She props her feet on the dashboard but drops them when Willow scowls. She can see the other woman start to fidget as they get closer. Willow fiddles with the radio, looks for a song that doesn’t make one of them cringe, fails. She switches it off and stares out at the road. Faith watches, wonders why she’s jumpy, wonders what happened to the confidence she had.
Wonders what happened period.
It’s bad, otherwise they wouldn’t have brought her in. But no one’s telling her how bad. Does it matter? She’s not a person to them, she’s just a weapon.
The blow comes from nowhere and she hits the ground instinctively. It doesn’t hurt – much – it’s the shock that gets her. The element of surprise that’ll get her killed one of these days.
She stands to face the new threat and suddenly it hurts in a way that has nothing to do with the ache in her jaw and has everything to do with the ghost of the knife twisting in her belly.
The whole world flips on her and suddenly up is down. Black is white. Good is bad.
Sorry Faith, I didn’t realize that was you.
It was never going to be easy, it’s why she’d put it off for so long. She should have contacted them. Should have taken the initiative, made the first move.
Now she sees it’s too late. They don’t want her here, they need her. It’s a whole nother ball game. When he walks away, mumbling about finding her somewhere to sleep, it’s like he’s dismissed her already. Out of sight, out of mind. She wants to stop him, apologize although she knows that will never be enough. But it’s too late for that.
She should have made the first move.
She watches, not hiding it. She’s heard the whispers, he’s one of the good guys now. She’s not sure she buys it but she’ll wait and see. She’s grown – time was she’d have done the deed no questions asked. Hell, maybe she still should. It would make her enemies, but she’s got those already.
It could win her a friend, she’s heard what he did, she doesn’t know what Buffy’s thinking, letting him walk, letting him near the wannabes.
Taking another drag of the cigarette that tastes like death, she doesn’t kill him.
She’s one of the good guys now.
The Cain to her Abel
The chill immobilises her for a split second and he has the upper hand. She tries to shake off the thrall he’s got her under, the feeling that she could be just like him if she wanted. She can’t, he’s under her skin and she’s too weak to scratch him out.
He tosses her aside like a rag doll, one final indignity, he doesn’t kill her.
Like she’s beneath him.
Of course she is, she’s not Buffy, she’s just the yin to her yang, the dark to her light. She’s the Cain to her Abel.