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They say the marks will begin to appear when puberty kicks in.
The first words spoken to you, they say, by your soulmate.
Someone who’s your match, who clicks with you, who’s your equal.
Someone who would soothe your troubles and stand by your side.
Someone who understands.
It’s all so very exciting, so romantic, so hopeful.
At first.
A collective of gasps draws Buffy’s attention to a corner of the cafeteria, where a group of students huddle around someone with the edge of their shirt proudly pulled up, a black line of words exposed for all to see. Buffy’s friends laugh, making comments about the guy and joking about who the poor soul might be, and Buffy laughs along with them. They talk about their own marks, dreaming about their first conversation with their other half, how one of theirs reads “Hi, I’m Marty!” and another reads “Jonathan invited me, he asked me to bring the wine?”
It's nice, Buffy thinks, to have a specific mark.
It’s not always so.
A lot of people have generic marks. A simple “Nice to meet you!”, “Hey there!”; or ones that carry a negative flavour of “Sorry!” or “Oi, watch it!” Some people have warnings etched onto their skin. Some have rude words.
Some don’t have marks at all.
Some girls, they say, never receive the words. It’s always the girls, for some reason. Never the boys. Scientists think it might be related to the chromosomes, but they could never quite figure it out.
Poor girls, they whisper. It’s not fair, but oh, the poor girls.
Buffy does not have a mark.
Her mother assures her that it will show up soon. It comes in later sometimes, after all. It differs from person to person.
Buffy tells her friends she’s gotten her mark, chooses some pretty words after a night of reading about soul marks, and makes up a story about them being in an intimate area on her body so she can’t show them. Her friends offer her ooh-s and ahh-s when she tells them, and she puts on a smile for them.
She’s on the cheerleading team. The Prom Princess. The Fiesta Queen. At school, she’s the most popular girl there is. What is she doing wrong? Why won’t her mark show?
Buffy doesn’t understand.
Later, after she was Called, after she burns down her school’s gym and gets expelled, after her father left and her mother leads her and Dawn away with angry tears swimming in her eyes, throwing their belongings into their car and driving them to Sunnydale with a resolute refusal to look at the inner side of her arm, Buffy starts to question.
-----
Willow is a ray of sunshine, warm and comforting. She hasn’t gotten her mark yet, and she is mocked for it by their classmates. Xander is another friendly face. His mark is blurred, as though it’s still trying to form properly. It’s on his upper chest, which is usually easy to hide, but draws snickers and jeers whenever it peers out from under his shirt.
They smile at her, when she hesitantly reveals that she doesn’t have a mark. Their lack of judgement draws out a smile of her own, and as nights pass and they stand by her during her fight against Sunnydale’s nocturnal dwellers, Buffy grows to love them.
Her friends make life easier, just like what they say for soulmates.
She thinks about her parents, about how her mother covers up that part of her arm now, and thinks maybe it’s all a load of nonsense.
But sometimes. Sometimes. When she returns to a dark house from a particularly brutal round of patrol and sits in her room alone, when the weight of fate and duty chokes her in its grip, she wonders.
-----
Angel doesn’t have a mark.
There’s something about dying and becoming a demon that wipes the mark from an individual’s body, makes someone no longer fit in the eyes of some natural order or higher power to have an equal, a companion to walk alongside them. Angelus never cared for it, but Angel wondered. One might think that a being with a soul, given that it is called “soul mate”, would have a mark. But no, Angel explains, even after he has gotten his soul back, his mark never returned, nor did any new marks appear on him.
Buffy smiles.
She kisses him, and kisses him again.
Then Angelus returns, and Buffy stabs Angel and banishes him to a hell dimension.
She takes a bus to LA and leaves all thoughts of Sunnydale and slaying and marks behind.
-----
Buffy returns to Sunnydale.
She reunites with her family and friends, and learns to embrace her duties of a Slayer again.
Then a new Slayer shows up.
Faith, she calls herself.
She instantly becomes the focus of Buffy’s friends, with the dramatic stories of her hunts and kills. Loud and untamed, she laughs when they ask her about soulmarks.
She doesn’t have one, and she couldn’t care less about it.
Buffy blinks, forcefully ignoring the pang in her heart as she digs through her memories to recall if Kendra had said anything about it, or if she’s seen any sort of letters on the late Slayer’s body.
She can’t remember.
She has to push down the wave of guilt that wells up.
She asks Giles about it, later, when she’s not taking care of Angel who’s freshly returned from Hell. He hums and frowns, then tells her it’s not something that’s usually recorded in Watchers Diaries. It is, he explains, not something of import in the eyes of the Council. Slayers don’t tend to last long enough to meet their soulmates.
Buffy waves off Giles' stricken apology once he realizes what he just said, and leaves to patrol.
-----
Buffy ducks, and Faith kicks.
Faith rotates, and Buffy punches.
Buffy stumbles, and Faith covers her back.
Faith overreaches, and Buffy draws the vampire’s fire.
They stake their respective foes at the same time, and laugh about it being “synchronized slaying”.
They clear out nests of vampires and dance the night away at the Bronze.
Buffy sways right, and Faith steps left.
It’s exhilarating, having a sister Slayer. They operate on the same wavelength, their movements guided by the same instincts.
No words are necessary.
One inhales, the other exhales.
It’s almost like…
It’s scary, how natural it feels.
Buffy breathes.
-----
Faith tosses a vamp towards her, and Buffy stakes him.
Buffy throws the next one against a row of bins for Faith to do the same.
He doesn’t dust.
-----
Barbs are exchanged. Punches and kicks are traded. They know each other’s weaknesses, their twisted synchronicity granting them insight in where to exploit and attack, rather than how to cover and defend.
Anger flares. A glint of metal flashes in the night.
Something in Buffy chokes.
When it’s over, when Buffy has learnt once more how it feels for a blade to sink into flesh, to sever muscles and puncture organs; when she blows up yet another school and watches Angel’s back fade into the mist of the night, she stops thinking about soulmates and soul marks for a long time.
-----
Put a group of teenage girls together, and they will gossip.
The young group of potential Slayers share something in common, something that connects them. So of course, they start comparing experiences.
They swiftly realize that none of them have soulmarks.
The girls still dream, so they turn to Xander for questions about the experience after quickly learning that Willow is a no-go when they see her faded mark (it had roared so proudly into existence after the silence of the Gentlemen broke; Tara had theorized that perhaps their demonic power of robbing everyone’s speech interfered with the magic of the marks). But that’s just not the best idea, and a number of them are left uncomfortable when Anya starts retelling the details.
Buffy has lived this long without a soulmark. She has no use for it.
She shakes herself and refocuses on The First.
-----
When dust has barely settled and Sunnydale is a crater, Buffy finds herself in a motel room.
The other Scoobies are taking care of the girls, she knows. Years of slaying with her has taught them all basic first aid. She probably should be out there as well, checking in on each of the survivors. But she’s too tired, and her own injury needs attention, so she retreats to her blessedly single room after requesting a sewing kit from the front desk.
She sews herself up in front of the bathroom mirror and clenches her jaw when her body aches more than she expected.
-----
None of them realize anything's out of the ordinary until someone gasps in shock in the middle of changing into newly acquired clothes on the bus, two days later.
Buffy stares, along with the others, at the clean line of words wrapping themselves around Vi’s upper arm.
It’s a scramble then, for each Slayer to check their own bodies. The responding yelps and complaints from the guys draw a small chuckle from Buffy, but she makes no move to do the same.
Dawn comes to sit next to her in the chaos, pressing their thighs together. Her sister looks at her questioningly, but Buffy just shakes her head.
Later that night, the Scoobies hold a meeting in Willow and Kennedy’s room. Almost all the girls have gotten their marks by the end of the day, and the concerted nature of it leads Willow and Giles to believe it’s related to the Slayer activation spell.
“Into every generation, there is a chosen one. One girl in all the world. She alone will wield the strength and skill to stand against the vampires, the demons, and the forces of darkness.”
There’s no chosen one anymore. No “one girl” against it all. The explanation seems so simple in hindsight.
Concurrent Slayers mean the burden is shared now. There is a choice whether to answer the call or not. Willow’s magic has reopened the possibility of equals for them.
Buffy’s gaze wanders over to the corner where Faith stands. She remembers the chats they used to have in cemeteries before it all went to hell, about the two H-s and specifically the one that’s not hunger. The younger Slayer has never bothered with the marks, preferring the infamous “want, take, have” philosophy in life and in pursuits. Not having a mark certainly helps.
Brown eyes meet blue ones, a question in their gaze.
Buffy looks away.
-----
Buffy is stepping out of the shower and toweling herself dry when she laughs.
A line of words, more faded grey than black, fight to make themselves known on her abdomen.
“It’s ok, I got it.”
After so many years, after dying, multiple times, after Heaven, after so much…
And it’s one of the most generic and forgettable phrases ever.
Buffy pulls a shirt over the words, and laughs and laughs and laughs.
-----
They relocate to Cleveland.
Giles and Willow work ceaselessly on recruitment and the logistics of the move, while Dawn busies herself by alternating between helping the two, as the boys turn to constructing modifications to their new base of operations.
And Buffy…
Buffy trains.
She trains herself, and trains the girls who decided to stay.
But like most things these days, it becomes too much, too quickly. The scope of their changed reality, the enormity of the task before them. They race against time to find the newly activated girls before trouble finds them, and on top of that deal with the vampires and demons that roam what used to be the second most active hellmouth after Sunnydale. Left and right, decisions have to be made. Who’s introducing the girls to their new world? What’s their approach going to be? Who’s dealing with the transportation and costs? No, choose a cheaper airline, switch the other trip from a train to a bus ride, yes Andrew I know it'll suck, but we have a budget. Who’s leading the patrol this evening? Who’s in the patrol group anyway? No, put Rona with the other group with Vi, she’s going to clash with Kennedy. Are the lesson plans for the training sessions done yet? They reviewed swords two days ago, maybe they should move to axes next time? Wait no, they need to work on footwork again or they’re going to trip over themselves and stab someone in the eye-
Gimme those patrol schedules, B. And hand over those damn plans while you're at it. Got a training special for our dear Kennedy anyway. (Willow's eyes widen in alarm.)
Buffy complains.
Inwardly, she sighs in relief.
She still walks out of Scooby meetings busier than she ever was in Sunnydale.
Buffy startles awake one day when the world beneath her shifts, hands gripping the sides of the kitchen table with a sudden strength that makes the wood creak. She looks up with frantic eyes to see Faith still in her patrol clothes, wordlessly reading the wrinkled case files of newly identified Slayers that had seemed like such welcoming pillows an hour ago. Buffy barely has time to breathe in the scent of crisp night air surrounding the other Slayer before finding herself bullied dragged off to bed.
Next thing Buffy knows, her files are dotted with notes and covered in circles and underlines, and Faith's leading trips to find the girls with more troubled pasts.
-----
There are nights when Buffy just stares out the window.
Most of the city slumbers on, but Cleveland is busier than Sunnydale, and its people are not as fearful of the night. In her hometown she could see the stars clearly; here, they twinkle with muted brightness.
They defeated The First’s army. They closed the most dangerous and active hellmouth. They awakened the power in many.
She died. She lives. She sleeps. She wakes. She fights. She fights. She fights.
What’s it going to take?
She fights. She fights. She fights.
-----
She punches. She kicks. She throws Kennedy down onto the training mat and asks her what she did wrong with her third kick.
She stays in the training room long after the session’s ended, going through her forms and fighting imaginary enemies all around her. They fall to her blows then spring back up again, again, and again.
On and on, tangled in an endless waltz.
Buffy's punch connects, and her rhythm breaks. She uses the momentum of her surprised spin to power a quick cartwheel away.
The punches keep coming, a wolfish grin behind them. Buffy counters and side-steps, rotates and her spinning backfist misses. She whirls around and ducks before a tornado kick could make contact with her face, shifting behind her partner to answer with a back kick of her own.
Faith dodges, but stumbles on her landing. Buffy takes advantage and presses on, mixing low and high sweeping kicks to force the other Slayer to dance away from the fury of her strikes. A leg hooks around Buffy’s left foot and down she goes, the two of them grappling with each other until they’re back at the center of the mat where they'd started.
Buffy stares up into brown eyes as she pants, her chest pressed down by an arm and her legs entangled with Faith’s.
Inhale, exhale.
Push, and pull.
Buffy laughs.
-----
“I let you win.”
“Riiiiight.”
“I was in training the whole day!”
“Mmmhmmm.”
“You were sitting on a bus! For hours!”
“Come back when you guard your left side better. Then we’ll talk.”
“Wha- I guard my left side perfectly well!”
“Oh yeah?”
“Ass.”
“Aww, B! Warms my heart.”
-----
Buffy takes walks around their new base when she has the rare moment of free time.
Dawn jokes that she enjoys patrolling so much that she patrols even within their house. Buffy just smiles and keeps walking.
She walks around so she can see how the girls are doing, show them that she’s listening, that she wants to help if it is within her power to.
Show them that none of them are alone.
And equally importantly, so she can keep the peace, because there are some serious egos going around.
Yet there are fewer arguments to be settled lately, which she is immensely grateful for because she is far too tired of drama, but thought is suspicious because Kennedy and Rona definitely still have beef with each other and the new girl who came in with Faith a week ago is having trouble adjusting- until she overhears a voice breaking up a rapidly heating up disagreement and threatening to add more push-ups in training if they don’t stop acting like little shits.
Buffy grins to herself and walks back the way she came.
-----
Faith joins her on her walks.
Buffy goes from years of not seeing Faith to spending at least an hour every day with her when she’s not away on trips.
Sometimes they discuss new training regimens as they roam the corridors and plan more efficient patrol routes around the city, Buffy scribbling on a notepad as they go. Sometimes they chat about the latest delivery of weaponry and the stores someone should keep an eye out for discounts. Sometimes they debate over which diner has the best late-night offerings and one of them would try to change patrol routes so they'd end closer to where the good food is ("I saw that, Faith!").
One of the younger girls approaches Faith with a question, and the other Slayer immediately gentles her tone as she responds. The corner of Buffy’s lips keeps lifting despite her best efforts.
Faith catches her smiling after the girl skips away, and scowls at her the entire way to the meeting room.
-----
Buffy still stares out the window when she cannot sleep.
It goes on, and on, and on.
She fights, and fights, and fights.
What’s it going to take?
The moon is out tonight, round and bright. Its brilliance outshines the stars around it.
Her door closes behind her in a soft thud. She feels the quiet gaze of brown eyes regarding her in the stillness of her room, but she doesn’t turn around.
A memory of a rooftop, of angry retorts to a desperate plea.
Buffy thinks she understands a little better now.
She shifts, and hears footsteps approach in soft pads on the carpeted floor until they stop next to her.
She looks to her side to see Faith bathed in moonlight.
Buffy breathes.
-----
The demon is fast.
It looms over them, claws long and wicked, slashes quick and brutal.
Buffy jumps, and Faith swipes at its feet.
Faith whirls away, and Buffy spin kicks its face.
High and low. Attack and guard. Swing and stab.
Left and right. Right and-
Red.
Warm and wet.
Everywhere.
“Faith!”
-----
Buffy kicks in the front door and paints a trail of red to the medical room.
Xander will be most upset with her.
Willows is waiting, supplies ready. The gashes on Faith's torso are horrifically deep, blood still oozing out despite Buffy’s best attempts to stop the bleeding. Willow raises a pair of scissors to cut away her clothes, but a feeble hand stops her.
Wide, pain-filled brown eyes meet Buffy’s in a sudden panic.
She reaches forward to grip Faith’s hand, to comfort, to reassure, to promise the best of drugs to numb the pain.
Panic turns into resignation.
Buffy does not understand.
A grimace, a nod of assent, and leather and cotton fall away.
There, split down the middle by a jagged scar that will never fully heal and covered in fresh streaks of red:
“Sometimes I crave a non-fat yogurt afterwards”
-----
“It’s okay, I got it.”
“You’re uh, Buffy, right?”
“I’m Faith.”
-----
Inhale, exhale.
Buffy watches Faith breathe, slow and steady in her sleep, brown hair stark against the whiteness of the sheets.
Inhale, exhale.
She was afraid of this.
She didn’t want her to see.
Inhale, exhale.
A flash of metal. A yelp of pain.
All that anger, all that violence.
The hand in hers twitches. Buffy runs her thumb over bruised knuckles that are just the slightest bit bloody still, and murmurs soft nothings to chase nightmares away.
Inhale, exhale.
-----
If Buffy takes extra savage pleasure from burying her axe into the demon’s chest and freeing its heads from its body the next evening, a simpler task with the creature’s speed crippled by Willow’s magic; well, her best friend certainly isn’t judging.
-----
It takes five days, even with Slayer healing, for Faith to be well enough to get out of bed and walk around without keeling over.
Buffy stays close, as often as she can, to keep a watchful eye on her. She logs every tiny stumble and every minute wince, and has to force down the irrational urge to jump over to help, knowing that the other Slayer would not appreciate it. Especially not in front of the other girls.
But it’s late at night and the house is quiet when Buffy returns from a solo patrol and sees Faith wrapping an arm around herself in a grimace, so she doesn’t hesitate.
Faith seems to think being bridal-carried up her room when she’s not in mortal danger, even when nobody could see, is an unacceptable offence punishable by ten thousand deaths. But Buffy doesn’t care.
They sit together on Faith’s bed, light dimmed to reflect the lateness of the hour, and suddenly neither of them know what to say.
In the end, it is Buffy who moves. A hand reaches out, stopping an inch away from the other Slayer’s face. An invitation and question all in one.
“This will change things”, Faith whispers, a warning in her tone, a hint of fear in her gaze.
Buffy breathes in, and breathes out.
Inhale, exhale.
She smiles.
“Let them”, Buffy whispers back.
Brown eyes slip close with a sigh as she presses her cheek into Buffy’s palm, and Buffy thinks the burst of affection flooding through her may be the best thing she’s felt since coming back to life.
-----
Buffy traces a finger over black letters, over curves and dots and lines.
“You didn’t want me to see," Buffy says softly.
"No," agrees Faith.
Her finger continues on its journey, slow and delicate, until it catches on the raised lump of the unhealed scar. A mark of violence upon a mark of intimacy. Even with her skepticism of soulmates developed through the years, the jarring sight of it still takes her breath away.
The fundamental wrongness of it. The twistedness.
"Because of this?" Because of our history? Because of what I've done to you? What I might do to you again?
Faith watches her carefully.
"In a way. But also 'cause I didn't know yours is so vague. I thought you've been ignoring it this whole time, and seeing mine would remind you that you didn't want… this." I thought you didn't want me. I don't want you to remember and leave.
"Do you?" What about want, take, have? You didn't use to care.
A scoff, and a small mutter. "It's you, B. 'Course I do, always have."
Buffy eyes the words before her. Intricate lettering declares them as equals with each stroke, ordained by some higher power.
Forever disfigured.
She keeps her gaze on Faith as she runs two fingers down the scar, caressing lightly, carefully, and deliberately avoiding the letters.
"The road we've travelled to be here, that's what matters. Everything else pales in comparison."
Brown eyes appraise her. Then a smile grows, soft and bright, blossoming under dim yellow light.
Like moonlight, outshining the stars.
"Yeah?"
Buffy lifts the two fingers to her lips, then lets them carry the kiss down to the scar.
"Yeah."
—--
"I haven't apologized."
"What for?"
"Getting you clawed. It was my error."
"Buy me dinner and we'll call it square, B."
-----
Buffy still watches the night.
She wakes. She sleeps. She teaches. She fights.
She fights. She fights. She fights.
A hand slips into hers, she looks to her side.
Faith smiles.
Buffy breathes.
-----
"You know, next time you wanna kiss my scar that's conveniently located on my abs, all you gotta do is ask- ow!"