FIC: Hope Has Wings (But Faith Has A Broadsword) - part 2 (end), BtVS, Faith, mostly gen
Author: ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lettered
Title: Hope Has Wings (But Faith Has A Broadsword)
Pairing(s): Gen-ish. Faith, Buffy, Xander, and Dawn, with mentions of Dana, Angel and Spike (including B/A, B/S). Hints of femmeslash without much squinting required
Summary: Wing!fic. Faith gets wings. Buffy doesn't believe in angels. Xander and Dawn make a bunch of really geeky references. The world failed Dana. Angel and Spike aren't there.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended.
Warning(s): mostly off-screen drug addiction and concept of suicide, involving a minor character
Word Count: 6K today total of 11K
Author's Notes: Thank you tosnickfic for the prompt. You are awesome!
I adjusted the warnings a bit, and this ended up a little longer than I thought.
Part 1
Hope Has Wings (But Faith Has A Broadsword) Part 2
“You know what we haven’t thought of, yet?” Dawn said. They were in the barn, playing cards and drinking, since they couldn’t very well go to the pub like they usually did, when Faith couldn’t fit in the door. It was raining. Faith’s wings made the place smell like a wet bed. “We haven’t thought of how the glowy guy might be Warren.”
Xander shook his head. “You obviously haven’t been listening. His skin was more liquid gold than, you know, stripped from his body and hanging on a tree.”
Dawn rolled her eyes. “Warren Worthington. Stupid.”
“Oh. Did you hear the liquid gold part?”
“You were obviously closing your eyes during the movie.”
“What are they talking about?” Faith asked.
“I don’t know,” Buffy asked. “I think maybe a video game?”
“Angel,” said Dawn, answering Faith’s question.
“And,” said Xander, drawing out the word into the awkward pause, “she means more of the Angel with the, you know, genetic mutant wings instead of the Angel with the genetic mutant forehead.”
“Mutant wings,” said Buffy. “Okay, no more Long Island Iced Tea for you.”
“But I like the little umbrellas.” Xander pouted.
“Comics are very important to our life style,” said Dawn.
“Our lifestyle?” said Buffy.
“Are we going to make alternative jokes now?” Xander said. “Because I’ve told you all, I’m very straight.”
“Here Xander.” Dawn pulled her umbrella out of her drink. “You can have mine.”
“Ooh,” said Xander. “Goody.”
“I just mean, we could learn a thing or two from comics,” said Dawn. “I’ve even found we might have predicted a thing or two that could have happened, if we had read—”
“I feel like we covered this,” Faith said. “Nothing that happens in the comics is for real.”
Dawn was poking a straw in her drink. “It doesn’t really answer the question,” she said, after a little while. “Since Warren was Angel and Archangel. I mean, he sort of switched back and forth between good and evil.”
Xander shook his head again. “Don’t they all.”
*
After a few days, the fluffy gray stuff on Faith’s wings started to fall away, and long, bright white feathers appeared in the empty spots.
“Jesus Christ,” said Faith. “I’m molting.”
“It doesn’t look so bad,” said Xander, who sort of hadn’t taken his eyes off Faith in the last forty-eight hours except to sleep, and then it was anyone’s guess as to who, exactly, he saw in his dreams. “I mean, I’m pretty sure you’re not turning into a harpy.”
“You make a bird brain joke I’m gonna pop that eyeball out your ear,” said Faith.
“Not turning into one,” Xander said. “There’s no saying who already is one.”
“I’ve been reading up on avian legends,” Dawn said. They were in the barn again, watching the rain fall out the big barn doors.
“Whatcha got?” said Buffy.
“Not much.” Dawn put aside another book. “I mean, you were right. There are a bunch of ancient bird myths, and birdman myths. But there aren’t any instances in a single Watcher record I have access to that suggest any of these ancient gods, spirits, or demons can give people wings.”
“That’s because it wasn’t a god, spirit, or demon.” Faith was perched on one of the benches beside a stall, wings half spread.
“Faith,” Buffy said.
Wings opening, Faith got off the bench. “Demons exist, so why can’t—”
“Okay,” said Buffy. “Since when did demons go hand and hand with—with those?”
“Dan Brown,” said Dawn.
Buffy frowned at her. “What?”
“Everyone read it after the DaVinci Code.” Dawn held up her hands. “Hey, don’t blame me. It’s not like I make the bestsellers list.”
“Yeah,” said Xander. “Blame Oprah.”
“You can’t blame Oprah for Faith having wings,” Dawn said.
“I can blame Oprah for everything,” said Xander. “It’s a gift I have.”
“You want to know what gift I have?” Faith said.
Xander smiled at her, generously. “A charming personality?”
“No,” said Faith. “I’ve got a fucking pair of wings.”
“They usually come in pairs,” Xander said, idly.
“It wasn’t an angel,” Buffy said.
“How do you know?” Faith said.
“How do you?”
“I don’t know,” said Faith. “I don’t know, because maybe—maybe just once—there’s something out there that’s not evil or bad or from hell.”
“Hi, I’m Xander. I’m from Sunnydale,” said Xander. “It’s not hell.”
“There was a Hellmouth, though,” Dawn said.
“No, you can check my passport,” Xander said. “It doesn’t say “Gates of Hell” anywhere on it. I checked.”
“I’ve been to Heaven.” Buffy crossed her arms.
“Well, I’m sorry we can’t all be so fucking righteous.” Faith turned away, but she had forgotten to close her wings.
“Gahhgnhhhhnn,” said Xander. “You taste like a pillow.”
“Sorry,” said Faith.
“It’s okay,” Xander said. “You don’t know your own wing-span.”
Faith concentrated, and the wings slowly closed. “Also, you’re a pillow-biter?” she said.
“That was to get me back for the harpy thing, wasn’t it?”
“Look,” said Faith. “We don’t have any better ideas. Do we?” She turned toward Dawn, visibly concentrating on what the wings were doing.
“No,” said Dawn. “I mean, wings are very symbolic. There’s tons of literature . . . poetry.”
“Poetry?” Faith looked interested.
Buffy crossed her arms. “She’s not talking about The Pixies.”
Raising a brow, Faith turned toward her, wings flaring out a little. “The Pixies, B?”
Buffy looked away.
“Hey.” Dawn was looking at Buffy encouragingly. “It’s not like it’s the end of the world, right? I mean, she can fly.”
“You can fly?” Xander asked.
Faith gave him a dirty smile, turning toward him. “Ya wanna—oops.” She’d knocked a cup of water off the work bench, tip of the wing catching it as she turned. “I don’t—fuck. I need to get out of here.” Flexing, it looked like she might have been attempting to fold them, but they began gently flapping instead, sliding the papers and scrolls Dawn had put on the bench to the floor. “Fuck this,” Faith said again, and went for the door, strewing a pile of hay all over the scrolls with her wings as she went.
“She used to be so graceful,” Dawn said.
“Before or after punching the living shit out of things?” Xander said.
“Mostly during,” Dawn said.
“We have to fix this,” Buffy said.
The barn doors were wide open. Green was a grayer thing in England, still deep sometimes, but not as bright—older, more worn about the edges. The rain was gently dripping steady hollow thips. Faith stalking across that muted field, wing still flapping haphazardly, made a picture like a painting.
Buffy watched her. “I have to fix this.”
*
Buffy and Faith hadn’t exactly disagreed on what to do about Dana, but they hadn’t exactly agreed, either.
“You want me to give up on her?” Buffy had asked.
“That’s not what I’m saying,” Faith said.
“Then what are you saying?” said Buffy. “Because from where I’m standing, it sounds like you want me to give up on her.”
“You’ve never been where I’m standing!” Faith winced. “Except for that one time. I just mean . . . you gotta be prepared, B. Redemption isn’t all just perfume and roses.”
Buffy felt herself going tight again. She felt that a lot around Faith. “You’re going to talk to me about redemption.”
“B . . .” Faith’s eyes could go so melty soft.
Sometimes she thought that they were just like Angel’s.
“No,” Buffy said. “She doesn’t need redemption. She hasn’t done anything that—we can’t blame her. She needs help.”
“Listen,” said Faith. “I know. I—”
“That’s right,” said Buffy. “You know. Angel knows. All of you know. But I can’t know. I’m a shining example, aren’t I? I’m perfect and untouched; I’m the golden trophy on the pedestal and do you know what? I’m tired of being treated like this life hasn’t changed me.”
Faith just looked at her. “This is about Spike, isn’t it?” she said quietly.
“No. Yes. He didn’t treat me that way. He knew what was inside me. He knew what was inside me, but he was just so fucking surprised that I—that I’m not the person you are, that Angel was, that he was. He thought that if I had this darkness than I should just be—more like him.”
“Not after he got his soul,” said Faith.
“No,” Buffy said dully, and looked away. “Not after that. Why am I even talking to you about this?”
“B.”
Faith’s voice had gone all warm and husky, and Angel’s could do that too.
Spike’s could do that too.
Buffy shuddered. “Don’t—don’t touch me.”
“Okay,” and Faith’s voice caught; she stopped; her hand dropped to her side.
“I just,” said Buffy, “I have to believe that things can be better. I have to live that way, or else . . . or else it’s not worth fighting for.
Faith tilted her head, and it was so much like a look Spike would give her—that thoughtful, interested look—that Buffy just wanted to hit her. “Angel says it doesn’t matter if things get better,” Faith said. “It just matters if you do better.
“Angel.” Buffy closed her eyes.
“It’s the only thing you can do,” Faith said.
“Here’s what I can do,” said Buffy. “I can make Dana’s life better. And you’re going to help me do it.”
*
Where the wings had come out of Faith’s back, there were wounds, as though the bone really had torn right out of her flesh. The wounds were deep. Though the cuts were healing, the dressings still had to be changed.
“This is what you were cleaning up,” Buffy was saying, peeling the old bandage off from Faith’s back and the feather-covered bone. “In the kitchen, that first night. It wasn’t old blood.”
Faith had to have her shirt off for this. She had her knees pressed up against her breasts, less because she was so very modest, and more because she couldn’t sit like a normal person anymore. The wings were too long. Basically, she had to crouch. Her head was tucked forward, her arms around her knees. “You got me,” she said.
“You knew the glowy guy did something to you.” Buffy wadded up the bandages, and dug in the first aid kit for the antibiotic cream. “Why didn’t you say something about it?”
“Thought it wasn’t a big deal.”
Buffy squirted out some of the cream, rubbed it a little so it would be warmer. When she touched the junction between the wing and Faith’s shoulder blade, Faith jumped. “You were bleeding on the kitchen floor,” Buffy said. “How is that not a big deal?”
“How often do you bleed?” Faith shrugged. The wings, ruffling a little, rocked Buffy back. “Sorry,” Faith said.
“That’s okay.” Buffy went back to applying cream. “What did you think it was?”
“What?”
“In the alley,” Buffy said. “Where you fell. You said they were coming. You said it was—”
“I dunno.” Faith rocked a little on her feet. “Stigmata. Some shit like that.”
“Does this hurt?”
“No. It—no.”
“But the wings hurt.”
Faith didn’t say anything.
Buffy sighed. “What I want to know,” Buffy went back for more cream, “is how you managed to dress it yourself, if you were bleeding here before—you know.”
“Bet you’d like to know. Wanna see how flexi—shit. Shit shit shit.”
Faith had started to turn around, but apparently she still hadn’t completely gained control, because the wings started to open. She faced forward again, and after a moment of stillness, the wings settled and folded.
“You can show me some other time.” Buffy moved back, finishing with the cream and starting to wrap fresh gauze. She did that for a while, winding the gauze tight around the beginning of the wing and tying it off, then adding tape at the base for good measure. Then she began on the other. “Do you really think you’ll be able to fly?”
“Insert shrug,” said Faith.
“Don’t you think it’d be kinda . . . cool?”
“Dunno. If . . . maybe I’m not meant to.”
“Meant to?”
Faith didn’t say anything for a moment. “I know you don’t think it’s an angel.”
Buffy finished tying the gauze around the other wing. “Done.”
“Thanks.” Faith just stayed crouched there. “Why didn’t you get Acacia to do it?”
Buffy started putting away the first aid things. “Acacia doesn’t know how to do a field dressing.”
“Brisa, then.”
“No one knows how to do a field dressing like me.” Buffy hesitated. “It’s not like I don’t think an—an angel wouldn’t . . . like you. I just don’t think it’s that. For one thing,” she said, standing up. “He hurt you.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“It does.”
“Yeah.” Faith stood up. “It means I gotta wear a halter top. All the time. In England, in the spring.”
Buffy shrugged, handing Faith her shirt. “You ruined my jacket.”
“Sorry,” said Faith, and shimmied into the shirt, hooking the top around her neck.
Buffy looked away. “Do the dressings feel okay?”
“Peachy.”
Buffy hopped up on a double stack of hay bales, swinging her legs off the side. “You know, I used to be funny.”
“Huh?” Faith looked over at her.
“I used to have a quip for every vampire. The old riposte with a one-two. Used to annoy Giles.”
Faith folded her wings, started to sit down, remembered she couldn’t. Standing, she reopened her wings. “I used to be Catholic,” she said finally.
“Did you tell me that before?”
Faith shrugged, then looked to either side to make sure her wings hadn’t hit anything. “I’m from Boston.”
Buffy played with the bits of hay. “Now, I don’t even . . . it’s like I’m the serious one. I don’t even laugh as much. How did that happen?”
“Hey, you’re the lucky one. You’re just losing your sense of humor,” said Faith. “That’s me in the corner. Or is it the spotlight?”
“I cannot believe you just made an R.E.M. joke.”
“You think I only listen to The Pixies? Life is bigger,” said Faith. “It’s bigger than you.”
“And you are not me,” said Buffy. She was looking at Faith, and thinking of Angel, of Spike, of Dana.
She was thinking of Dawn, and how she would rather have let the entire world go to Hell than lose her.
The lengths that I will go to.
*
Faith went through some other changes, after getting wings. She learned how to fly. She borrowed a book of poetry from Dawn. And she got a sword.
She got it off the Scottish Terror, a demon who, bearing some grudge against some English demon from all the way back in the time of Robert the Bruce, had wandered down past Hadrian’s Wall and decided to terrorize the countryside here for a bit. He’d been giving Dorsetshire hell the past six months, until Buffy had taken her Slayers and single airborne unit down to take care of the problem. It had been Faith who had slain him, though. So Faith took his sword.
“That, my friend,” said Xander, “is a Claymore. You are officially the most badass badass of badasses I know.”
“It’s not a Claymore,” said Faith. “It’s a motherfucking sword.”
“I must instruct the young ones in the ways of this world,” said Xander. “I feel like Sean Connery. In a kilt.”
“I was actually thinking Magic The Gathering,” said Dawn. She looked around. “Oh my God. I’ve been corrupted by Andrew.”
“Not even I will sink that low,” said Xander.
“It’s an awesome card,” said Dawn. “Four-four. Flying. Attacking does not cause Serra Angel to tap.”
Everyone looked at Buffy. They’d sort of stopped saying the word “angel” around her.
Faith tried some moves out with her sword. “I tap,” she said.
Xander rolled his eyes. “We’ve heard.”
“Michael had a sword,” Buffy said suddenly.
Faith frowned, lunging with her sword. For once it wasn’t raining. They were out on the lawn. “Who?”
“Michael is an archangel.”
Everyone looked at Buffy again.
She lifted her chin. “He slew the Devil. Cast him into the pit. Of course, the Bible doesn’t mention how there were like, a thousand pits. And the devil was probably just some demon who was, I don’t know, like really unhappy with daddy. I’m just saying. Michael had a sword.”
“I’m not an angel.” Faith put down her sword.
“I’m just trying to be . . .” Buffy gave a stiff little shrug. “Open-minded.”
“Well,” said Faith. “Don’t.” She stalked off.
“I’ve tried to convince her to start calling people ‘bub,’” said Xander, as they all looked after her. “It’s not taking.”
“She did start smoking cigars, though,” said Dawn.
“Do you think Wolverine ever lived in England?” said Xander.
“I thought mostly he hung around Canada and Japan,” said Dawn.
Buffy was just standing there. Xander and Dawn fell silent, Xander eventually walking to stand beside Buffy, and stare into the distance where Faith had gone. “She’s really beautiful with wings,” said Xander, and put his arm around Buffy.
“She was always beautiful,” said Dawn.
“She’s still upset,” Buffy said.
“Well, who wouldn’t be.” Xander shrugged, numbering things off with his other hand. “She can fly, she’s got superpowers, she’s smokin’ hot—wait a minute.”
“I know they hurt a lot,” said Dawn.
“Not the wings,” said Buffy. “About Dana.”
*
About Dana—she had lived with them for a year and a half. First Buffy tried working with her. She wasn’t a psychiatrist, but she’d been a counselor at Sunnydale High, and more importantly she’d been working with the Potentials and then the new Slayers since they were Called. Brisa, the first Slayer Giles had brought to them from the streets, had really seemed to gain a lot from living at the mansion.
Buffy knew things. She understood things. She had seen so much more darkness than most people ever did, and so much more light.
And yet, for all of that, sometimes it was Faith instead who could pull Slayers back from the shadows. Buffy had been right—she had seen her own share of evil, and done her own share of horrible things, but sometimes Faith’s style of horror and evil meshed better with the troubled Slayers. It was more a matter of character than experience, really. Buffy felt like she had an intuitive understanding of goodness. Faith had always felt like she had to learn it.
But Faith had learned it. Buffy had thought so ever since they defeated the First together, and she thought that still. Buffy could be patient, when Faith got frustrated—but when Buffy got frustrated, Faith was the one who could listen, and understand. Faith could feel compassion when Buffy couldn’t, just as Buffy could feel compassion when Faith didn’t. Faith was more willing to give up, but she was also more willing to fight. Some of the new Slayers respected that more than others.
There were Slayers who stuck to Buffy, and Slayers who stuck to Faith. There weren’t factions, because Buffy and Faith had finally learned what came intuitively to neither of them: friendship, between people who had hurt each other deeply. They worked well as a team.
And so, when Buffy failed with Dana, she had thought Faith might help.
Faith did. She and Dana colored pictures. Dana talked more, and seemed more able to compartmentalize the past. When the green frog demons had attacked the mansion, she had fought beside the other Slayers as though she were one of them. When she slowly slipped back into madness and into violence, no one knew quite how or why.
It was then that Buffy asked Willow for help. Willow was . . . still on her own path to recovery, and did not often stay at the School for Gifted Youngsters. Since Cleveland, she had had mixed feelings about the spell that had Called all the potential Slayers. She had trouble not seeing the more unfortunate cases—Thanh, Jessica, Xio, what had happened to Lulu—as mistakes.
Dana was perhaps her biggest one.
“I can’t,” Willow had said. Her projection had been standing in her little magic circle, and its hair had phased to white.
“Okay,” Buffy had said. “I just thought I’d ask.”
“If I could, I’d undo it. Just on her. But the threads . . .” Willow spread her hands, her eyes wide too, and she looked younger now than she had when Buffy had come back from Heaven. “They’re all tied together.”
“I’m not asking you to undo it,” Buffy said. “I’m just asking for you to help her.”
Willow shook her head. “If I use my power . . .”
“Don’t use your power. I don’t need your power. I need you.”
“Buffy. You’ve gotta understand. I am my power. Just like you’ve always been the Slayer. If I tried to help her, I wouldn’t be able to not use magic. And if I did, I’d do more damage than I’ve already done to her.”
Buffy flinched. “You didn’t—you didn’t do this to her. Dana was—she’s been abused. And people have hurt her, and that’s why she can’t—she can’t process it the way the others can. But you didn’t hurt her. And Spike didn’t either.”
“You know that Spike killed a lot of people, right?”
“That’s not the point.” Buffy felt annoyed. “So did Angel.”
Willow just looked sad. “Spike tried to hurt you.”
“So did Angel,” Buffy said. “He didn’t have a soul. Anyway, if I’ve forgiven him for—even for that, how is it your business?”
“Oh, Buffy.” Willow had on her doe-eyes, her little puckered forehead, and she just looked so sorry for her that Buffy wanted to shake her. “Did it hurt you, when you were Called?”
Buffy didn’t even think about it. “No, it—”
“You wouldn’t have known Spike. You wouldn’t have known Angel. You wouldn’t have known Dana, or Faith, or me. You would never even have moved to Sunnydale.”
“Okay, so you don’t remember that evil you from the land where I didn’t got to Sunnydale? Because that turned out real well.”
Willow faded a little bit. She was still working on the astral projection thing. “I just mean . . . five thousand years ago, some men chained up a girl in a cave, a forced a bit of demon in her. What did I do but force it on a thousand girls? And how is it any different than the men who abused Dana?”
It wasn’t any different.
Buffy had thought of that before Willow had even done it.
Faith thought that Buffy didn’t know that sometimes, you had to accept that the world was not a nice place, and work within those parameters.
The lengths that I will go to.
“I need you,” was all Buffy said.
“I know,” Willow had said, her projection fading out to a dull, warm white, soft somehow. “I’m sorry.”
It was around then that Faith started using Orpheus.
Buffy didn’t know at first. She didn’t know what Orpheus was—she knew Faith had done some freaky thing where she’d been in Angel’s mind, but she’d never wanted the particulars, and she’d thought—for some stupid, inane reason—that Faith had given up on Dana.
They were always arguing about it, and Faith was always saying things like, “some people just can’t be saved,” and Buffy would say things like, “Angel saved you.”
“Angel now?” Faith would lash out. “You want to know how many people he hasn’t saved? Angel understands that you’re not going to win every battle. Why do you think he worked at Wolfram and Hart?”
“I don’t care where he worked. He was trying to do something good. Spike was, too.”
“Yeah, Spike.” Faith licked her lips. “Was he saved?”
“What’re you saying?” Buffy said. “You’re saying I should just give up?”
“I’m just saying, comes a point when you have to.”
“And then what do we do?” Buffy was incensed. “Just turn Dana loose on the streets?”
“No,” said Faith. “Dana is dangerous.”
“What, so then we lock her in a room somewhere? Swallow the key?”
Faith held up her hands. “Look, I’m not saying that. All I’m saying is—is—you just gotta face the possibility that it might not work out.”
Buffy just looked at her. “You want to put her down. That’s what you’re saying. You’re saying she’s not worth the risk; she could hurt someone—you want to put her down. Like a dog.”
“Goddamn it all to fuck,” and finally—Buffy realized it was what she had wanted all along—Faith was furious too. “You think that’s what I’m saying? You think that’s what I’m saying? What I’m saying is that it probably would’ve been better for the world if someone had had the fucking balls to put me down too! But you know what? You didn’t. You didn’t, and I’m still fucking here. I’m still fucking here.”
“Faith.” Buffy felt a knot welling up in her throat.
“No.” Faith’s face pulled into a nasty sneer. “I’m still here. I’m trying to do some fucking good. Just let me do some fucking good, okay? Just let me fucking try.”
That was the day Buffy found out about the Orpheus. Before, Faith had only been using little doses, now and then—on Dana’s bad days. That day, Faith used a bit too much. Buffy hated herself—she hated herself—for not realizing what Faith was doing sooner.
Faith strung out like an addict, dark circles under her eyes, skin too pale, and hipbones too sharp just above her low-cut jeans was something Buffy never, ever wanted to see again. “It’s ugly,” Faith kept saying. “It’s so ugly, and they just kept hurting her. They just kept hurting me.”
It had taken weeks to wean Faith off of Dana’s mind.
When Dana came after the other Slayers with a knife, Faith was the one who tried to protect them. It was Faith who stood in front of the other girls, who were every bit as strong as she, but none of them quite as strong as Dana, whose madness lent her power. Buffy had been out tracking the Scottish Terror, and walked into what Andrew called “the parlour” to find Dana standing in front of Faith, who held her hands out against the other girls.
Buffy knew she would never reach Dana in time.
“I have no faith,” Dana said.
Faith’s eyes were huge in her hollow face. She was still recovering from the drug. When she spoke, it was more of a croak than a sentence. “You have me.”
“Then please,” Dana said, “just do it.” Then she lunged, and for Buffy, it was all in slow-motion. She was running, flying across the room; it wasn’t even that far, but Faith was on the ground, Dana rolling over her—
And the knife was in Dana’s stomach, and the look in Faith’s eyes were exactly the same as the young, young eyes of the girl Buffy had first seen become a murderer. Faith’s hands were wrapped around the hilt, and the knife in Dana was in the same place Faith’s knife had been in Faith’s own belly, when Buffy had stabbed her, and she fell.
Dana wrapped her hands around Faith’s, and twisted.
Then time sped up, and blood was everywhere. Buffy was telling the frightened Slayers what to do—calling 999, bring the medical kit, where was Dawn, pressure on it now now now—but Dana’s mouth was a bubble of blood, her eyes were open wide, and the last thing she said, choked and wet, was,
“Bless you.”
It happened right around Christmas.
Faith got her wings on Easter Sunday.
*
The glowy guy was named Faax.
That also happened to be the name of a minor angel in Judeo-Christian texts, as it turned out. Buffy had already made the point, however, that the Bible didn’t exactly line up with what they had each seen of good and evil.
“Maybe it’s open to interpretation,” Xander said.
“Right,” said Dawn. “It doesn’t mean there’s not a God. I mean, there was Glory. But not that kind of god.”
“What’s she’s trying to say,” said Xander, “is there can still be good angels. And we’re still celebrating the Fourth of July.”
“That’s not a religious holiday,” Dawn pointed out.
“I know,” said Xander, “but we’re in England. It makes me feel a little like a heretic.”
“What he’s trying to say,” said Dawn, “is—is—is—”
“You’re not unworthy.” Xander’s voice was steady, and very warm.
They were both looking at Faith, who had two fists wrapped around her sword. “That’s sweet,” she said. “Now can we go get this bastard?”
In the last three days, Faax had razed three city blocks, named a cult after himself, and got busy smiting all the non-believers. Apparently when he touched most people’s foreheads, as he had touched Faith’s, people were converted into worshipping all the glory and wonder that was the great Faax, except for those few he touched who began foaming at the mouth.
No one else grew wings, though.
When they met him again, it was in an alley, just like always. The only difference between Faax and every other monster was that the alley wasn’t dark. Faax glowed pale gold, and his hair was white, his crown so bright it hurt to look at. His wings were more an impression of light and movement than they were of actual feathers, casting beams of sun and shadow.
“Someone went a bit overboard with their bedazzler,” said Buffy.
“Hey Buffy,” said Faith. “You made a quip.”
“What happens now?” Brisa asked, her boomerang at the ready.
“Now, we kick it’s ass,” said Faith.
“Uh,” Miki said. “Good plan. But it’s kind of . . .” She waved a hand. “Incorporeal?”
“So,” said Buffy. “Say a prayer.”
Prayer encompassed the belief that the finite could connect with the infinite. Buffy already knew that to be true. Faith was proof.
Buffy still used the scythe. It glinted red in morning sun, but seemed to work the best under the moon. Sometimes, Buffy thought of harvests.
A thousand girls stood in the night, like stalks of wheat, brought to their knees by a blade. Packed in sheaves, they gave us this, our daily bread.
Survival.
In all the books, bread was life. It was a miracle, but it was not mystical; it was real, not abstract. It wasn’t gods or angels or to be worshipped, it was seed grown from the earth, like life in a woman’s womb, consumed. When they ate, they ate themselves.
The scythe was red because of blood.
Buffy held it high, and the angel opened his eyes.
They were the color of the sun, gold and bright and the color of a thousand unrealized dreams, and Buffy stood there trapped, the sky and scythe above her, and she couldn’t do it. Faax was standing over her, and she couldn’t do it. She could not believe that this was right, that death was the way to end it.
It was such a stupid, stupid pun to think of at the time, but what she needed was a leap of faith.
Faith came down in a flurry of wings, a susurrus of doves. She did look like an avenging angel then, like Michael or was it Mary, lit by gold and diving down, sword first, straight into the heart. Light glinted off the silver metal, and Faax burst into a blaze of sunbeams, and was no more.
“Buffy?” Faith dropped her sword.
Buffy felt the pavement under her, hard and rough, and wondered how she’d got there.
“Buffy,” Faith said again, “did he touch you?”
Their positions were reversed, now, and Buffy’s head was in Faith’s lap. Her wings were like a shield, closing Buffy into a space of soft white light, and when she looked up at Faith, she realized she’d never allowed herself to love the curve of her throat, the warmth and hunger in her eyes.
Buffy hadn’t allowed herself to love a thousand things, and among them, Spike was only one.
“No one forced you to do anything,” Buffy said. “You’re not a slave.”
Faith held her. “Then what am I?”
“Merciful,” Buffy said, and closed her eyes.
*
After that, Faith lost her wings.
One by one, the feathers dropped. Beneath was down, but even that didn’t last for long. The skin began to rot, and the bones drooped, until at last the solid structures began to shrivel inwards. After a week, the only sign that there had been wings were the wounds on Faith’s back. They would fade to scars.
On the first day of summer, Buffy and Faith went together to the cemetery. Xander had already bought fireworks for the Fourth of July, and Faith brought lilies for a grave.
“Cliché, I know,” she said. “But I’ve been reading poetry.”
“Me too,” said Buffy. “This is Dawn’s fault.”
“What did she give you?”
“Oh, you know,” said Buffy. “Shakespeare. Pablo Neruda. Why? Who did she give you?”
“This old white guy,” said Faith. “I think he might be afraid of women.”
“A lot of old white guys are.”
“I think she gave it to me because he did this one about this vampire. Christabel. That’s some freaky shit.”
“I like Kubla Khan,” said Buffy.
They stood there for a while. The rain was a soft spring shower, the kind they had all year round in England, and the cemetery was an old one, the kind they had all over the ground, in England. The tombs were raised and covered in a poetic moss, and Buffy still thought herself a Californian girl, but something spoke to her here.
She thought that that would probably happen everywhere. It wasn’t the land, but the Slayers, buried deep under it. Three thousand years of bones.
“There was one,” said Faith, “about this albatross.”
Buffy touched the place on Faith’s back where one of the wings had been. “I thought that you thought that they were . . . you know. A benediction. A reward,” Buffy said. “The wings.”
Faith hung her head. “No.”
“You thought that it was penance.”
“I thought that if I could just—just . . . I didn’t mean it, when I said you never give me chances.”
Buffy’s hand moved in circles on Faith’s back.
“I meant . . . what I meant was, you never make me work for it. You just—you . . . the way you look at me sometimes. It’s harder than if you never gave me a chance in the first place.”
“You think I’m disappointed in you?”
“No,” said Faith. “You’re not. You never are, any more. That’s the problem.”
Buffy took her hand away. “Spike has a hard time with it, too.”
Faith looked down at the grave. D-A-N-A in capital letters, and it didn’t say she saved the world a lot, or at all. Sometimes saving the world wasn’t as important, Buffy thought, as saving ourselves.
“It’s hard to believe in things,” Faith said. “Big joke, coming from me, right?”
“You don’t earn forgiveness,” said Buffy. “It’s something that’s given.”
“Right,” said Faith. “But it’s hard to think about it that way. Just look at Angel.”
“It was Angel who taught me that in the first place.”
“Buffy?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you do that thing again?”
“What?” said Buffy.
“That thing where you—you touch my shoulder. Where they were.”
“Oh,” said Buffy, and touched her shoulder. “Like this?”
Faith’s head bowed down.
“What does it feel like?” said Buffy, merely curious.
Faith closed her eyes. “It feels like prayer.”
letteredTitle: Hope Has Wings (But Faith Has A Broadsword)
Pairing(s): Gen-ish. Faith, Buffy, Xander, and Dawn, with mentions of Dana, Angel and Spike (including B/A, B/S). Hints of femmeslash without much squinting required
Summary: Wing!fic. Faith gets wings. Buffy doesn't believe in angels. Xander and Dawn make a bunch of really geeky references. The world failed Dana. Angel and Spike aren't there.
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: No copyright infringement is intended.
Warning(s): mostly off-screen drug addiction and concept of suicide, involving a minor character
Word Count: 6K today total of 11K
Author's Notes: Thank you to
snickfic for the prompt. You are awesome!I adjusted the warnings a bit, and this ended up a little longer than I thought.
Part 1
Hope Has Wings (But Faith Has A Broadsword) Part 2
“You know what we haven’t thought of, yet?” Dawn said. They were in the barn, playing cards and drinking, since they couldn’t very well go to the pub like they usually did, when Faith couldn’t fit in the door. It was raining. Faith’s wings made the place smell like a wet bed. “We haven’t thought of how the glowy guy might be Warren.”
Xander shook his head. “You obviously haven’t been listening. His skin was more liquid gold than, you know, stripped from his body and hanging on a tree.”
Dawn rolled her eyes. “Warren Worthington. Stupid.”
“Oh. Did you hear the liquid gold part?”
“You were obviously closing your eyes during the movie.”
“What are they talking about?” Faith asked.
“I don’t know,” Buffy asked. “I think maybe a video game?”
“Angel,” said Dawn, answering Faith’s question.
“And,” said Xander, drawing out the word into the awkward pause, “she means more of the Angel with the, you know, genetic mutant wings instead of the Angel with the genetic mutant forehead.”
“Mutant wings,” said Buffy. “Okay, no more Long Island Iced Tea for you.”
“But I like the little umbrellas.” Xander pouted.
“Comics are very important to our life style,” said Dawn.
“Our lifestyle?” said Buffy.
“Are we going to make alternative jokes now?” Xander said. “Because I’ve told you all, I’m very straight.”
“Here Xander.” Dawn pulled her umbrella out of her drink. “You can have mine.”
“Ooh,” said Xander. “Goody.”
“I just mean, we could learn a thing or two from comics,” said Dawn. “I’ve even found we might have predicted a thing or two that could have happened, if we had read—”
“I feel like we covered this,” Faith said. “Nothing that happens in the comics is for real.”
Dawn was poking a straw in her drink. “It doesn’t really answer the question,” she said, after a little while. “Since Warren was Angel and Archangel. I mean, he sort of switched back and forth between good and evil.”
Xander shook his head again. “Don’t they all.”
*
After a few days, the fluffy gray stuff on Faith’s wings started to fall away, and long, bright white feathers appeared in the empty spots.
“Jesus Christ,” said Faith. “I’m molting.”
“It doesn’t look so bad,” said Xander, who sort of hadn’t taken his eyes off Faith in the last forty-eight hours except to sleep, and then it was anyone’s guess as to who, exactly, he saw in his dreams. “I mean, I’m pretty sure you’re not turning into a harpy.”
“You make a bird brain joke I’m gonna pop that eyeball out your ear,” said Faith.
“Not turning into one,” Xander said. “There’s no saying who already is one.”
“I’ve been reading up on avian legends,” Dawn said. They were in the barn again, watching the rain fall out the big barn doors.
“Whatcha got?” said Buffy.
“Not much.” Dawn put aside another book. “I mean, you were right. There are a bunch of ancient bird myths, and birdman myths. But there aren’t any instances in a single Watcher record I have access to that suggest any of these ancient gods, spirits, or demons can give people wings.”
“That’s because it wasn’t a god, spirit, or demon.” Faith was perched on one of the benches beside a stall, wings half spread.
“Faith,” Buffy said.
Wings opening, Faith got off the bench. “Demons exist, so why can’t—”
“Okay,” said Buffy. “Since when did demons go hand and hand with—with those?”
“Dan Brown,” said Dawn.
Buffy frowned at her. “What?”
“Everyone read it after the DaVinci Code.” Dawn held up her hands. “Hey, don’t blame me. It’s not like I make the bestsellers list.”
“Yeah,” said Xander. “Blame Oprah.”
“You can’t blame Oprah for Faith having wings,” Dawn said.
“I can blame Oprah for everything,” said Xander. “It’s a gift I have.”
“You want to know what gift I have?” Faith said.
Xander smiled at her, generously. “A charming personality?”
“No,” said Faith. “I’ve got a fucking pair of wings.”
“They usually come in pairs,” Xander said, idly.
“It wasn’t an angel,” Buffy said.
“How do you know?” Faith said.
“How do you?”
“I don’t know,” said Faith. “I don’t know, because maybe—maybe just once—there’s something out there that’s not evil or bad or from hell.”
“Hi, I’m Xander. I’m from Sunnydale,” said Xander. “It’s not hell.”
“There was a Hellmouth, though,” Dawn said.
“No, you can check my passport,” Xander said. “It doesn’t say “Gates of Hell” anywhere on it. I checked.”
“I’ve been to Heaven.” Buffy crossed her arms.
“Well, I’m sorry we can’t all be so fucking righteous.” Faith turned away, but she had forgotten to close her wings.
“Gahhgnhhhhnn,” said Xander. “You taste like a pillow.”
“Sorry,” said Faith.
“It’s okay,” Xander said. “You don’t know your own wing-span.”
Faith concentrated, and the wings slowly closed. “Also, you’re a pillow-biter?” she said.
“That was to get me back for the harpy thing, wasn’t it?”
“Look,” said Faith. “We don’t have any better ideas. Do we?” She turned toward Dawn, visibly concentrating on what the wings were doing.
“No,” said Dawn. “I mean, wings are very symbolic. There’s tons of literature . . . poetry.”
“Poetry?” Faith looked interested.
Buffy crossed her arms. “She’s not talking about The Pixies.”
Raising a brow, Faith turned toward her, wings flaring out a little. “The Pixies, B?”
Buffy looked away.
“Hey.” Dawn was looking at Buffy encouragingly. “It’s not like it’s the end of the world, right? I mean, she can fly.”
“You can fly?” Xander asked.
Faith gave him a dirty smile, turning toward him. “Ya wanna—oops.” She’d knocked a cup of water off the work bench, tip of the wing catching it as she turned. “I don’t—fuck. I need to get out of here.” Flexing, it looked like she might have been attempting to fold them, but they began gently flapping instead, sliding the papers and scrolls Dawn had put on the bench to the floor. “Fuck this,” Faith said again, and went for the door, strewing a pile of hay all over the scrolls with her wings as she went.
“She used to be so graceful,” Dawn said.
“Before or after punching the living shit out of things?” Xander said.
“Mostly during,” Dawn said.
“We have to fix this,” Buffy said.
The barn doors were wide open. Green was a grayer thing in England, still deep sometimes, but not as bright—older, more worn about the edges. The rain was gently dripping steady hollow thips. Faith stalking across that muted field, wing still flapping haphazardly, made a picture like a painting.
Buffy watched her. “I have to fix this.”
*
Buffy and Faith hadn’t exactly disagreed on what to do about Dana, but they hadn’t exactly agreed, either.
“You want me to give up on her?” Buffy had asked.
“That’s not what I’m saying,” Faith said.
“Then what are you saying?” said Buffy. “Because from where I’m standing, it sounds like you want me to give up on her.”
“You’ve never been where I’m standing!” Faith winced. “Except for that one time. I just mean . . . you gotta be prepared, B. Redemption isn’t all just perfume and roses.”
Buffy felt herself going tight again. She felt that a lot around Faith. “You’re going to talk to me about redemption.”
“B . . .” Faith’s eyes could go so melty soft.
Sometimes she thought that they were just like Angel’s.
“No,” Buffy said. “She doesn’t need redemption. She hasn’t done anything that—we can’t blame her. She needs help.”
“Listen,” said Faith. “I know. I—”
“That’s right,” said Buffy. “You know. Angel knows. All of you know. But I can’t know. I’m a shining example, aren’t I? I’m perfect and untouched; I’m the golden trophy on the pedestal and do you know what? I’m tired of being treated like this life hasn’t changed me.”
Faith just looked at her. “This is about Spike, isn’t it?” she said quietly.
“No. Yes. He didn’t treat me that way. He knew what was inside me. He knew what was inside me, but he was just so fucking surprised that I—that I’m not the person you are, that Angel was, that he was. He thought that if I had this darkness than I should just be—more like him.”
“Not after he got his soul,” said Faith.
“No,” Buffy said dully, and looked away. “Not after that. Why am I even talking to you about this?”
“B.”
Faith’s voice had gone all warm and husky, and Angel’s could do that too.
Spike’s could do that too.
Buffy shuddered. “Don’t—don’t touch me.”
“Okay,” and Faith’s voice caught; she stopped; her hand dropped to her side.
“I just,” said Buffy, “I have to believe that things can be better. I have to live that way, or else . . . or else it’s not worth fighting for.
Faith tilted her head, and it was so much like a look Spike would give her—that thoughtful, interested look—that Buffy just wanted to hit her. “Angel says it doesn’t matter if things get better,” Faith said. “It just matters if you do better.
“Angel.” Buffy closed her eyes.
“It’s the only thing you can do,” Faith said.
“Here’s what I can do,” said Buffy. “I can make Dana’s life better. And you’re going to help me do it.”
*
Where the wings had come out of Faith’s back, there were wounds, as though the bone really had torn right out of her flesh. The wounds were deep. Though the cuts were healing, the dressings still had to be changed.
“This is what you were cleaning up,” Buffy was saying, peeling the old bandage off from Faith’s back and the feather-covered bone. “In the kitchen, that first night. It wasn’t old blood.”
Faith had to have her shirt off for this. She had her knees pressed up against her breasts, less because she was so very modest, and more because she couldn’t sit like a normal person anymore. The wings were too long. Basically, she had to crouch. Her head was tucked forward, her arms around her knees. “You got me,” she said.
“You knew the glowy guy did something to you.” Buffy wadded up the bandages, and dug in the first aid kit for the antibiotic cream. “Why didn’t you say something about it?”
“Thought it wasn’t a big deal.”
Buffy squirted out some of the cream, rubbed it a little so it would be warmer. When she touched the junction between the wing and Faith’s shoulder blade, Faith jumped. “You were bleeding on the kitchen floor,” Buffy said. “How is that not a big deal?”
“How often do you bleed?” Faith shrugged. The wings, ruffling a little, rocked Buffy back. “Sorry,” Faith said.
“That’s okay.” Buffy went back to applying cream. “What did you think it was?”
“What?”
“In the alley,” Buffy said. “Where you fell. You said they were coming. You said it was—”
“I dunno.” Faith rocked a little on her feet. “Stigmata. Some shit like that.”
“Does this hurt?”
“No. It—no.”
“But the wings hurt.”
Faith didn’t say anything.
Buffy sighed. “What I want to know,” Buffy went back for more cream, “is how you managed to dress it yourself, if you were bleeding here before—you know.”
“Bet you’d like to know. Wanna see how flexi—shit. Shit shit shit.”
Faith had started to turn around, but apparently she still hadn’t completely gained control, because the wings started to open. She faced forward again, and after a moment of stillness, the wings settled and folded.
“You can show me some other time.” Buffy moved back, finishing with the cream and starting to wrap fresh gauze. She did that for a while, winding the gauze tight around the beginning of the wing and tying it off, then adding tape at the base for good measure. Then she began on the other. “Do you really think you’ll be able to fly?”
“Insert shrug,” said Faith.
“Don’t you think it’d be kinda . . . cool?”
“Dunno. If . . . maybe I’m not meant to.”
“Meant to?”
Faith didn’t say anything for a moment. “I know you don’t think it’s an angel.”
Buffy finished tying the gauze around the other wing. “Done.”
“Thanks.” Faith just stayed crouched there. “Why didn’t you get Acacia to do it?”
Buffy started putting away the first aid things. “Acacia doesn’t know how to do a field dressing.”
“Brisa, then.”
“No one knows how to do a field dressing like me.” Buffy hesitated. “It’s not like I don’t think an—an angel wouldn’t . . . like you. I just don’t think it’s that. For one thing,” she said, standing up. “He hurt you.”
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“It does.”
“Yeah.” Faith stood up. “It means I gotta wear a halter top. All the time. In England, in the spring.”
Buffy shrugged, handing Faith her shirt. “You ruined my jacket.”
“Sorry,” said Faith, and shimmied into the shirt, hooking the top around her neck.
Buffy looked away. “Do the dressings feel okay?”
“Peachy.”
Buffy hopped up on a double stack of hay bales, swinging her legs off the side. “You know, I used to be funny.”
“Huh?” Faith looked over at her.
“I used to have a quip for every vampire. The old riposte with a one-two. Used to annoy Giles.”
Faith folded her wings, started to sit down, remembered she couldn’t. Standing, she reopened her wings. “I used to be Catholic,” she said finally.
“Did you tell me that before?”
Faith shrugged, then looked to either side to make sure her wings hadn’t hit anything. “I’m from Boston.”
Buffy played with the bits of hay. “Now, I don’t even . . . it’s like I’m the serious one. I don’t even laugh as much. How did that happen?”
“Hey, you’re the lucky one. You’re just losing your sense of humor,” said Faith. “That’s me in the corner. Or is it the spotlight?”
“I cannot believe you just made an R.E.M. joke.”
“You think I only listen to The Pixies? Life is bigger,” said Faith. “It’s bigger than you.”
“And you are not me,” said Buffy. She was looking at Faith, and thinking of Angel, of Spike, of Dana.
She was thinking of Dawn, and how she would rather have let the entire world go to Hell than lose her.
The lengths that I will go to.
*
Faith went through some other changes, after getting wings. She learned how to fly. She borrowed a book of poetry from Dawn. And she got a sword.
She got it off the Scottish Terror, a demon who, bearing some grudge against some English demon from all the way back in the time of Robert the Bruce, had wandered down past Hadrian’s Wall and decided to terrorize the countryside here for a bit. He’d been giving Dorsetshire hell the past six months, until Buffy had taken her Slayers and single airborne unit down to take care of the problem. It had been Faith who had slain him, though. So Faith took his sword.
“That, my friend,” said Xander, “is a Claymore. You are officially the most badass badass of badasses I know.”
“It’s not a Claymore,” said Faith. “It’s a motherfucking sword.”
“I must instruct the young ones in the ways of this world,” said Xander. “I feel like Sean Connery. In a kilt.”
“I was actually thinking Magic The Gathering,” said Dawn. She looked around. “Oh my God. I’ve been corrupted by Andrew.”
“Not even I will sink that low,” said Xander.
“It’s an awesome card,” said Dawn. “Four-four. Flying. Attacking does not cause Serra Angel to tap.”
Everyone looked at Buffy. They’d sort of stopped saying the word “angel” around her.
Faith tried some moves out with her sword. “I tap,” she said.
Xander rolled his eyes. “We’ve heard.”
“Michael had a sword,” Buffy said suddenly.
Faith frowned, lunging with her sword. For once it wasn’t raining. They were out on the lawn. “Who?”
“Michael is an archangel.”
Everyone looked at Buffy again.
She lifted her chin. “He slew the Devil. Cast him into the pit. Of course, the Bible doesn’t mention how there were like, a thousand pits. And the devil was probably just some demon who was, I don’t know, like really unhappy with daddy. I’m just saying. Michael had a sword.”
“I’m not an angel.” Faith put down her sword.
“I’m just trying to be . . .” Buffy gave a stiff little shrug. “Open-minded.”
“Well,” said Faith. “Don’t.” She stalked off.
“I’ve tried to convince her to start calling people ‘bub,’” said Xander, as they all looked after her. “It’s not taking.”
“She did start smoking cigars, though,” said Dawn.
“Do you think Wolverine ever lived in England?” said Xander.
“I thought mostly he hung around Canada and Japan,” said Dawn.
Buffy was just standing there. Xander and Dawn fell silent, Xander eventually walking to stand beside Buffy, and stare into the distance where Faith had gone. “She’s really beautiful with wings,” said Xander, and put his arm around Buffy.
“She was always beautiful,” said Dawn.
“She’s still upset,” Buffy said.
“Well, who wouldn’t be.” Xander shrugged, numbering things off with his other hand. “She can fly, she’s got superpowers, she’s smokin’ hot—wait a minute.”
“I know they hurt a lot,” said Dawn.
“Not the wings,” said Buffy. “About Dana.”
*
About Dana—she had lived with them for a year and a half. First Buffy tried working with her. She wasn’t a psychiatrist, but she’d been a counselor at Sunnydale High, and more importantly she’d been working with the Potentials and then the new Slayers since they were Called. Brisa, the first Slayer Giles had brought to them from the streets, had really seemed to gain a lot from living at the mansion.
Buffy knew things. She understood things. She had seen so much more darkness than most people ever did, and so much more light.
And yet, for all of that, sometimes it was Faith instead who could pull Slayers back from the shadows. Buffy had been right—she had seen her own share of evil, and done her own share of horrible things, but sometimes Faith’s style of horror and evil meshed better with the troubled Slayers. It was more a matter of character than experience, really. Buffy felt like she had an intuitive understanding of goodness. Faith had always felt like she had to learn it.
But Faith had learned it. Buffy had thought so ever since they defeated the First together, and she thought that still. Buffy could be patient, when Faith got frustrated—but when Buffy got frustrated, Faith was the one who could listen, and understand. Faith could feel compassion when Buffy couldn’t, just as Buffy could feel compassion when Faith didn’t. Faith was more willing to give up, but she was also more willing to fight. Some of the new Slayers respected that more than others.
There were Slayers who stuck to Buffy, and Slayers who stuck to Faith. There weren’t factions, because Buffy and Faith had finally learned what came intuitively to neither of them: friendship, between people who had hurt each other deeply. They worked well as a team.
And so, when Buffy failed with Dana, she had thought Faith might help.
Faith did. She and Dana colored pictures. Dana talked more, and seemed more able to compartmentalize the past. When the green frog demons had attacked the mansion, she had fought beside the other Slayers as though she were one of them. When she slowly slipped back into madness and into violence, no one knew quite how or why.
It was then that Buffy asked Willow for help. Willow was . . . still on her own path to recovery, and did not often stay at the School for Gifted Youngsters. Since Cleveland, she had had mixed feelings about the spell that had Called all the potential Slayers. She had trouble not seeing the more unfortunate cases—Thanh, Jessica, Xio, what had happened to Lulu—as mistakes.
Dana was perhaps her biggest one.
“I can’t,” Willow had said. Her projection had been standing in her little magic circle, and its hair had phased to white.
“Okay,” Buffy had said. “I just thought I’d ask.”
“If I could, I’d undo it. Just on her. But the threads . . .” Willow spread her hands, her eyes wide too, and she looked younger now than she had when Buffy had come back from Heaven. “They’re all tied together.”
“I’m not asking you to undo it,” Buffy said. “I’m just asking for you to help her.”
Willow shook her head. “If I use my power . . .”
“Don’t use your power. I don’t need your power. I need you.”
“Buffy. You’ve gotta understand. I am my power. Just like you’ve always been the Slayer. If I tried to help her, I wouldn’t be able to not use magic. And if I did, I’d do more damage than I’ve already done to her.”
Buffy flinched. “You didn’t—you didn’t do this to her. Dana was—she’s been abused. And people have hurt her, and that’s why she can’t—she can’t process it the way the others can. But you didn’t hurt her. And Spike didn’t either.”
“You know that Spike killed a lot of people, right?”
“That’s not the point.” Buffy felt annoyed. “So did Angel.”
Willow just looked sad. “Spike tried to hurt you.”
“So did Angel,” Buffy said. “He didn’t have a soul. Anyway, if I’ve forgiven him for—even for that, how is it your business?”
“Oh, Buffy.” Willow had on her doe-eyes, her little puckered forehead, and she just looked so sorry for her that Buffy wanted to shake her. “Did it hurt you, when you were Called?”
Buffy didn’t even think about it. “No, it—”
“You wouldn’t have known Spike. You wouldn’t have known Angel. You wouldn’t have known Dana, or Faith, or me. You would never even have moved to Sunnydale.”
“Okay, so you don’t remember that evil you from the land where I didn’t got to Sunnydale? Because that turned out real well.”
Willow faded a little bit. She was still working on the astral projection thing. “I just mean . . . five thousand years ago, some men chained up a girl in a cave, a forced a bit of demon in her. What did I do but force it on a thousand girls? And how is it any different than the men who abused Dana?”
It wasn’t any different.
Buffy had thought of that before Willow had even done it.
Faith thought that Buffy didn’t know that sometimes, you had to accept that the world was not a nice place, and work within those parameters.
The lengths that I will go to.
“I need you,” was all Buffy said.
“I know,” Willow had said, her projection fading out to a dull, warm white, soft somehow. “I’m sorry.”
It was around then that Faith started using Orpheus.
Buffy didn’t know at first. She didn’t know what Orpheus was—she knew Faith had done some freaky thing where she’d been in Angel’s mind, but she’d never wanted the particulars, and she’d thought—for some stupid, inane reason—that Faith had given up on Dana.
They were always arguing about it, and Faith was always saying things like, “some people just can’t be saved,” and Buffy would say things like, “Angel saved you.”
“Angel now?” Faith would lash out. “You want to know how many people he hasn’t saved? Angel understands that you’re not going to win every battle. Why do you think he worked at Wolfram and Hart?”
“I don’t care where he worked. He was trying to do something good. Spike was, too.”
“Yeah, Spike.” Faith licked her lips. “Was he saved?”
“What’re you saying?” Buffy said. “You’re saying I should just give up?”
“I’m just saying, comes a point when you have to.”
“And then what do we do?” Buffy was incensed. “Just turn Dana loose on the streets?”
“No,” said Faith. “Dana is dangerous.”
“What, so then we lock her in a room somewhere? Swallow the key?”
Faith held up her hands. “Look, I’m not saying that. All I’m saying is—is—you just gotta face the possibility that it might not work out.”
Buffy just looked at her. “You want to put her down. That’s what you’re saying. You’re saying she’s not worth the risk; she could hurt someone—you want to put her down. Like a dog.”
“Goddamn it all to fuck,” and finally—Buffy realized it was what she had wanted all along—Faith was furious too. “You think that’s what I’m saying? You think that’s what I’m saying? What I’m saying is that it probably would’ve been better for the world if someone had had the fucking balls to put me down too! But you know what? You didn’t. You didn’t, and I’m still fucking here. I’m still fucking here.”
“Faith.” Buffy felt a knot welling up in her throat.
“No.” Faith’s face pulled into a nasty sneer. “I’m still here. I’m trying to do some fucking good. Just let me do some fucking good, okay? Just let me fucking try.”
That was the day Buffy found out about the Orpheus. Before, Faith had only been using little doses, now and then—on Dana’s bad days. That day, Faith used a bit too much. Buffy hated herself—she hated herself—for not realizing what Faith was doing sooner.
Faith strung out like an addict, dark circles under her eyes, skin too pale, and hipbones too sharp just above her low-cut jeans was something Buffy never, ever wanted to see again. “It’s ugly,” Faith kept saying. “It’s so ugly, and they just kept hurting her. They just kept hurting me.”
It had taken weeks to wean Faith off of Dana’s mind.
When Dana came after the other Slayers with a knife, Faith was the one who tried to protect them. It was Faith who stood in front of the other girls, who were every bit as strong as she, but none of them quite as strong as Dana, whose madness lent her power. Buffy had been out tracking the Scottish Terror, and walked into what Andrew called “the parlour” to find Dana standing in front of Faith, who held her hands out against the other girls.
Buffy knew she would never reach Dana in time.
“I have no faith,” Dana said.
Faith’s eyes were huge in her hollow face. She was still recovering from the drug. When she spoke, it was more of a croak than a sentence. “You have me.”
“Then please,” Dana said, “just do it.” Then she lunged, and for Buffy, it was all in slow-motion. She was running, flying across the room; it wasn’t even that far, but Faith was on the ground, Dana rolling over her—
And the knife was in Dana’s stomach, and the look in Faith’s eyes were exactly the same as the young, young eyes of the girl Buffy had first seen become a murderer. Faith’s hands were wrapped around the hilt, and the knife in Dana was in the same place Faith’s knife had been in Faith’s own belly, when Buffy had stabbed her, and she fell.
Dana wrapped her hands around Faith’s, and twisted.
Then time sped up, and blood was everywhere. Buffy was telling the frightened Slayers what to do—calling 999, bring the medical kit, where was Dawn, pressure on it now now now—but Dana’s mouth was a bubble of blood, her eyes were open wide, and the last thing she said, choked and wet, was,
“Bless you.”
It happened right around Christmas.
Faith got her wings on Easter Sunday.
*
The glowy guy was named Faax.
That also happened to be the name of a minor angel in Judeo-Christian texts, as it turned out. Buffy had already made the point, however, that the Bible didn’t exactly line up with what they had each seen of good and evil.
“Maybe it’s open to interpretation,” Xander said.
“Right,” said Dawn. “It doesn’t mean there’s not a God. I mean, there was Glory. But not that kind of god.”
“What’s she’s trying to say,” said Xander, “is there can still be good angels. And we’re still celebrating the Fourth of July.”
“That’s not a religious holiday,” Dawn pointed out.
“I know,” said Xander, “but we’re in England. It makes me feel a little like a heretic.”
“What he’s trying to say,” said Dawn, “is—is—is—”
“You’re not unworthy.” Xander’s voice was steady, and very warm.
They were both looking at Faith, who had two fists wrapped around her sword. “That’s sweet,” she said. “Now can we go get this bastard?”
In the last three days, Faax had razed three city blocks, named a cult after himself, and got busy smiting all the non-believers. Apparently when he touched most people’s foreheads, as he had touched Faith’s, people were converted into worshipping all the glory and wonder that was the great Faax, except for those few he touched who began foaming at the mouth.
No one else grew wings, though.
When they met him again, it was in an alley, just like always. The only difference between Faax and every other monster was that the alley wasn’t dark. Faax glowed pale gold, and his hair was white, his crown so bright it hurt to look at. His wings were more an impression of light and movement than they were of actual feathers, casting beams of sun and shadow.
“Someone went a bit overboard with their bedazzler,” said Buffy.
“Hey Buffy,” said Faith. “You made a quip.”
“What happens now?” Brisa asked, her boomerang at the ready.
“Now, we kick it’s ass,” said Faith.
“Uh,” Miki said. “Good plan. But it’s kind of . . .” She waved a hand. “Incorporeal?”
“So,” said Buffy. “Say a prayer.”
Prayer encompassed the belief that the finite could connect with the infinite. Buffy already knew that to be true. Faith was proof.
Buffy still used the scythe. It glinted red in morning sun, but seemed to work the best under the moon. Sometimes, Buffy thought of harvests.
A thousand girls stood in the night, like stalks of wheat, brought to their knees by a blade. Packed in sheaves, they gave us this, our daily bread.
Survival.
In all the books, bread was life. It was a miracle, but it was not mystical; it was real, not abstract. It wasn’t gods or angels or to be worshipped, it was seed grown from the earth, like life in a woman’s womb, consumed. When they ate, they ate themselves.
The scythe was red because of blood.
Buffy held it high, and the angel opened his eyes.
They were the color of the sun, gold and bright and the color of a thousand unrealized dreams, and Buffy stood there trapped, the sky and scythe above her, and she couldn’t do it. Faax was standing over her, and she couldn’t do it. She could not believe that this was right, that death was the way to end it.
It was such a stupid, stupid pun to think of at the time, but what she needed was a leap of faith.
Faith came down in a flurry of wings, a susurrus of doves. She did look like an avenging angel then, like Michael or was it Mary, lit by gold and diving down, sword first, straight into the heart. Light glinted off the silver metal, and Faax burst into a blaze of sunbeams, and was no more.
“Buffy?” Faith dropped her sword.
Buffy felt the pavement under her, hard and rough, and wondered how she’d got there.
“Buffy,” Faith said again, “did he touch you?”
Their positions were reversed, now, and Buffy’s head was in Faith’s lap. Her wings were like a shield, closing Buffy into a space of soft white light, and when she looked up at Faith, she realized she’d never allowed herself to love the curve of her throat, the warmth and hunger in her eyes.
Buffy hadn’t allowed herself to love a thousand things, and among them, Spike was only one.
“No one forced you to do anything,” Buffy said. “You’re not a slave.”
Faith held her. “Then what am I?”
“Merciful,” Buffy said, and closed her eyes.
*
After that, Faith lost her wings.
One by one, the feathers dropped. Beneath was down, but even that didn’t last for long. The skin began to rot, and the bones drooped, until at last the solid structures began to shrivel inwards. After a week, the only sign that there had been wings were the wounds on Faith’s back. They would fade to scars.
On the first day of summer, Buffy and Faith went together to the cemetery. Xander had already bought fireworks for the Fourth of July, and Faith brought lilies for a grave.
“Cliché, I know,” she said. “But I’ve been reading poetry.”
“Me too,” said Buffy. “This is Dawn’s fault.”
“What did she give you?”
“Oh, you know,” said Buffy. “Shakespeare. Pablo Neruda. Why? Who did she give you?”
“This old white guy,” said Faith. “I think he might be afraid of women.”
“A lot of old white guys are.”
“I think she gave it to me because he did this one about this vampire. Christabel. That’s some freaky shit.”
“I like Kubla Khan,” said Buffy.
They stood there for a while. The rain was a soft spring shower, the kind they had all year round in England, and the cemetery was an old one, the kind they had all over the ground, in England. The tombs were raised and covered in a poetic moss, and Buffy still thought herself a Californian girl, but something spoke to her here.
She thought that that would probably happen everywhere. It wasn’t the land, but the Slayers, buried deep under it. Three thousand years of bones.
“There was one,” said Faith, “about this albatross.”
Buffy touched the place on Faith’s back where one of the wings had been. “I thought that you thought that they were . . . you know. A benediction. A reward,” Buffy said. “The wings.”
Faith hung her head. “No.”
“You thought that it was penance.”
“I thought that if I could just—just . . . I didn’t mean it, when I said you never give me chances.”
Buffy’s hand moved in circles on Faith’s back.
“I meant . . . what I meant was, you never make me work for it. You just—you . . . the way you look at me sometimes. It’s harder than if you never gave me a chance in the first place.”
“You think I’m disappointed in you?”
“No,” said Faith. “You’re not. You never are, any more. That’s the problem.”
Buffy took her hand away. “Spike has a hard time with it, too.”
Faith looked down at the grave. D-A-N-A in capital letters, and it didn’t say she saved the world a lot, or at all. Sometimes saving the world wasn’t as important, Buffy thought, as saving ourselves.
“It’s hard to believe in things,” Faith said. “Big joke, coming from me, right?”
“You don’t earn forgiveness,” said Buffy. “It’s something that’s given.”
“Right,” said Faith. “But it’s hard to think about it that way. Just look at Angel.”
“It was Angel who taught me that in the first place.”
“Buffy?”
“Yeah?”
“Can you do that thing again?”
“What?” said Buffy.
“That thing where you—you touch my shoulder. Where they were.”
“Oh,” said Buffy, and touched her shoulder. “Like this?”
Faith’s head bowed down.
“What does it feel like?” said Buffy, merely curious.
Faith closed her eyes. “It feels like prayer.”
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here via snickfic
Also, the Buffy-Faith was WONDERFUL and heartwrenching. I'm glad I read this.
Re: here via snickfic
Thanks so much for reading and for letting me know you liked it :o)
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I love the horror show of the wings smashing through Faith's back and growing from the inside out. And the seagull fuzz. It's so grotesque and funny and frightening and strangely adorable, all at once.
I love that Brisa uses a boomerang. I love Dawn's ponytail and glasses. I love her and Xander and comics, and straight-boy!Xander's, "Oh goody," about the umbrella, and the scythe that shears best under the harvest moon, and the peculiar, prickly little throwaway detail that Spike is the only vampire with an invitation to the mansion.
I like how you do your "seemingly cool superpowers thrust upon 'em and turning out less than super cool" theme. How the wings are sort of symbolic of all those superpowers -- advantageous in certain limited scenarios (once one has grown into/figured out how to manage them), but as likely to cause awkwardness and pain. It's not lost on me how many scenes take place in the barn because it's raining outside. See again: limited scenarios. Faith clattering around, knocking over hay bales: they literally do not fit in the ordinary world.
And oh, god, the girls who get ruined by Willow's touch-to-the-forehead. Thanh and Jessica and Xio and Lulu and Dana. "I have no Faith" is a doozy of a line. I'm going to remember the one about using her powers to steal a hamburger for a long time, too. It just sums up so damned much, so damned efficiently, the hierarchy of needs, the absolute ludicrousness of asking a person to be a warrior of the people when the people can't even supply breakfast.
I realize I'm telling you a bunch of things about your story that you already know, because you wrote it, but I like babbling.
Oh and by the way, I think this is my favourite Buffy/Faith fic ever. What an incredibly layered, moving portrait of them you wove into such a short fic. There are so many insights to chew on that I can't hit them all and hardly know where to begin. I love that Buffy is hard and mostly can't quite bear to relinquish her sarcasm. She hasn't lost her humor, but it pops out in harsher ways. I love when she takes care of Faith, even when Faith doesn't want it and it's not the right thing to do. And I love Faith explaining how hard it is to be accepted and loved without having to earn it, and Buffy noting that Spike stumbled over the same problem. I love that Faith left Robin for duty. And the line about Buffy not allowing herself to love a thousand things. This, the end of this story, is what I have always wanted for Buffy. For her to give herself permission. For both of them to disallow their wings cast too big a shadow on their lives.
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But anyway, I've never understood wingfic and always found rather silly, until I saw
I was thinking about writing porn, because I could totally see these two shacking up, but one thing I've wanted to write for a long time was a Buffy/Faith fic that was a mirror to the Angel Gets A Puppy Fic, in which Angel/Spike dance around each other, but the central theme is learning to understand each other, and friendship. I thought I still might put porn in anyway, but then when Buffy was salving up Faith's wounds, I realized how liberating it was not to have to take it anywhere. I definitely thought of our recent conversation, too :o)
I think it's cool too the things you picked out, because I almost deleted the Spike-is-the-only-one-invited detail many times, because yes, it doesn't quite fit, but I liked it. I rewrote "I have no faith" from a bunch of different things, and ended up really disliking it, because I feel it's too blunt, but I did want Faith to have a sort of conflict between her feelings about what's real and what she wishes was real, as represented by the wings and her name. I also reworked the paragraph with the hamburgers several times! Just so there would be the right level of detail about the problems with this situation.
I actually didn't think about why I kept putting her in the barn. I just wanted her to feel trapped, and now it makes more sense to me!
There's also a lot more Buffy/Spike in this than I've ever written before, and I was rather surprised about it.
Anywho, thanks so so so much for reading this. I'm glad you liked it.