Working on the Faith fic again. I think this is going to be the thing I do on Mondays while I'm stuck downtown waiting for choir to start.

Just wrote this sentence:

For all she knows someone just called 911 because there were two girls fighting like [interesting and vivid simile here].

Oh dear.

[STILL SO FIRST-DRAFTY IT HURTS]

[stuff]

She can barely hear the words she's saying-- her blood's roaring in her ears and adrenaline is high in her chest. Faith's been lying down for eight months and she's dizzy with the desire for a fight.

B looks back at her and her little mouth forms that familiar shape that means disgust, and that's the moment Faith's been waiting for. Slams her to the head. B hits back and oh, this feels good, this is the dance they do, this is the thing she's been waiting for. Her body's moving, ducking, parrying before she even needs to think about it. This is what she does best, fighting next to B, or with B, or against B, her other half, only other girl in the world as strong as she.

[after she scrambles up over the wall on campus]

Legs pounding, feet hitting nice and solid against the pavement and Faith can remember a time when she wasn't this fast. She can conjure up the ache of drawing breath after a hard [run], or what it felt like to twist an ankle and fall while running, but only if she really concentrates on it. And who wants to do a thing like that? Right now her muscles are working, she's moving smooth and strong, she can feel the little twist in her back as she turns a corner onto the next street. Spent eight months in a coma and she wakes up all ready to go, not even the ghost of stiffness or a single crick in her neck. Slayer powers, gotta love them.

Yeah, she used to be weak. But then she turned eleven and when she woke up on her birthday and stood up and stretched it was like hello, good morning, world sliding from black and white into technicolor. And sure, fine, she was like Dorothy out of Kansas, every year she got stronger and when she was sixteen she threw her mother across the room and broke one of her ribs, though she hadn't even been trying, and then a year later there was that crazy woman with the accent who kept telling her what to do.

Then Kakistos, and Sunnydale, and she had almost been happy there, almost been getting into the whole white-hat scene-- okay, living in a cheap motel room and watching B moon over her big, broody, lump-of-soul-and-undead muscle boyfriend until Faith was itching so hard to dust him that sometimes she felt her fingers creeping around her stake before she was even aware of it. That was true. Still, jealousy and ugly rooms were nothing she hadn't learned to live with, and sometimes, fighting next to B or blowing off Wesley or sitting in the library with the gang researching the next harbinger of doom, Faith felt something unfamiliar, something warm and tight in her chest, and maybe it was happiness.

But that was all before a man in a dark alley bleeding from his chest, and the story ended up with B's sweet face set grim and pale as she stabbed Faith with her own knife on the roof of some goddamn building. And then the sleep. And then the months and months of dreams.

Oh, she's gonna kill B.

[stuff? transition.]

There are students here. Uniformly young and well-dressed and wearing the bright, clean faces of people who do not have destinies. Nobody really turns to look at her as she runs [did I have a better word here?] past-- chick dressed in black with long crazy hair running like she's got somewhere to be-- but this is Sunnydale; and these are college students. They probably figure she's late for class.

A girl in a red sweater strolls across the sidewalk, holding her boyfriend's arm as they walk. Proprietary. They nearly cut in front of Faith. They're oblivious; or just rude.

Is that the siren of the cops' cars sounding in the distance? She's fast, but wheels are faster. Are they looking for her? For all she knows someone just called 911 because there were two girls fighting like [interesting and vivid simile here]. But the police could be a problem. How much has B told them?

She's got to get off campus.

The siren's getting louder. Faith looks over at the field of students lounging or walking on the green. Considers running straight across it and shoving them aside, throwing down the people in her way, cutting a messy swath of upset student in her wake. The images flash in her mind-- all those anonymous faces stupid with surprise; white limbs windmilling as that girl in high boots tips backwards after Faith hits her in the chest. But no, she doesn't want to leave a trail for the police. If they *are* following her.

Love it, Lizard. Love how you get in to Faith's head in a scene we're familiar with.

Is it way, way, way, way too exposition-for-shit-we-already-know -y?

It doesn't seem expositiony to me.

(Though I now have a mental image of ED's lips just burned on my mind.)

Feh. More WIP bits. Will Finish Someday

Is it way, way, way, way too exposition-for-shit-we-already-know -y?

I didn't think so. It's all inside Faith's head so it's a completely different perspective.

OK, so it's almost 4 AM that I've finished this. I'll tweak this when I"m more awake.The custodians of the new Sunnydale High School didn't like going into the basement. There'd been some concern about the rats getting into the garbage cans without someone going into the far corners of the sublevels and cleaning out the rodents, but the rat populations actually seemed to be shrinking.

"Some stray cat wandered in," they said among themselves, and they left whatever it was be. Since it was Sunnydale, the janitors didn't say out loud that said "cat" might not be feline and might not be a normal animal at all. So long as it satisfied itself with rats and other vermin, more power to it.

Jesus Ortiz never mentioned that when he took the last load of garbage to the incinerator that Friday night, he was singing to himself.

"Three blind mice, three blind mice," he sang, practicing the English song his children had brought home from school.

"See how they run, see how they run," came softly from the shadows.

"Madre de Dio," Ortiz gasped.

"No, that's not how it goes," the shadows said after a moment. "They all ran after the farmer's wife, she cut off their tails with a carving knife."

Ortiz only stared into the darkness. Something moved in the darkest corner, near the door that led to the rest of the maze beneath the school.

"Go on," said the voice. "She cut off their tails with a carving knife. Did you ever see such a sight in your life as . . ."

Ortiz took a shaky breath. "Th-three b-blind mice."

"Yes, that's it. Do you know this one? As I was going to St. Ives . . ."

Ortiz dropped the last garbage can and ran off.

The shadows parted to let the very thin, pale, white-haired man step through. "You needn't go. I was going to ask you to stay to tea. Tea parties can be great fun. Though please don't bring any dolls." He turned back to the shadows. "They see things, and they tell. And Dru only whispers to them and won't tell me what they say. But I miss tea. William will be very good if you let him have some tea."

• * *

Footsteps in the darkness again. Familiar footsteps. Heavy footsteps, not the light ones of the girl, the woman, whose brightness cut with joy and pain but never burned enough for the agony to stop. He didn't move. The walls protected him. Whatever lurked down here with him never let anyone get too close. Except for her. She could always find him. There was a lesson there, but his slate had gone missing again, and it was time for lessons.

"It'll be the cane again for sure," he whispered, rubbing his cold, stiff fingers. "Headmaster will scold, and it will be the cane."

The footsteps came closer. He frowned and pressed closer in his cubby hole. These footsteps should never have come so close alone. Unless they weren't there. So often the footsteps weren't really there.

"Lessons. I've not learned my lines. Meminerunt omnia--omnia--oh, what is it . . ."

The footsteps stopped near him. Two pairs of trousered legs, one pair in blue denim with boots, the other pair in black wool ending in polished black leather.

"There he is," said a familiar voice. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

"My god," whispered another voice. "I had no idea. I don't remember . . ."

He pulled his knees up close. That voice. Terror, adoration, desperate anxiety to please, wretched fear of punishment. Perhaps it was God's voice. God finally come to bring him retribution.

The lines. Good boys do their school work. Such simple, basic lines, an infant could learn them. "Meminerunt omnia--omnia--oh, damn it, William, think . . ."

The leather shod feet came close, and the man with God's voice crouched down. "Meminerunt omnia amantes. Ovid. Lovers remember everything."

He looked up and saw the face of his own Alpha and Omega, the dark angel's face. "Are you God or the Devil?"

"For you? Both."

Angel reached out to touch Spike's cheek, but Spike jerked back from the touch. "Look at ye, boy," Angel whispered. "What have you done to yourself?"

He got to his feet slowly, trying not to startled the wary vampire. "How long has he been like this?"

Xander rocked back and forth on his feet, hands shoved into his jeans pockets. "Since he got back, apparently. Buffy found him down here the first day of school. He's cracked, and all his brains seem to have dripped out."

"And you left him down here? What the hell has he been living on? Where's he sleeping? God, when's the last time he had a bath?"

"You know, three words come leaping to mind at those questions, and those three words are I. Don't. Care."

Angel stared at Xander in disbelief. "You don't care? He's helpless and--and disturbed, and you don't care?"

"Nope. Wanna ask me why?"

"Not particularly."

Xander shook his head. "I don't get why you care. Cordy said the last time you had a run-in with Spike, he was practicing torture as an art form on you and doing his best to kill everybody. But you show up at my door in the wee hours, saying you heard some crazy story about Spike off on some quest and he's back here in town, and you want to find him. And you still didn't tell me how you found out about this."

Angel went back to crouch down in front of Spike, who was tracing words on the concrete floor in front of him. It was the Latin phrase he'd been trying to remember. "It doesn't matter. I have sources. They tell me things. And you wouldn't understand."

"Vampire stuff or sire-childe stuff?"

"Both. Does he still have the chip?"

"I think so."

"Mad and helpless." He reached out very slowly towards Spike, who pulled away again. "I'm not going to hurt you. Do you know me?"

Spike watched him closely from the corner of his eye. "Yes. Headmaster. You teach. You taught me.

Spike watched him closely from the corner of his eye. "Yes. Headmaster. You teach. You taught me. Him. William was bad." He watched the hand approach his face and tried not too flinch too badly at the gentle touch. "Angelus. Angel."

Xander blinked in surprise. "That's a change. He hasn't been too clear on names."

Angel tried not to glare too obviously. "Xander, thank you for bringing me down here. I can take care of things from here."

"No, I don't think I'll go just yet. I'm thinking Buffy just might want to know what you're going to do with Mr. Twilight Zone there. And I'm also thinking that there's a few things you might want to hear yet."

"Like what?" Angel was more focused on how much weight Spike had lost.

"Like why he's nuts. Were you this out of it when you got hit with the brand shiny new soul?"

"I--don't really remember. I don't think so. But the guilt is overwhelming."

"Yeah," Xander sneered. "The guilt. The convenient soul and guilt, which makes smart people think twice about giving other people what they deserve. Like certain bloodsuckers who went over the line."

Angel settled back on his heels, watching Spike. "What did he do?"

Xander grinned in anticipation, then Spike looked up at him. Xander tried to hold on to the gloat, but the calm gaze threw him. "Ask him what he did to Buffy."

Angel had no trouble with a glare. "Spike? What happened? What did you do?"

The calm gaze dropped, and the rocking reappeared. "I--William was . . . I was . . . I tried . . . she . . . "

Xander took a breath, but Angel put up a hand to stop him. "I want to hear it from him." Xander glared, but it wasn't only vampire subordinates who obeyed that particular tone of voice. "Spike- -what did you do, William?"

The whisper was barely in the human range. "I hurt her. She said no. I was going to make her love me. I tried . . ."

"Tried?"

Xander took a careful step back at the sound of Angel's voice. He'd wanted Spike to pay, and Angel was the most poetic tool available. But Xander hadn't wanted to summon up the shade of Angelus, and that was all he heard.

Spike bowed his head before his sire. "She stopped me. Maybe I'd have stopped. Maybe I wouldn't. I don't know . . . " He started rocking again, harder. "She never loved me. She asked me, and I told her I did, and she came to me, but she wouldn't love me. Not like she loved you. Give her what she wants, what she deserves, what you--but she won't, she'll never, it'll never be me--"

Angel put a hand on the back of Spike's neck, stilling the motion. "William, stop it. Hush." He rested his head against Spike's. "What am I to do with you, boy?"

"Been bad."

"Yes, you have. Why did you come back here, boy? Did you think they'd just let you come back?"

"Told to come. Had to come. Face her. Face them. Let them . . ."

"Let them what?"

"He's come looking for me. He can't find me when he's alone."

Angel pulled back. "He? Who do you mean?" Spike lifted his head and looked at Xander. "Xander? He's come looking for you?"

Spike nodded. "The walls move. He knows they do. They keep him away."

Keeping his eyes on Xander, Angel slowly got to his feet. "Why were you looking for him, Xander?"

Xander stopped backing away. "It's a silly little foible of mine, I don't like people who try to rape my friends."

"And what would you have done if you'd found him?"

The voice was soft, familiar, terrifying. Xander didn't look away from Angelus' eyes. "What should have been done months ago." He pulled a stake from his jacket pocket. "What do you intend to do?"

They stared at each other for several seconds. "Whatever I'm going to do," Angel said, "I'm not going to do it here. I'm taking him out of here."

Spike shook his head. "No. Not leaving."

"Be quiet, Spike."

"Not. Won't."

"William." Spike subsided.

Xander blinked. "That's all it takes? Using his real name?"

Angel smiled faintly. "That, plus having spent a few decades training him to behave." The smile broadened at Xander's look of discomfort.

"What are you going to do to him?" he asked again.

"Feed him. Wash him. Decide after that."

"That's it? He attacks Buffy, and you're not going to do anything?"

"I did not say that. What I do to Spike is none of your business. For God's sake, Xander, he's mad, what else do you want?"

"A little box of ashes with the words 'Here lies Spike' comes to mind."

"Not going to happen. What happens to Spike is up to Buffy. She's just left him down here. After her, it falls to me. I'm his sire in every way that matters, he's mine to deal with. If you want more than that, that's your problem." Xander glared at Spike, obviously unhappy. Angel studied him. "You know, it's probably a good thing Angelus didn't know about these urges of yours to administer justice yourself. He might have offered lessons."

"That's sick!"

Angel smiled very faintly. "Good apprentices are hard to find. I'm just saying." He turned back to Spike, who was hunched over tracing words on the floor again. "What are you doing, Spike?"

"Lessons. Must finish the lessons."

"I'll help you finish them later."

Something in that phrase must have triggered memories, because Spike did not look happy at the prospect. "Come on, Spike, let's get out of here."

He got very slowly to his feet, wobbling slightly. "What are you going to do to me?"

"I'm going to take you home, and I'm going to make sure you have something to eat." Angel looked around. "Let me guess--rat." Spike nodded, and Angel shuddered. "Then I'm going to make sure you're clean, then I'm going to make sure you get some decent rest."

"Your home? With you?"

Angel wondered what he might be remembering, to make him sound so wistful about that. "Yes, home with me."

Spike studied Angel for several seconds. "You're not going to hurt me?" he said in a small, lost voice. Xander remembered small boys staring up at the arbiters of their fates, the male deities of the fragile world of childhood. That tiny, uncertain voice may have come out of his own mouth one or two times, and it made him want to say everything was going to be all right. Even though nothing ever could.

Angel rested his hand on the side of Spike's face. This time Spike didn't pull away, only stared back at his sire, waiting for his answer. "Only if you need me to," he said softly, but not quite soft enough for human ears not to hear.

Spike closed his eyes and relaxed, as if he'd finally found someone who would understand.

Angel nodded. "Tell Buffy I'm taking care of this," he said to Xander. "If I can get him put back together, she can decide what else she wants to do."

Xander only nodded, trying not to think about what he'd heard and what it might mean. "I thought he hated you," he finally said.

"So? We're the good guys, we're supposed to help everybody, not just the people who like us. Besides, it's his turn to be helpless. I'll hate him later."

There was a flash of an old, upsetting grin, then the vampires were gone.

Connie - - that was lovely. Will there be more?