***

Even after Oz had left, the door clicking softly shut behind him, Faith sat
watching the old TV set. It kept flickering from colour to black and white
and she just didn't have the energy to get up and give it a good slam with
her fist. Because that was the answer to everything, wasn't it? She watched
with a faint smirk as the guests on Jerry Springer - caption 'My son is
Satanist and he sleeps with a goat!' or something similar - started swinging
for each other. Watched the beefy security guys rush the stage and tear the
Satanists and their trailer trash mothers apart while Jerry smugly worked
the audience into a frenzy. And she thought *her* family had been fucked up.

After a while she wondered if watching this crap could endanger your mental
health. Like she wasn't screwed enough as it was. A small chuckle left her
lips, completely devoid of humour. Pushing up from the mattress she was sat
cross-legged on, she stood and flicked the power switch on the set. It
hummed and powered down slowly, fading to black. Hands on leather clad hips,
her eyes swung around the room. Torn wallpaper, light switches that didn't
work, carpet with all kinds of dubious stains, lumpy beds and a shower that
didn't seem to produce more than a light drizzle of water. Home sweet home.

She sat on the bed again. She wished she could've gone with Oz now but she
knew he had stuff to do. Now was no time to start attaching herself to a
guy. That was the way to drive someone away, that's what momma had always
said. Don't let 'em see how desperate you are. But . . . it wasn't like
that. They were friends. Not that she had any benchmark to measure this
against. All she knew was that he'd been kind to her, supported her, and she
'd always responded well to that. The Mayor was a case in point and Buffy. .
.

Buffy. It kept hitting her again and again, kept making her feel more
desperate every time. She wanted to be sick and sometimes she was. It didn't
provide any comfort because that thin sliver of vomit just reminded her of
how very much alive she was and how B. . . wasn't. She wondered if, up
there, wherever the hell it was B had gone to, Buffy was watching her.
Disapproving, like she always did.

Faith wasn't good enough, even in her grief. Felt like she should have been
crying more, or slipping into a catatonic state, ceasing to exist beyond the
silence of loss. She felt she should have faded away into the background and
just disappeared like Giles and Willow and everyone else wanted her to. Or
maybe she should've been wearing clothes more respectful of the dead.
Blouses and skirts and sensible shoes. Comb her hair and put it up real
nice. To show them that she felt it just as much as they did.

She reached under the bed and pulled out her holdall. She rummaged through
dirty clothes, throwing worn t-shirts and underwear onto the unmade bed
until she came across a soft toy - a pink, snub-nosed alligator she'd stolen
from Buffy's room the morning after they'd slept together. It'd been small
enough to hide inside her jacket without creating too much of a bulge. Buffy
hadn't noticed it as Faith had walked her to school that day. They'd made
lame conversation about teachers having secret affairs, and all Faith could
focus on was Buffy's mouth and remembering where it had been.

Faith's smile faltered as she took the furry and slightly dirty toy in her
hands. Maybe later she'd wash it in the sink, to get rid of that grey grime.
She placed it carefully on the pillow and returned to raking through her
belongings and found what she was looking for at the bottom. She lifted the
bottle to the sunlight streaming through the window and eyed the
ridiculously brightly coloured pills inside. Shook it -- enough to last her
to the end of the week before she'd have to go to the local hospital
dispensary. She had the prescription safely tucked away in an inside pocket
of her bag. Who'd have thought salvation came in a bottle?

But these fucking child safety caps were a pain in the ass. Only a kid could
open them. When the lid eventually came off, Faith looked at the pills
gleaming with their so-called easy-to-swallow coating. She needed a glass of
water. But, somehow, it was too much effort to get up and go to the
bathroom. Instead she replaced the cap and stared at the fading flowery
pattern on the bedcovers.

How was she going to do this? Giles didn't believe she could and she knew
they were all standing, watching, waiting for her to screw up again. It was
inevitable, wasn't it? So why bother, why make the effort, why leave this
fucking motel room? Why even take these damn pills?

Dropping the bottle back into her bag, Faith grabbed her nearby jacket,
stuffing the soft toy into her pocket. She had to get out of this room
before it drove her crazy. Crazier, whatever.

******

It wasn't exactly a surprise to find herself in front of the Summers' house.
The meandering walk she'd taken -- past the new, shiny and modern Sunnydale
High, through several cemeteries, and circling back towards the residential
part of town -- was always going to lead her back here. Just a slice of
suburbia on the surface of it. Could've been any white bread house in any
white bread street in America.

There was no car in the drive and the house looked empty. Joyce was
obviously at the gallery, throwing herself into her work. The world doesn't
stop, even when you lose the most important thing to you. There are still
bills to pay, food to buy, whatever the fuck normal people have to deal
with. They don't have time to crack up, or at least the cracks don't show so
much.

Faith took a few steps down the driveway, hesitating. She almost felt like
she was disturbing consecrated ground by just being here. Well, too late
now, so she took a seat on the porch steps. She hadn't been here since that
stupid, hare-brained mistake -- taking Buffy's body, and the rest, which she
was trying to forget. She'd lived in this house for a couple of days, lived
the existence that she'd always wanted since she was a kid. Sober mom, real
friends, pretty house and pretty garden. When she wore Buffy's body they
treated her like someone worth giving a shit about.

And now she was expected to take Buffy's place for real but without all
those props. In Buffy's body it was so easy to believe that she could be a
hero. Now the odds were stacked against her and she didn't believe she could
pull off this 'saviour' gig, no matter what Oz said about destiny.

She looked up to see a familiar green jeep pull sharply into the driveway
and she froze. She knew she should motor, just get the fuck out of there
because she wasn't ready for the look of thunder on Joyce's face as she
stepped out of the vehicle. The woman didn't even bother to shut the door
behind her, and Faith wondered if Joyce wasn't going to get back in and
point that jeep right at her. Her palms were sweating, she realised, and she
wiped them on her pants as she slowly rose.

She tried to smile, because it seemed like the right thing to do, but
judging by the expression on Joyce's face she'd got that far wrong. "Get off
my property before I call the police." Joyce ground out the words slowly,
never taking her eyes off Faith.

The fight or flight instinct rose in her gut. She reached into her pocket
and pulled out the soft toy, holding it toward the other woman almost in
supplication. She watched Joyce's brow furrow in confusion and recognition.
"Where did you get that?"

Faith didn't answer. She just approached Joyce slowly, holding the toy out
to her. Joyce was looking at it like it was a hand grenade or something so
Faith just placed it on the hood of the jeep. Funny -- it didn't explode. "I
wanted to give this back," Faith said softly, her voice permanently thick
with all kinds of emotions. Like, by having a good cough she could clear it
all away.

Joyce was staring at her with this unreadable expression, no longer furious.
"Faith. . ." she began and faltered.

"It's cool, I was leaving anyway," Faith said, shrugging. "I *am* sorry, for
what it's worth."

Joyce looked like she was about to say more but she didn't, just closed her
mouth into a thin version of a smile.

******

The sun had set by the time Faith made her way back to the motel. She'd been
wandering again, taking in old haunts. She'd spent a long time at the swing
park, just sitting, watching the clouds shift in the sky, feeling the breeze
on her skin. It wasn't like she was needed anywhere else. Maybe if Oz had
arrived back at the motel and found her gone, he'd have worried but, right
now, it didn't seem to matter.

It wasn't until she saw that vampire. . . Spike and some slutty blonde chick
railing on Oz that she started to feel bad. But she restrained the urge to
go postal and slunk up behind a car, watching and waiting for the vamps to
make a move. Spike was leaning against the side of the building, arms
folded, while the blonde chick, whom Faith didn't recognise, talked to Oz.
Her posture was all condescension, hands propped on her hips as she looked
down on him. Funny thing was, Oz didn't look all that concerned, the stake
in his hand down by his side.

Sneaking closer, still hidden behind another car, Faith listened, catching a
snatch of conversation. ". . .and anyway I never liked you. You were one of
Buffy's friends," the blonde chick said with clear distaste, "and it's not
like her sorry fashion-deprived ass is gonna save you now. Because, y'know,
she's, like, dead, and everything."

Faith saw Spike roll his eyes. "Are you done yet, Harm?"

This 'Harm' chick turned to Spike. "Spikey. . ." she dragged out his name
and spoke in a stage whisper. "Can't you see I'm being all intimidating? You
're supposed to be supporting me. That's what *good* boyfriends do."

Faith nearly laughed and she was sure she saw Oz's lips twitch slightly.
"Enthralling as this is, I'd kinda like to go inside," Oz said, jerking his
thumb towards the motel.

"Yeah, well, I've got a message for the Slayer," the girl said, all haughty,
and making her fingers do air-quotes. Damn this chick was begging to be
dusted. "Tell her, killing a Slayer is like riding a bike."

Oz just looked at her.

Harm flicked her hair in annoyance. "It's not difficult, okay?"

Spike grabbed her forcibly by the arm and she protested loudly. "Come on,
you stupid bint. . ."

Faith blocked his path. "Not so fast, Blond and Blonder."

"Slayer," Spike said, wetting his lips.

"Her?" Harm said in disgust, looking Faith up and down. "Where'd they find
her? Ho's 'R' Us?"

"Shut up," Spike said, casting a look of contempt at his girlfriend. He
directed a thoroughly false smile at Faith. "We were just. . . in the
vicinity. Nice evenin' for it."

The sucked-in cheekbone charm failed with Faith. "So, what's this about B?"

"Nothing. Silly tart was just mouthing off," Spike said. Harm shot him a
murderous look and sulked. "Likes to think she's a big bad just 'cause she
wears leather now."

"That right?" Faith asked Oz. He just shrugged. She stared back at Spike.
"Better tell your girl to watch her mouth. No one talks about B like that."

Spike's eyebrow rose wearily. "Don't worry, I'll gag the bitch in future."
Pushing past Faith, he dragged Harmony off by the elbow.

Faith watched them go, bickering as they went. She was aware of Oz beside
her. "You're just gonna let them go?" She turned and stared at him hard.
"Not a criticism," he continued in his usual neutral tone.

Once inside their room, she allowed her shoulders to sag. She watched Oz
pull off his sneakers and socks as she sat on her bed, remembered that he'd
had a heavy day himself. "How'd things go with Devon?"

Oz sat opposite her, elbows resting on his knees. "We talked."

"And?"

"He basically offered me my place back in the Dingoes." Oz must've seen the
surprised look on her face because he shook his head. "I said no."

"Right," Faith said, trying to keep the relief out of her voice. She'd had
half a feeling that when Oz left today, that maybe he wouldn't be coming
back except to collect his belongings. So she didn't know what to say. She
settled on the word that she'd been using a lot lately. "Sorry." Angel was
right, it *was* becoming easier to apologise.

A very small, almost not-there smile touched Oz's lips. He looked at her. "I
'm not."

******

To be continued. . .