Chapter Five: Lie to Me

"You all right?"

Am I all right? If it weren't for the identity of the person asking me the question, I'd make a crack about brain cells and a severe lack of them. Then again, from what Cordy had told me in passing when she showed me my room for the night, Fred apparently collected brain cells. The fact that her emotional state's somewhere of the other side of the Mississippi doesn't make her stupid.

And besides, I know she's trying to be nice. Which is more than I can say for Cordelia and Wesley.

I'd been sitting in my room for more than an hour now, and only Gunn and Fred has made an effort to come a'visitin'. Gunn to explain that everyone else was having a war room discussion about what to do with their new (and improved) spare Slayer, and Fred to be ... well, Fred.

Fred, I like. She's tougher than she looks for a sweet little Southern belle. After all, look what she's been putting up with. Besides, I've seen the way Angel looks at her. When we came into the lobby for the first time, when Fred was making pleasant, mint-julips-on-the-veranda introductions all around, when she offered me a taco. He used to look at me that way in the beginning. He's moving on, even if he doesn't know it yet. Bully for him.

I notice Fred staring at me from her seat next to me on the bed, waiting for an answer, and I smile. Five by five, I say, then groan and shake my head in annoyance. Why am I saying that?

Fred doesn't get why I'm annoyed. "I don't know," she says. "I don't even know what it means."

Yeah, me neither.

There's a rustling sound near the door, and we both look over to see Angel standing in the dim light pouring through the doorway. He looks almost embarassed to be there. "Fred, can I have a moment alone with Faith?"

Her expression goes kind of glowy as she looks over at Angel. "Sure you can," she says cheerfully. She pats my knee absently and heads out the door, her long brown hair flowing out behind her.

As she leaves, her hand reaches out and brushes Angel's, and I take notice of his fingers absently reaching for hers in turn. Maybe neither one of them notices, but I do. Funny, the complete non-jealousy thing I've got going on about that.

He walks in and sits down in the chair near the bed, watching me the whole time. I'm an alien to him, a giant jigsaw puzzle he can't figure out. It's all right. I can't figure myself out much these days.

It takes him a few seconds to get wound up enough to speak. "You remember."

I ask, What?

"The demons. The vampires."

I try to be nonchalant about it. I know they exist, I say. I know they need to be slayed. Why? Doesn't everyone?

He gets that look on his face, that nearly-smiling look he gets when a silly question gets shot his way. "No, not really," he says.

I cross my arms, go for the curious approach. So, what's that mean?

I'm going for curious, he's going for delicate. It seems like he's taking this conversation one word at a time. This could take a while, at the rate he's going. "Do you remember what a Slayer is?"

Humor. Try humor, Buffy. Call it a shot in the dark, but I'm guessing it has something to do with pizza delivery, I say. From the look on his face, he's not much for knee-slappers right about now. So I keep going, this time serious. Yes, I know what it is. And from the look on your face, I'm guessing I'm one.

"Yes," he says. No elaborating. Welcome to Angel's world of conversational skills.

Okay, I say carefully. Not like it's a surprise to me personally, but I've decided Amnesia Faith is an extremely accepting person. Everything and anything gets an "okay" out of Amnesia Faith.

Angel, however, has yet to learn Amnesia Faith's favorite word. "Okay?" he asks, incredulous.

I cock an eyebrow. Well, what do you expect from me? A gymnastics routine? I mean, I'm limber, but I doubt I'm that limber.

I catch him flushing a little, and can't resist a laugh. It's hard to make a vampire blush, but between Angel and Spike, I've got a record number of community service hours racked up in that area of expertise.

He turns his gaze away from me and shoots up to his feet, and I flinch at how fast he does it. "Come on," he says. "Quentin wants to talk to you about going to Sunnydale."

He starts for the door, but I say it before he can get away. Who's Buffy?

Freeze. Turn. Gawk. "What?"

Okay, yeah, I know who Buffy is. Buffy is me. Me is Buffy. But still, Amnesia Faith doesn't know that. Amnesia Faith has met every person Angel mentioned on the phone except Giles and Buffy, and I've decided Amnesia Faith thinks Buffy's more important to know about. I've also decided that if I ever need a secret code name or superhero nickname, Amnesia Faith is off the list.

So, anyway, back to the who-is-Buffy line of conversation. I get to my feet and stare Angel down. On the phone the other day, you mentioned a Buffy. Who is she?

"She and I ..." His voice trails off, and my mind registers the fact that his response to that question starts with "she and I" with a calm acceptance. He shakes his head, knocking out the cobwebs, and says, "She was the last Slayer. She died. It's your job now."

I don't know how to respond to that, so I just nod. He sounds so ... out of it. Like he did all his crying and now he's got nothing left in him.

He sounds empty.

I honestly don't know what to say about that.

I've spent time with Spike. I've overheard Xander trying to pick up women. I've watched Jerri on "Survivor."

But I have never heard a more elaborate load of bullshit than the one Quentin Travers is currently feeding me. Eww. Mental image.

"Before your unfortunate incarceration, my dear, you were one of our most loyal and well respected Slayers ..."

To be honest, I think the fact that I look as if I'm not buying it isn't surprising anybody. I sit on the round chair in the center of the Hyperion's lobby and glance casually around at everyone else. Wesley has that British guy poker face that Giles used to have down to a science. Or an art. Or a scientific art.

"What you did was an accident, pure and simple, and you were willing to make the ultimate sacrifice and surrendered to the police before there were any difficulties ..."

Gunn keeps watching Quentin as the old jerk paces, staring at him as if he's got a squid on his head. Cordy holds a copy of "Poisonous Demons and Magical Antivenoms" in front of her face, trying to keep from laughing.

"We were very proud to have you under our watchful eye, weren't we, Wesley?"

Wesley nods, his gaze connecting with mine. I roll my eyes, and he turns away. I'm pretty sure he's trying not to let Quentin see a smile on his face.

The corners of Angel's mouth twitch upwards every so often as Quentin continues, trying to impress upon the little amnesia victim that could that she was a model Slayer in the past. Problem is, she is me. And me ... well, me knows better.

But it's funny, I'll give him that. Great story, unpredictable plot ... I have to give it two thumbs up. Four, if I can count the Buffy me and the Faith me as two completely different parts.

I think the only person in the room who believes anything Quentin says is Fred, and while she's basically some kind of scientific prodigy, I get the impression from what Cordy told me about that demon dimension she was in that you could tell Fred that there are now guys who train tomatos to fly and she'd believe you.

Silence fills the air, and I turn quickly away from Fred back to Quentin, who's staring at me like he expects me to say something. He's faking some pride. I can tell. He's got that just-got-a-second-steel-rod-shoved-up-my-ass look to him.

"Well, young lady. Do you have anything to say?"

I nod. Yes, I say. Extremely.

When I don't elaborate, his brow furrows. "Extremely what?"

How stupid you must think I am. Extremely.

Okay, now I've pissed him off. I'm starting to feel more and more like myself with every passing moment. "Faith --"

Don't call me that, I snap. Faith did something that caused her to get sent to maximum security prison for the next twenty years without the chance for parole. I'm not an idiot, Mr. Travers. The Wizard gave me a brain. The fact that the memory file has been deleted doesn't make me a total moron.

Silence follows for a brief instant, and then I hear clapping. All eyes turn to Gunn, who seems to appreciate me putting it down for Quentin.

He stops after a little bit, giving Cordy the opportunity to pipe up with a question. "How can you remember vampires and demons and that they need to be slayed, but not remember who you are?"

I shrug. Hell if I know. The room goes quiet again, everyone racking their brain to figure it out.

Well, maybe not everyone. Fred's soft voice breaks the silence. "Amnesia's a selective thing," she says, in that content, warm tone she's got. "Sometimes you forget so much it's back to diapers and sometimes you remember everything but you." Off everyone's curious looks, she grins, a little guilty. "I studied that as prep for my biology minor."

Quentin takes that in, lets it settle, then does what he's been doing ever since Angel and I came downstairs and ignores everyone else in the room. "Well, if you still have some memory of being a Slayer, I suppose it's best for me to take you to Sunnydale as soon as possible --"

"That's not what she said!" Cordy yells. "What are you doing, amnesia-ing away the parts of the conversation you don't like?"

Go, Cordy. Sometimes, it's good to know the biggest bitch in Sunnydale. Like, when she's on your side.

Angel nods in agreement and steps up to Quentin. "We agreed. This is our call, not yours."

Quentin does that arrogant little laugh he does. I think it's the upper-class British version of 'I'm rubber and you're glue.' "Why should I trust you with her?" he asks.

"You can trust me, can't you?" Wesley asks pointedly.

Quentin frowns. Go, Wesley. I see backbone behind his steely gaze. What, did coming to L.A. improve everyone? I mean, Wesley and steely ... who woulda thunk it?

I can almost see the demon in Angel rumbling under the surface, bouncing around inside as he puts on the boxing gloves. His voice is cool, calm, chilling. "I can take it from here. I'll take her to Sunnydale tomorrow." Sunnydale. The magic word. I nearly burst out in hysterical giggles. Boy, would that be out of character.

Wesley walks over to Quentin and practically shoos him towards the front doors. "Thanks for your help, Quentin, but you can go back to your hotel now."

Angel follows close behind, adding, "Right now, all Faith needs is some rest and a good night's sleep."

Some rest. Yeah, right.

Almost the second Quentin gets kicked out, it's as if someone sucks all the hot air from the lobby. Which I suppose they did, in a way.

In any event, one minute I'm positive I'm about to let loose for my first night in a real bed in something like a week, and the next I'm holding a short sword and attacking Gunn for all I'm worth. He's no Slayer, but he's definitely got the goods in the weapons department. The only reason I'm having any sort of trouble is that I keep forgetting that my reach with the damn sword is just a teeny bit longer in this body.

Not that I got a chance to learn that during the last possession. But still.

Wesley was the one who suggested a test of my abilities -- you know, to see if I actually had any left after the mind-flush. He watches carefully from the sidelines as I advance on Gunn, edging him in the general direction of the base of the main staircase. Angel stands right next to him, just as intent on the "battle" as Wesley is.

Fred and Cordy, meanwhile, perch on the front desk, legs swinging, as if they were watching a three-on-three basketball game or something. I half expect Cordy to get up and cheer. Not that she'd be rooting for me. She might be talking to me, but she hates Faith, and it shows, even if she's being nice to me for Angel's sake.

I have a bad feeling I don't want to have ... that this is just a preview of my Sunnydale reception.

Gunn nears the base of the staircase, and I lay off for a moment, lowering my sword and letting him take a breather. I'm fine, but he's a little winded.

I bend over and look Gunn straight in the eyes. Tired yet, I ask.

He exhales breathlessly and looks over at the others. "Would anyone think I was being a wimp if I said yes?"

Fred shakes her head no. Cordy nods enthusiastically. Wesley just gets this sympathetic look on his face.

I give Gunn another minute or so to catch his breath, then we're back at it. Parry, thrust, the whole bit. Like I said, he's good. For someone who lives in L.A., he shouldn't be like this good at playing with sharp things.

Off to the side, I hear Wesley's whispered comment. "Are you watching this?"

I think I see Angel shake his head. "I don't understand it, either."

I signal for Gunn to stop, then turn to the guys. I ask, What's up?

Everyone else looks over at Wesley, and I remember a time when he would have squirmed under the attention. But he doesn't even flinch when he says, "The way you move ... you fight like Buffy. I recognize the style."

Uh-oh. Busted.

"Buffy was the other Slayer, right?" Fred asks, confused. Oh, I get it. She knew the name, but not the job description.

"Yup," Cordy says. "Total weirdo. But since the weirdness was contagious --" She reaches up and taps her forehead. "--who am I to complain?"

Gee, thanks, Cordy. I mean that.

I really wish I could have said that out loud.

Instead, I say, Right, then flash a what's-up-with-her look in Gunn's direction. He only shrugs. Did you know shrugging increases by 150% in the twenty feet area surrounding Cordelia? Look it up. I kid you not.

Understanding dawns in Fred's eyes, and she says, "Maybe she's acting out what she saw."

The guys seem to accept that, but Cordy's clueless. I remember a time when I would have called her on it. Of course, I'm clueless right now, too, so I think I'll just avoid a 'Pot, it's kettle, you're black' situation. "I'd like to request an explanation," Cordy says.

Yeah, me too.

Fred glances between Cordy and me as she explains. "Well, maybe her brain forgot how to be a Slayer, but her body hasn't. And she does remember what a Slayer is. Maybe she's got the memories of watching one at work locked up in there."

Wow. That just made a big old pile of sense.

Glad I didn't have to think that up.

Wesley crosses his arms and smiles thoughtfully. "Yes, that does make sense. It would certainly explain adopting Buffy's style of fighting."

I only nod. Better not to say that the only thing that's bothering me is having to fight in this stupid body that's a couple of inches taller and equipped with slightly larger measurements. Just that little bit of difference, and I feel like that tiny green alien in the robot in "Men in Black."

I nearly breathe a sigh of relief when Wesley says, "All right, I've seen enough."

"Me, too," Angel says, glancing sideways at me. "Ready for bed?" he asks me.

Am I? Would the stupid questions ever end?

I'm going home.

It's all I can think of as I lie in bed, hugging my pillow, barely able to sleep. Tomorrow, I'm going home. To Giles and Dawn, Willow and Xander, to Tara and Anya ... God, I'm even looking forward to hugging Spike and giving him a big old kiss just to see what the big lug'll do.

My mind drifts back to the in-between-bodies talk with the girls, when they warned me that whatever body I got, it was strictly anti-tattling. No telling who's renting out the empty space between the ears.

But I'm going back to Sunnydale, to my friends, to be the Slayer. I can tell my friends, right? I mean, if they guess?

I fall to sleep hoping the Pollyanna routine isn't making me sound like a total idiot.

Chapter Six