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Hallmark Card for my Assassin
by Witchkittyn
Pairing: Mayor/Faith
Rating: NC-17 to be safe, though truthfully more like
an R
Spoilers: Season 3, Graduation 1 & 2
Summary: The darkest place in Sunnydale is the
hospital gift shop.
Disclaimer: Joss Whedon, ME, WB, UPN, Sanddollar and
Kuzui own these characters, but done em wrong.
For the hallowed bard DreamSmith, who wanted more,
believe it or not.
~:~:~:~:~:~
Not again.
It's all he can think as he sits there on the bed,
numbly listening to the doctor's deep voice tell him
in clinical, emotionless detail what's wrong with her.
Another fall from a high building. Just like before.
Another severe head blow. Just like before.
He can't help wondering briefly, as he does when
things go awry, whether it's *her.* A calling card...
a retribunal from his jealous, unholy ghost. He
hasn't believed in God in years, but he's always
believed in *her.* The one deity he has never doubted
the existence of.
Nor the wrath of.
Ed is an old acquaintance, the Mayor's long-time
personal physician, and a senior resident at the
hospital. Ed knows, of course, that his Mercedes is
bought and paid for on the blood of innocents, on
account of the "special interest" groups in town --
same factors that keep this little shop in such high
revenue. Smart fellow, Ed: never asks questions,
never goes sticking his nose where he shouldn't. Just
patches up the ones that live, dutifully tags the ones
that don't. Cog in the machine. But Ed doesn't know
about Slayers.
Ed doesn't know Jack Sprat about Slayers. Never
regain consciousness, his foot. The Mayor has half a
mind to have Faith tear out Ed's tongue when she wakes
up.
Ed didn't know quite what question to ask when he
handed over the admittance form to sign. "If you
don't mind, sir... it's for the records... what
relation is she to you?"
Now there, the Mayor thinks, is the sixty four
thousand dollar question.
What, indeed. Business associate is hardly an
appropriate term at this juncture. Friend? They're a
little long past the friendly stage. Lover?
He didn't think he loved her.
He shifts sluggishly on the bed, turns and forces
himself to look on the damage. The hair that had been
soft and always somewhat damp, like the rest of her --
always slightly, obscenely dewy -- now that hair
appears dried and dull, as though she's been plucked
from her field and left in the sun to wither. The
young, atheletic body; the skin that had been so
smooth and clean... like soft pressed linen in his
hands...
She looks like bruised fruit. That seems almost
uncannily appropriate, a perfect way to describe his
young protege. She *had* been fruit-- forbidden
fruit. And bruised long before he got to her.
An apple. Lips red as apples, skin white as milk.
Not just any milk either; the sugar-sweetened kind you
get at the bottom of an especially pleasurable bowl of
Saturday morning cereal. There's much too much sugar
in cereal today, makes the kids too rowdy. Fruit
slices on Apple Jacks, a shiny knife paring an apple.
Carving into her, parting her soft skin, luxuriating
in her juice--
He swallows thickly, realizing with some displeasure
that his mouth is actually watering.
He shouldn't have to feel guilty. The patriarch of
the city, the soon-to-be ruler of the free world
hasn't felt guilt, about anything, in well over a
century of evil deeds. Now, though, he can't seem to
help it. He finds himself imagining that those
bruises souring her previously immaculate skin may be
a side-effect of his touching her, that he might have
somehow inflicted the black scars decorating her face.
That he might have killed her the instant he gave in
to his unseemly desire to kiss her.
She taught him how to kiss. *Her* way, at least; he
certainly hadn't needed any instruction in the old
tried-and-true method. But the kind of near-gymnastic
things she wanted done with her tongue, things that
initially gave him pause-- because good grief, it was
the inside of another person's *mouth* and that was
unhygenic to say the least... she'd been all too eager
to show him that. Sitting warm on his lap, her ringed
fingers on his face, soft strokes turning to gentle
clawing through what was left of his furry red hair as
her strong, ferocious mouth had ravaged his. How
strange it had been to find himself the student in
that instance, and she the teacher.
His gaze drifts to her mouth now. The lips that used
to nip him teasingly are swollen, black and split,
looking uncomfortingly ever more childlike without her
usual warpaint. Well she *is* a child, isn't she,
when it all comes down to it? Despite all her street
smarts and her filthy mind, she's barely more than a
little girl dressed up as a streetwalker. And he had
never forgotten that, ever; not even during what they
did together all those nights... in the darkness of
rented hotel suites and limosine backseats and once,
at her behest, even in the back booth of that sordid,
clanging nightclub--
...but she had asked. That was the thing. He can't
remember initiating their little trysts even once; it
was always her ball. And she'd never been little,
never been meek, not in the least. He never could
have done it if that were the case, if she'd left any
room in his consciousness for the abused little girl
she looks so very much like now.
She had come to him as a woman, all those nights.
White as milk and black as death, exuding danger and
dark adult knowledge from her time on the street. A
fighter, a killer, his lovely assassin. She'd been so
strong, holding him down, her hands full of the vim
and vigor that she crushed the life out of her victims
with, and she'd been the brief, exquisite death of him
many times, many nights.
He reaches out now and takes up one of those deadly
hands. Once gleaming with silver rings, capable of
dealing torturous pain... or pleasure. Now the only
silver is the sharply glinting IV needle, impaling her
hand like the spindle that sent Sleeping Beauty into
her swoon. Even her nailpolish has been stripped
away, her trademark blood-colored varnish that he
himself brushed on her playful fingers the morning
before. Now those fingers lie still and naked in his
own, as small and brittle as a seashell battered by a
raging ocean.
Buffy Summers. Seafoam hair and seagreen eyes. He
used to battle the sea himself. Used to be the terror
of the ocean, but any good seaman knew you never,
never underestimated it. You could damn the sea, but
it would mercilessly break up your ship and swallow
you regardless, and all your curses would accomplish
was a faster drowning courtesy of your own open mouth.
Boy, *that's* not a very comforting analogy.
No, little miss Buffy Summers is *not* the sea. He'll
never dignify that girl with any such grand
description as that. She's nothing -- a schoolyard
punk; a cheap worthless strumpet, as guilty of
defiling Faith as he is. *She's* the one who's
defaced Faith with these bruises, not him.
He's got nothing to feel guilty for. Not a darn
thing.
Yet he can't stop looking at her. So unnaturally
still, for a young lady who used to move so
marvelously in other beds. The spunky girl who used
to wolf down chalupas and demand sex in restaurant
restrooms and sleep on Star Wars bedsheets. He
doesn't even know how he got here, to this place,
caring so deeply -- so inappropriately -- for a girl
he would have killed with a smile three months ago.
He wants her, even now. Wants to take her out of
here, back to his own home, his own bed, and smooth
all the purplish black marks from her body, kiss her
awake like Snow White. His dark shadow looms over
her bed, staining the pink hospital blankets, and he
wishes nothing less than to cover her and love her and
nurse her back to her former sweet, destructive self.
He thinks... it's probably best if he steps outside
for a while.
~:~:~:~:~
As in most hospitals, the gift shop at Sunnydale
Memorial is brightly lit and cheerily decorated, with
fake palm fronds and reggae muzak playing discreetly
in the background. It's meant to be a comforting
place; a hopeful oasis in a building full of bleak
flourescent light and wall-to-wall suffering. Unlike
most gift shops, however, Sunnydale's is extremely
lucrative. And it should be, for all the business it
does with so many grieving fools and their money.
Teddy bears and flowers and little mylar balloons.
Modernized offerings on a deliberately vague altar, in
hopes of a speedy recovery, a miracle at the last
second.
Never in a thousand years would he have guessed that
he himself would buy anything here.
Though it's fitting in a way, he thinks to himself as
he stops in the doorway, casting his gaze over the
toys and flora. The gift shop is like him. All
smiles and money, masking the ugly secrets of the
grand institution it fronts. Call him evil, but he
isn't stupid. He knows irony when he's smacked in the
face with it.
He didn't think he loved her. Because you can't,
realistically, love the underage employee you've been
having an illicit affair with, can you? What kind of
anniversary gift do you buy for your teenage
dominatrix mistress? Do they even *make* Hallmark
cards for that??
His fingers casually browse over a Muppet mug, a
Precious Moments picture frame, recalling her hot
breath on his cheek. Her world-weary voice rasping
filthy directives into his ear. Her chocolate-colored
hair getting in his mouth as he tried to keep up with
her frantic kisses, her breasts and arms and back
shuffling in his embrace, her sculpted legs hugging
him tight as she burst in his lap like ripe fruit.
He fumbles the mug and it bounces on the polished
tile, made of plastic.
He shouldn't love her. Not least because he isn't
supposed to have any emotions. Yet here he is,
mooning in a gift shop, letting the hours slip by, the
checkmarks on his mental to-do list going unmarked, as
the big moment approaches. It's the day he's been
waiting for, for centuries, thought at times it would
never get here. Now...
Now he'd give anything for just a few more hours.
Just a little more time. He could fix it, with
another day or so, knows he could pull her out of her
trance with enough time, enough love...
...but then, that's how this whole mess got started,
isn't it?
His heart aches. Because-- be honest now-- who
couldn't love her? Who could possibly look into those
beguiling dark eyes, into that sweet, sad face, and
not want to gather her up, brush away her hurts,
promise her anything? What red-blooded American male
could possibly look at a body like hers and not be...
well, moved?
That's no excuse, he scolds himself. He doesn't
believe in divine retribution... but he realizes,
suddenly, why this whole thing just smacks of a
punishment. Had he just been stronger, never given in
to those base impulses in the first place... because
that's how she'd been hurt, countless times before,
throughout her life. Poor little kitten. Not all
bruises show themselves on the skin.
If only he had never touched her... everything might
be different now.
He picks out a teddy bear -- and then thinks better,
his fingers moving past it to a stuffed critter with
more meaning, its little paw impaled with a shiny
balloon reading Get Well Soon! in neon blue letters.
He buys fresh flowers on purpose, firmly believing she
will wake long before they wilt and rot on her
windowsill.
After all, he won't be in much position to buy
replacement flowers after today.
He goes to the checkout, a fool and his money. The
clerk is a honey-blonde, full-faced, apple-cheeked
all- American beauty, just the kind of cleanfaced
youth he hoped to breed here when he built the place.
Just the kind of person that the Slayer, Buffy,
fancies herself the savior of.
It occurs to him Faith is lying upstairs black and
blue for the sake of innocents like this girl standing
before him right now.
"Are you going to the graduation ceremony?" he asks
out of nowhere, conversationally.
"Oh yeah!" The child nods, her bright blue eyes
sparkling. "My cousin's in the band! I got a
half-day off just so I could go watch. I leave in
about--" she leans, checking the clock over the pewter
figurine rack "--half an hour!"
"Well hey, that's great!" He holds out a hand,
smiling genially. "I'll be seeing you there, then.
I'm the commencement speaker. Richard Wilkins III,
mayor of Sunnydale."
"Oh! Well, good luck!" She shakes his hand, polite
and sweet as you please. "Well -- I guess it's
probably a little ruined for you--" she waves her hand
at the flowers and the toy, obviously bought for a
sick not-friend not-lover
not-sure-what-the-heck-she-is. "--But you try to
enjoy the afternoon, sir."
Enjoy it. Oh, yes. He certainly will enjoy it. He
has a sudden, pleasing image of blood staining honey
blonde hair, of green eyes flashing in abject terror.
Of a blonde skull crushing under his hand, bone
fragments and brain tissue staining pillows and
sheets.
"You," he tells her with a grin, "enjoy every second
you have left on this earth, missy." He shakes the
girl's hand once, tightly. "You can never tell, can
you, which one might be your last?"
The young clerk gazes up at him, her wide eyes a
little wider now, her smile a little faded. Maybe she
thinks he's referring to his Faith's unforseen
accident. Either way he can smell it in the air, feel
it crackling in her hand -- the first delicious
strains of fear. *That's a good girl. Smart girl.
Fear me.*
With a final squeeze of her hand, which has become
limp and tiny in his, he drops it and turns to go with
his sack, making a mental note to eat the marching
band as soon as he finishes up with the Slayer.
He walks down the polished hallway, past busy nurses
and cringing, weeping visitors; his flowers in hand,
his bag in tow. He feels absolutely nothing. The
sensation is one that he has been away from for a
while, and it comes to meet him again like a dog happy
to see its master. He *had* been feeling, for a while
there. The brief, bright months he'd spent in her
company, brightened by neon club lights and loud rock
music and shiny clothes....
He'd stolen her spirit. Feeling her had allowed him
to feel. No wonder she's almost dead. Old habits die
hard.
But wasn't that why he fought to stay alive for so
long, made deals with every demon in the book?
Because he was addicted to feeling?
Never mind. Now that she's silent, her rowdy spirit
muffled and imprisoned in that still reposing shell
upstairs... it's almost as though she never was. He
can feel that part of himself that existed for those
few sunshiny months slipping away, shutting up, just
like it did after--
It's a good thing. Like Miss Martha Stewart says. He
can feel all his human emotions bleeding away, and
that's just what needs doing now. He needs to be
cold, unrelenting. Inhuman. Invincible.
He's ready now, he thinks.
Just one more stop, up the elevator, back to that
dark, silent room to drop off the gifts, offerings to
whatever higher power watches over ailing evil little
girls. Flowers, a stuffed red plush kitten. And one
solitary, shiny apple.
She's a smart girl. She'll know what it means.
End
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