”

She’s using that voice again, the one Buffy’s really starting to hate. Like she’s just saying objective, rational facts. Like she isn’t sticking a knife in Buffy’s stomach, emotionally speaking.

Buffy chokes out a ragged, insane-sounding laugh. A knife in the gut, get it? Ha.

“Whoa, B.” Faith looks genuinely worried, now, which only serves to make Buffy feel even worse. “Are you cracking, like, for real? Like right now?”

“Would you please just drive?” Buffy snaps.

“Not with you looking like that, I won’t!” Faith snaps back, sounding more than a little panicked. “Someone’s gonna see you and — I dunno. Call that kidnapping hotline, or something.”

“I’m twenty-four years old, Faith, no one thinks I’m being kidnapped.”

“Trafficked, whatever.”

“No one thinks I’m being trafficked, either! Would you please just drive?”

Faith looks at her for a very long moment, and then, deliberately slowly, twists the key in the ignition to start the car.

“I know what you’re gonna say, but I gotta at least make the attempt, alright?”

“Attempt at what,” Buffy says warily, not liking where this is going.

“You ever see someone about this shit?”

“See someone?”

“Like a professional.” Faith’s not looking at her anymore, suddenly overly interested in signage as she slows to a stop at the intersection for the next on-ramp. “You know. A therapist, or whatever.”

“Oh my god.”

Buffy cannot believe she’s hearing this right now.

“Look, before you get all self-righteous and defensive — ”

“Excuse me?”

“I repeat, before you get all defensive,” Faith says loudly, drowning out Buffy’s next retort. “Just hear me out, alright? Who the hell else are you gonna talk to? Obviously not G. Obviously not me, either, seeing as we can still hardly get through a conversation without biting each other’s heads off.”

“Willow,” Buffy protests halfheartedly. “Or Dawn.”

“We both know you’re walking on eggshells every time you talk to Red,” Faith counters, voice dismissive. She barrels on before Buffy can try to argue with her, “and Dawn’s your kid sister. You still feel like you have to protect her.”

“I don’t,” Buffy tries, only for Faith to level her with a fleeting, yet powerfully unimpressed stare. “...that much,” she amends, scowling.

“And let’s face it, you basically have no other friends, so — ”

“Not true,” Buffy interrupts. “Jill? From Pilates?”

“Sure, B. And what’s Jill from Pilates’ last name?”

“Let me out of the car.”

“C’mon, don’t be — ”

“I said let me out of the car!”

“I’m not — what are you, insane? I’m not letting you out of the fucking car!”

“Okay, then just stop — stop ragging on me, would you? I just got off a plane, Faith. I look like crap, my hair looks like crap. I feel like crap. Can we please just have this discussion later?”

Faith cracks her gum, drumming her fingers against the steering wheel, before she reaches to turn the radio down. Buffy doesn’t know why she’s bothering; she could barely hear it to begin with.

“Look, don’t — don’t snap my head off for saying this, alright? But you and I both know if we don’t have this conversation now, we’re not having it ever.”

Which is pretty much the whole point, but Buffy can’t admit that without proving Faith right, and she knows that’s exactly why Faith said it.

“I miss when you’d just let me pick fights with you,” Buffy mutters, staring petulantly out the window.

“What was that, then?”

Buffy shrugs.

“A mild disagreement?”

“Whatever you say, B.”

Faith really doesn’t sound mad, is the thing that’s changed. Like she hasn’t taken any of this personally at all, when before this would have sent her spiralling for sure. It would have sent them both spiralling, if Buffy’s being honest, but this is inside her own head, so she doesn’t have to do that.

Which is probably why Faith’s suggesting therapy.

“You don’t have to, like, get a diagnosis or whatever,” Faith says, paying a suspicious amount of attention to the car in front of her. It’s definitely an avoidance tactic: Faith never cares about road safety. “It’s just talking to someone. If what they say is stupid you can just ignore it. But sometimes it’s helpful, you know? To get, like. Perspective. Or whatever.”

Buffy frowns.

“Did you go to therapy?”

“So what if I did?”

“When?”

“I was in prison, doofus,” Faith snaps, sounding irritated but also kind of bored, like she’s ready to move on. Well, tough luck — she’s the one who brought it up in the first place. “Did you forget again? Mandatory psych evals, baby.”

“Oh.”

Buffy hadn’t really thought about that. She kind of tries not to think about prison at all, mostly, which she’s pretty sure Faith knows; when Buffy’s done something to piss her off Faith will bring it up on purpose, sometimes, just to make her uncomfortable. Usually that’s a sign she needs to get out of town for a while; she’s always over it by the time she gets back.

Buffy’s pretty sure that’s not what’s happening now.

“And it helped?”

“I mean, sometimes,” Faith says vaguely. “Kinda. Most of them were full of shit, you know? Rich girls doing their six months to pad up their resumés, or whatever. And you had to be careful what you said, ‘cause it was all going on your record. But. I don’t know. Some of it was okay.”

Coming from Faith — who regards all medical professionals with suspicious disdain, up to and including the residents who stitch her up in the ER and don’t ask questions — that’s a pretty stellar review.

God. Buffy hates it when she’s right.

“Okay, so, wait,” Faith says, voice perking back up, a clear sign that the serious talking portion of the drive is over. Thank god. “Is it just G and the kid, or does he have — oh my god. Is he, like, married? Is there some chick out there with him?”

“Oh my god,” Buffy says, but she’s laughing, kind of. She isn’t suffocating underneath it anymore; suddenly it is funny. “Yes, he’s got a chick out there with him. They’re not married, but — I dunno. I think they’re engaged? Maybe? He wasn’t super clear about it.”

“Typical,” Faith snorts. “What’s she like? Some bland British lady named Edith?”

Buffy laughs again, even harder this time.

“What? Is she ugly? You can tell me if she’s ugly, B, I’m not ever gonna meet her.”

“No, she’s — she’s kind of a babe, actually.” Buffy makes a face. “Way hotter than Giles, definitely.”

“Damn.” Faith whistles. “Good for him.”

“Yeah,” Buffy says quietly, her gaze slowly drifting towards the window again. “Good for him.”

“Oh, hey, so,” Faith interrupts, before her thoughts can grow maudlin again. “There’s no groceries — don’t kill me — but I was thinking we could stop for burgers on the way home. You in?”

Buffy laughs, unable to help herself. Unable to find it in her to get annoyed one more time.

“Sure,” she agrees, tearing her eyes away from the road. “Burgers, then home.”