Chapter Text
SLAYER HEALING COMPOUND,
7 YEARS BEFORE THE BREACH
General Moore’s subject line pops up in the corner of my screen while I’m bracing a keystone against the scaffold. Regarding the site’s proximity to Fort Silversky: urgent.
Urgent for you, maybe. I thumb a reply with my free hand: Risk remains minimal. Further liaison with the base would not be an efficient use of personnel or time. These people aren’t worth my energy. Send.
Faith hovers a shovel-length away, arms folded. She takes in the bruises on my forearms, the new hollows under my eyes. Her stare feels like inventory.
“B, you’re orbiting a drain I only waved at.” She sounds more serious than usual.
“Don’t flatter yourself.” My words come out almost gentle, which annoys me more than her comment. I slide the stone onto the mortar bed.
She goes back to loading gravel, but I feel her attention sticking. Can she tell how light-headed I am? Should have eaten. Should have slept. Should have—
A gust rattles the half-finished rafters, blowing grit into my teeth. I swallow chalk and reach for the next stone. Better keep moving.
Faith lets it drop. "Vacation beats funerals," and shoulders her wheelbarrow toward the north wall.
Maybe she’s right. Maybe I need a week of nothing but vistas and room service. The idea tastes dangerously close to fear, so I clamp it behind my teeth and heave the stone into place.
One more block. Just one. Because do walls finish themselves if you leave? No. Because Angel will walk this corridor tomorrow, and I want it standing.
Faith steps back once the frames hold still, finally. She has this big smile on her face, like she’s proud. I’m proud of her. I’m so happy for her.
“I can’t wait for Angel to see this,” she says like she doesn’t care if I hear and my heart squeezes. Maybe these next few weeks with him helping around will make things feel better than they have been. I’m glad he was into coming to help.
"Hmm. The stone wants to be a doorway," Willow tells me from across the courtyard, hands glowing as stone flows like water around her fingers. Thank god for witches. She's reshaping an entire wall section that would take us days to build by hand. "It's almost eager."
I watch her mold tons of rock with a gesture, the stone responds to her magic as if she’s asked nicely.
He’s on his way and I can feel it. Unable to concentrate on anything else I walk out to the courtyard and find Willow placing ward stones around the foundation. Moonlight makes her palms glow soft blue.
"You ok?" I ask, settling beside her.
"Need to finish the protection spells." She adjusts a crystal's angle slightly.
"I'm trying to configure the ward field to allow sunlight for vampires like Angel, so he can help outside in daylight. Make better use of time." She pauses. "It's... tricky magic."
I place the obsidian where she points. She looks at me when the stone settles.
"I could weave something for dreamless sleep," She offers, squinting.
"I’d like to leave magic out of my sleep."
"Buffy, I can feel your exhaustion, it's throwing off the ward frequency."
"The dreams aren't the problem," I mutter.
"Then what is?"
I focus on the ward stones. "I really don’t know."
It’s midnight and he drives in with his car. He steps out with one duffel, shoulder squared, jaw set. Mission mode. I clock the tension before he even says hello.
We all sit around the fire pit by the pond. Angel’s boots still dusty from wherever he drove in from.
He sketches the details of his last run, demon nest outside Bogotá, retrieval of two slayers gone rogue. It feels like small talk. Since when do we do small talk?
I drain half a mason jar of Petite Sirah like I’m thirsty. Faith sails a paper plate my way, one slice of lukewarm pizza and for a second I’m a dog catching scraps. “Thanks,” I bite the crust first.
Wine follows pizza, water follows wine. Stomach churns anyway. If I drink more water I’ll be able to drink more wine so I grab my water bottle and take a few gulps.
Grey light, too early. Faith hauls mortar beside us, headphones clamped over her ears, lost in her own world of creation. She's practically glowing with happiness as she works.
She hums to herself and breaks into song. "This shit is a girl blunt. I only smoke girl blunts."
"What?" I call out, not sure I heard that right.
She can't hear me through the noise cancellation, just grins and yells back, "Leikeliii!" like I asked for music recs.
Angel laughs at her pure joy. He sounds lighter than I've heard him in days. We muscle the next lintel into place.
He’s been on-site a week, yet we keep passing like faulty transmissions, he leaves the infirmary, I step in; I duck into the kitchen, he drifts out the back. Timing’s busted here, doors just spin.
"Hand me that level," he points to the tool sitting three inches from my elbow. I pass it over and I really try not to brush my fingers with his. My stomach does something stupid and hollow. I fight a wave of nausea and Angel checks the wall's angle.
Should've eaten, anything, before all this lifting. He adjusts a corner stone with those careful hands. "Almost looks finished," he’s trying to be bright.
I pretend finished doesn't sting.
Of course it's almost finished. Everything's almost finished here. The healing compound. This weird truce where we work side by side without mentioning Prague or the kiss that never happened.
My body contracts involuntarily at the thought of Prague and it hits me again, physically in the heart.
The stranger above me, my hand on the arm holding me down, stopping him to say, “ Don't go slow” , and the shift in the air that told me someone was watching.
The way my blood froze when I turned and saw Angel's silhouette in the doorway. The light hit his face just enough to see the sadness.
Does he even understand why I said it? Does he know what it takes to pretend I’m not his untouchable perfect happiness?
"Good," I say to the stone. Safe word. Doesn't mean anything.
Angel sets down the level and studies my face like he's reading something. I focus on the chisel and the angle needed to split rock without shattering.
“You sleep?” he asks as if he cares.
“Later.” I lie.
Rain turns on and off outside like someone’s testing a goddamned switch.
Only in groups do we click: hauling beams, passing bottles, swapping monster intel. Alone, the air stiffens. I don’t get it, and I’m too tired to dig.
We say nothing for three weird seconds, maybe four. Silence fits better than our small talk lately. Faith's loud humming fills the silence, completely oblivious to the tension.
"I'm wheels-up tonight," I tell him and dust my hands, looking for somewhere to stare. "Quick hop to Belize. Mayan princess, demon ransom, back before dawn."
Angel nods, studying the limestone wall instead of my face.
"Timeline's tight for an extraction."
"Should be straightforward." I breathe out. "In and out."
"And if it's not?" He tries to sound neutral. "If you need to stay overnight, establish a safe house?"
My hands still on the chisel. What is this? Since when does he micromanage my missions?
Maybe he's thinking operationally, backup protocols, extraction contingencies. The same questions he'd ask any slayer going solo into unfamiliar territory. But I'm not any slayer, and we both know that's not why he's asking.
"Won't come to that," I look at him seriously. "Anyways, I know the drill."
He sets down the level and reaches for another tool.
I inhale and feel brave, “It's not like I use missions as an excuse to sleep with people.” I say this but I'm not even sure that's entirely true.
I give myself to others because the one I love won’t have me.
“It's none of my business." He looks down like he's ashamed.
I nod. Doesn’t he know this is painful because I want it to be his business?
“I'm sorry.” He adds and I look at him and wonder what exactly he's sorry about. I have a few guesses.
“It's okay.” I can't take the vibe that's coming off of him. Like I'm hurting him.
He nods and shifts back into professional mode. “Need backup?” He loves being helpful.
“Got staff on deck.” I set down the chisel.
Another burst of rain thrums the tin sheets overhead. He steps aside so I can pass, but I linger half a second, long enough to count the new scuff on his hand, not long enough to unpack why it matters. Long enough to notice he smells like sawdust and that soap he's used for centuries.
"Get some rest," his voice is quiet.
“Later,” I repeat, softer this time.
I don't know this fake smile he's putting on. I've never seen it before. Can't read him anymore, and what does it matter anyway? They'll do fine without me. It's not like he and I are going anywhere, we barely have a conversation without rolling our eyes at each other these days.
Better I go do this light warrior thing in Chanchen. Let them handle the slayer healing compound. I'm not exactly in a place to offer any healing.
It tastes bitter, but it’s true. He hands me the sat-com. "For briefings." I nod and try to pull my mouth as upwards as I can.
The truck takes the curve; the slayer healing compound disappears behind trees and distance. I find it hard to breathe.
Hours later, heat hits me like I've put my head in a big pot of soup. The jungle presses close, green and alive and completely indifferent to who I am or what I've done or why I'm here instead of anywhere else.
Birds scream like I'm invading. Three Keepers emerge from between trees older than civilization, moving like they grew from the soil. Palm-pressed hearts in greeting, faces literally glowing with something that might be internal. Their dark eyes reflect light that reminds me of children.
The woman in front has silver threading through her long hair. She steps forward, and her smile is knowing. Like she's been expecting me since before I knew I was coming.
Welcome, she says without speaking.
I understand her anyway, which should be impossible, but nothing about this place is recognizable. This is a new kind of buzzing-frequency for me.
My clothes stick to my skin, and the green-gold filtering through the canopy makes everything look underwater. Dreamlike.
Come, the woman says-thinks-whispers. You’re right on time.
I step forward.