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FIC: The Confessional (parts 10-end)
Title: The Confessional
Length: 12 short(ish to midlength) parts (and a few lines of prologue) in 4 posts.
Rating: R, for language and some images
Warnings: This fic contains reference to slash and some subjects which I guess could be considered controversial.
Pairings: This is not a shippy fic. B/A and A/S are explicitly referenced; many others are hinted at.
Summary: Angel visits Faith in prison. Takes places between AtS S1 & 2.
A/N: Although this fic has a definite time frame, it can't be read as "missing scenes". Among other things, Faith's prison is too far away for Angel to visit this often in one summer. This fic is much more of a "what if", especially towards the end.
Prologue, [1.], [2.], [3.], [4.], [5.], [6.], [7.], [8.], [9.]
10.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“How are you?”
I surprise myself by blurting, “Glad to see you.”
“That’s a first.”
“Yeah, well.” I try to cover it up. “Don’t expect a repeat performance, mack.” I sit back and soften up a bit. “You said I gotta open myself up, and who else am I gonna be open with? Bertha the Butch-Queen?”
Angel looks thoughtful. “I’m not sure if I had had my way you’d be in jail.”
“And you like getting your way, huh?”
“I like getting my way,” he affirms steadily.
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“It was your choice.” Angel waves a hand dismissively. “Besides, protecting you from the police all the time . . . more trouble than you’re worth.”
“Yeah.” I want to scowl, but shit, I’m smiling. “Maybe I’ll prove you wrong some day.”
He nods. “Hopefully.”
Now I’m really smiling, and there’s that blasted surge of warmth his approval pushes through me. I only remember feeling this way around someone one other time in my life. “You know what really floated my boat about the mayor?” I say finally.
He stiffens up. Maybe it freaks him, that he can make me feel like the boss did: loved. “What?” he asks warily.
“The milk and cookies. He used to tell me milk was good for my teeth.”
Bit by bit, tight muscles loosen, but his eyes don’t. They’re fixed on me fast, watching me, thinking. At last gravely he observes, “Milk does a body good.”
I laugh. God, I laugh. “Angel, you’re . . . you’re . . . you know what you said about freeing yourself, first?”
“Yes?”
“I think I’m getting there.” I want to talk about movies with him, about the food I like, about the demons he’s fighting. I want to talk about Wesley with him, and Buffy, and . . . my mother? “I mean . . . inch, circumference, world,” I rush on. “I know, I know. But I feel . . . freer.”
He nods like he knows. “That’s the way it feels.”
“The way what feels?”
“When you start to think maybe you have a chance.”
“You think so?” I ask, not quite believing him. “I mean, do you think you have a chance?”
He looks away. At first, I think he’s changing the subject. “I stole a scroll. From Wolfram and Hart. And Wesley translated it. There was a prophecy in it, about a vampire with a soul.”
“Get out. There’s a prophecy about you?”
Angel presses his lips together and shifts in his chair. “It . . . seems that way. There was this word. Sanshu. It means death.”
“Some prophecy.”
“No. It means . . . I can die.” His voice somehow reminds me of how he sounds sometimes when he talks about Buffy. “When I’ve suffered enough, battled enough, won enough . . . I’ll become human.”
I frown. “And then you’ll die.”
“Preferably at an old age. I’ll . . . get gray hair, Faith.”
Still frowning, here. “You sound excited about that.”
“Well, it’s . . . it’s my reward. From the Powers That Be.”
“Gray hair is your reward?”
“Maybe we can’t make up for what we’ve done, but the good we do . . . matters. Makes a difference. And one day it can be over.”
“You’re happy,” I announce wonderingly.
“I feel . . .” He trails off, still looking at that inner light. “Like you said. Free.”
“I’m happy you’re happy.” Now, this is a revelation.
He snaps back down. “Look, I know you don’t—”
“No. I’m serious. I’m happy you’re happy.” Shit, it’s all new to me too, and I’m half afraid I look as much like a boob as he just did—glowing with like a damn Timex Indiglo. But it’s true; my chest is tight again and . . . “I’ve never . . . never felt this way. God, I think it hurts.”
“Faith, you know I—”
Here comes the cautionary tale. “Oh, don’t get your panties in a twist. A summer in the joint’s made me a complete lesbo anyway.”
“I was going to tell you that I cared about you.” The earnestness is killing me, and luckily, he smirks. “I think you’re over the wanting to jump my bones stage.”
“Shiddle-cum-shite, no,” I counter. “You do realize I only see one good-looking man a week, right?”
He laughs, and we’re good.
*
I left my mom to her drinks and Kit to his fabuloso uncle. I left them, one, and forgot them. Two.
Kakistos had knocked me out; when I came to, his fangs were already in my Laine’s throat—but that wasn’t what stopped me. It was fear. I’d tried staking him, decapitating him, burning him, playing a mean game of cat and mouse to lure him into sunlight—but it wasn’t dusting him I doubted. It was myself. Fear, doubt, and the thought that maybe that other Slayer out there would be doing this better. Three.
Buffy told me no; she told me to wait; she told me long before it happened that I was too into it. The worst part is I’ll always wonder whether some part of me knew he was a human, and just didn’t care. I’ll always wonder if when my hands pushed in the stake, bringing down death, bathing in blood, whether I wanted this—wanted to have the hands of a murderer and feet that would run from the scene of the crime. Four.
I handed the boss the Books of Ascension, still sticky. There were five of them.
I heard an old pain in Buffy’s voice when she asked, “You actually think I can form a thought right now?” and a part of me seized up with joy and desire. For once, she was jealous of me. Another part of me was worried Angel could smell what happened to me when she walked in and saw us, because the rest of me knows that me driving them apart is an arrogant fantasy, an unattainable wet dream. I dream of me in front of Angel and Buffy behind me, whispering words and guiding me down onto him, and me being a part of that perfect, private happiness. But the truth of it is the three of us could fuck six ways to Sunday and I would never come between them.
Riley. Damn near seven inches, if you want to know. What can I say, he’s got big hands.
I was going to make a cut for every way I wanted Angel to kill me, for every moment I didn’t die and had to hate myself, for every wrong I’d done. Wesley was going to be red, riddled in slashes, repeatedly screaming, and I was still going to be cutting him until his veins ran dry. Eight doesn’t begin to cover it.
Cutting him because I couldn’t exonerate myself—nine years ago, decked out in my floral-print dress and buckle shoes, I thought that was how it went. They told me Christ died to absolve us, and the only way that really works is if we killed him. He was giving us a free ride, I thought. I used to march up to that booth in those buckle shoes and rattle off my misdeeds until my voice got tired. I couldn’t wait to be forgiven so I could sin again.
When I was ten I stopped. I’d finally realized confession was about a remorse I didn’t feel, penance was a prayer in which I could not take pleasure, and forgiveness was a gift, not a given.
Now, going on eleven visits from Angel, everything is different.
11.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“How’re you doing?” Angel asks.
“Fine,” I answer. “I’ve been reading.”
“Reading?”
I smirk a little at the surprise in his voice. “Yeah, it’s this new thing I’m learning where you sound out these letters and make words.”
His jaw falls a little. “You didn’t know how to—”
My mouth purses up and I can’t believe how much he makes me want to laugh. “I was kidding.”
“Well,” he says, flustered now, “What’re you reading? I could recommend some good—”
“Cricket In Times Square.”
“I was going to say Victor Hugo, but okay.” I give him my, “We got nothing in common, dickwad” face, and he looks appropriately contrite. “I used to read Cosmopolitan,” he offers, and at my horror looks defensive. “It was . . . homework.”
“Homework,” I repeat dumbly. Hey, still horrified here.
“When a guy like me is dating someone like Buffy, he picks up a little extra reading, alright?”
Okay, now I get it, but you know what? Not helping. Still horrified. “So you read Cosmo,” I repeat. Once again, dumbly.
He nods. “Useful magazine.”
“Ten ways to make a man orgasm?” I say skeptically.
He gives up. “You’re right, it was hopeless. I mean, ten? I can do it in about fifty different ways, and that’s not counting . . .” He trails off and grimaces. “You know, I didn’t really count back then.”
“You could make a lot of money, writing for women’s magazine’s.”
“I could. You know, maybe if—when I get old, I’ll be a writer.”
If—when. Angel, waiting for his orgasmic redemption. “I think you’re wrong,” I say suddenly.
He scowls. “I could do it. I know plenty of stuff about women.”
“Yo, not talking about that.”
“Oh.”
“Know how you told me that you’ve been looking for forgiveness, like, forever?” I lean in, fingers tapping on the table, hand tightening on the phone, and eye him in a way I wish was wise. “I think it’s stupid,” I announce. “What’s the point if you’re never gonna get it?”
Angel looks startled, abruptly a little tired. “It’s not about—”
“Yeah, yeah. You’re going to tell me it’s the journey that counts, huh?”
“Well, kind of,” he answers, lips twitching in chagrin.
“I don’t think that’s it.” I spread my hand flat on the table, looking at my five fingers, thinking about the seven sacraments, eighteen years of ignorance, about twenty mysteries of Mary, about one hundred and two years with a soul and one hundred and fifty-two years without one, and about the infinite love of whatever god is out there. “I think you need to forgive yourself.”
He blinks once, very slowly. “What?”
“I think you need to love yourself. Forgive yourself, first, before you expect anyone else to. It’s all very masturbatory.”
He swallows and with a minute, jerky movement, shakes his head. “Do you honestly think you could?”
“Yeah,” I say finally. “I think I could. I always liked me better than you liked you. I call my own name out during sex, you know.” He dips his head, and I see hundreds of years of self-hate. “How long you set to do penance?”
He’s looking at one of his hands; the fingers are moving, thumb and forefinger, a caress over a bead that isn’t there. “Are we . . .”
“What?”
Slowly, lifting liquid eyes to mine, he asks, “Are we in confession?”
“Maybe. How many Hail Marys is it going to take?”
“I’m not . . .” His gaze slides from mine again and he murmurs, “I’m not Catholic any more.”
“It’s the same in every religion. You said so yourself.”
His eyes close swiftly, and for a moment, he could be a statue. Then the lids slowly open, and he says my name.
“What?”
“There was a reason your mother named you that.”
And that’s something I’m not going into with him. “It was on a soap of hers,” I say blankly, hitching a shoulder.
“You have more of it than me.”
“I’m just smarter than you,” I offer guilelessly.
“I didn’t think . . .” He trails off, and begins again. “I hadn’t thought there was anything you could teach me. It’s . . . a leap.”
“Of Faith. Cute.”
Angel nods. “That’s what they call me at the office.” His deadpan is a mask. “So, Cosmo,” he suggests genially. “Think they’d hire me?”
We discuss the finer points of giving men orgasms. I’m pissed he knows so much more about it than me.
*
When Cassie comes at me with a flash of something wicked I pass the basketball behind me, grab it with my other hand, and bring it smack dab into her face. The ball drops through the hoop of her outstretched arms and my slick, sweaty hand is slipping down her elbow to her wrist, squeezing. She drops the blade; I toss it back to my other hand, turn her wrist so the veins’re exposed, and slice.
Sinking into her feels so good my mouth goes dry and I think I’m wet. I grip her head, palming her face, feeling her blood where the ball hit her nose, savoring the sticky thickness and the rush of power. I push her down head first, and I’m on top of her, knife raised, and I’m going to kill her. I see pleasure, pain, the knife the mayor gave me, my reflection—a weapon to be used—Wesley, Buffy, Angel—too many faces—
How can I still want it so much, when I’ve come so far?
I’m shivering for it, thighs are clenching for it, aching for it.
“You can’t do that. It’s wrong!”
I’m not sure whether it’s my voice or Buffy’s. Insane, unsated desire, the thrill and throb of power, the seductive proximity of death—they’ll make you do that. Faith—you can’t do this—Faith—it’s wrong—Faith—
“Faith. You have more of it than me.”
My hand convulses, and I drop the knife. As the C.O.s pull me off of Cassie, whipping out their sticks like dicks, I think: Angel was wrong. As the blows fall on me I don’t revel in them; I don’t think about how I deserve them. I just wait for them to end. After they stop, I’ll wait for the bruises to fade. After I get out of here, I’ll live my life. I’ll fight and I’ll fuck and with luck, I’ll love and I’ll hope and I’ll dream.
Angel, he isn’t the same. He just goes down too far. I’m in jail and I’ve killed people, but he’s been to Hell and kept people alive for things I can’t even imagine. The thing of it is, as far down as he goes, he wants to rise up that much higher. I’m just hoping to walk, to live, to find a place for myself and maybe do my duty. Angel, he wants to save the world.
He’s the one with all the faith, because he still thinks he can.
And you know, I’m not sure which of us is right. What I do know is that I’m happy to know a man like that. I’m happy to know a woman like Buffy. I’m happy there are heroes in the world, even if I’ll never be one of them.
And as the blows continue rain down, I think I at last know what love is like.
12.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“How you doing?”
“Pretty good, I guess.” The bruises might be fading, but it’s still a lie. I grimace. “I did sign up for this.”
Angel, hearing the twinge in my voice, lifts a brow. “Regretting the choice?”
I shrug a little, and tell him. “Bad day. One of the girls in the yard tried to build a rep by throwing down with me. She had low self-esteem, and a home-made knife, so . . .”
“Oh.” He knows what this means just as well as I do. My first test, really, and it’s a little different than pipe-dreams about love and forgiveness and Cosmo. “Is she . . . you know—alive?” he asks.
I smile proudly. “She lives to tell the tale. Took the knife away, and I can’t say much for the wrist it came in.”
I expect to hear bull about that, but he only looks relieved. “So you didn’t kill her,” he concludes.
“I really wanted to. Took a big beating from the guards, too.”
“Sorry.”
“Earned worse,” I say, shrugging it off. “Guys like us kind of got it coming.”
He offers his condolences. “I had to sing Barry Manilow.”
Okay, one of the most badass motherfucker (fatherfucker, littlechildrenfucker) mass murders to walk this earth singing the King of Camp? “You’re kidding.”
“In front of people.”
I’m trying not to laugh at him, because I’m guessing this is one of those things he doesn’t plan on telling other people—a confidence, that’s what this is. A confidence about Barry Manilow. “And here I am talking about my petty little problems.”
“Just wanted to give you a little perspective.”
“‘Copacabana’?”
“‘Mandy.’” Should’ve known. If I was sick and twisted I’d come up with a way that song parallels him and Buffy, but the only version of it I could ever stand was Homer’s. “Oh Margie. You came and you found me a turkey . . .” He can see I’m cracking up again and he scowls—amused, sardonic, and a little pained. “I don’t wanna dwell on it,” he says.
I just smirk. “The road to redemption is a rocky path.”
“That it is.”
There’s a heaviness in his voice and my eyes narrow, wondering what happened, why he had to sing of all things, and why the light I’ve been noticing around the eyes ever since he told me about his Sanshu thing seems suddenly faded a little. “You think we might make it?” I ask, narrowing my eyes a little.
“We might,” he says gravely. The answer is different than what I expected. Me and Angel, we’re on different paths. Doesn’t mean we’re not getting to the same place. “Food getting any better?” he asks.
“You know,” I say, smiling a little, “it’s not that different from what I grew up on. It’s a little one note. Eating the same thing every day.”
The side of Angel’s mouth quirks. “I wonder what that’s like.”
“Right,” I say, and laugh.
*
And as we sit here, talking about blood and Barry Manilow, I get this funny feeling. I feel like I could reach right out and touch him. I could touch his hand and feel his skin, and he wouldn’t be warm, but I would. And I could keep touching, touch right on through to the outside, to the world, where there are mothers loving and beating children, kids eating ice cream and shooting their class-mates and watching cartoons, men raping each other and dying for each other. I could go on touching; I could reach right out and touch you.
It’s so funny I laugh. I think he might’ve said something, something about hot dogs, and I might be saying something too, something about what I grew up on: TV dinners on Sundays, skipping school on Mondays, gin and tonic for Mom every other day, cigarettes, peppermint, moldy drywall, mothballs, love neglect squalor. I give him pieces of myself one by one, and they pass through the glass like nothing’s there. I’ve given you pieces of myself, and it’s like nothing’s between us at all.
He listens. That’s the thing about Angel. He’s a dork and he’s a vampire; sometimes he’s an asshole and I didn’t want to give a fuck. I didn’t want to care and I didn’t want to let him in and I didn’t want to love him. But he listens, and it makes me feel like I can touch him. We’re all flawed, but all of us have learned to love, haven’t we, because we listen.
I hated you; I was afraid of you; I didn’t want you here. You’ve seen me; you have the power to judge me, and I don’t like anyone having that kind of power over me. I’ve watched you this whole time, watched you and waited for you to turn away from me. But you haven’t.
I could turn away from you right now. I could move on; I could forget you. I don’t need your judgment; I don’t need your approval; I don’t need you to see me and love me for who I am.
But I’m not going to. I’m going to reach out, and try to touch you.
Take me, and make of me what you will.
*
Disclaimers: Lines from part 12 are stolen from AtS 2.1 "Judgment." I think I got the idea of Faith loving the Red Sox from![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
dlgood (I think he said it was fanon). The end of this fic closely resembles the end of the novel Jazz, by Toni Morrison. If you have not read Jazz, do. That book teaches better than any other book I've ever read how to love your fellow man.
Length: 12 short(ish to midlength) parts (and a few lines of prologue) in 4 posts.
Rating: R, for language and some images
Warnings: This fic contains reference to slash and some subjects which I guess could be considered controversial.
Pairings: This is not a shippy fic. B/A and A/S are explicitly referenced; many others are hinted at.
Summary: Angel visits Faith in prison. Takes places between AtS S1 & 2.
A/N: Although this fic has a definite time frame, it can't be read as "missing scenes". Among other things, Faith's prison is too far away for Angel to visit this often in one summer. This fic is much more of a "what if", especially towards the end.
Prologue, [1.], [2.], [3.], [4.], [5.], [6.], [7.], [8.], [9.]
10.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“How are you?”
I surprise myself by blurting, “Glad to see you.”
“That’s a first.”
“Yeah, well.” I try to cover it up. “Don’t expect a repeat performance, mack.” I sit back and soften up a bit. “You said I gotta open myself up, and who else am I gonna be open with? Bertha the Butch-Queen?”
Angel looks thoughtful. “I’m not sure if I had had my way you’d be in jail.”
“And you like getting your way, huh?”
“I like getting my way,” he affirms steadily.
“Why didn’t you say something?”
“It was your choice.” Angel waves a hand dismissively. “Besides, protecting you from the police all the time . . . more trouble than you’re worth.”
“Yeah.” I want to scowl, but shit, I’m smiling. “Maybe I’ll prove you wrong some day.”
He nods. “Hopefully.”
Now I’m really smiling, and there’s that blasted surge of warmth his approval pushes through me. I only remember feeling this way around someone one other time in my life. “You know what really floated my boat about the mayor?” I say finally.
He stiffens up. Maybe it freaks him, that he can make me feel like the boss did: loved. “What?” he asks warily.
“The milk and cookies. He used to tell me milk was good for my teeth.”
Bit by bit, tight muscles loosen, but his eyes don’t. They’re fixed on me fast, watching me, thinking. At last gravely he observes, “Milk does a body good.”
I laugh. God, I laugh. “Angel, you’re . . . you’re . . . you know what you said about freeing yourself, first?”
“Yes?”
“I think I’m getting there.” I want to talk about movies with him, about the food I like, about the demons he’s fighting. I want to talk about Wesley with him, and Buffy, and . . . my mother? “I mean . . . inch, circumference, world,” I rush on. “I know, I know. But I feel . . . freer.”
He nods like he knows. “That’s the way it feels.”
“The way what feels?”
“When you start to think maybe you have a chance.”
“You think so?” I ask, not quite believing him. “I mean, do you think you have a chance?”
He looks away. At first, I think he’s changing the subject. “I stole a scroll. From Wolfram and Hart. And Wesley translated it. There was a prophecy in it, about a vampire with a soul.”
“Get out. There’s a prophecy about you?”
Angel presses his lips together and shifts in his chair. “It . . . seems that way. There was this word. Sanshu. It means death.”
“Some prophecy.”
“No. It means . . . I can die.” His voice somehow reminds me of how he sounds sometimes when he talks about Buffy. “When I’ve suffered enough, battled enough, won enough . . . I’ll become human.”
I frown. “And then you’ll die.”
“Preferably at an old age. I’ll . . . get gray hair, Faith.”
Still frowning, here. “You sound excited about that.”
“Well, it’s . . . it’s my reward. From the Powers That Be.”
“Gray hair is your reward?”
“Maybe we can’t make up for what we’ve done, but the good we do . . . matters. Makes a difference. And one day it can be over.”
“You’re happy,” I announce wonderingly.
“I feel . . .” He trails off, still looking at that inner light. “Like you said. Free.”
“I’m happy you’re happy.” Now, this is a revelation.
He snaps back down. “Look, I know you don’t—”
“No. I’m serious. I’m happy you’re happy.” Shit, it’s all new to me too, and I’m half afraid I look as much like a boob as he just did—glowing with like a damn Timex Indiglo. But it’s true; my chest is tight again and . . . “I’ve never . . . never felt this way. God, I think it hurts.”
“Faith, you know I—”
Here comes the cautionary tale. “Oh, don’t get your panties in a twist. A summer in the joint’s made me a complete lesbo anyway.”
“I was going to tell you that I cared about you.” The earnestness is killing me, and luckily, he smirks. “I think you’re over the wanting to jump my bones stage.”
“Shiddle-cum-shite, no,” I counter. “You do realize I only see one good-looking man a week, right?”
He laughs, and we’re good.
*
I left my mom to her drinks and Kit to his fabuloso uncle. I left them, one, and forgot them. Two.
Kakistos had knocked me out; when I came to, his fangs were already in my Laine’s throat—but that wasn’t what stopped me. It was fear. I’d tried staking him, decapitating him, burning him, playing a mean game of cat and mouse to lure him into sunlight—but it wasn’t dusting him I doubted. It was myself. Fear, doubt, and the thought that maybe that other Slayer out there would be doing this better. Three.
Buffy told me no; she told me to wait; she told me long before it happened that I was too into it. The worst part is I’ll always wonder whether some part of me knew he was a human, and just didn’t care. I’ll always wonder if when my hands pushed in the stake, bringing down death, bathing in blood, whether I wanted this—wanted to have the hands of a murderer and feet that would run from the scene of the crime. Four.
I handed the boss the Books of Ascension, still sticky. There were five of them.
I heard an old pain in Buffy’s voice when she asked, “You actually think I can form a thought right now?” and a part of me seized up with joy and desire. For once, she was jealous of me. Another part of me was worried Angel could smell what happened to me when she walked in and saw us, because the rest of me knows that me driving them apart is an arrogant fantasy, an unattainable wet dream. I dream of me in front of Angel and Buffy behind me, whispering words and guiding me down onto him, and me being a part of that perfect, private happiness. But the truth of it is the three of us could fuck six ways to Sunday and I would never come between them.
Riley. Damn near seven inches, if you want to know. What can I say, he’s got big hands.
I was going to make a cut for every way I wanted Angel to kill me, for every moment I didn’t die and had to hate myself, for every wrong I’d done. Wesley was going to be red, riddled in slashes, repeatedly screaming, and I was still going to be cutting him until his veins ran dry. Eight doesn’t begin to cover it.
Cutting him because I couldn’t exonerate myself—nine years ago, decked out in my floral-print dress and buckle shoes, I thought that was how it went. They told me Christ died to absolve us, and the only way that really works is if we killed him. He was giving us a free ride, I thought. I used to march up to that booth in those buckle shoes and rattle off my misdeeds until my voice got tired. I couldn’t wait to be forgiven so I could sin again.
When I was ten I stopped. I’d finally realized confession was about a remorse I didn’t feel, penance was a prayer in which I could not take pleasure, and forgiveness was a gift, not a given.
Now, going on eleven visits from Angel, everything is different.
11.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“How’re you doing?” Angel asks.
“Fine,” I answer. “I’ve been reading.”
“Reading?”
I smirk a little at the surprise in his voice. “Yeah, it’s this new thing I’m learning where you sound out these letters and make words.”
His jaw falls a little. “You didn’t know how to—”
My mouth purses up and I can’t believe how much he makes me want to laugh. “I was kidding.”
“Well,” he says, flustered now, “What’re you reading? I could recommend some good—”
“Cricket In Times Square.”
“I was going to say Victor Hugo, but okay.” I give him my, “We got nothing in common, dickwad” face, and he looks appropriately contrite. “I used to read Cosmopolitan,” he offers, and at my horror looks defensive. “It was . . . homework.”
“Homework,” I repeat dumbly. Hey, still horrified here.
“When a guy like me is dating someone like Buffy, he picks up a little extra reading, alright?”
Okay, now I get it, but you know what? Not helping. Still horrified. “So you read Cosmo,” I repeat. Once again, dumbly.
He nods. “Useful magazine.”
“Ten ways to make a man orgasm?” I say skeptically.
He gives up. “You’re right, it was hopeless. I mean, ten? I can do it in about fifty different ways, and that’s not counting . . .” He trails off and grimaces. “You know, I didn’t really count back then.”
“You could make a lot of money, writing for women’s magazine’s.”
“I could. You know, maybe if—when I get old, I’ll be a writer.”
If—when. Angel, waiting for his orgasmic redemption. “I think you’re wrong,” I say suddenly.
He scowls. “I could do it. I know plenty of stuff about women.”
“Yo, not talking about that.”
“Oh.”
“Know how you told me that you’ve been looking for forgiveness, like, forever?” I lean in, fingers tapping on the table, hand tightening on the phone, and eye him in a way I wish was wise. “I think it’s stupid,” I announce. “What’s the point if you’re never gonna get it?”
Angel looks startled, abruptly a little tired. “It’s not about—”
“Yeah, yeah. You’re going to tell me it’s the journey that counts, huh?”
“Well, kind of,” he answers, lips twitching in chagrin.
“I don’t think that’s it.” I spread my hand flat on the table, looking at my five fingers, thinking about the seven sacraments, eighteen years of ignorance, about twenty mysteries of Mary, about one hundred and two years with a soul and one hundred and fifty-two years without one, and about the infinite love of whatever god is out there. “I think you need to forgive yourself.”
He blinks once, very slowly. “What?”
“I think you need to love yourself. Forgive yourself, first, before you expect anyone else to. It’s all very masturbatory.”
He swallows and with a minute, jerky movement, shakes his head. “Do you honestly think you could?”
“Yeah,” I say finally. “I think I could. I always liked me better than you liked you. I call my own name out during sex, you know.” He dips his head, and I see hundreds of years of self-hate. “How long you set to do penance?”
He’s looking at one of his hands; the fingers are moving, thumb and forefinger, a caress over a bead that isn’t there. “Are we . . .”
“What?”
Slowly, lifting liquid eyes to mine, he asks, “Are we in confession?”
“Maybe. How many Hail Marys is it going to take?”
“I’m not . . .” His gaze slides from mine again and he murmurs, “I’m not Catholic any more.”
“It’s the same in every religion. You said so yourself.”
His eyes close swiftly, and for a moment, he could be a statue. Then the lids slowly open, and he says my name.
“What?”
“There was a reason your mother named you that.”
And that’s something I’m not going into with him. “It was on a soap of hers,” I say blankly, hitching a shoulder.
“You have more of it than me.”
“I’m just smarter than you,” I offer guilelessly.
“I didn’t think . . .” He trails off, and begins again. “I hadn’t thought there was anything you could teach me. It’s . . . a leap.”
“Of Faith. Cute.”
Angel nods. “That’s what they call me at the office.” His deadpan is a mask. “So, Cosmo,” he suggests genially. “Think they’d hire me?”
We discuss the finer points of giving men orgasms. I’m pissed he knows so much more about it than me.
*
When Cassie comes at me with a flash of something wicked I pass the basketball behind me, grab it with my other hand, and bring it smack dab into her face. The ball drops through the hoop of her outstretched arms and my slick, sweaty hand is slipping down her elbow to her wrist, squeezing. She drops the blade; I toss it back to my other hand, turn her wrist so the veins’re exposed, and slice.
Sinking into her feels so good my mouth goes dry and I think I’m wet. I grip her head, palming her face, feeling her blood where the ball hit her nose, savoring the sticky thickness and the rush of power. I push her down head first, and I’m on top of her, knife raised, and I’m going to kill her. I see pleasure, pain, the knife the mayor gave me, my reflection—a weapon to be used—Wesley, Buffy, Angel—too many faces—
How can I still want it so much, when I’ve come so far?
I’m shivering for it, thighs are clenching for it, aching for it.
“You can’t do that. It’s wrong!”
I’m not sure whether it’s my voice or Buffy’s. Insane, unsated desire, the thrill and throb of power, the seductive proximity of death—they’ll make you do that. Faith—you can’t do this—Faith—it’s wrong—Faith—
“Faith. You have more of it than me.”
My hand convulses, and I drop the knife. As the C.O.s pull me off of Cassie, whipping out their sticks like dicks, I think: Angel was wrong. As the blows fall on me I don’t revel in them; I don’t think about how I deserve them. I just wait for them to end. After they stop, I’ll wait for the bruises to fade. After I get out of here, I’ll live my life. I’ll fight and I’ll fuck and with luck, I’ll love and I’ll hope and I’ll dream.
Angel, he isn’t the same. He just goes down too far. I’m in jail and I’ve killed people, but he’s been to Hell and kept people alive for things I can’t even imagine. The thing of it is, as far down as he goes, he wants to rise up that much higher. I’m just hoping to walk, to live, to find a place for myself and maybe do my duty. Angel, he wants to save the world.
He’s the one with all the faith, because he still thinks he can.
And you know, I’m not sure which of us is right. What I do know is that I’m happy to know a man like that. I’m happy to know a woman like Buffy. I’m happy there are heroes in the world, even if I’ll never be one of them.
And as the blows continue rain down, I think I at last know what love is like.
12.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“How you doing?”
“Pretty good, I guess.” The bruises might be fading, but it’s still a lie. I grimace. “I did sign up for this.”
Angel, hearing the twinge in my voice, lifts a brow. “Regretting the choice?”
I shrug a little, and tell him. “Bad day. One of the girls in the yard tried to build a rep by throwing down with me. She had low self-esteem, and a home-made knife, so . . .”
“Oh.” He knows what this means just as well as I do. My first test, really, and it’s a little different than pipe-dreams about love and forgiveness and Cosmo. “Is she . . . you know—alive?” he asks.
I smile proudly. “She lives to tell the tale. Took the knife away, and I can’t say much for the wrist it came in.”
I expect to hear bull about that, but he only looks relieved. “So you didn’t kill her,” he concludes.
“I really wanted to. Took a big beating from the guards, too.”
“Sorry.”
“Earned worse,” I say, shrugging it off. “Guys like us kind of got it coming.”
He offers his condolences. “I had to sing Barry Manilow.”
Okay, one of the most badass motherfucker (fatherfucker, littlechildrenfucker) mass murders to walk this earth singing the King of Camp? “You’re kidding.”
“In front of people.”
I’m trying not to laugh at him, because I’m guessing this is one of those things he doesn’t plan on telling other people—a confidence, that’s what this is. A confidence about Barry Manilow. “And here I am talking about my petty little problems.”
“Just wanted to give you a little perspective.”
“‘Copacabana’?”
“‘Mandy.’” Should’ve known. If I was sick and twisted I’d come up with a way that song parallels him and Buffy, but the only version of it I could ever stand was Homer’s. “Oh Margie. You came and you found me a turkey . . .” He can see I’m cracking up again and he scowls—amused, sardonic, and a little pained. “I don’t wanna dwell on it,” he says.
I just smirk. “The road to redemption is a rocky path.”
“That it is.”
There’s a heaviness in his voice and my eyes narrow, wondering what happened, why he had to sing of all things, and why the light I’ve been noticing around the eyes ever since he told me about his Sanshu thing seems suddenly faded a little. “You think we might make it?” I ask, narrowing my eyes a little.
“We might,” he says gravely. The answer is different than what I expected. Me and Angel, we’re on different paths. Doesn’t mean we’re not getting to the same place. “Food getting any better?” he asks.
“You know,” I say, smiling a little, “it’s not that different from what I grew up on. It’s a little one note. Eating the same thing every day.”
The side of Angel’s mouth quirks. “I wonder what that’s like.”
“Right,” I say, and laugh.
*
And as we sit here, talking about blood and Barry Manilow, I get this funny feeling. I feel like I could reach right out and touch him. I could touch his hand and feel his skin, and he wouldn’t be warm, but I would. And I could keep touching, touch right on through to the outside, to the world, where there are mothers loving and beating children, kids eating ice cream and shooting their class-mates and watching cartoons, men raping each other and dying for each other. I could go on touching; I could reach right out and touch you.
It’s so funny I laugh. I think he might’ve said something, something about hot dogs, and I might be saying something too, something about what I grew up on: TV dinners on Sundays, skipping school on Mondays, gin and tonic for Mom every other day, cigarettes, peppermint, moldy drywall, mothballs, love neglect squalor. I give him pieces of myself one by one, and they pass through the glass like nothing’s there. I’ve given you pieces of myself, and it’s like nothing’s between us at all.
He listens. That’s the thing about Angel. He’s a dork and he’s a vampire; sometimes he’s an asshole and I didn’t want to give a fuck. I didn’t want to care and I didn’t want to let him in and I didn’t want to love him. But he listens, and it makes me feel like I can touch him. We’re all flawed, but all of us have learned to love, haven’t we, because we listen.
I hated you; I was afraid of you; I didn’t want you here. You’ve seen me; you have the power to judge me, and I don’t like anyone having that kind of power over me. I’ve watched you this whole time, watched you and waited for you to turn away from me. But you haven’t.
I could turn away from you right now. I could move on; I could forget you. I don’t need your judgment; I don’t need your approval; I don’t need you to see me and love me for who I am.
But I’m not going to. I’m going to reach out, and try to touch you.
Take me, and make of me what you will.
*
Disclaimers: Lines from part 12 are stolen from AtS 2.1 "Judgment." I think I got the idea of Faith loving the Red Sox from
dlgood (I think he said it was fanon). The end of this fic closely resembles the end of the novel Jazz, by Toni Morrison. If you have not read Jazz, do. That book teaches better than any other book I've ever read how to love your fellow man.
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may I rec?
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I liked how true to character it was from the very beginning, with her covering her vulnerabilities by snapping at him with something hurtful, and the transition around chapter 8 when she didn't mean to say something hurtful but was so regretful that she did.
Also some very nice glimpses of Angel's character and past in this, but Faith really shines.
I'd say this was a successful experiment! Fabulous work. And yay for the mystery of your research the other day revealed!
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I'm glad it worked for you. I wanted the growth to be very gradual, and I had to shuffle a lot of things for it to work in my head. I'm glad that transition worked for you.
And yay for the mystery of your research the other day revealed!
Yeah, I've actually been writing this piece for two months or so, and yesterday I was doing touch-ups--I especially needed to research a lot on Catholicism.
Thanks for the lovely fb and I'm tickled you liked it.
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HAHAHAHAHA! I love that episode.
Very nice work. Terrific Faith voice, and some beautiful grace notes throughout. I think it could use a beta -- some of the passages are repetitive, and there are sections that could be edited out to make it stronger. But overall, I loved it. Great juxtaposition of two characters travelling a narrow, winding road.
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I'm glad you recognized it! The turkey version is what I heard in my head every time they mentioned "Mandy" on the show. Except now I wander around singing the "Oh Jasmine" version, too. Or both at once.
Terrific Faith voice, and some beautiful grace notes throughout.
Thanks for all your comments. A lot of the lines you picked out were my favorites. And I'm glad you liked the voice; that was the part I was most unsure of (doing poeticky things with Faith is . . . problematic, imo).
I think it could use a beta -- some of the passages are repetitive, and there are sections that could be edited out to make it stronger.
I agree. I did plan on waiting to post this for a long time yet, beta'ed and everything, but I kinda . . . got fed up with it, and then got all angsty because today was . . . well, today. I still plan on working with it and touching it up, and either getting my regular beta or someone else who's interested to chop it up for me. Thanks for pointing that out and for all your lovely fb.
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The Confessional. Well I think this is a really virtuoso piece of writing. Very convincing and moving exploration of rage and self-disgust and the intricate dynamic between the two characters. Love the resolution: this is redemption. Love, in the craft sense, the way it leads up to the quotes from "Judgement". (Like doing a jigsaw backwards.) It's like a detailed excavation of what it took to get to that scene.
Also love the fact that it's so serious yet you've found ways to sneak some snarky humour in there - Cosmopolitan!
I think psychologically it's very rich and convincing - the anger between them, the way Faith is determined to hurt anyone who comes near her, her longing for redemption and despair about it, Angel's counselling/anti-counselling. And also the fact that you go to the place where the character's stream-of-consciousness is outrageously, involuntarily, scarily obscene. Must be a difficult place to go as a writer, with such a degree of conviction and honesty - it's of a different order to the sort of boundary-pushing titillation that fic has a default licence to explore.
At the beginning I got pulled up a little by some of Faith's thoughts being expressed in such a literary manner. But by the end I was sold on it. You'd pulled off the suspension of disbelief, you know? As a reader I'd come to accept that sort of double Faith's voice/authors voice as a beautiful part of the craft of the storytelling. The reflexivity as part of it's structure:
"Think of what your eyes are doing right now—moving left to right, left to right. Think. I am with you, right here, in this very moment." Intricate.
Nice work.
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Thanks for reading, and I'm glad you like it.
Love, in the craft sense, the way it leads up to the quotes from "Judgement". (Like doing a jigsaw backwards.) It's like a detailed excavation of what it took to get to that scene.
That was the original intention of this piece--to get them to that scene. But I think the Faith at the end of this fic is more open than the Faith that busts out of prison with Wes in AtS S4, so I don't think she quite got to this point in the show. Then again, what's going on in Faith's head often puzzles me ;o) I'm glad the backwards jigsaw worked for you.
And also the fact that you go to the place where the character's stream-of-consciousness is outrageously, involuntarily, scarily obscene. Must be a difficult place to go as a writer, with such a degree of conviction and honesty
I dislike first person because most of the time, I'm wondering why the narrator would ever tell me what they're telling me. In the case of someone like Faith, that question nearly makes the story itself an impossibility, imo. So, I decided to try it anyway, but to show that inside Faith's mind you're not welcome. Nor are you comfotable. I wanted it to be a threatening, scary place to be--which is hard in the world of fandom, because, as you say, fic is by nature boundary-pushing. For that reason, I'm SO glad you found parts of this obscene. My work here is done ;o)
At the beginning I got pulled up a little by some of Faith's thoughts being expressed in such a literary manner. But by the end I was sold on it.
Tickled you think so. Originally, I had intended to write the piece entirely in Faith's voice. However, the ending was one of the first things I wrote, and I realized you just can't say some of that stuff in Faith's voice, no matter how much she might feel it. What I tried to do was introduce the "author's voice" gradually, so you still felt like you were listening to Faith by the end. It's nice to have a reader point out that duality and what's more, like it. ;o)
"Think of what your eyes are doing right now—moving left to right, left to right. Think. I am with you, right here, in this very moment." Intricate.
If you ever have any time, I think you'd like the book Jazz. The idea at the end is very similar, and Toni Morrison does facinating things with narratorial/authorial voice, stream of consciousness, et al.
Thanks so much for your comments. It's such a pleasure having such an insightful reader.
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I would write more (and maybe I will later) but I'm being killed at work.
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Occasionally, I thought she was a bit too poetic,
Yeah, I was afraid of that. I wanted to say a couple of things I thought a Faith-voice wouldn't be able to say, so what I tried to do was blend her voice into another more . . . "literary" voice, but in some parts I still doubted whether it worked or not. Thanks for letting me know ;o)
I would write more (and maybe I will later) but I'm being killed at work.
I hope Darth RL lets up on you soon! Meanwhile, I'm sending you vibes of rest and relaxation-y-ness, so you feel energized ;o)
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As for Angel- well, I think you do an excellent job with him. He's a hard character to write, I think- but I loved his stillness throughout this story. I loved his deadpan quips and his willingness to let Faityh goad him- but his unwillingness to let her sully certain memories. So typically Angel.
But, for me, the most impressive thing about this story remains Faith's voice. You didn't try to rush her to her 'redemption' or make the ending too pat and impressive- Faith has a long ways to go...but it's pretty much canon that she'll get there. And we know she's devoted to Angel. The setting served this story well
Certainly
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And not just because the dialog was great, the characters were spot on, ect.
But the style was amazing. A very unique perspective.
I was really hoping we'd make it to the end of S:3 (where Buffy bites it). Would have loved to see the reactions and ramifications of that in this fic. But you can't have it all. ;P
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I'm glad you liked it! I hate writing in first person, so I tried to do it in a way that would be digestable to me, but I half feared it wouldn't be digestable to anyone else. Thanks.
I was really hoping we'd make it to the end of S:3 (where Buffy bites it). Would have loved to see the reactions and ramifications of that in this fic. But you can't have it all. ;P
It would've been interesting, but I think Angel got too caught up in his own problems to visit Faith much after that summer. However, if you haven't read it, I just read Echoes by Kita, a fic about Faith (and Angel's) reactions after Buffy dies, and I luuurved it to itty bitty pieces. Ooh, it's bad me saying this, as I haven't left Kita fb for it yet...
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The two of them are playing this game- they open up and close themselves off. They're so alike and looking for forgiveness even though Faith doesn't want to admit it... Gah. I really really like this.
The direct address of the reader felt strange to me for a bit at the beginning but I really like how you used it again at the end, emphasizing vulnerablility.
Both your Faith and Angel voices are great and I love that you had them pushing each other's buttons. Great fic.
(Here on a rec by ChrisleeOctaves, by the way)
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Me too!
The direct address of the reader felt strange to me for a bit at the beginning but I really like how you used it again at the end, emphasizing vulnerablility.
Yeah, I was afraid the beginning would just be so off-putting that no one would want to finish it (she is, after all, cussing you out, not to mention *talking* to you), but I didn't think the end would work without the beginning. And I'm uber pleased you enjoyed the end. Thanks so much for your kind words :o)
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I'm glad you think so. I particularly had difficulty with the language; although it's quite obvious some of these characters (esp. Spike, of whom I believe every sentence is blue in color) talk down and dirty, we never see them do it.
I will always be eager to see what you do next, fanfic or original.
And I will always be eager to hear your opinion, as I really respect your judgment (no, it's not just because you always say really nice things!) Thank you.
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I was late back for work cos I refused to stop reading.
I can't tell you what I liked best, or even really what I thought, cos I'm fuckin' speechless. This. Is. Amazing. And I don't have adequate words to tell you why.
And you write original fic too??? I am so going back to find it.
You make me want to never write another word again, cos I know that no way, no how could I ever come up with something as superlative as this.
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Thanks; I'm flattered by your interest. My original fiction isn't posted here; I'm about to try to publish some of it and it turns out there's that pesky "first rights" thing. But thanks!
You make me want to never write another word again, cos I know that no way, no how could I ever come up with something as superlative as this.
First, thank you once again. *preens* Second: gah! Don't say that! Write, write some more, and never stop. It's the only way to go.
I'm glad you liked this fic.
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So, thank you for some wonderful Faith fic, the genuinely good stuff is pretty rare, so when I find a writer who can really nail the character, er, so to speak, it has me doing my happy dance.
I friended you btw. I hope that's okay.
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Yeah, I was afraid it might turn people off. It was the first part of the story I wrote, and I felt like telling it: ok! I won't write you if you really don't want me to! ;o)
The whole lapsed Catholic bonding was very poignant, I especially loved Faith's reflection about her mother and her own name. But even more I loved the moment when she noticed angel still moving a rosary that wasn't there
So glad you liked those parts. I really like to talk about religion, but a lot of people don't, so I was wondering if it would strike anyone as preachy. The majority of people who were brought up Catholic that I've met, however, view Catholicism as a very defining part of their lives, and I found it interesting that both Angel and Faith were most likely from Catholic (and Irish!) backgrounds.
My one crit, and other people have mentioned it, is that at times I felt the voice got a little too poetic and drew me out of the Faith persona. It really is only a minor thing, but maybe something you could look at.
Yeah, I'm definitely going to do some more touching up. Thanks for pointing that out!
I friended you btw. I hope that's okay.
Of course it is, and I'm about to friend you back. Thanks again for all your insightful comments.
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And I could keep touching, touch right on through to the outside, to the world, where there are mothers loving and beating children, kids eating ice cream and shooting their class-mates and watching cartoons, men raping each other and dying for each other.
This is the world we've made. Isn't it wonderful?
You put so much time and effort and work into this piece, and every bit of it paid off. Beautifully done. You should be very proud. *hugs*
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Yes!
I'm glad you liked the end, and thanks again for the really, truly wonderful beta. I've rarely been so happy with any story I've "finished." *hugs back*
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I love your icon.
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You pull off Faith's voice brilliantly, even though I generally have a hard time with first person in fanfic. It doesn't precisely sound like canon-Faith to me, but that can be written off as different interpretations of the character.
I loved the Angel-Faith interaction, because you just nailed how complicated it was, just by showing it in a very raw form. It's a really great example of the "show-not-tell" principle. I loved the Angel-Faith relationship on the show, and the way your capture it here was just so vivid and real and honest that it made me extremely happy. There's such a give and take between them, that by the time you get to the end, there's a feeling that the comfortable banter between them is something that they've had to build together.
That last Faith part really hit me hard, and it wasn't just because that the part was so well-written (which it was), but also because there's a build up to that moment, Faith's moment of grace, and we feel it, because we've gone on the journey with her. Which is, of course, great writing.
So yeah, I loved it. Thank you.
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Thanks so much. I don't like first person either, so this was a bit of an experiment.
I love the Angel-Faith interactions on the show too; I'm glad you think I got that.
And I'm particularly gald the ending worked for you--it was the reason I wrote this piece, to get to the place where Faith could be redeemed, where we would believe it.
So anyway thanks for your really awesome fb, and sorry it took me so long to get to it!
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I haven't read the novel, but I'll try to remember to check it out--Faith's childhood really interests me a lot more than most of the other characters, because I feel like it shapes her more than most and so little of it is touched on.
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Thanks for reading and letting me know you liked it.
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Sorry for the babbling, I'm still a little stunned.
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I think this might be my favorite fic I've ever written, so I'm really glad you appreciated it. Thanks so much.
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Thanks again!
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As to Faith's love of the BoSox...odds are anyone from Southie does, as they're something of a religion.
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I don't know anything about baseball, though. So I had to take dlgood's word for it ;o)
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