Chapter Seven: Breakin' Me

Faith's apartment. Oh, God, I'm in Faith's apartment.

It's a dream, of course. Faith's apartment's been gone for a long time now. Not "gone" gone, but some nice bachelor doctor guy is living in it, so no vacancies for the Slayer.

But in my head, it's still there. Everything where it was when the Mayor set Faith up in it. The night sky glows through the huge windows, the twinkling stars peeking in at me.

I'm in my old body this time, in the same outfit I died in. White sweater, grey pants. Little old blond me. It takes me a minute, but it suddenly hits me. This isn't a Powerpuff Girls dream. It's a Slayer dream, complete with Slayer.

Faith sits cross-legged on the couch, staring up at me thoughtfully. Her dark brown eyes (mine now) connect with mine, and she looks content. Not overly happy in a medicated Kathie Lee way, but definitely better than psychotic.

Her lips, painted heavily in dark red lipstick, tug up at the corners in a whimsical smile. I know. Faith and whimsical. Like peanut butter and anchovies.

"Nice curtains, B," she says.

Nice curtains?

I look over at the window display. A second ago, it'd been open and free of decoration. Now, heavy green and purple drapes hang in front of them, blocking some of the stars from peeking in. Not really curtains, when you got down to it, but they definitely improved the decor.

I shrug. I like the colors.

Faith nods. "Me, too. Finally, we agree on something." She gets to her feet, walks over to face me. Her saunter is gone, that swishy walk guys like. "But why'd you do it?"

I take her hand, and lead her towards the door. Now, I'm the one who saunters. I don't have to look down to know I'm doing it. I say nothing until I open the door, and we walk out. We should be in the hallway leading to the stairwell. Instead, we're on Revello Drive. I point to where my house is supposed to be.

I can't do it there, I say. The foundation broke. See?

We look across the street. My house is in ruins. A pile of snapped support beams and destroyed furniture, wrecked appliances and broken pipes.

Faith offers me a ressuring smile, visions of Doctor Jarvis in my head, and takes my hand. "That's all right, B," she says. "I always wanted me a roomie. Know how to make S'mores?"

And then, I wake up.

Okay, this is just getting ridiculous.

Can't I go to sleep for one stupid night without having some mega-important guest star in my dreams? If it's not creepy little demon girls, it's the psycho whose body I stole. Borrowed. Whatever.

My mind dwells on the dream as I slide out from under the covers and make the bed in a daze. To be honest, it felt like a Slayer dream, but that's got to be a load. Slayer dreams are prophetic. They warn of upcoming evil and feature attractions of demons and vampires and stuff. This one was like Dream Imagery 101.

But still, it feels like a Slayer dream. And if it is one, that's not good.

Because I get the impression that it's telling me Faith's still in here.

Something's not right. I know it.

I think about telling Giles about it as I trudge my way downstairs, but that idea's shot to hell from the second it leaves the gate. Buffy in a Faith suit is supposed to be the year's biggest secret. You find one part of that dream that wasn't about that.

There's talking in the kitchen ... just Giles and Dawn, thankfully. I'm not up for more redundant introductions this early in the morning.

They don't notice me as I stand in the doorway, watching them for a moment, grateful they're both in one piece. Giles looks a little scruffy around the edges as he sips his tea, but one thing he and I both share is the fact that we're basically useless before eight in the morning. Dawn, meanwhile, sits on the kitchen counter, already dressed and scarfing down a bowl of Fruity Pebbles. It takes me a minute to notice she's wearing the same outfit she was yesterday.

Reluctant to dive right back into the pool of tension and distrust that is now my life, I clear my throat and say, Good morning.

Both of them turn to look at me, and Dawn's blue eyes fill with surprise and barely suppressed anger. She must have forgotten I was here. Or hoped I'd run away. Or eaten alive in my sleep by scarab beetles or somthing.

"Oh. Good morning, Faith." Giles sounds way too cheerful. I get the impression he's faking it.

I have to force a smile as I head over to the fridge and take out the orange juice, my gaze on Dawn the whole time. Morning, Dawn, I say.

She hops down from the counter and glares at me. "Yup, that's what it is," she says, then dumps her dirty bowl in the sink and stalks out of the kitchen.

Oh. That went well.

"You hungry?"

I startle back to reality and Giles, and nod. Sure, I say. Got something from the microwave pastry food group?

Giles opens the cupboard next to the sink and pulls out a box of Pop-Tarts. He tries to give me a reassuring look as he hands me the box.

Thanks, I say. I lean up against the counter, right next to Giles, and fish out a silver-wrapped pair of Pop-Tarts. I don't bother with toasting them. That's just what I need ... a few minutes of uncomfortable silence as we both stare at the toaster.

"How did you sleep?" Giles asks.

Sorry, but I'm not in the mood to talk about my sleeping arrangements. Especially since the real answer is, "Sleep? I was supposed to sleep last night? Why didn't anyone tell me that yesterday?"

Instead, I swallow what's in my mouth and say, In a bed with my eyes closed. Is Dawn all right?

Giles flinches, spooked by the change of topic. "Her sister just died," he says simply.

Sure doesn't act like it.

I say it before I've even realized it, and I suddenly get very interested in the Pop-Tarts box as Giles's gaze goes steely on me. "Faith --"

Behave, I say. Believe me, I know. Not a lot of things, but I know that. Angel already gave me this lecture.

Things get quiet for a minute, as I chew without thinking and Giles sips while thinking more than I've done in the past few days. Finally, he says, "When Buffy died, we all expected Dawn to take it rather badly. There were circumstances --" He stops, looks down at his tea and flushes bright red. "Well, in all honesty, if things had gone according to plan, Dawn would have been the one to die."

Yeah, if you'd had anything to say about it.

But I'm not stupid, so I don't say that. Even if I'm still a little bitter about the whole oh-let's-kill-Dawn thing.

I finish off the Pop-Tart, ignoring how dry my mouth's suddenly gotten. But she lived and big sis died, I say. So she's got big guilt then, huh?

Giles turns around to face the sink, and I can't see his face when he nods. He puts his cup and saucer into the sink with barely trembling fingers. "She's not saying as much, but it's obvious if you know where to look," he says.

If you know where to look. Funny. Amnesia Faith must be rubbing off on me, because big guilt was a guess. I'm only seeing big hate myself.

It takes a moment for Giles to compose himself, but it's a visible change -- straightening up, steadying his heads, his throat clearing.

"The others said they'd come over and meet you later on at the shop," he says.

Shop? I ask it as if I didn't even know there was a shop, but it's a legitimate question. Why the hell were we going to the magic shop?

"There's a training room in the back of the magic shop I own," he says as if he could read my mind, rinsing out his cup as he speaks. "I was hoping to get a look and see how your amnesia has affected your fighting abilities."

What, does everyone want to see if the trained monkey's still viable? I'm starting to feel like a one-trick pony. Hold out stick, poke vampires. That's me.

Peachy, I say. Just freaking peachy.

Punch. Kick. Hit. You know, the usual.

I'm killing the punching bag. I'm not taking guff from the punching bag. I'm beating the punching bag like a redheaded stepchild.

I think the punching bag is going to kick my ass.

Not that I'm not on my game. I'm on my game. I'm on several games. I might even be on a stack of Monopoly boxes, for all I know. I'm definitely a contender in the Kicking Ass competition.

But mentally, I'm not even there.

I'm doing the Slaying training thing, and I'm noticing Giles watch with this childish fascination. But the whole time, I think about when the gang shows up. And I just can't summon up the energy to get excited about it.

Just another round of "Go Away, We Hate You." Oh, yeah, I'm looking forward to that.

I finally lay off the punching bag, stepping back and catching my breath. It's only then that I notice the huge rip in the side of the bag, its contents poking out, I'm guessing from a pretty violent punch..

Damn. I must really have been out of it.

Giles just shakes his head from the sidelines. He walks over and examines the bag, truly intrigued. It's that really weird look he gets when you bring him a demon who eats squirrels and kills volleyball players or something way out there. "It's incredible," he says, touching the bag reverently. "The form, the movement, the style ..."

All Buffy, I managed to rasp out. So I've heard. Next, there'll be a news flash.

He cocks his head as he speaks, like a curious puppy. "Well, I suppose your body is merely acting out when your mind has seen --"

That's what Fred said, I say.

"Who's Fred?"

I take a deep breath and shrug. I say, Angel's friend. She's nice.

"Giles? You in here?"

I immediately tense up. Xander's voice. They're here.

Giles excuses himself and heads out into the main room, but I can't bring myself to follow.

Yesterday, I took one look at Giles and Dawn and wanted to sweep them into my arms. But now, after the oh-so-cuddly introductions I got from them, I'm not even sure I want to share breathing space with the rest of the gang. Could be hazardous to my health, for all I know.

But I have to see them. Have to make sure they're all right, even if there isn't a less they could care about me.

"Faith, come on out," Giles calls out. "They don't bite."

"Unlike some people," I hear Xander mutter. A gentle smack follows, muffled, probably on the arm. I'm guessing it was Anya, and feel for an instant like going out there and giving her a high-five.

I take another deep breath, this time to suck up all the courage floating around the room, and head out.

If looks could kill ... well, at least one of them would have me in the ground.

Willow and Tara are holding off on judgment, I can tell. Willow might not like Faith -- okay, she hates the tramp with a venemous passion -- but I think both she and Tara are willing to take the amnesia thing into consideration.

Uh-oh. They're holding hands. And they're staring at me. A tingle of hope grows in my stomach. Do they see me in here?

I walk up, my anxiety not a fake, and say, Hi.

I can't think of anything else to say. I was afraid I'd never see them again. Apparently, the complete opposite goes for them.

I'm still worried about them, though. I take in Anya's bandaged shoulder and the walking cast on her ankle, the dark circles under Willow's eyes and the new cast on Tara's broken hand. I thank whatever higher power there is that my cast has been gone ever since we got to the Hyperion and Angel ripped it off for me, as waves of guilt and gratitude sweep over me. It's my fault they're hospital cases, but at least they're all warm and upright.

The voice in my head that's demanding to see Spike -- to make sure everyone got out alive, even the Big Bad -- gets shoved aside and muzzled as I start noticing the little things. Tara and Willow standing closer together than usual, even with the whole hand-holding thing. Xander's new getting-there-eventually goatee. The ring on Anya's finger that wasn't there ...

Oh, my God. Xander and Anya are getting married. Xander's getting married. Anya's marrying Xander. One of us is getting married. We're not mature enough to get married. And that goes double for Xander.

I don't know whether to be excited or stunned.

"Faith, this is Xander, Anya, Willow, and Tara," Giles says, indicating each one of them in turn.

It takes me a sec to get my bearings again, but my voice audibly cracks when I toss out my new "hello." I say, Do I know any of you?

Willow doesn't know what to say to that. Her eyes go wide as her jaw drops open. Meanwhile, Xander's jaw clenches as he nods reluctantly.

Then there's Anya, who didn't get the fear of Faith spooked into her like the rest of us. "I'm sorry you've forgotten you're a psychopath," she says, just as unappropriately enthusiastic as usual.

Good old Anya. My smile must stretch from one ear to the other. It's good to know at least one of my friends is as dependable as ever.

"Are you faking it?"

I wince when Xander speaks, and look at him as blankly as possible. Quick, Buffy, there's got to be a "What's your problem?" face just lying around here somewhere. The "What'd I do?" face would work, too ...

Giles groans. "Xander, please ..."

"No," Xander snaps. He's pissed. Personally, I don't blame him. "If my logic gland's the only one in the room that's going to work, I'm putting it on overdrive. Are you faking it?"

No, I say.

He crosses his arms and glares at me. Xander pissed at you hurts more than you'll ever know. "Sorry, no believing you in this corner," he says.

Ask me anything, I say. Something only Faith would know. I won't know the answers, I swear.

I notice the way everyone's staring at me, and I'm pretty sure I'm blushing all over. Okay, I say, that did not come out as snappy a comeback as it did in my head.

Suddenly, Tara stops staring at me, stunned and a little confused, and the tingle in my stomach grows. God, I hope she sees it. "She's not in there," she says softly.

Yes! Oh, yeah. Party at my house on Friday night. Bring your own beer.

I can barely contain my excitement as I say, I am so. I've got a deed and everything.

She shakes her head at me, but her hand slips from Willow's as she turns to Giles. "Faith's not in there. Her aura's all screwed up."

Giles will see it. I know he will. As soon as she says it ...

"What do you mean, Tara?" he asks.

And then she says the words that break my heart.

"Well, when Buffy was in there --"

I don't even hear the rest. Tara was my last hope. She was the one who noticed the last time when Faith was in my body. She should be the one to see me this time.

Because when Buffy was in there ... you get the idea.

Faith's not in there. But Buffy's not, either.

I hear her say something about a displaced spirit, about a soul that's there and not there, about someone sharing Faith's body like a roommate. But none of it registers with me.

Someone's in the stacks.

But Giles closed the store. That's what I'm thinking. Giles closed the store so we could train without interruption.

So, who's here?

I try to look past Xander, who's blatantly ignoring me. There's someone back there, an unknown presence, a shadow looking this way. A woman's sleek form glides across the darkness of the upper level near the door, head turned towards us, watching us, listening in.

Then, like magic, she vanishes.

But I thought we were the only ones here --

"Faith?"

I snap back to reality at the sound of Willow's voice. Yeah, what, I say. Oh, God, I'm getting used to answering to her name.

She and Giles exchange a look as Giles moves in front of me. "Perhaps you'd like to try something you might be a little more familiar with," Giles says. "What do you say?"

It's official. My new most hated phrase in the English language is, "Are you sure?"

I'm hearing it from all angles. Angel tossed it at me a couple of times, and now I've got Giles asking me it for the third time since we left the shop and the gang to patrol.

And I'm trying to be nice about it, I swear. I mean, the guy's in the middle of a heavy-duty grieving period for me. But this is getting excessive, really. It all started when I said that maybe he'd rather go home and do something British-y instead of tag along after me, and the conversation's been on a downward slope since.

Truth is, I don't think he really wants to be here with me. I think he wants to be doing something ... anything ... besides sitting in my house with my sister and moping so much that Angel would be embarassed.

And if he's staying around even though he can't stand to be around me ... well, I can't have that.

I flash Giles a warning glare as I wave the stake in my hand towards him. Don't make me use this on you, I say.

He tenses a little, and I wince as I tuck the stake back into my jeans. Maybe flashing weapons at him in this body is a bad idea. "But this is your first patrol since your ... accident, and I just think --"

Giles, I say, cutting him off. I can take care of myself.

"You don't even know who that is." He does it in that solemn end-of-the-world tone of voice, and I stop walking out of frustration.

Tell you what, I say. I'll walk through the graveyard, and if anyone jumps out of the shadows with pointy teeth and really dark red lipstick, I'll stake first and ask questions later.

"Someone needs to stay with you while you patrol, at least for a little while."

I frown. The way it sounds coming from him, he's more worried for the vampires than for me.

You want me to have a babysitter, I say.

Reluctantly, he nods. Oh, goodie.

Why, I ask. So they can what? Make me popcorn while I slay?

"Faith, you don't remember doing this. With no memories of being a Slayer, it would be like throwing you to the wolves."

I toss my hair from my eyes, smile my best want-take-have smile and shrug. So? Throw me. See if I bounce.

"Or if you get eaten," he adds.

I ask, Isn't Slayer meat a delicacy in Bora Bora? There's a flash of annoyance in his gaze, and my inner child does the dance of joy. Giles is annoyed at me. It's just like old times.

Kidding, Giles, I say, giving him a friendly pat on the arm.

He flinches. Damn, way to ruin my mood. My smile leaves town just as quickly as it showed up, and I let my hand drop to my side.

Giles puts his hands on his waist, looks down at the ground for a sec, then looks back up at me. "Give me one good reason why I should let you do this alone," he says. He's got the deadly serious expression on. He usually only saves that for hellgods and evil mayors.

I tell it like it is. I say, Because you don't like me.

And damn it if Giles doesn't have a response for that.

He wants to. I know he does. I've gotten pretty good at recognizing the many faces of Giles. This would be the mental anguish face. The I'm-sorry-I-can't-give-you-a-happy-answer face. I don't like this face. If he ever figures out it's me in here, we're getting rid of that face, pronto.

"I'll come look for you later," he says quietly.

He's too far away to hear me when I say, You do that.

I grit my teeth, and try not to yell out what's screaming in my head. I'm Buffy. I'm your Slayer. Don't walk away from me, Giles. I need you.

Do you have any idea how hard this is? Do you? I died. And as if there wasn't enough pain and misery in throwing Buffy off a tower, let's just toss her soul into the least desirable body around, no pun intended. I'm not even supposed to be evil anymore, and my best friends in the world ... my family, for crying out loud ... still hate me.

Practically growling, I spin in frustration and throw out my arm. The stake that was tucked into my jeans is now embedded in a tree thirty feet away. Little old highly emotional me. I struggle to catch my breath as I feel my eyes well up.

Okay. You might want to go for a coffee or something, because I think I'm about to cry.

A lot.

No, really.

Chapter Eight