Chapter Text
June 1997
“Ninety-nine,” Faith grunts, pulling herself up once more until her chest is level with the bar. “One hundred.”
Tara stops the timer, raising an appraising eyebrow at Faith. “Ten minutes, ten seconds.”
“Nice.” Faith lets go of the bar, dropping to the padded ground, and landing on both her feet. She leers at her best friend, and winks. “Be honest, you’re kinda turned on right now, aren’t ya?”
Tara scoffs. “In your dreams.”
“You said it, not me.” Faith shrugs.
One hundred one-armed pull ups in ten minutes. Not bad.
The two of them are in the training room, set up on the ground floor of Giles’ family home in Bath, England. It’s a large, square room, with cinderblocked grey walls, and lots of padding on the floors. Exercise equipment of all kinds-- pull-up bars, elliptical machines, weights-- pulled together by a large pommel horse set up in the middle of the room. All clean and polished and state of the art-- despite the fact that Giles does his only exercise in the library.
Faith and Tara’s moms had come up with the idea of taking a group vacation months ago during their Spring Break visit. It was only last month that Tara’s mom, Carolynn, asked if they could go to London, so Buffy secured access to the house for their vacation.
Faith is glad to be with Tara and her mom-- partly because it cut the usual awkward vacation with her mom’s father way short, and partly because she is finally able to hang out with her best friend for an extended period of time. But, truth be told, another reason is that she’s just super pumped up to show off all of her newfound abilities to people who aren't already used to them-- like Buffy and Giles-- or people hellbent on tearing down her confidence-- Dawn.
Faith stretches her arms over her head, noting that Tara hasn’t responded to her yet. “What’s up?”
Tara tilts her head to the side, staring at Faith with those big, blue eyes of hers that are much more endearing than Dawn’s for some reason. “H-how are yo-ou?”
“Slightly more tired than I was before the pull-ups.” Faith replies, glibly.
“No, I-I do- don’t--” Tara lets out an aggravated sigh, “I ju-just mean how are y-you with… ev-erything.” The emphasis she puts on ‘everything’ lets Faith know exactly what she’s talking about.
“Uh, I’m the freaking Slayer,” Faith holds her hands out wide, raising both of her eyebrows to her hairline incredulously. “How do you think I’m doing?”
“I mean th-this is a big cha-change f-for you-ou,” Tara’s stutter is getting worse, and she’s fiddling with the sleeve of her sweater, scratching the back of her hand with the other one as she does so.
Faith narrows her eyes at her oldest friend. “Spill it.”
Tara’s eyes somehow go even wider, looking every bit like a blue-eyed deer. “Huh?”
“You clearly have something on your mind,” She rolls her eyes. “So, come on, out with it!”
Tara looks down at her hands. “I d-don’t want to-to say it.”
“Why not?”
“Bec-beca-because I thi-think it-t’ll upset-t you.” Tara grits out.
Faith sighs, leaning her elbows back on the pommel horse, looking relaxed as can be. “Well, in that case, if you were anyone else in the world, I’d tell you not to say it. But I’ll give you a pass this once, because I like the way you’ve been ogling my forearms.”
That gets her a slight smile, and a roll of the eyes. “You are so full-ll of yourself.”
“If you got it, flaunt it, babe,” Faith gives her a grin, and a cheeky wink.
Tara sighs, and Faith sobers. Serious conversation time. “It-t’s jus- jus-t… You have-ven’t really ta-talked about-t wh-wh-what hap-pened to your mo-mom.”
Faith swears that her heart stutters in her chest, but it quickly starts beating normally again. She shrugs, nonchalantly. “I don’t know what there is to talk about.”
“She died.”
Faith scoffs. “You sure got that out easily.”
Tara gives her a dark look, which immediately makes Faith feel bad.
“Sorry,” She winces. “That was uncalled for.”
Tara gives her a nod that clearly says, ‘Yeah, it was.’ Tara is an expert at talking through facial expressions when her words fail her.
Realizing that it’s up to her to continue the conversation, Faith pushes herself off of the pummel horse to stand upright. “I just don’t see what the big deal is. She died. She’s back. I’m the Slayer now, too. Everything is five by five!”
“You don’t-t sou-nd ok-kay,” Tara accuses.
“Well, then that sounds like a ‘you’ problem. Because I’m fine as can be!”
Tara gives her a big, sad look that makes her skin chafe against the fabric of her exercise clothes. “Faith-th, you saw your mom d-die.”
‘You’re watching your mom die, do I bring that up?’ A dark, mean-spirited part of her clamors to say. With more effort than she wants to consider, Faith ignores it.
Desperate to change the subject, she clears her throat. “Do you wanna see me do a backflip?”
“You cou-could do one of th-those b-before,” Tara remembers, from back when they’d first met, and Faith went to tumbling classes the same way she now went under the bleachers to smoke.
Faith shrugs, finding herself a clear space of floor. “Not since my boobs came in.”
“How was your flight?” Giles’ voice comes out of the tinny speaker of the cordless telephone.
Buffy laughs, pacing the length of the balcony of the Giles’ family home. It’s cold and foggy outside, almost too cold after nearly six months of getting used to Californian weather again. “It got me away from my father, Giles. It could’ve crashed, and I would still think of it as the height of luxury.”
“Yes, I suppose that was a rather dimwitted question,” Rupert lets out a small laugh, but Buffy thinks it sounds strained, and not just because of the poor connection of their international call.
They’d only arrived in London last night. Dawn and Carolynn are still inside, sleeping off their jet lag. Buffy is pretty sure Faith woke up around the same time she did, and dragged Tara out of bed, though probably not for the same reasons that Buffy is awake.
“And- and you got into the house with little problem?”
“Are you asking me if the key to your house… opened the door to your house?”
Rupert hesitates. “Er, yes, I do believe that that is what I’m asking.”
“Well, then, it worked like a charm. Dawn twisted it in the lock and everything.”
“That’s good.”
There’s a long pause, and Buffy lets a stream of air out of her nose, as she addresses the metaphorical elephant over the phone line. The one that Rupert clearly doesn’t want to bring up first. “So… What’s going on with the Master’s bones?”
“Oh, well, yes, I’ve taken care of them. Last night actually,” Rupert answers her, and Buffy imagines him pushing his spectacles further up his nose. There’s a relieved tone in his voice that lets Buffy know-- even more than she already does-- that this is exactly the topic that he wants to talk about.
Buffy responds, trying to keep her voice sounding as normal as possible. She sure as hell has a lot of practice with it. “That’s good.”
“Yes, quite!” Rupert’s voice takes on that overly excited quality of his. The one that sounds like he’s praising a puppy he’s trying to house train. “Do you want to know the detail--”
“No.”
Giles sounds chagrined, “Are you sure?”
Buffy sighs, running her free hand down her face. “Did you take care of it?”
“Of course.”
“Then it’s taken care of,” There’s no room for questions in her tone. “I trust you, Giles.”
She hates that those words don’t sound quite as strong as she wants them to be.
Her Watcher clears his throat. “I set up that meeting for you tomorrow.”
Buffy lets out a deep breath, feeling one of the many weights on her chest lift up. “Good. What time?”
“One in the afternoon,” Giles sounds pained. “I hope you know that it wasn't an easy appointment to make.”
“He didn’t want to talk to me?” Buffy gasps, faux dramatically. “I am shocked! Shocked, I tell you. Don’t worry. I only needed to get into the room. Once I’m there, everything’s gonna work out.”
Tara doesn’t think she’s breathed since they stepped on the ‘Tube’ as Faith has mockingly called it in her terrible English accent-- uncaring of the many number of English people who could hear her and were undoubtedly offended.
Okay, that isn’t totally true. She was doing fine until Miss Buffy had split from the group. Apparently the older woman had some business to take care of in the city for Mr. Giles (a man who Tara’s never met, but lent them his house for their vacation, and whom she’s has heard good things about from Faith and Dawn ever since they were kids).
Miss Buffy had left them with some walking around money-- some currency she’d exchanged ahead of time, which was smart of her, because none of the vendors they’ve run into accept the U.S. dollar-- and said that she’d meet them after their trip to the Tower of London.
Her mom is walking a little bit ahead, arm intertwined with Dawnie’s as they meander down the cobblestone path. Tara can’t stop herself from watching them, even as Faith chatters on about something or other beside her. She keeps her eye out for every stumble, every time her mom has to stop and take a breath.
Tara had made her concerns about this outing clear to her mother before they left. What with all of the walking, and the air pollution, and the heat-- alright, it’s colder here than in Illinois, but it’s still pretty dang hot.
“Stop worrying, Tara,” her mom had insisted, “It’ll be fine.”
Stop worrying. Like it’s that easy.
Tara can’t stop worrying. Not when she’s the only person that even cares enough to worry.
It’s been so long since Tara’s been out anywhere that wasn’t school or-- unfortunately-- church. She feels like some sort of creature of the dark seeing the sun for the first time. Everything’s so loud and bright.
Speaking of bright…
“Tara!” Dawn chirps, turning to look back at her, pointing excitedly at the massive, stone building ahead of them. “Look, it’s the Tower of London!”
She gives the younger girl a wan smile, trying to match her energy, but falling flat on her face. “I see it-t, Dawnie.”
“Everyone can see it, Dawn!” Faith snarks. “It’s huge!”
Tara squints at the younger girl. Or, more accurately, at the glow surrounding the younger girl.
She noticed it during their visit in March, but between her small breakdown with Faith, and being able to relax for the first time in who knows how long when Miss Buffy took her mom to her doctor appointments for her, she hadn’t really given it much thought.
Now, though, it’s impossible to ignore; The bright, pulsing, indigo that seems to outline her aura, as if holding everything in place.
Tara’s never seen anything quite like it before. She doesn’t know what it means, and she doesn’t remember Dawn’s aura ever being so bright in her memories.
“Miss Summers,” Quentin Travers, the head of the Watcher’s Council, gives her a deep scowl-- his version of a fake smile-- as Buffy walks into his office. “What a pleasure to see you again.”
“Mr. Travers, I wish I could say the same.” Buffy responds, sitting in the overtly plush chair placed on the other side of his desk, which isn’t nearly as tall or opulent as the one Travers is sitting in. Talk about overcompensating.
“That isn’t typically the way to start a meeting, Miss Summers,” There’s an air of smugness in his voice as he continues, “Especially not when you’re asking for something.”
Buffy raises an eyebrow. “Who said I’m asking for anything?”
“Prior experience.”
“Well, you’re wrong. I’m not asking for anything.”
Travers quirks a disbelieving eyebrow. “You’re not?”
“No. I’m demanding that you continue to pay my salary--”
“Excuse me?” Travers blusters.
“And start paying Faith for her work as the Slayer.”
Travers stares at her for a long moment, his face turning nearly puce. Then he lets out a bark of laughter. “Why would I want to do a barmy thing like that? Just paying you these last few years was against our protocols.”
“Well, I think the answer is simple, Mr. Travers. You pay our salaries, or I move me and my daughters off the Hellmouth, and neither of us will ever stop another apocalypse for you.”
Travers scoffs. “You’re bluffing.”
“Am I?” Buffy gives him a bright smile. “Remember the last time you thought I was bluffing?” Travers shifts under her gaze, and Buffy takes a perverse pleasure in causing his discomfort. “Remind me, how many Watchers were injured under your orders?”
Travers’ nostrils flare. “Are you trying to blackmail me?”
“After all this time, do you really have to ask?”
“You arrogant little--” He takes a deep breath, clearly trying to control himself. It doesn’t work. “What makes you think that you can continue getting away with this?”
Buffy lets out a long suffering sigh. The kind that she usually gives the kids continuously sent to her office due to behavioral issues. “Let me put this in terms that you’ll understand, Quentin. You lead the Watcher’s Council. The goal of the council is to control the Slayer. I actually control the Slayer. Or, I guess, Slayers now.”
“As I understand it, you only control the Slayer,” He makes sure to annunciate the singular form. “Until she turns eighteen.”
“Well, I guess we can have another conversation in a year and a half,” Buffy cocks her head to the side, as if she doesn’t care one way or the other. “I just hope that the world doesn’t try to end before then, while you’re out trying to save a few pounds.”
Travers glares at her-- a glare that was probably honed to intimidate snivelling, tweed wearing Watchers, or young, naive little girls that didn’t know that there are scarier things in this world than self-important old men. Buffy holds his gaze, unflinching.
The Head Watcher breaks first. Of course he does. Buffy knew going into the meeting that there was only one way it was going to end.
“Alright. Your terms are agreeable.” Travers says through gritted teeth. He reaches for a pen, and opens up a leather-bound notebook on his desk. Buffy can tell that this is his way of dismissing her. She doesn’t get up.
“I’m sure they are,” Buffy crossed one leg over the other, folding her hands in her lap. “And now, to discuss Faith’s Watch--”
This time, it is Travers that cuts her off. “She has already been assigned a Watcher.”
“And that Watcher would be,” Buffy prompts, internally rolling her eyes at the obstinate old man. She can’t show any weakness in front of him. Lord knows he would use that to his every advantage.
Travers sighs, dropping his pen with a small plop onto the paper. “He is an accomplished Watcher, stationed in America for the last two decades, and his most recent charge just aged out of his care.”
“Will I be able to meet him?”
“As soon as you return to the States,” Travers responds with another fake smile. “I am sure that you’ll find Mr. Jamison-Smythe is quite satisfactory with his work.”
“I’m sure I will, if he’s a better Watcher than you were.” Buffy nods. Understanding that she got everything she could out of this meeting, she gets up from her overly stuffed chair with as much dignity as possible.
Travers’ hands are clenched into fists, and his jaw keeps clenching as he watches her stand. “I must say, Miss Summers, I’m so happy that you’re still with us.”
Buffy lets out a short laugh, as she turns to exit the room. “Backatcha.”
Buffy is sitting on the leather couch in the Giles home’s sitting room. There’s some weird, British show on the BBC that Buffy is struggling to focus on.
She’s the only one trying.
Dawn is sitting next to Carolynn on the loveseat, crossed legged and fully turned to the other woman rather than the TV, back fully turned to Buffy, and chatting loudly. Dawn, having apparently exhausted all of her questions about Slayers, was now grilling Carolynn on every detail of magic and witchcraft she could possibly think of.
Faith and Tara are in the library-- supposedly doing some summer reading, though Buffy knows her daughter well enough to not believe that for a second. Chances are that Tara was just trying to look for an excuse away from Dawn’s excessive questions that didn’t offend the youngest Summers.
Buffy tries really hard to focus on the television, but every so often, she finds her gaze falling onto one of her closest friends.
Carolynn’s long, dark hair has completely disappeared since they last saw one another. Her scalp is covered by a pretty, silk, green scarf, which shows off the pale column of her neck, illuminating the dark lines of her veins under her pale skin.
She knows it’s a completely different situation, but it reminds Buffy a bit of those days following her mother’s brain surgery. Joyce would also cover her head with scarves back then-- though it was to cover the spot they’d needed to shave for surgery, rather than losing it all from radiation.
Just like her mother, Carolynn chose to wear scarves rather than wigs.
“So, can anyone channel magic?” Buffy tunes into their conversation, just as Dawn is asking that question. Over Dawn’s shoulder, Buffy shoots a warning look at Carolynn, who responds with a small smile.
“To varying degrees,” She gently corrects. “Some people are better fit to handle more magic than others. Some people can channel it, but not actually perform spells. It all depends. But, no matter what, it’s always important to have a mentor to guide you.”
“If I wanted to use magic, could you guide me?” Dawn is practically bouncing in her seat.
Carolynn presses her lips together, clearly trying to suppress a smile. “You’d have to ask your mother.”
Dawn perks up, whirling her head around to look at Buffy. “Mom--”
“Nope.” Buffy answers without missing a beat, clearly popping the ‘p’ of the word.
“But--”
“Nuh-uh.”
Dawn deflates, her bottom lip sticking out in a pout, as she turns back to look at Carolynn.
“It’s alright, sweetie,” Carolynn reaches out, and gently runs a hand through Dawn’s auburn hair in a gesture of comfort. “Maybe you can ask again when you’re older.” Carolynn finishes this off by sending a cheeky wink at Buffy over Dawn’s shoulder.
That, however, seems to be the wrong thing to say. Buffy notes the way that Dawn’s shoulders sag.
“Miss Carolynn…” Dawn is fiddling with her hands in her lap, clearly hesitating as she tries to find some words. Buffy looks over at her, worry-lines etching into her magically aged face-- despite everything, Dawn still wasn’t used to how she looked without the bracelet.
Carolynn gently places a hand on the younger girl’s shoulder, and gently rubs it. “What is it, Dawnie?”
“It’s just… If you’re magic, then can’t you just… make yourself not be sick anymore?”
Buffy notes the way that Carolynn subtly flinches at the question, and steps in. Her voice is filled with warning, “Dawn--”
“No,” Carolynn waves her off. “It’s alright, Buffy. I’m okay with answering.” Carolynn takes a deep, steadying breathing, bringing both of Dawn’s hands in hers. They look remarkably similar in size right next to each other. “Dawn, magic… It’s a delicate thing, that we have been granted the ability to wield. And it’s wrong to use it to change the forces of nature. My illness is a natural, human affliction. I can’t use magic to change that.”
“But if you could, why can’t you just--”
Carolynn cuts off that thought, “I took an oath when I started practicing magic to never alter the fabric of reality. Especially not for selfish reasons. Do you understand?”
Dawn gives a small, hesitant nod. “I guess…” She doesn’t sound totally convinced.
Buffy clears her throat, grabbing the attention of both her daughter and friend. “Dawnie, why don’t you go get Tara and Faith.” It’s an order Buffy gives, not a request. “Tell them to get ready to go out for dinner.”
“You know, you can just tell me when you don’t want me around.” Dawn huffs, but does as she’s told. That doesn’t stop her from stomping out of the room exaggeratedly in her fuzzy socks.
Carolynn stands up, crossing over to the couch and sitting beside Buffy. “It’s not her fault. It’s only natural to wonder,” She sighs, deeply. “Tara asked me the same thing.”
Buffy doesn’t know how to respond to that. “Care…”
“We got into a fight. A few months ago, she sort of snapped. It makes sense, with everything that she’s been doing for me…” Carolynn sniffles. “She said that I didn’t care enough about her to try and save myself.”
“Kids say things that they don’t mean when they’re going through stressful situations.” Buffy sighs, regretfully. “Lord knows I did.”
“When your mother was sick?”
“No, but… plenty of times before that.”
“She’s not wrong, though. I’m-- I’m all she really has, except for-- well, you know. I’m the only one that can protect her, and I’ll-- I’ll be lucky to make it to her eighteenth birthday.” Carolynn’s eyes are misty, but no tears come out. Buffy knows that she can’t let them fall, not when the girls are going to come back in the room at any moment. “I hate that I won’t be there to protect her.”
Buffy nods, her jaw clenching. “That’s the worst part. Not being there for them.”
She doesn’t even notice the slip until it’s out of her mouth, and hanging in the air between them. It’s obvious that she’s not just talking about Carolynn and Tara, and a pit of guilt immediately forms in her stomach.
“Buffy,” Carolynn suddenly grabs Buffy’s hand in both of hers, staring up at her with eyes that look too big for her face all of a sudden. “Please promise me that you’ll be there for her. When I’m not there. I need to know that you’ll be with her.”
Buffy gently squeezes Carolynn’s hand, mindful of the other woman’s more delicate hands, and breakable bones. “Tara won’t ever be alone. I promise.”
It’s not what Carolynn asked of her, but it’s all that Buffy can promise. It must be enough, because Carolynn nods, and finally turns to the TV, leaning her head against Buffy’s shoulder.
“What on Earth are we watching?”
Buffy laughs, lightly pressing her cheek against the silk of Carolynn’s head scarf. “I have absolutely no idea.”