The Way, Way Back

by Liz Estrada

Rating: R (bad words, sex, violence)
Summary: Kate conscripts Faith to help with a tricky problem
Disclaimer: Characters not mine. Makes me sad.
Warning & Spoilers: This story is much longer - and much weirder - than I ever intended. Short on action, long on talkyness... I think I'll blame it on excess exposure to paint fumes. Not many spoilers, just a few random refs to events from season one of Angel and seasons 3 and 4 of BtVS.

++++++++++

"Toe the line," the guard barks from behind the wire screen. "Stay *back* of the line."

I look down to see my slippered toes barely half a freaking inch over the yellow marker. The prison hacks are so anal about this shit, like they think a couple inches would make a diff if I wanted to throw some static. Anyway, I know this guard and he's not that bad. Just kind of a hard case, a Sipowicz wannabe. I roll my eyes, bite my tongue and step the fuck back. Things are too close to good for me to make a stink now.

"You heard the property recitation, right? Take one step forward and sign the claim voucher, retrieve your property envelope and step back behind the yellow line."

"Envelope? Hold up, Hondo, I had more stuff than could fit in that thing," I say, sort of low-grade pissed already. "Shirt, jacket, pants, my kicks - where's all that? You lift it? Your wife into leather or something?" Well, I won't make a *big* stink, anyhow. I gotta get a few licks in before he's rid of me.

He just throws me a look like he's passing gas through his nose. "I don't have to take your mouth no more, so you shut it PDQ, right? Now, if you wanna return to your cell and wait for me to go hunt down the rest of your things..."

"Forget it." I take one giant step toward the counter, lean forward and sign the paper. "Hope your wife doesn't pop the seams on my duds. Have fun pretending she's me."

He's glaring at me, but there's not much doubt he'll snipe back in a second or so. It's all he ever does, and in some funky way, I know he enjoys it. "Get lost, Punky Brewster. Go play on the freeway or something."

"I'll miss you, too, Luther." I blow him a kiss and follow my two gigantic hack escorts down the hall to my next stop on the farewell tour.

The hacks lead me through steel doors and wood doors and glass doors, past twenty-odd security cameras, until we finally get off the industrial tile and onto carpet -- a good sign. I haven't set foot on carpet in over a year. This is really happening. I'm getting out.

They lead me into a conference room and I drop what's left of my stuff on the floor, let them cuff me to a rolling office chair. I expect the cuffs, so it's no biggie by now. They tell me to sit tight and they leave me alone in this room with a big shiny table and leather chairs and this long, wide window full of morning sunshine. Eastern view, bright, bright light. Must be around seven-thirty or so.

There's a little spread on the table: danish, muffins, O.J. and coffee. I spent breakfast in the warden's office filling out paperwork, so I'm scraping down near the dangerous, growly levels of hungry. I'm eyeing the food pretty hard and just raising up to snag something when the door opens. On reflex, I sit back down and assume my "I wasn't doing nothing!" look.

"Eat if you're hungry," a woman says from the doorway. "That's why food exists."

Before she even gets all the words out of her mouth, I've got half a cream cheese danish stuck in mine. The damned thing tastes so good, I close my eyes and moan. It's the little things you miss while living the institutional life. I fold the rest of the danish into ye olde pie hole and stretch up for a plastic juice cup when I catch sight of the woman.

"I know you." It comes out as a crumby mumble, but she understands me just fine.

"Ditto, Faith," she says, taking a chair across the table.

Kate something or other, that's her. A cop who knows Angel, which means she knows what I am. She sat in when I wrote up my statement, but she didn't say much. She didn't raise the Slayer issue. Not saying much now, either, which is cool with me since I'm busy chewing and looking at her and such. Mostly looking, truth be told.

The sun's pouring over her shoulders, catching her hair, making it shine in a way that uproots memories of a girl I used to know. I feel this weird itch in my brain, and I wonder if I'm still allergic to blondes. Kate's look is simple: it's all about clear blue eyes, nice form, good clothes -- a light gray suit with a deep blue blouse underneath. The colors pick up her eyes. If she wasn't a cop, I'd say she was a fox, but I've never been able to separate the pig DNA from the fox elements right off. Takes more than a pretty face to shut down that old fear.

She slaps down a file and flips through some papers, then shuts it and starts eyeballing me like... I don't know. I can't tell what she's thinking and it ticks me off. I assume the worst. Always safer that way.

"That file isn't me, you know. I'm not that girl."

"Really?" Her eyes widen and she shakes her head. "That's too bad. The woman in this file is someone worth knowing."

I chug the juice and barely avoid spewing it on the table when I hear this. "Hello? Am I in the right room?"

She flicks an eyebrow and starts the double-talk. "The woman in this file has a record of exemplary behavior. Only two serious altercations in fourteen months - both incidents provoked by other parties. She's held a steady job in the prison factory for the last year, even been promoted three times. She's respected by her peer group, as well as her... umm, *supervisors.* Five trustees of a major California institution have vouched for her as a straight-up chick."

It's uncomfortable, hearing chapter and verse on my jail time, but I try to smirk it down to size. "Is that so?"

"Mmm. She's mentored abused inmates, intervened to defuse volatile situations and generally been as good as gold. On paper, this woman seems well-adjusted, a virtual poster girl for rehabilitation. She's centered and quiet, but still friendly and outgoing."

"Well, there's something we have in common. I'm *outgoing* -- right out the front gate."

"Wrong," she says, and I feel my heart drop until she finishes -- "I'll be taking you out through the police entrance on the east side."

The relief is so strong I can't help laughing. "Works for me, boss."

++++++++++

She brought me clothes. Her own, I think. Nothing slick, just a white button-down, faded jeans and old Adidas sneaks, but they're the most righteous civvies a convict could ask for. I changed in a bathroom stall while she waited at the sinks and made a phone call on her cellular.

"It's me. We're leaving soon... yeah, they signed off... you don't have to do that... probably half an hour or less, depending on traffic... okay, I get it, I get it! I know... just... just back off and trust me one more time, please... I promise you, I know what I'm doing."

That was her end of the phone conversation, and I'd be lying my ass off if I said it didn't bother me. I shook it off. Kate was taking me out of jail and that was all I knew for sure. She beeped off the phone and swore a few times, but she was sufficiently chilled by the time I popped out. No small talk then, just a thumb toward the door and we were beating feet out of the building.

We rode down the elevator, shot through the rat maze of halls and right past six armed L.A. County Deputies loafing at the front desk. One of them gave me the eye and, purely on reflex, I turned and winked at him. Couldn't help it. As Kate breezed by, she latched onto my elbow and hurried me along through the final passage - a long white hall with a video cam overhead. She flashed her badge at the lens. There was a loud buzz and the double doors whooshed open... and I saw the parking lot.

Man, I wanted to scream right then, just let one rip and hear my voice bouncing across the world again: "Hey, Cali! Lock your doors and windows and secure all your fuckables! I'm back on the bricks!"

That's what my cell mate Chuny claims she's gonna yell when she gets out next year. She's knocking off the last leg of an eighteen-month bid for castrating a bartender who raped her while she was catatonic, stuck in a K-hole. Dumb bitch shouldn't have been doping on cat valium in the first place, though nobody deserves what she got. He worked her over pretty bad, but he won't be pulling that shit on anybody else - can't doodle with a clipped noodle.

Chuny's been pretty sweet to me, but she's a total sheetkicker, wilder than I ever was. Makes me feel like a cloistered nun when she starts ticking off all the things she's done, all the people she's done 'em with. Christ, I think national sales of condoms, dental dams and Astroglide must have dropped off sharp the day my bunkie got arrested.

Anyway. Kate must have seen that urge to shout coming over me because she tightened her grip on my arm and gave a tight shake of her head. She sped us up to double-time until we reached her ride, a midnight blue Dodge Durango SUV that looks like a crouching gorilla. Once inside, she let out a long breath and shut her eyes, lowered her head. Body language that reads "I just screwed the pooch, big time."

That's when I admitted to myself that something was truly fucked about this whole deal. I felt it from the first moment I got word, but I didn't feel like I should open my trap and blow it. I hadn't asked any questions when they told me I was being released this morning. It didn't seem *right*, serving just fourteen months for all the shit I'd copped to, but I held my tongue and let it roll over me. If this was the way it was supposed to be, then fine. I can make it work. Whatever happens next, I can deal. Can't save the world in jail, right? That's what I told myself.

Now I'm sitting here beside this cop, in her personal car, wearing her clothes, and we're blasting down the interstate toward Los Angeles - way too fast to stop now - and I finally get up the nerve to say it out loud.

"This is bogus, isn't it? I'm not supposed to be out."

She grips the steering wheel tight and changes lanes. She glances over at me and holds my eyes real steady. "No. I faked the paperwork."

"Awww, fuck me!"

I feel like I'm gonna be sick. All the work I did to straighten out my twisted head, to get back on the right side of the game, and this happens. Shit, I knew it was wack from the get-go and I *let* this happen anyway. Gwendolyn Post was right -- I am an idiot.

"Who's paying you?" I ask, not at all friendly and a little loud. "The Watchers? Those pansy fucks at Wolfman and Hart?"

"It's *Wolfram*, and no, it's not like that. I'm not some bounty hunter."

It takes a second to decide, but I believe her. She's not selling me out, but that's not enough to cool my temper. "You know, I may not be nesting with the cuckoos anymore, but I can still go off on you like a goddamned nuclear warhead. Why am I here? Lay it out for me and make it good."

She sighs and rubs at her face with one palm while the other is still white-knuckling the wheel. I notice that she's crying. Proud tears, the kind that don't come with sobs and shaking shoulders. Just an overflow of pain sneaking out through your eyes.

"I need your help," she whispers, so low I can barely hear her.

Maybe I've got no self-esteem or something, but this strikes me as ridiculous. I'm not tops on anyone's hero call sheet anymore... like that was ever the case. I don't laugh or smirk, though. She's obviously in a bad way and it wouldn't be cool to play her off like that.

"C'mon. You're a cop and you got friends. Anything the blue army can't handle, Angel can."

"The department can't get involved in this. Angel *could* help... but he won't."

That sends a chill climbing from hips to neck. The Undead Pimpernel will snap the crap out of a rule if the cause is just, which means this is a just cause of the un-variety. I don't know if I'm ready to test my moral compass yet. It's working better these days, but I don't want to push my luck.

"Take me back," I tell her. "Say it was a computer error or something."

"It's too late for that. The conference room was the point of no return. I can't say I didn't recognize you and I can't claim it was a good faith mistake."

"Then take me back and dump me in the parking lot!" I'm yelling now, and I'm good and pissed. And scared. "You fucked up here, lady, and I don't wanna go down with you!"

"Christ, you think I *wanted* to do things this way? I just flushed my entire career to get you out because I *need* a Slayer!"

"Hey, there's one up in Sunnydale - oh, and you know what? She isn't serving a fifteen year bid for multiple homicide! She isn't an escaped felon! "

"If Angel wouldn't help me, what are the chances that Buffy Summers would?"

She makes a good point, this Kate. B is righteous, in her own self- righteous way. She generally doesn't truck with vigilante jack-ups, which is what I'm leaning toward as Kate's motive for this slick little jail-break... which really sounds too tough for what happened. A jail- walk, stroll? Jail-abandonment? How the hell did this happen?

It was so easy, Kate must have had help. Big-shot type help. All that paperwork looked real to me, signed by judges and clerks and what-all. The warden bought it, let me out with a pat on the back and a "good luck, young woman." Maybe it's a conspiracy, like that stuff on The X- Files... shit, I hope not. I'm about to tell her that I don't want to make alien/Slayer hybrid babies when she pipes up again.

"I've arranged for a safe-house, a little place out in Echo Park," Kate informs me. She's all calm now, no more tears, and her voice is dead steady. "All I can ask is that you give me a chance to explain why I did... why I need you. If you choose not to help me, I'll have someone take you back to the jail, along with a letter explaining my actions. And my resignation from the department."

We're nearly to Echo Park already. Even though she's not crying now, the ache is still showing on her face. She's just so *sad,* desperate for somebody to listen, to help. What could it hurt to hear her out? It'd just tack on a few hours to my 'accidental absence' from the big house. My cell mate wouldn't even have a chance to miss me. What could it hurt? I'm supposed to help people. That's why I was called, that's why I exist. Who's to say that Angel and Buffy are the last word on what's right, on who gets helped and who gets blown off? What could it hurt?

"Kate?"

"Yeah?"

God, she looks so hopeful, it's almost pathetic. "This better be the explanation of the century," I warn her, "and you'd better have plenty of snacky cakes on hand. Slayers don't listen so good when we're peckish."

++++++++++

Kate tells me she doesn't want to jump into the deep end of the story until we're off the streets and settled in, and I don't press her. I get the feeling that would be a bad idea, with her being so edgy and moody and heavily armed. My jail shrink says I'm real perceptive and that I should trust my 'better instincts' more often, so I'm following Kate's lead for now. Mostly for shits and giggles, I ask her a bunch of obnoxious little personal questions. I figure since she practically kidnapped me, she's gotta humor me, right?

Well, here's my crash course on Detective Kate Lockley: thirty-one years old... unmarried... no kids... parents dead... dad was a retired cop, mom passed when Kate was little... she respects Angel's whole evil-fightin' thing but *hates* talking about vamps... non-smoker... drinks a beer or two socially... thinks O.J. did it... likes Liz Phair and Portishead (I saw the cd covers in the glove box)... always has a pack of Dentyne Ice in her purse or jacket... speaks Spanish... knows the truth is out there, but wishes the creepier parts of it had stayed the hell away from her relatively normal life.

I pumped out all that info in less than three minutes. She says I should have been a cop, but I don't know how to take that. I think she meant it as a good thing.

I'm already leaning toward liking her, but I'm not totally sure why. She always looks over at me before she answers, and I like that. Eye contact is good, builds rapport and trust. She's got an honest vibe humming under her words, and I like that, too. I need to be around people who tell me the truth. Maybe that's why I'm warming to Kate. It's either that or the novelty of being jail-napped by a troubled hottie with a gun and a badge. I gotta admit, this is the most excitement I've had in months.

"So are you and Angel, like, boyfriend and girlfriend?" I ask while smacking on three pieces of poached chewing gum. I'm not a hog, I only snagged so many because my breath was wicked foul. And I already know the answer to the boyfriend question. I'm just being a pain, testing her out.

"No." She turns pink around the ears, down her throat. It's cute, how she blushes.

"How come? He's got a righteous job, nice manners, looks like an after shave model... oh, wait! It's not that little *dental challenge* he's got going, is it?"

She shoots me a nasty look for that one. Right, she's touchy about the vamp issues. Gotta remember that. She's still stammering around her excuse, and it's actually kinda nice how she doesn't want to say anything mean about him, undead or not.

"It's not that he isn't... at one time, I thought... I'm just... no. We're just friends."

Well, okay. So she doesn't dig him enough to overlook the lack of pulse. Some girls don't mind if the broad shoulder is a little chilly. This I know for a fact. "Is he seeing anbody?"

"I don't keep tabs on his availability." She squints a little, gives a half-smile. "Why all the interest in Angel's love life?"

Heh. Turn the tables on me -- typical cop tactics. Fine, I got nothing to hide, no pocket motives. I sucked at all that secret squirrel junk anyway. I'm better off just being real. "I'm not going all green-eyed monster here, okay? Angel used to see this friend of mine... ex-friend, I guess. I was wondering if they'd worked things out, hooked up again, that's all."

She pauses and nods, making me think she knows what I'm referring to. I wonder how much she does know about that whole scene -- the curse, Angel and Buffy, Angelus and Buffy... me and Buffy. I'm hoping she's ignorant on that last score. Not a big source of pride for me.

"I don't think so, but I can't say for certain," she offers. "Doesn't he write to you every week? There was a notation in your file about a regular correspondence."

"Yeah, he writes, but he doesn't let on about his personal life. Some topics are off-limits."

Kate nods and checks the mirrors, changes lanes. "I know what you mean -- when he clams up about something, he stays that way. I can't imagine him opening up enough to write more than ten words. Ten terse words."

"So he's not Johnny Verbal, so fucking what. At least he's trying."

I hear myself sounding defensive, even though Kate's obviously joking, not really slamming Angel. Huh. New feeling: irrational protectiveness. My shrink would be so proud of me for recognizing it and slapping a name on it, he'd probably try to hug me or sneak me one of those nasty granola bars or something.

Dr. Steinman's a hippie, a real touchy-feely, hemp-wearing throwback, but he's pretty cool. I decided he was cool after our first session, where he listened to my bullshit rant about how the shitty prison food was messing up my stomach, then looked me dead in the eyes and said, "Papaya enzyme." He gave me a handful of chewable yellow pills that tasted like candy and told me to hide them from the guards, then he told me to get lost. The papaya stuff worked like a charm. Wasn't long before I actually started talking to him for real.

Doc's always saying how I should think more before I snap off an insult or a punch, and I've been trying to do that. Maybe it's working, 'cause once I see that it makes no sense to be pissed over some weak remark, I pick back up and start talking to Kate again -- sans attitude.

"Anyway. He lets me vent my brain and gives me advice on whatever's bugging me. Sometimes he sends stuff for me to read, like books and articles. Lot of word puzzles, crosswords and that kind of thing. Comic books, too, but only once in a while."

I have to smile about the mind movie that always brings up: Angel in a comic shop, asking the clerk what's a good read for a nineteen year-old female convict prone to promiscuity, boredom, loneliness, and violent psychotic breaks. For whatever reason, he always comes up with the same titles - Strangers in Paradise and old X-Men back issues. I don't complain. What's that old saying? Beggars shouldn't bitch or they won't get shit? Well, that's my maxim on the comic issue.

Kate glances at me as she's changing lanes again and sliding onto the exit ramp. She's a good driver. I half forgot we were on the freeway, things have been going so smooth. Man, I wish I knew how to drive good, but my lessons got cut short. Never got to practice again once I left... once I ran away from Boston. It would have saved me a lot of trouble with boxcars and buses over the years. 'Course it would have brought down a lot of grand theft auto charges, too. Hell, maybe I'm better off ignorant.

"I'm sure Angel would have come to visit you if he could," Kate says, gently breaking the silence.

I know he would. He reminds me of that all the time. The fact that he wants to visit is almost better than a visit. It's a good feeling, knowing I'm not forgotten, that somebody's walking the world and thinking about me without hating me. "Yeah, well. No underground access at the jail. Makes the *day* part of visiting day kind of tough on him."

"Mmm. You know, if this works out... " she starts, then pulls back, shakes her head and starts again on something else. "I'm sorry. I should have tried to help, asked the warden for an evening exception or something."

Where did *that* come from? She sounds all guilty and sad again, but damn if I know why that is. "Why should you have done that for me? You didn't owe me jack."

She's chewing on that one as we turn off the surface street and into a mobile home park. It's neat and clean, little lawns and flowers, no cars up on blocks or washing machines rusting in the yards. We keep rolling deeper into the park until we hit the last row of trailers, and she parks in front of a squat brown one with chipped cement steps. Not quite what I pictured when she said "safe house," but she's not running this game on LAPD funds. A room at The Beverly Wilshire is probably out of her range.

I'm ready to get out of the car but Kate's sitting still, gripping the wheel and staring at nothing. Tight face, eyes unfocused, white knuckles criss-crossed with thin red cuts I hadn't noticed before -- she's pounded the hell out of something or someone recently. I know this drill, the staring, the spaced-out bit. She's seeing something, holding on to something that ain't there. Whatever it is, it's burning her up inside. I can practically smell it.

I should do something. I'm still shaky about comforting people with words - 'cause I usually say something lame - so I put my hand on her arm. Just a touch, just a light grip, and the moment breaks. She turns to me and smirks, like she's embarrassed over the drift, then looks out the window. I let go of her and guess I did the right thing. Touch is good that way - it's a 'right now' message that you're not alone. Dr. Steinman didn't have to tell me that one. I got a long history of *touching* people when I felt like shit. Sometimes it even helped for a while.

"This isn't what I wanted to be. I'm supposed to *help* people," Kate whispers.

Maybe that's her answer to my question, maybe she's talking to herself. Either way, it sounds like a familiar song. I think maybe I should ask her for another verse, but there's no time as she shifts in the seat and opens her door, gestures for me to follow along.

Once out of the Dodge, I'm looking around the place for any signs of trouble. Doesn't take long to find one. There's no underpinning on this brown trailer, so I can see underneath all the way to the back. There's a car parked behind, a shiny black Lincoln hidden from plain view.

"Somebody's already here," I say to Kate. She nods at me, but I'm still hanging back behind her ride until I get more info. "Black Lincoln. Friend of yours?"

She's already up the steps and unlocking the door. "Yeah, I know him." She swings it wide open and checks inside, then motions for me to come ahead. "It's okay. I wouldn't go to all this trouble just to let you get jumped out here in the boonies."

I'm not really expecting a fight, but I clench my fists anyway and head up the steps, past Kate and into the trailer. It isn't half-bad inside; there's clean gold-colored carpet and linoleum, wood paneled walls, no dust on the furniture, air smells like lemons. It's way better than most of the places I've stayed.

There's a guy sitting at the kitchen table, old guy with snowy hair and a spiffy business suit, and he's looking from Kate to me and back again. He sits up straight and folds his hands - manicured, with two narrow, antique-looking gold and diamond bands on his left ring finger. Money, money, money.

"This is the young woman we spoke of?" he asks. He sounds like a guy from a Bible movie, all deep and bossy, like everything he says matters. He's sneering at me already. "The one who is supposedly able to help us?"

Kate locks the door behind her and moves to stand by me. She jerks her chin at the old man. "The honorable Daniel Guerlain of the California State Superior Court. He helped mock up your release paperwork."

Oh. Well, that explains a couple things, but it raises another slew of questions. Why the hell would some big-shot judge pull strings, lie, and risk his job just to get me here? Since I'm hoping to find out the easy way -- letting Kate tell me instead of beating it out of some rich old fart - I give him a half smile and a little wave. "Hey. Thanks for the furlough, your honor."

He just blinks at me real fast, like he's trying to make me disappear, and scowls at Kate. She hasn't even spoken to him yet. If there are sides being taken in this room, I get the idea she's on my side... or maybe I'm supposed to be on hers. Whatever. There's a definite chill between these two.

"Faith, you can help yourself to whatever's in the kitchen," Kate offers, "The judge and I need to talk." She crooks her finger at him and marches off to a back bedroom.

He scowls at me and I smile back. As soon as he gets up and turns away, I flip him the bird. Some people are always going to look down on me, no matter what. I can't beat his balls off just for being pissy, I know that now. He's not the first to look at me that way, and there'll be more after him. I hear the bedroom door slam loud, and I'm guessing Kate doesn't like his attitude, either.

In the kitchen, there's bread and sandwich stuff aplenty, so I set about assembling a monster Dagwood while drinking a Pepsi and eavesdropping on their conversation. Dr. Steinman says I'm good at multi-tasking. It's a good thing, too, because they talk low and fast.

"I cannot believe I allowed myself to become involved in another of these ill-conceived schemes. Kate, she's a child! Over and above that, she's a murderer!"

"And we're pure as the driven snow?"

"That was entirely different. We had just intent and made a mistake - one mistake - but this girl..."

"Daniel, she can do it. I believe that."

"Cold comfort, my dear. You also believed that Angel fellow would give aid, and where is he?"

"I told you that he had personal reasons for refusing. He said they would interfere with his judgment and he didn't want to risk it, but Faith doesn't have his history."

"No, she has an *entirely different* history, one which could result in entirely different disasters. Namely the destruction of both our careers - and possibly a great deal more - should she fail."

"I'm willing to take that chance. The book says that only those touched by the hand of destiny can make the machine work. I'm telling you, she qualifies. You've got to trust me on that."

"Supposing she can operate the apparatus, what makes you so certain she won't betray us and use it for her own gain?"

"I have it on good authority that, if she agrees to help, she'll keep her word."

"Her record hardly indicates a person of surpassing honor."

"But she genuinely *wants* to be. You're a big proponent of women's rehabilitation, right? This could help her as much as us. Everybody wins."

"I want to believe that, but if she fails..."

"She won't."

"But if she *does*, I suppose we'll be taking early retirement in Mexico."

"Daniel, you know I won't -- "

"I know, I know. You don't want to run away from this. Still, should you change your mind, I obtained the papers you requested. The key is in the cabinet."

"Thank you. You should go."

"Now? Shouldn't I stay and help explain things to her?"

"No, I can... I'll *try* to do it myself. Just go home. I'll call you later."

I'm wolfing down the last bite of my sandwich when the bedroom door opens and the old guy comes out. He casts a hard look my way, shakes his head, then ducks out the back. Well, screw you, too, Judge Judy. Time was, I'd have taken his gavel and shoved it up his... nevermind.

I want to wash up, so I duck into the bathroom and switch on the lights. Another clean, run-down room, mostly beige and white, with a low toilet, cracked fiberglass tub and drippy sink. The medicine cabinet mirror is gone; I see shards of broken glass in the trash can. So much for primping. I must look like hell, not that it matters. Who's around to impress? A cop who snatched me from jail? Aww, don't be a jack-ass. Kate's looking for a soldier, not a cover girl.

I wash the mustard off my fingers, swish some water in my mouth, and head back to the empty kitchen. I wind up fixing my hair by using the shiny side of the toaster. Shut-up. I can't help not wanting to look like a scrub.

By the time Kate comes out of the bedroom, I'm at the table chugging the last of my soda and wondering if there's any candy bars around. Haven't had a Twix in a long time.

"Did you find something to eat?" she asks.

"Yeah, I'm full-up now. Thanks."

That was a damned fine sandwich, if I do say so myself, although the dinner conversation was a little confusing. Angel's past, hand of destiny, some machine-thingy, cops and judges running off to Mexico... and Kate saying some pretty cool things about me. I heard it all, but I'm still lost. Kate grabs a beer from the fridge and sits down across from me.

"Can I have one of those?" I ask, eyeing the longneck bottle. I just want to see what she'll say.

She frowns and shakes her head. "You're underage."

"You turn me into a fugitive from justice and you're gonna nit-pick about the wholesome goodness of barley and hops?"

"Yes, I am."

"Christ. Well, it's barely nine o'clock - isn't it kinda early for even a fully legal adult to be hitting the brewskies?"

She looks confused and checks her watch, shakes her head. "You're right." She puts the beer back and replaces it with a can of Pepsi. "I haven't been sleeping much lately. My body clock must be off. It feels later than this."

"You should try prison," I joke. "All that regimented living will get your clock right back on track. I could probably tell the time within ten minutes at any point, day or night."

"Mmm. If I keep committing felonies at this rate, I might just wind up there," she responds. "Are you in the market for a new cell mate?"

Her face is so still, it takes me a second to realize she's joking, too. Bet she's good at poker. Bluff you right out of your last nickel with a face like that. It makes me nervous, that serious look, and when the nerves vibrate, I wanna get hostile or make with the jokes.

"No offense, but if the cholas found out my bunkie was a cop, I'd lose all my social standing. No more high teas with the cell block D garden club."

Kate actually smiles at this. Nice smile, real pretty. "Oh. We can't have that."

"You'd be welcome to visit my pod, though," I add, "Don't want you to think I'm rude."

She snorts and looks down at the table. "That's not my impression."

"Really. So what's your take on me, Detective Kate?"

I leave the question wide open. Doctor S. says you get more insight that way, get a better feel for what's on someone's mind. Kate quits smiling -- uh-oh. She looks away and then turns back to me, all serious again. It's unnerving how her eyes can harden up from water to ice within a couple of blinks. She leans forward and uses those blue icicles to pin me down, make me pay attention. Surprisingly, it works.

"I think you walked into the maze intending to kill the Minotaur, but your guiding thread was cut and you were left alone in the dark," Kate says, totally straightfaced.

"I think you got lost, confused. You struck out at anything that crossed your path because, in the dark, you can't tell friend from foe. When the lights came back up and you saw the damage you'd done, you were penitent. Now you're a humbled hero on bended knee, waiting for the call to arms, waiting for a shot at redemption. You're afraid that call will never come or, if it does come, you won't be able to hear. You've been serving your time so very quietly, not making any noise, because you're *listening* for that call. The only reason you haven't beaten me down and run back to your cell is you're wondering if *this* could be it."

She glances at me, checks my reaction. "How'd I do?"

Goddamn. I was expecting another cop dodge or some shrinky platitude, not Greek Myths 101. I think I like her abridged, glossed-over version of my story - it's a whole lot prettier than the truth. If she got that rosy impression of me from Angel, the guy's in the wrong line of work. He oughta be a publicist. And it's kinda flattering how she took it for granted that I'd know what she was talking about with that Minotaur stuff... or maybe she just got some inside information. Makes it easier to work me.

"You checked my library record, didn't you, Kate?" I ask, eyebrow at half-mast.

She nearly smiles again, knows she's busted. "You took out Hamilton's Mythology eight times, Bulfinch's five times. I figured my clever choice of reference wouldn't go to waste."

"Sneaky, sneaky." I wave a finger at her and make that tsk-tsk sound, a routine my second grade teacher used to lay on me when I tried to pull a fast one. "Trying to soften me up by making me feel all smart, eh? I gotta admit, nobody's tried that one before. The odds are too long."

"You are smart," Kate says. "If you weren't, you wouldn't have realized what I was doing."

"That's not smarts, that's me being gun shy," I admit. "I got a history of being a world class dupe, and it's a habit I'm looking to break."

"Sorry. I didn't mean to offend you."

"Don't sweat it. Stroking me once is a mistake, but twice could mean static. It'd be better for you to just spit it out, you know."

She looks confused, all blinky and squinty. "Spit it out?"

"The reason you nabbed me. Why the urgent need for a shady Slayer?"

"Oh. Right."

I lean back in my chair and cross my arms, content to wait her out. Kate bites her bottom lip and flicks the tab on her Pepsi can... takes a sip... sighs... and finally speaks. Boy, does she ever speak.

"I've been putting this off because I suspect that you'll say no, and I won't blame you if you do refuse, but I had to take the chance that you might want to help because it's something that definitely counts as a good deed, and it's one that only someone with your unique qualifications can undertake or could even attempt to understand since the nature of the problem is beyond absurd and maybe I'm wrong and there's nothing that can be done, but I need to know if you're willing to try."

Uh-huh. Guess I'm not the only one who's nervous. I wait a beat to make sure she's done, then another just for safety. I don't wanna get run over if she cranks up again. "Sorry, but you lost me right around 'good deed.' Slow down, huh?"

"Right, I'm sorry for going on like... no. Just get to the point, Kate," she tells herself, fingers flexing and tapping on the tabletop. "Faith, do you believe in time travel?"

Oooo-kay. So maybe she's cracked, right down the middle and sideways for good measure. Still, she looks so earnest, so serious, that I have to give her a chance to make sense. I try to wipe the "you're shittin' me" smirk off my face before I respond.

"Time travel."

"Yes. Do you believe it's possible?"

"Are we talking 'science machine' possible or 'magic' possible?"

She gives a frustrated groan, like that's some majorly tough question. "A little of both. There's a machine involved and, apparently, it operates through the use of magic." Kate sighs and drops her face into her hands. "My God, this sounds so stupid."

Yeah, it does, but I've seen enough weirdness to know that she *might not* be crazy. It's a slim chance, but still. Plus, there's that whole 'big gun under her jacket' issue. I shrug off the doubt and decide to toss her a bone, maybe make her feel better.

"Naw, it's not stupid. It's like that old cartoon show on Bullwinkle, right? Professor Peabody and Sherman had this machine that sent them back in time, but they never said how the thing worked. It had to be magic," I offer. "I mean, how else does a dog become a professor in the first place?"

"Liberal arts schools," she says. Kate lifts her eyes and smiles again. "It was called 'the way, way back.' Professor Peabody's machine."

"Oh. I see you know the classics."

She looks so different when she smiles. I like helping it happen, but man, that was almost too easy. I'm using the playful voice, working the wide, sensitive eyes and gullible open mouth for all I'm worth -- good to know it still does the trick. Doc says that if I'd done this routine for the judge at my sentencing, he'd have lopped five years off my bid for sure.

"I'm not joking, you know," she tells me. "This is a real thing, this machine, and the demon who operates it is real, too."

Demon! Okay, now this is starting to make sense. I lean closer and I can't help sounding excited. "Lemme guess -- you want me to knock off this demon, right?"

"Not exactly."

"Bust him up and wreck his gadget?"

"No! No, no."

"Do a little seduction routine while you steal his goodies?"

"God, no," she winces.

"Uh-huh." I sit back again and throw up my hands. "Well, so much for me winning Ben Stein's money. I'm tapped."

Kate rolls her eyes, then quickly resumes the serious face. "I want you to apply what you've learned in prison, along with your Slayer abilities, to fix something by using that machine."

What I learned in prison? There's not much that could be put to practical use, that's for damn sure. I learned how to read an entire book without getting restless - real useful for fighting demons. I learned how to cuss someone out in Spanish, how to eat baked fish without puking, how to come without making a sound, how to make a multi-point shiv with a toothbrush, a lighter, and broken sewing needles from the prison factory where I work - wait a second.

This might sound like a stupid question, but... "Does this machine- thing involve sewing?"

The blue eyes spark a bit. I think she likes it when I catch on fast. "Yes, of a sort."

"Kickin' - I can do that. How's the gadget supposed to work?"

"That's just it, no one seems to know for sure. The specifics are a mystery." Kate punches the air with a finger, like she's pushing the pause button on this scene. "But I do have a couple of things I want you to see."

"Good strategy. I'm down with the visual aids."

She gets up and ducks into the bedroom. After a few seconds, she comes back carrying an old wooden box and a big fat book. She sets the box in front of me on the table, folds her arms around the book and looks all expectant, like she's waiting for me to gasp in awe or something over this stupid hunk of wood. It does look old and expensive - dark and shiny from countless coats of enamel, pretty green inlay on the lid worked into a pattern, like a bunch of strings wound into a figure eight - but it takes a lot to impress me.

"I like your box, Detective." I give it out deadpan, but Kate sighs and lets it slide.

"So open it up." She's almost smirky, which raises my expectations for a nasty surprise.

"For me? How thoughtful." I smile sweetly and flip up the lid, ready for whatever strange, scary, creepy... aww, what a gyp! No spiders, no snakes, nothing much to speak of, really. Inside the box is a string, just a piece of jade green string about eighteen inches long. I pick it up and dangle it in the air. "Okay, I'll try it on, but I won't pose for pictures."

She gives me a crooked little sneer. "Life is full of disappointments."

"Ain't it just. So what is this? Magic yo-yo string? Saint Patrick's dental floss?"

"I believe it's something called a fatecord."

"Uh-huh." I wrap it around my pinkie and pull until the tip turns purple. I pull tight, hard and harder until it hurts. The string is stronger than it looks. I give it a serious tug, but I can't break it. I guess that's saying something. "And what is it supposed to do?"

"Fatecords are used by temporal demons to secure alteration seams in the timeline. At least, that's what this book says."

Kate holds up the fat, leather-bound volume. It's like the ones Giles used to have scattered all over his place, the ones I was *supposed* to study but never did. If I ever used a book like that, it was as a coaster for my soda can. God, that used to piss him off.

"The Temporal Lore of Jeulnor," Kate announces. "There's an entry on fatecords and the demons who used them. Pages ninety-five to ninety- eight." She lays the book on the table and I get the feeling I've just been given a homework assignment.

I drop the green thread - excuse me, the *fatecord* - back in its box and check out the big, spooky book. Lots of drawings of slimy, snarling monsters... spells in dead languages... sketches of cursed objects... it's pretty standard for a demon manual, but it's weird to see one again. These books were never on the prison library cart.

"Kate, where'd you come by this thing? They don't sell these at Borders."

She looks sheepish, glances sideways. "I took it from Wesley."

"Ha! You stole it?"

She nods, so I do the frown and finger wag bit. She shrugs in response, like it's not weighing too heavily on her conscience.

"He took it from the Watchers, I took it from him," she explains. "Needs must."

"If you say so, scofflaw." I flip the pages 'til ninety-five rolls around and I skim the text and pictures -- it's all a blur. I don't like reading with people watching me. I need to take my time and I get self-conscious if somebody's waiting for me to finish. "So what am I looking for?"

"Page ninety-six, bottom right."

I find the sketch and -- Hey! -- it *is* a sewing machine. It looks like one, anyway... a really, really old one. Iron and brass with push pedals, a fat clear thread holder on top and a needle big enough to take down a rhino. There's no fancy name for the thing, just a caption under the illustration that reads "The Machine." Ooh. I scared.

"The only demons empowered to activate the fatecords or the tools that use them are called, appropriately enough, Tailors. Next page has an illustration," she says.

I flip the page and expect to find a boogermonster with horns and claws, but the drawing of a Tailor demon looks like - I swear to God - John Waters, the movie director. Skinny, pale humanoid with slick black hair and a pencil-thin mustache, shiny shoes and a dandy pinstriped suit. Terrifying. Truly.

"It says here that these guys were 'rendered extinct during a slaughter lasting from 1723 to 1910,'" I read. "They were 'hunted down for bounty due to myriad betrayals and transgressions, including abuse of power and insubordination.'"

"The book is wrong about them being extinct." Kate speaks with surety, like she's telling me the earth is round or chocolate tastes good. "There is a Tailor demon working in Los Angeles -- quietly. He must have slipped through the cracks."

"How'd you know he was here?"

"I paid someone to do a locator spell." She shakes her head, almost groans, like she can't believe she even *said* that, let alone did it. "I know the area where he's hiding. I want to find the Tailor, use him, and put him out of business."

Her voice got all whispery and low on that last part. Girlfriend's got some Dirty Harry Callahan mixed up with her Barbie-ness. I like it. "How dangerous are these things? They must not be so tough if they got hunted down to practically nil in less than two hundred years."

"They're not aggressive, not in the traditional sense," Kate explains. "Tailors don't grab people off the streets and chew on their bones or anything. They lure their victims in through magic, through temptation and desire. The demon is a specialist, and it never strays far from the machine -- the source of its power."

That's good news. I'm not sure how sharp the edge is on my fighting skills these days, and I sure don't wanna play it sloppy and get smoked by this bony little jerk. "What's the deal with the machine?"

"Between what I got through footwork and what the book says, it appears that the machine has the power to alter to a person's past, to rip an opening in the fabric of time and send you back to your one moment of greatest regret, allowing you to change your actions. To alter the course of your life."

I gotta admit, she's got my full attention. I feel myself getting worked up - heart picking up speed, muscles jumping, mouth watering... oh, this is good. Sick as it seems, I really miss hearing this kind of freaky shit. Nobody talks about demons in the slam, unless they're just dissing their player boyfriends in a creative way. They probably couldn't bend their brains around what Kate's giving me.

"You can go back and change *one* event? Just one?"

"Mmm, that's one of the known constraints. It's said that a Tailor can provide you with only one chance to remake a specific event, that you can't revisit the same time over and over and do it ten different ways. As soon as you make a significant change, that's it."

"Do you get to pick what you undo or does the demon choose it for you?"

"I don't know. I hope they believe the customer is always right." She rubs her eyes and shakes her head. "Anyway, after you un-make your error, the Tailor stitches up the tear in time and you're returned to the present to assume your newly repaired life. You return to a changed world, and the changes reach as far as the repercussions of your actions."

"So, like, everything could be different?"

"Or everything could be nearly the same as it was. It's a crap shoot."

Damn. No wonder the Tailors got so full of themselves and started acting up. That's some heavy power to trip on, giving people a do-over on their worst scenes. Even if there's no satisfaction guarantee, a lot of folks would be trippin' over themselves to give it a whirl.

"What's the catch for the customer?" I ask, 'cause there's always a catch to these 'fix your life through sorcery' schemes.

Kate's leaning against the refrigerator. She looks tired and her face

is tight again. "In return for the Tailor's services, he makes you blood-sign a contract giving over your immortal soul to... his boss. You know who."

"Hell's Big Kahuna?"

"So says the book. You live out your altered life with no interference, but when you die, you go directly to hell."

"Do not pass go, do not collect two-hundred dollars," I add. "Steep ticket."

"I'm guessing a lot of the customers just didn't believe in hell, or didn't care. It's a price a lot of people are willing to pay if they can make this life happier." Kate pauses and lowers her voice to a whisper. "Ease the pain. Whatever."

I see her cheek twitch, but that's it. She's still holding it in pretty good. "You said that when you come back from making the fix, things are just... different? How far does that go?"

"I honestly don't know. I guess the extent of the changes you see would depend on what events you personally altered by the choices you made, the impact your decisions had on others. Also, the changed event must

be something that happened to *you*, so you can't go back and assassinate Hitler or anything like that. It's all about your personal experience."

"Makes sense. And I'm guessing that no one is any the wiser after your fix? No one knows the real deal but you and the demon?"

"That 's how I understand it," Kate agrees. "The Tailor sews up the holes with fatecords, and once the deal is signed and sealed, that's it. The alterations become permanent."

"Okay, I'm with you so far, but where does the sewing Slayer thing come into play?"

She nods and boosts herself away from the fridge, sits down opposite me again. She traces a finger on the black box lid, following the colored loops round and round. "Wesley was explaining that part when Angel barged in and told us to drop it. He was only interested in finding the Tailor and destroying the machine."

"And you clammed up on him."

"You're damned right, I did," she snaps. "You get what you give, and Angel didn't give me anything. I tried getting more information from Wesley later, but by then Angel had convinced him that it's too dangerous. He shut me out, too."

Too dangerous for a souled vamp and a sacked Watcher. Naturally, she thought of Kamikaze Faith, the suicidal Slayer who jumps off buildings without a parachute. Hell, I don't know what I was expecting. "Did you snag any other info from Wes?"

"Not much. As I said before, these demons are supposedly master manipulators, able to use your deepest desires and regrets to tempt you into signing their contract. He also said the only other beings capable of using the Tailor's equipment are those touched by the hand of destiny. He mentioned Slayers, saints, martyrs, warriors of the Dioscuri -- "

"The which?" "Dioscuri, it means divine twins. They were demi-gods and prophets or something. Angel once told me they looked like glittery club kids with supernatural powers. Oracles, I think he said, but he led me to believe they are now... defunct."

Angel says. Which means he met them, which means that's probably how he qualifies to work the Tailor's voodoo. Okay, I'm keeping pace with the logic. Barely. "You said earlier that Angel could help, but he won't. Why'd he shut you out?"

"First, he said that too little is known about Tailor demons, and that it's foolish to shake hands with a shadow... or words to that effect. Later, he admitted that he's dead-set against the whole concept of fate alterations. Apparently, he's had a bad experience with them," Kate says with a shrug. "When I asked him to tell me about it, he looked almost queasy. Cordelia implied that it had to do with Buffy Summers, but she wouldn't offer much beyond that."

Buffy. Of course it had to do with Buffy. If Angel's reasons for veering off were about his thing with B, I can't fault him. How I fucked things up with her, that's a sore spot in me that just won't heal. I know it's gotta be a hundred times worse for Angel. I'll be dead in a few years, max, but he's gonna have to live without her forever. He doesn't need to be reminded of that, or tempted to risk his soul to be with her. Guess I can see why he turned Kate down.

I shouldn't ask, but it's like trying not to pick at a scab. I can't stop myself. "Did *he* say anything about what happened? About the ... the fate thing. Buffy and all."

"Barely. We spoke once more, but all he said was that sometimes we have to live with the pain, the guilt of our mistakes. Just... abide it." She stops talking and covers her eyes, rubs at them roughly. Tears are forming, but she's pushing them down as hard as she can. Girl's tough, I gotta give her that. "I don't think I'm that strong, not like him," she says.

"He's had a few hundred years to get used to it, you know," I remind her, but she just shakes her head like that's way beside the point.

"I don't sleep more than an hour or so a night - haven't for weeks now. I've been running on caffeine and it's catching up with me. I'm getting tired, inside, outside... " Her eyelids flutter shut when she says this, like they're trying to sneak her off into dreamland, but she snaps them open after a second or two and pushes through the tired. "I thought I was doing my job - protect and serve - but I was wrong."

"Nobody's perfect."

"I don't want to be perfect. I just want to be able to look at myself in the mirror without punching my reflection to pieces."

She clenches her fists and I remember the busted bathroom mirror, shards in the trash can. Those thin red lines on her knuckles make awful sense now. I remember hitting my own face once, when Buffy was wearing it. I'd have beaten my body right back into a coma if she hadn't stopped me. I had so much pain in me then, I though I'd bust open like a pinata if anybody got too close, if they squeezed me too tight. It was blind luck that the one person who got that close was the one person who knew how to put me back together.

I'm not strong like Angel, either, and not half as smart. My fourteen months with Doc Steinman aren't helping right now, 'cause I have no clue what to say to Kate. If her burn is even half as bad as the wildfire I had inside, there are no right words to put it out.

"Innocent people got hurt because of me, and the guilt is just... *pushing down* on me and I can't get out from under," she says. "Sometimes it's so heavy, I can't even breathe."

We're down to it now, down to what's hurting her so bad she can't even let herself cry. I lean a little closer to her and try to soften my voice, try to sound like somebody better than me.

"Tell me how to help."

She looks up at me, and there's that same hopeful and desperate expression she had in the car, like she's cracking apart in ten different places and waiting to hear if I've got a roll of duct tape.

"I want you to learn how to work that machine, then I want you to send me back to January 13th of this year, about three in the afternoon."

That's a pretty specific window she's pointing at. "Why then? What happened?"

"Oh, nothing major," she sniffs. "That was the day I killed a man by shooting him in the throat, caused the death of an elderly grandmother, betrayed every principle I ever held dear, and corrupted a previously honest judge in order to send two semi-innocent boys on the path to the gas chamber."

I feel my mouth fall open and the words are out before I can stop them. "Whoa. Busy day."

Her eyes cloud up and the tears sneak down her cheeks, but she laughs anyway. Cops can do that as good as anybody; they get gallows humor. "You could say that. You could also say I'm crazy and that you want to go back to prison right now. Although, if you help me fix what happened on January 13th..."

"You would never have broken me out of jail in the first place," I finish for her. "This deal right here - with you and me and Judge Necktie - it never happens."

"Probably, yeah. The way I understand it, you'll wake up back in your

cell and no one would have even known you were gone. Still, it's risky and we don't have much information and it might not even work at all." She raises her shaky hands a little, palms open, and says, "It's your choice, Faith."

My choice. I could go back to jail with my tail tucked between my legs, leaving Kate alone and crying and depressed, with no job, no future, and a loaded gun at her fingertips. Or I could grab the Minotaur by the horns and kick the fucker in the teeth, see if I've still got the stones to be somebody's hero.

Do I?

Damn right, I do. I'm the Slayer... one of them, anyway. I got nerves of steel and abs to match. I've been thumped on the head by destiny. I can do this. I can help this woman. I can be strong and good and true. I can do the right thing. Anybody who thinks different can kiss my ass.

"Kate?"

She's silent, just looking at me in a hazy way, like she's expecting the worst. She won't get it from me; my worst is over.

"I'm game."

Her eyes seem to clear up while I watch, slipping right past 'sad and hopeless' to 'everything might just work out after all.' Quite a sight. She smiles at me and it's a killer, full up with gratitude and relief. I've had a taste of this before and I recognize the sweet rush of pride pumping back into my chest. This is how people look at you when you save them.

"Thank you," she whispers. Her shoulders bow forward a little and her hands drop into her lap, like she just laid down something heavy after carrying it for miles and miles.

"Hold up on the gratitude. I haven't done anything yet."

"And you could still change your mind," she adds, tensing a little. "I should tell you the rest right now, just so you know what kind of person you're agreeing to help."

Okay, sounds fair, though I can't see her saying something that would change my mind about lending a hand. I doubt Kate Lockley puts babies on spikes or kicks puppies or anything like that, so I give her a nod and get ready for the details -- but first...

"You got any chocolate stashed in this place?"

Kate hesitates, then her eyes drift aside and she gets up to check a drawer by the fridge. Comes back with a Twix bar and tosses it to me. I've got this big, stupid grin and she couldn't possibly know why. It's just that the last person who bribed me with sweets and self-confidence turned into a big snake and tried to eat the graduating class of Sunnydale High School. Shit, maybe she *does* put babies on spikes and kick puppies. I like her anyway.

++++++++++

It's just past noon and we're riding again, this time in L.A. proper, right along Melrose. Kate's been quiet for a while now, probably burned out after spilling her story to me back at the trailer. After she finished, she ducked into the bedroom and didn't come out for a while. I wanted to go in and say something, do something to help, but my brain just drew a blank. I watched some crappy daytime tv instead and felt like a jerk for just sitting there, helpless.

Anyway, that January 13th mess she's so shook up about? Only half of it was her fault, but that half surprised the hell out of me.

Starts out like this: a retired couple goes out for lunch with their grandkids, three guys break into their house while they're gone. The couple comes back early and surprises the robbers, husband gets gutted, wife gets dragged off into a back bedroom for a bad time. Neighbor hears a scream, calls police. A black & white pulls up silent and a patrolman checks some windows, sees the body, calls for back-up. Kate and another detective respond to the call within a couple of minutes - they were right down the hill on another robbery/homicide case - and the three cops go into the house together to execute a search.

Kate lucks up and picks the bedroom where the assholes are partying with the old lady. She waves her gun and shouts down two of the punks. They hit the floor, scared half to death, but the third guy is Mr. I Don't Take No Shit From No Bitches and he puts a knife to the lady's throat and starts cutting. Kate fires at his head, he jerks up and the slug tears a hole in his throat instead. He lives long enough to slit the poor old woman's jugular. She's dead seconds after him.

Detective Lockley went off the rails at that point, I think. She blamed herself for missing the shot, for the woman dying, for not catching the assholes earlier, for a slew of things she couldn't control. Being out of control made her wicked pissed, and she took out that anger on the two little pricks who were left alive. They told Kate that their dead buddy had committed several robberies in the area, and several rape/murders in east L.A. to boot, but claimed that this was the first time they had ever accompanied the sicko during a crime. They thought it would be fun. They cried and cried and said they were sorry.

That wasn't good enough for Kate. She was sure they were lying about their part in the crimes, but she couldn't prove it. The previous crime scenes had no physical evidence from the two weepers, and she believed the only reason the loco amigos got sloppy on the hills job was simple: they were higher than the fucking moon on crack and hash, bought with the proceeds of the previous jobs.

This was her turning point, and boy, did she turn. Honest Katie went by their roach nest apartment that evening and planted evidence, then coaxed upright Judge Daniel Guerlain to help railroad them into a capital murder conviction. The boys were poor and alone and had only an overworked public defender standing between them and a ticked-off Kate Lockley and her black-robed buddy. The case was over in a few weeks. Guilty, all the way.

After the boys were sent to death row, Kate and the judge discovered that they were likely telling the truth about knife-guy being alone before that January afternoon - she said something about recovering lost security tapes from a previous victim's house - but it was too late for her to repent without flushing Judge Guerlain right down the toilet and giving the LAPD another police corruption black eye. She was caught and couldn't see how to get out.

She found a place to hide, took some sick days and cried and drank until she finally passed out. When she woke up, Kate looked in the mirror and screamed, punched the glass to bits. She went back to work, but kept hating herself so bad she couldn't sleep anymore. She screwed up and wanted to fix it, so she started looking for way to make things right without hurting any innocent by-standers.

That's how I understand it, anyhow. I'm still not clear on a few points, but I see now why she's so desperate -- she's not living her life anymore. She took a wrong turn and things got out of hand and she'll do practically anything to get back in control, back on the path where she does good things and helps people and knows who she is because of it.

I know how it feels to walk the high road, and I know how tempting it is to take that shortcut through the dark alley, thinking it leads to the same place. It doesn't. High road doesn't have any shortcuts. All those dark alleys are dead ends with no way out... unless you cheat. Magic is cheating. At this point, Kate doesn't care.

The box and fatecord were from someplace called Rick's Magic Shop. For a fat wad of cash, Very Helpful Rick told her everything he knew about time fixes (which wasn't much), he sold her every scrap of stuff he had that even partly related to Tailor demons, *and* he promised to lay low this week so that nobody else could pick his brain about Tailors or the blonde lady cops who were looking for them. By nobody else, I mean Angel. Kate covered her ass pretty good on that one.

I still haven't figured out why Judge Guerlain agreed to help her in the first place; if he was so honest and all, how come he bent the rules and helped her slam those two boys? She told me that their connection was personal and had no bearing on the current trouble, so I let it drop. Not my business if she and the old dude had a love thang going on. Makes me cringe, the mind picture of him touching her, but it's not my business.

Now we're cruising slow along the avenue, looking hard at all the storefronts and not seeing much in the way of demons. I'm chewing more of her gum and wishing I had a toothbrush. My teeth feel fuzzy. I hate that.

"You know where to find the Tailor?" I ask -- first words spoken on

this drive.

"No." She stops at a red light and fixes me with a serious stare. "I'm counting on it finding you."

Fabulous. From jail-bait to demon-bait in three short years. "Keep talking."

"The locator spell pinpointed this street, but the Tailor's *shop*, for lack of a better word, will only become visible when the demon calls forth an illusion to lure a potential victim."

"You can't be sure that he'll home in on me, though."

"I'm fairly confident that he will. Remember, the book says that Tailors can sense the regret and desperation in mortal souls, and they seek out and court those souls valuable enough to steal. Your special status would make your soul quite the prize."

"So you're thinkin' the demon will try to lure me because I'm a Slayer?"

"Faith, you're gonna smell like catnip to this bastard... for several reasons."

Again, the blonde has a good point. If regret and desperation are the meat and potatoes of a Tailor's diet, wicked little Faith is gonna look like the buffet at Sizzler. And if this dude is as arrogant as his dead relatives, he'll take the Slayer thing as a challenge and woo me instead of Kate. "Okay, let's say you're on the money and he invites me in for a sales call -- what's the plan?"

"Do the doe-eyed ingenue routine," she suggests. "Make him think you're interested in his services, get him to show you how to work the equipment, then disable him and bring me in."

A simple plan -- good in theory, but when they blow up, it's atomic. And another thing... "Are you planning to arrest this demon?"

"No. Why?"

"You said disable, not kill. I assumed you'd want me to waste it."

Kate looks at me funny, turns away and hits the gas as the stoplight goes green. "I wouldn't ask you to do that."

I'm wearing my surprised face now and my response sounds thick, slow- witted. "But... that's what I'm good at."

"It's not the only thing," she says. "Don't sell yourself short."

Firm voice, brooking no argument. Like the teachers who told me that I

could do anything I wanted, if only I would apply myself. Mayor Wilkins used that tone of voice to get me to buck up, smile pretty, drink my milk and murder people. But when that voice comes out of someone I don't respect, it pisses me off, makes me feel -- what's the word? -- patronized? Yeah. Only I'm not feeling that now, with Kate. In fact, I think I liked it.

I smile at my shoes - no, come to think of it, they're *her* shoes -- and I press the issue. Maybe she'll use that voice again. "It's sure as hell in the top five."

"Huh." She's watching me from the corner of her eye, curious now. "Dare I ask about the other four?"

I shrug, crack my knuckles. My hands start to sweat. Why am I nervous? Just tell the truth and everything will be cool. "Sure. In no particular order: kicking ass, dancing, playing video games, shooting pool..."

Oh. *That's* why the nervous. I go quiet and look out the window. Maybe I should make something up. Macrame? Woodworking? Christ, my lying machine's gotten all rusty.

"And?" Kate waves her hand in a 'come on, now' circle. "That's only four."

Well, she asked for it, and I'm not gonna chicken out. So much for her thinking highly of me. Nice while it lasted. "I'm really good in bed."

We're waiting at another stoplight and she looks over at me. I expect to see reproach or disgust or something bad like that, but Kate just narrows her eyes and turns up the edge of her mouth.

"I bet I could beat you at nine-ball," she says.

I snort out a breath I didn't know I was holding. This chick is too much. Nothing I say flaps her. "Dream on," I tell her.

"Hey, I was running tables at a cop bar when you were in diapers, Britney."

My mouth drops open and my cheeks get hot. "Nuh-uh. Don't go there." First fight I had in prison was when some lardy lifer put the make on me, calling me Britney. Happened *once.* I bet "hit me baby one more time" now has a whole new meaning for that grabby bitch.

"No offense," Kate grins, "but I do have a few years experience over you."

"Not that many."

"Mmm. Enough to keep your cue on the rack all day."

She's looking smug and I'm just beginning to realize what she did. Took my mind right off being embarrassed about the slut thing, made me feel okay again... like I tried to do for her earlier. Could she really mean that bit about "you get what you give?" If so, she'd be the first one I ever met who lived by the words instead of just saying 'em. I don't know -- maybe she *is* playing me, but if Kate's planning to stick the knife in me, I can't feel it coming. Probably because I don't want to.

I peel my eyes off her and look at the passing shops. Mostly fancy window displays loaded with jewelry I'd never wear and dresses I wouldn't be caught dead in. None of these money pits have anything I'd want - hey, except that one store right there. Dark blue leather jacket on the mannequin looks pretty boss. Having a sale on motorcycle boots and chaps, too. I always wondered what I'd look like in tight leather chaps over faded jeans, with a pair of biker kicks and a jacket just like... aww, crap! I got a fuckin' brick between my ears!

"Kate, stop!" I'm yelling too loud, I know, 'cause she's right beside me, but I'm freaked and I can't help it. "That's it! That's gotta be the place!"

She's rubbernecking hard, trying to spot what I'm seeing. "Where?" "Half a block back, leather jacket in the window! Chaps!"

"Chaps??"

"Trust me - it's like the window display read my mind, knew exactly what it'd take to pull me in."

"I didn't see any leather stores or - "

"Well, you wouldn't, right? Demon's trying to sucker me, not you."

Kate's face slides soft, gets pale. "Oh, God." She looks like she's gonna be sick.

"What? What's wrong?"

"You're right, I just... I didn't think it would happen so fast." She finds a parking spot, pulls in and cuts the engine. I'm reaching to open the door when her hand lights on my shoulder. "Faith, wait. I'm getting a bad feeling, here."

I swear, she looks like she's fighting off the flu or something. Her hand is shaking where she's touching me, so I take it and hold tight. Her fingers are thin and cool but they're really strong, biting into my skin. The cuts on her knuckles are starting to bleed a little. "Take it easy."

"We should come back later. You need to prepare more -- "

"How? By reading that dusty old book again? Listening to you recite Rick and Wesley's not-so helpful hints one last time? There's no FAQ on Tailor demons, so there's no way to *prepare* for this. I'll just jump in and see what's what, do some recon."

Squinting at me now, shaking her head. She's getting upset. "Of all the short-sighted, selfish things I've ever done... God, I must have been crazy to involve you! I shouldn't be risking you like this!"

Risking me? Is that what's bothering her? Man, that's just a waste of stomach acid. "Hey, don't stress over it. If something happens to me, another Slayer gets called and she'll probably be a damn sight better than I ever was," I explain. "I'm second-string, you know. Expendable." "No." Her eyes flash hot and she's squeezing my hand hard enough to hurt us both. "I'm not buying that."

This doesn't feel like she's playing me. She's seriously worried that I'm gonna get messed up. Damn, I must really be growing on her. Normally, this would make me ten kinds of happy, but I'm already in 'search and disable demon' mode, and I want to get on with it. She can dote on me all she wants after this is done. After I prove I'm worth it. "Thanks for giving a damn, Kate, but we're in too deep to hit reverse now," I say. "You gotta hang tough for a little while longer. I'll head in there and take the crash course, then we'll set things right together, okay?"

"It can't be that easy -- *nothing* is that easy. I know it's late, but I'm having some pretty serious second thoughts."

"Don't bother, they're a waste of time," I say. "So are first thoughts, for that matter. Slayer instinct -- now that's the way to go."

She almost smiles, then fixes those serious eyes on me. "Are Slayer instincts reliable?"

"Well, Buffy's are pretty sharp. Mine should be kicking in anyday now."

"I'm not kidding, Faith. If you feel like you're in real danger, just get the hell out."

"Won't happen." I try for a steadfast, honorable look. "I gave my word that I'd help you. I owe you that much."

"But you don't owe me your life."

"I'm a Slayer. I owe the whole goddamned world my life."

Aww, man. That was *too* heavy. She's looking at me like I'm Joan of Arc trussed up on the barbecue. Better try to end on an up note, just in case. I don't want that hammy line to be the last thing outta my mouth.

"You know, the world hasn't seen my best yet. Hell, *I* haven't seen my best yet. I gotta know if I'm up to my calling, Kate. Thanks for trusting me enough to let me try." She's gonna argue some more. I can see it those too-blue eyes, in the set of her mouth, and I really don't need to hear it 'cause I'm scared enough already and I don't want to die just now and let her down and CHRIST why does she have to be so fuckin' pretty and treat me like I'm worth a damn and so, of course, I do exactly the most inappropriate thing possible.

I lean across the seat and I kiss her.

A little wet smack on the lips and the words dry up in her throat and she just *stares* at me, struck mute for a couple seconds or so. The quiet lasts long enough for me to jump from the Dodge and slam the door on her parting shot. It sounded like "fetch me a bearclaw," but she probably said "Faith, be careful." Either way, I'm glad she wasn't cussing me.

She's a nice one, cop or no. I touch my lips and smile, reminded by my little stunt that I've still got the bad girl instinct. More than that, I actually feel like one of the good guys again, and the hot buzz that gives me inside is like lightning in a bottle. I owe Kate Lockley for this feeling, for this chance. I'm gonna set things right for her because I can and because I should, but mostly because I really want to.

++++++++++

That boss leather jacket is calling to me as I stand on the sidewalk and stare into the store called - get this - Retro Active. Aww, the demon made a funny! I'm re-thinking all the stuff I read from The Temporal Lore of Jewel, or whatever, along with Kate's second-hand info, but it's hard to focus with that fucking gorgeous jacket whispering at me. "Come in, Faith, slip into me, you know you want me..."

This is mondo strange, hearing clothes ask you to buy them and knowing that it *is* actually the clothes talking and not some lame, pre-poorhouse Cordelia Chase shopping addiction. The Tailor demon is calling me into his lair, trying to seduce me with a piece of midnight blue calfskin that looks as soft as butter... and it's working. I walk up to the fancy smoked glass door, yank on the polished brass handle, step through the opening and over the threshold. The door closes behind me without a sound - that can't be a good sign.

The first thing I notice is that the air is thick -- not hot or humid, more cool and dense, like it's swarming with billions of icy little insects too small to see. As dumb as I am about this stuff, even *I* can smell the magic in here. It's strong, stronger than the leather smell, stronger than the florid stench coming off the hundreds of blood red roses that seem to be everywhere. Vases on stands, mounted on the walls. I can feel the magic getting inside me, filling my lungs, rushing around in my veins, making me feel slow and buzzed and... happy?

"Oh, shit."

I know something's wrong now, 'cause I've been in here for ten seconds and I feel like I've been sucking on a bong of Napa bud all day. I'm grinning like a fool as I look around the shop, which is empty except for me. One customer at a time, eh? Makes perrrrfect sense. Soul- jacking requires privacy.

It's nice in here, like a brand-new mausoleum. Clean floors. Stone, polished all shiny, black with white and gray chips. Terrazzo flooring. I don't know how I know that, but I do. And there's all these well-dressed mannequins everywhere, but they've got no heads or hands and they look like mafia hit victims who'll never be identified. Black marble walls, shiny steel vases mounted to the rock and filled up with stinky red roses that smell like funerals and hospital rooms and $85 Valentine's Day please-fuck-me arrangements for the schmucks who still believe that old 'flowers = pussy' equation... wow. Ramble much, baby? Can't seem to concentrate...

"Good afternoon, Faith," a man says.

I think he's behind me so I turn around and there he is! "Yo, dog!" Why did I say that? I should be pissed-off or scared, I should smack him and run, but the thing is, I've never been so happy to see a demon before in my life. I know he's evil, but it feels like he's my buddy -- like the Mayor or Bill Clinton. I might have to swallow some bitter spunk, but he's gonna help me get by. I know this feeling is a scam, that it's the magic, but I can't think right. He's wearing a wicked ugly suit, red and blue plaid, and a blue tie with little bleeding hearts dotted all over.

"Has anyone ever told you that you look just like John Waters?"

He twitches his pencil-thin mustache, straightens his lapels. "No."

"You've been expecting me," I tell him, but I don't remember why I know that. Did he say my name? I didn't tell him my name. Maybe the talking leather jacket told him. My gaze drops to the black-gray-white shine under Kate's Adidas sneakers. "Terrazzo flooring."

"Yes, I have. And yes, it is."

I point towards the window display. "I want that jacket. The one that talked to me."

"You are referring to this garment?"

He holds up the jacket. It's in his hand, but it was just in the window a second ago. I mean *one second* ago. I saw it. This is sooo fucked up... I gotta get out of here.

"It's pretty slick, huh?" I hear my voice say. I'm distant, muzzy, like my outside isn't connected to my inside properly. My will is calling my body on a baby phone made of tin cans and string. I can't get through, can't tell my legs to run or make my mouth shut the fuck up. "How much does it cost?"

"How much do you have?"

"Not a goddamned penny! Can I try it on?"

He smiles at me and I feel a cringe crawl down my spine. "Of course you may."

"Kick ass."

He slips around behind me and eases us together, me and the jacket. My arms slide into the silky-slick lined sleeves and the soft skin wraps around me and it's obscene and nasty how it feels like the thing is hugging me touching me and I know it's the magic -

"You belong together," he says. "If you still want her, I can make her yours."

"Are you talking to me or the jacket?"

He twitches his mustache again. "You're rather a funny girl, Faith."

"Not all the time," I tell him. "I'm only fun-curious. Mostly, I just sleep and read and eat baked fish."

"And as you sleep, do you dream?"

"You're never gonna believe this, but I actually do dream! Man, you're good!"

"The thing you dream of most fondly is in your left jacket pocket."

"No shit?"

"Check it and see."

I know this is wrong and I know it's the magic turning me into Forrest Gump, but my hand is in that pocket before I can stop myself. I feel a sharp sting on my fingertip and jerk my hand out and there's a long needle stuck in my index finger and it has a green string threaded through the eye... a fatecord. Kate showed me one of those. It was in her pretty box and I made a bad joke and she didn't get mad. She's great. I'm gonna help her with... something.

"Let me take care of that," he says. He gently plucks the needle out of my finger and runs the fatecord through the bubble of blood. I feel no more pain. "Come with me, Faith."

"Okey-dokey."

My brain's turned to pudding. Pudd'nhead Faith. My feet are moving and I don't know how to make them stop. I'm following him through a black beaded curtain and into a big changing room with puffy chairs and tall mirrors and red green black silver colors everywhere but the far right corner, because that's where the machine is. THE MACHINE!!!

"Ooh! I scared!" I chirp, giggling and giggling like I'm four years old on a Saturday morning and I just saw Tweety Bird say that line for the first time. I fall backwards into a puffy chair in front of a mirror and I know I'm blowing it blowing it and Kate's gonna shoot herself and it'll all be my fault since I can't stop laughing. But that's okay, because this demon's gonna take my immortal soul and I'll be in hell forever and Kate can be mad at me all she wants and it won't matter because I never had any real friends anyway.

The Tailor is fitting the bloody needle into the machine and winding the stained fatecord around the clear glassy thread holder on top. He works the big pedal, then the small one, drawing the green string inside, and the machine makes a sound like water hitting hot grease - it hisses loud and it's scary for real. Some machines can sound pissed-off, like GTOs with no mufflers. This is like that sound.

The thread holder on top of the machine starts glowing bright green and now fatecord is glowing bright green so the clear thing must be some kind of power source or spark plug. The Tailor's feet are working both pedals at the same time, priming the machine, warming it up to send me to hell. Hell. This is not a joke. The only comfort is that I haven't signed anything... yet. He'll ask me to sign and I'll probably do it unless I get a fucking grip on myself and STOP THIS GODDAMNED LAUGHING!!!

I stop laughing. My hands are sweating and I rub them on my pants. Kate's pants. Chats me up for five minutes and lets me jump into her jeans. I didn't say that to her, did I? No, I didn't. Not like me to pass up a cheap joke. Maybe I didn't want her to think I was cheap. Maybe I'm not cheap. Kate doesn't treat me like I'm cheap. She's great. I'm gonna help her with -

The Tailor is suddenly standing in front of me, oily-headed and smelling like flowers. "Would you like to taste a dream, Faith? I know all your favorite flavors now."

He put the string in the machine and now he knows all my --

"I don't eat between meals. If you get caught snacking, you get no fruit cup."

"I won't tell the warden," he says.

He put the string in the machine and my blood was on it, and now he knows my --

"Oh, good. I hate tattletales," I say and fuck me fuck me I can't keep my mouth shut long enough to think and I need to think about the blood and the cord and the machine and the dreams -

"Just a sweet little taste for the funny, funny girl, the black-eyed Chosen, the Slayer with a rap sheet. If you like the taste, I'll let you buy some more. Take my hand."

Don't say it don't don't don't say it don't --

"But that would leave you with only one."

"Faith, please..."

"They'll call you 'stumpy!' Kids can be so cruel."

Shit, I can't stop! It's like all the good parts of my brain are on vacation and the smart-ass segment is pulling a double shift. The demon's got me by the arm and I'm up now on wobbly legs and my head is spinning lazy and slow. He's got something shinysharp in his hand and it whizzes by my face. Like magic - *exactly* like magic - there comes a black hole with glowy green edges, opening up right across the big tall mirror, right before my blinky eyes and the sonofabitch takes my shoulders and pushes me into the black...

... and I'm lying on my stomach and everything is dark and everything is different. Everything feels different. He's sent me someplace else. I think I know where.

I hear the rattle and hum of a motel room air conditioner. I can barely breathe because my mouth and nose are buried in a pillow and there's something hot but not heavy pushing down on me. It doesn't hurt, except for a dull pain in my side, and I don't really want to move.

Everything's soft and nice and warm, so I just stay put, lying on my stomach in this motel room bed with my arms and legs stretched out, with those other arms and legs covering and alongside and between mine, and the warm breath on my neck and the smooth sweet softness all along my back and the kind whisper in my ear that says, "I'm sorry about your rib."

I know what to say back -- what I *did* say back -- but I'm paralyzed, stunned dumb. This is a dream of a memory or a memory of a dream, I can't remember which, and I'm here inside it. Breathing, feeling, aware. Alive inside something that's dead.

My head is clearer and I can think without getting dizzy and I have zero desire to laugh. I know where and when he's sent me. I know how things go in this room, on this night, what I'll hear and what I'm supposed to say. I've dreamed myself back here a hundred times over.

Still, it's hard to push the words out of my mouth because I know this shouldn't be happening to the person I am now. I don't belong here now... as if I ever did.

"You wait 'til now to apologize? Rude much?" I sound croaky, exhausted. Partly from angry screaming during the vamp fight, partly from good screaming.

Chin digging between my shoulderblades, lips against my skin. "You should have let me take that last one alone. The space was too small for two Slayers and a vamp, all throwing punches --"

"Excuse me -- it was your *foot* that nailed me, Van Damme, not your fist."

Quiet then, except the slide of skin on skin as fingers slide down, behind and under, press and curl tight and press again and again. "My fist didn't nail you, huh?"

"Nope."

"This fist."

"Not the left, not the right. Glancing blows."

"Either one could knock you out."

"Heh. Not from where they are right now."

"We'll see about that."

It's too real to be anything but real. The stale smell of the pillow from the old room, the busted sound of the air conditioner, the fading taste of her in my mouth and the please-don't ever-stop feeling of her pushing down on me and into me and holding me. This isn't a dream or a memory. This is happening *again,* in the right now... and it's good.

She hurts me just enough to make me feel it, then kisses me soft enough to make it go away. She could make it all go away for a while, and I nearly loved her for it. As close as I could get to loving anybody, that's how near it was.

It's good... Jesus God, it's good... but that doesn't make it right.

I know what's going on. The Tailor is using this to tempt me, soften me up, make me want a second chance so bad that I'll do anything for it.

"If you still want her, I can make her yours," he said. Well, fuck him, fuck him sideways with a chainsaw. Magic or not, I've got my head and I know what I'm about better than he does.

Some dumb-ass part of me wants to stay here, that shrunk-down part of me that still wants her, still takes me back to her side when I'm sleeping and can't help myself. Now I'm awake and I know better. I know this is wrong, that I'm supposed to be helping Kate, not stealing a lay from someone who currently wouldn't spit on me if I caught fire. She hates me now and I know it and I earned it.

If she could know what I know, she wouldn't be touching me like this, with good hands and good intentions. She doesn't know any better, but I do and if I don't stop this right now, I'm no better than the bastard who raped Chuny and, goddammit, I *am* better than that.

I'm stronger than this. I'm smarter than this. I'm better than this. No more lies.

I twist away from her and stand up. I'm sweaty and it's cold here without her covering me. My legs are shaking, so I brace my hands on the dusty night stand until they stop. There's a Bible in that night stand drawer that I never took out, not even once.

"Faith? What's wrong?"

Her voice is so sweet, it hurts my ears. I don't think she ever sounded like that. All my memories of her are crooked and warped even when I'm straight, but the magic is making it worse. I guess the machine must be doing its job now, since things didn't happen like this. This has gotta count as an alteration 'cause I didn't pull away from her and get out of bed until later, when she talked about me seeming lonely and sad and I freaked out and got pissy.

I can't stay here. I'm supposed to learn how to work the machine, not how to get worked over by it. I have to focus on what to do next, how to get out of here. What's Doc Steinman's golden rule? Tell the truth and everything will be cool. Truth is, I'm in over my head and I have to get out this room and away from her before I lose what's left of my sense and the Tailor pumps me full of stupid again and I sign away the only thing of value I've got left 'cause then it'll be too late for sorry or redemption and I'll go out a total failure as a Slayer, as a friend, as a human fucking being and I CANNOT DEAL with that possibility.

So scan your brain, shithead! What did you read or hear that could help?

"Tailor demons could experience difficulty maintaining hastily stitched alterations in the face of strong disbelief, as flaws will become apparent to a disbeliever gifted with destiny's sight... "

So says the dusty old book. Way to go, brain! Eatin' all that prison baked fish is paying off. Disbelief, huh? Easy enough. I think about all the ways I hurt her, how I wrecked her trust and burned the bridge between us... and the only thought in my head is how it's impossible to justify being here. I don't deserve her. I never did.

"This is wrong. I'm gonna hurt you... you'll hate me... you should go home... this is wrong. I can't do this."

"I knew those weren't sesame seeds on the dresser! What have you been smoking?" she asks, teasing first, then serious. "I don't understand where this is coming from."

She's up on her knees, coming across the bed toward me with no hate or fear in her eyes and I want to touch her so bad and I want to blaze a trail right out the door and I can't do either one and I just feel like screaming --

"I can't do this! I want to leave!" I'm turning round and round, screaming at the walls and through them, calling to the demon who must be watching, listening. "Let me out!"

I turn around and scan the room, looking for something that I'll know when I see, a flaw, something that could lead out... there. In the corner by the trash can. A thin line glowing green. I lunge across the room and slide on the carpet, laying deep rug burns on my knees, and I grab at the green and pinch the end of a thread between my nails and start pulling. Nothing's happening. I can't tear the cords with my fingers and I don't have a knife and it probably wouldn't work, anyway. Dammit! I need a tool for this... and the demon had one, didn't he? That shinysharp thing that ripped the hole open in the first place. I need that thing.

"Let me out, you sonofabitch! Unzip this fuckin' door and let me out!"

"Faith! What *is* that? What are you doing?"

She's yelling and I hear her getting up to come check when the green finally pops open starts tearing upwards from the other side and the black gap appears and I feel myself falling forward into the dark and I have enough sense to take a really deep breath...

... and I'm back in the changing room, sitting in the cushy chair, wearing Kate's clothes and the dark blue leather jacket that's still clinging to me and feeling me up like a horny sophomore. My knees don't hurt now, and that happy buzzy feeling is nowhere to be found. I'm sober as a judge and I feel like shit. I have to run, but there's things I need, things I have to take from here... think, dammit!

John Waters' evil twin, the Tailor demon, is right in front of me. He's staring down at me saying, "Take deep breaths. The dizziness will pass and you'll feel better."

No dice, motherfucker. I know part of your game now. I'm still holding my breath so his magical laughing gas can't creep into me again, and I clench my right fist and bury it in his stomach as hard as I fucking can. I hear and feel the wind go out of the Tailor and he crumples to the floor, squeaking and gasping.

I stand up and blink until the room stops whirling, then I drop down beside him and frisk his pockets until I feel a steely sharp point inside his jacket. I reach in and lift the tool, stuff it handle-first into the back pocket of Kate's jeans.

I'm ready to run now, but there's something else gnawing at my brain, something else I should take to keep him from dropping down the rabbit hole... the spark plug! If it is the power source for the way, way back, the demon probably can't run off without it -- I can come back and try this again. I make for the machine and snatch the clear plastic-glassy thing off the top and I run like Marion Jones through the beaded curtain and past the headless dummies and sweet roses and stumble right out the door.

Once on the sidewalk, I let the motel room air out of my lungs and take a deep breath of plain old California smog and I feel like I'm gonna pass out or blow chunks on the pavement. I look back to the shop called Retro Active and see a "Closed" sign on the door. Guess the Tailor's not up to more visitors today.

I take the demon's tool out of my pocket - it looks like a fancy seam ripper, with a long silvery blade and polished black handle that looks like a goat's horn. I look at the glassy cylinder in my other sweaty hand and I have no fucking clue what it really is, just an oblong lump of smooth clear whatsits. One of those magic rocks or crystals or something. Who knows? Maybe these things'll come in handy. Maybe I actually did something right for a change.

"Yeah, nice job. Out of prison half a day, and I'm already shoplifting again."

I hear myself say the words just as my knees give way, but I don't hit the concrete because Kate's here and she's got me. Her arms are around me and she's helping me walk down Melrose toward her gorilla truck. She's pretty strong. I'm leaning on her and she's taking the weight in stride, moving us along quick and easy. We get to the Dodge and I brace against the fender well while she unlocks and opens the door.

She looks me over good, probably worried that I'm wounded. Her hands slide all over, checking for blood or whatever, and she's gentle and careful. I wish I could enjoy it more, but I'm still too freaked out to feel much beyond relief. I'm alive and in one piece, and I didn't sign any contract - my soul is still *my* soul. I'm breathing good now, my head is calm and cool, and I don't feel puke-prone anymore.

"Well, that was an E-ticket ride," I say.

At my words, her head snaps up and she touches my face, turns it side to side. She's looking into my eyes, checking for signs of loopyness. She looks half-freaked herself.

"I was watching you go down the sidewalk, you stopped in front of that empty store then you just... disappeared," she whispers loud, just low enough so the passers-by can't hear. "I've been going crazy out here!"

Empty store? Oh, right -- the invitation was for me, so I'm the only one who can see the illusion. "Sheesh, keep your shirt on, Sargent Dee Dee. I was only in there a few minutes."

"A few minutes?" Her eyes get real big and she shakes her head. "Faith, you've been gone nearly three hours."

Three hours? I manage a lazy double-take and a mumbled curse - "Bullshit."

"I'm dead serious. I lost sight of you at twelve-fifteen and it's past three o'clock now."

"No way. I'd know if it took that long. Body clock, remember?"

Kate sighs and looks away. She doesn't want to argue about it and I don't have enough dumb left in me to think she's wrong. Minutes, hours, golden showers. It might not show on the outside that a sissyboy demon beat me down and pissed on me for the better part of an afternoon, but that's pretty much what happened... and that means I'm back in the game.

I just fought off a whole slew of demonic Jedi mind tricks all by my little self. He tempted me and I was strong. He tried to fool me and, for once, I wasn't a fool. I didn't knock him out this first time, but that's because I had no scouting report. I know a few things now, and I'm gonna take his nuts off next round. Normally, I'd be ticked that he put one over on me, but now, I'm just happy to be on the right team -- even if the team is only me and Kate.

"Three hours, huh?" I mutter. "I'll have to owe you for the parking meter."

That gets me the smirk, the one I'm coming to like. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Honest, I'm good. I even snagged a couple souvenirs." I hold up the seam ripper and spark plug and Kate seems duly impressed. "I just... I didn't fetch your bearclaw."

"My what?"

"Nevermind. I'll do better next time." I boost off the fender and she takes my elbow, helps me up into the passenger seat. I'm wondering how to tell her about the magic, about the total head-trip aspect. I hope she doesn't get upset again. "Kate?"

She ducks in close, one hand on the door, one hand on my arm. "Hmm?"

"If you wanna have that beer now, I won't rag on you." Kate smiles, pats my arm, and shuts the door. I wonder if that means I get one, too.

The sun's bright and hot, and the car seat is really warm, but I feel cold inside, especially in my chest. My lungs ached like this when I was a little kid, after playing on the street for hours in a Boston February snow. I stash the stolens in the dash and rub my hands over my arms. That's when I finally realize that the warm, weird leather jacket is gone, leaving me in nothing but Kate's borrowed white shirt. I didn't take the jacket off, so it must've vanished when I left the shop... if it even existed in the first place. Observant me. I haven't felt this lame in a long time.

I fuckin' hate magic.

++++++++++

She's actually damn good at nine-ball. Two games out of three in this deserted pool hall/bar have gone to my opponent, and my one victory was a fluke. I'm nursing my Coke since Kate only bought us the two beers and they're long gone. She's not drinking anymore, either, unless water counts. In a place like this, I don't believe it does. Water is a mixer, not a mainstay.

The bartender looks at us funny whenever he peeks out of the store room, like he doesn't know what to make of us. At this point, I don't know what to make of us, either. This is turning out to be one of the weirdest days of my life, and the only solid thing in it is Kate Lockley. I'm still not vocab-girl or anything, but I think that counts as ironic. Moronic. Something -onic.

Kate draws back her cue and breaks, dropping half the stripes and sealing my fate for the fourth game. The gray jacket is off now, but she's still got the shoulder rig on over that snug blue shirt. I'm trying not to stare, but the girl has got some fine lines. Some very fine lines. She's cooking up another shot when she suddenly looks up at me and says, "You're not going back in there."

That sounded like an order. Guess I missed the part where she became the boss of me. I gotta remember that she's just scared, not trying to be a dictator. I told her as little as possible about where the Tailor sent me, but I didn't hold back about the magic and how it worked me down to brain dead in nothin' flat. That spooked her pretty good. Good enough that she's backing out and trying to drag me with her.

"The hell I'm not. I got the seam ripper, and I don't think the machine will crank up without that clear thing I nicked. We just gotta find some way to shut off the Gump spell, then I'll kick his ass and steal his sunshine. I can make this happen."

She sinks the shot, shakes her head. "No. Angel was right, it's too dangerous."

"Hold up -- *Angel* wasn't in there, *I* was. This Tailor is my beast. I'm drawing a bead and I'm gonna take him down."

"I said no. I won't take you back there."

Great. Now she's treating me like a kid so, naturally, I gotta start acting like one. I slam down my Coke and toss my cue onto the table. "Fine. I'll hoof it."

Kate sighs and steps into my path. "Nobody walks in Los Angeles. Urban sprawl."

"Fuck urban sprawl. I could walk to *Canada* if I wanted to."

I move to edge around her and she loops a hand under my arm, holds on until I look at her. "How about Mexico?" she says. Takes me a second to realize she's not kidding.

The first thing that comes to mind is 'holy shit - she's telling me to run for the border?' and then I remember the judge talking to her about tickets and papers and early retirement. She must have set up some kind of Plan B in case things went bad and she couldn't straighten out the legal mess through magic, but I didn't think I was included in that scheme.

"Mexico. What's on your mind, Farrah?" Kate throws me a tiny scowl for that one.

"I'm not sure, it's just... it's obvious that you don't belong in jail anymore," she tells me, "and I don't want to see you in the morgue."

Her words make me want to smile, so I do. "Those are my only options?"

"Maybe, if you stay in California. Between the police, Wolfram and Hart, the Watchers Council, and your fan club up in Sunnydale, this state is a minefield."

"And you think they'd gimme a great big "bienvenidos" down Mexico way."

"Yeah, I do. The world's running short on heroes, Faith. A fresh start would... "

Kate's still talking, but I'm stuck like a scratched cd, playing the same word over and over. Nobody's used *that* word about me in a really long time. The last person who talked about me like that is dead and gone, and she was the only one who really believed the "H" word belonged in the same sentence as my name. I never learned to see things her way, never got the chance thanks to cocksucking Kakistos. Pile of fuckin' dust motherfucker. Hope you're in hell being reamed out by a jackhammer, you goat-footed bitch.

" ... doesn't have to be Mexico. You could take a look around, find someplace that needs help and make a stand."

I tune in just in time to hear it. Just like my Watcher, Kate wants me to run. Fight another day, somewhere else, somewhere safer. Why not? It's what I know; I ran away from home, ran from the cops, ran from Kakistos, nearly ran my whole goddamned life away. Thing is, I can't do it anymore. I stopped running fourteen months ago, and I'm done with that for good.

"No," I tell her, "I'm making my stand right here."

She shuts her eyes, leans on her pool cue. I think she heard the serious in my voice and she's letting it sink in that I'm not down with her international flight plan. "Why?"

"What if I slide back into my old habits? Who'd mind the store while Buffy and Angel chase after me and put me down?"

"I don't believe you would," Kate says firmly.

"How could you know that? I don't even know that."

"The way you've behaved today, your record during incarceration - "

"Half a day with you plus fourteen months in lock-up -- what do they have in common? Faith is playing under careful adult supervision."

"Oh, please!"

"I'm serious here. I don't trust myself to go it alone, not yet."

She shakes her head, exhales hard. "I wasn't being clear. You don't understand - "

"No, *you* don't understand. If I can't play this out without running off or cracking up, I might as well snuff myself right now so the next Slayer can get in the game."

Kate snaps her head up, glaring. "Don't even joke about that."

"Hey, I'm not going all 'Bell Jar' on you, alright? Truth is, Slayers don't' have a long shelf life - we're mostly gone by twenty-five, so I'll be taking the dirt nap soon enough."

"If that's the case, why are you wasting your time with me?"

"You are not a waste of time; you're my second chance. Hell, you might even be my third or fourth, I don't know, but I'm pretty sure that life won't keep handing me this kind of luck unless I pay it forward, give something back."

I wait until she looks at me, because I want her to know I'm for real. She gives me her eyes and I've got her - now sell it, baby. Punch it in.

"Like it or not, Lockley, you're it. You asked for my help and now you're stuck with me. I am going to help you. If you want to stop me, make that call and wait for the sun to go down."

Kate knows what I mean and she squints, shakes her head. "This is none of his business. He opted out."

"Fine, I'm sure Buffy'd be willing to trek down here and bring me to heel if - "

"I'm not calling anyone," Kate says, a little too loud. Her voice rings off the cinder block walls and the barkeep peeps out of the store room. She glares at him and jerks her head, telling him to get lost. He drops back into his hole like a fraidy mole.

"Jeez, you got that guy on a short leash," I observe.

She shrugs and says, "He knows me. And he knows that I only get loud when I'm mad."

"So, what? You're mad at me?"

"No." Kate fixes me put with those eyes and her face softens a little. "No, I'm mad at myself for being so naive, for thinking that this would be a cakewalk. I'm mad because I couldn't just self-destruct alone, I had to drag good people down with me. I'm mad because this morning, I went to that prison and walked out with you like I was shoplifting a fancy tool kit from a hardware store."

I squint and my teeth clench. I know it's true, but it still burns me to hear it -- and from the pinched-up look on Kate's face, she knows it.

"I'm sorry. I was... I didn't know." Her eyes are apologizing louder than her voice, so I nod to let her know I'm not dwelling on that "fancy tool" remark. She leans her cue against the table and hops up on the edge, dangles her feet in a twitchy way. "I'm seeing clearer now, and I realize that I don't have a good excuse for letting things get to this point."

"I don't recall asking you for an excuse," I point out, but that doesn't slow her down.

"I know, but... all I can say is that when you have problems and you can't talk with anyone, when you have to keep it all inside your own head... you don't think clearly. Sometimes the solutions you come up with are worse than the problems."

She's singing my song again and it makes me kinda sad to hear my words coming out of her mouth. Nobody should ever have to explain shit like this to me, of all people. I hold up a hand and let her off the hook. "Say no more. Been there, done that, fucked it all up. Being wrong is half of being alive, you know?"

"But Faith, I've been wrong about nearly everything. I made a tremendous mess, and in trying to clean it up like this, I'm only making it bigger. I am so sorry for pulling you in."

That earns a half-shrug since she's half-right. "You pulled, I pushed. Doesn't matter who started it -- my thing now is, you're *not* shipping me off to Mexico or kicking me back to the state just because you're scared I'm gonna get a boo-boo, or because you're starting to like me."

Well, that hopped out of my big mouth too fucking fast. Shot right past my brain and over my tongue before I could even -

"I can't help that."

I've got good hearing, so I know what she said. I still want to hear it again. "What?"

"I said I can't help it - the worrying about you," Kate says, just as clear as day. "The liking you. You're risking your neck for me, for no better reason than because I asked for your help. Psychologically, most people are helpless against projecting positive character traits onto those who offer them aid in a time of crisis."

Projecting. Psychologically. Helpless. Ouch. Down, ego, down!

"Oh. Right." I'm trying for 'nonchalant and cool' as I reach onto the table and roll the cue ball into the far left pocket. Just to prove I'm okay with that explanation, I lean against the table, close beside her. "I think my shrink mentioned something about that."

"Did he mention anything about Stockholm Syndrome?"

She's got me on this one. I'm drawing a blank. "Is that where you have a seizure when you hear Ace of Base?"

Kate dips her chin to hide a grin. "It's what happens when someone who's been abducted begins to identify with their abductor, to project positive qualities onto them."

Huh. Now that Kate's got her excuse handy, she's trying to give me one. I don't need an excuse, but I'll play along anyhow. "Like Patty Hearst and the SLA?"

She hesitates, blinks, probably surprised I know about that. "Sort of. Sometimes, they believe they've developed a... personal affection... for the abductor, but it's all just a trick of the mind. It's not real or permanent, just a temporary bond resulting from extreme circumstances."

"Like Keanu and Sandra in 'Speed.'" She nods a little and I think I know where she's driving this bus -- make that 'buss.' Kinda hard to ignore the way she's looking at my mouth, and if you put that together with what she's talking about -

"You kissed me," she says, cutting me off at the pass -- again. Kate's developing a knack for that trick and I'm not sure how I feel about it. At least she's direct, though. No shadow puppets with this woman; if something's on her mind, you're gonna know it.

"Did that bother you?"

"No, I just... I'd rather you hadn't done it."

Ouch again. I snap my fingers and grin to cover the sting. "Dammit! I knew I needed to brush my teeth."

She elbows me lightly in the side, proving again that she doesn't flap easy. "Please. After all the gum you've chewed, your breath is not the issue."

"I don't think there *is* an issue," I tell her, keeping my tone light and jokey. "I thought there was a chance I might get croaked, and hey, you were *right there* so... "

"So it was merely a matter of convenience."

Kate's watching me pretty steady, combing over my face for clues. I don't think she wants some big explanation, just a way out of an uncomfortable spot. I can give her that, since I'm used to playing things down. Nothin' means nothin' to me, right? This kind of thing happens to me every week.

"That, and you're sorta hot... in a J. Crew, gun club kind of way." I nudge her knee with my fist and rock back against the table. Nonchalant and cool. "Didn't mean anything."

She turns away and when she looks back, the poker face is on again and her voice is dry when she says, "I thought as much. I'm just hoping to avoid additional confusion, complications."

"Don't stress on my account. I'm not confused."

"Well, I am." She picks up the eight ball and rolls it around in her fingers then squeezes tight. "I'm trying really hard to keep it together and I don't need to think what I'm thinking, so I would appreciate it if you... just don't do that again."

She's staring at the ball, won't even meet my eyes now. I'll be damned -- I believe she does like me. Psychologically helpless, my ass. I should let it drop, but I can't resist. While I breathe, I flirt. "Hey, after we bag the Tailor and your *confusion* clears up, you should drop by for a visit. You know where I'll be for at least the next decade."

Her mouth opens and shuts a few times before she looks at me. "You're planning to stay in prison?"

"Three hots and a cot," I shrug. "Besides, if I run off now, I'll never hear *the call,* right?"

The face stirs again, mouth open, slow blink... then the eyes go hard. I don't think she liked that answer. She glances down and her voice is low and frosty when she says, "I suppose Mexico is out of the question. I doubt Buffy Summers' dulcet voice would carry that far."

What? Fuck you! She's Angel's top concern, so you're thinking she's first with me, too? Angel might have used B as an excuse to blow you off, but I didn't... even though it hurt like a sonofabitch to see her again, touch her again, and run out on her again. Even though the Tailor's probably gonna try to use her against me some more when I go back there. Despite all that, Buffy is not the problem and she's none of your business and you sound almost *jealous,* Kate. That's what I want to say, but I won't. Her head's messed up and I know better than to get led into an argument by somebody who's trying to rile me up, make me quit on her. It's one of my old tricks: piss 'em off so they'll stop caring and go away.

"I know she won't be the one calling," I say instead. "B wouldn't trust me to walk an old lady across the street, much less duke it out with the big evil."

When she looks at me again, her eyes are softer. Even if she was trying to bait me, she seems pleasantly surprised that I didn't rise up and bite. "I heard you two were very close at one time."

I wonder who told her that. Angel? Cordelia? Wes? Doesn't matter, I guess. None of them knew the half of it. "No," I tell her, "Not really. Coulda, woulda... shouldn't have."

Kate's curious; she leans down just a hair and asks, "Shouldn't have what?"

None of your business. If that secret gets told, I won't be the one to spill it. "Let's just say there were only two things about me that Buffy didn't like."

"Two things?"

"Yeah." I give her my little black grin. "My face."

That did the trick. She backs off, shakes her head, and there's zero tension in her voice when she asks, "Are you ever serious?"

"Naah, it's bad for the digestion. Speaking of which -- "

"You're hungry. Do you like fajitas?" she asks, heading me off for the umpteenth time.

"I could go for Taco Bell," I shrug.

Kate hops off the table and takes my elbow. "The food's better at Edgardo's. We should go there instead."

Something in the way she said that sounded funny, so I stop walking and follow up. "And just *where is* Edgardo's?"

"It's down by the beach... in Cabo San Lucas."

Persistent little chickadee, ain't she? "Jesus, will you drop the chalupa already?"

She smiles a little, almost laughs. "Okay, okay. But the food *is* better there."

I'm not gonna argue that point because I don't wanna hear any more talk about Mexico - it's dangerous. When she said that thing about Cabo, I had a mental flash of Kate in a bikini, brown as a nut against golden sand, waving for me to come jump in the ocean with her... and for a split-second, I saw myself doing just that. I can't afford to think about things like that because I know how my naughty little brain works. I know it'll start to look better and better and I'll start to want it and pretty soon, I'll be saying "Yeah, sure! Let's go!" and I am *not* gonna run away again... though it sure is nice to be asked.

On our way out of the pool hall, I see the cowardly bartender peek out of the back room. Kate's halfway out the door and he seems glad to see the back of her. He and I exchange a look, and I swear I see some kind of *recognition* on his ratty face. Maybe he remembers my mug shot from the evening news, maybe he thinks Julia Roberts is slumming it again, I can't really tell. Either way, I hope he's scared enough of Kate to keep his trap shut about us being here.

++++++++++

So we settled on Indian take-out and hied it back to the Echo Park trailer. Curried beef and rice and DAMN that stuff was hot! I actually raided the fridge for milk to cool the burn, though the milk nearly made me gag. I can't drink the stuff now without thinking about the Mayor. Milk's not supposed to make you feel bad, but it makes my stomach hurt something awful. Maybe I'll ask Doc Steinman if lactose intolerance could be psychosomatic... sheesh. Sometimes, I catch myself thinking words like that and wonder if I actually *am* getting smarter.

On the way back here, Kate ducked into a drugstore and bought me a purple and green toothbrush -- the kind with the fancy bristles that poke up at angles -- and I had to fight off the urge to kiss her again. Now she's in the kitchen, on the phone to Magic Shop Rick, and I'm in the bathroom brushing my brains out and enjoying it waaay too much. I know I've been at it a while, at least four minutes so far. It just feels so good, getting clean. I like taking my time.

Even though there's no mirror over the sink to see and I didn't hear her come back, I know Kate's behind me now. Watching me. Probably smiling over me being so dorky about this. I rinse and spit, drop the toothbrush in the plastic holder right beside hers, then I spin around and flash the pearlies. As expected, she laughs at me.

"Who'd have thought you'd be so obsessive about dental hygiene," she says.

"What can I tell ya? I've got an oral fixation." I waggle the eyebrows for effect and she rolls her eyes.

"Down, girl. Rick's coming over tonight."

"Ooh, kinky!" I moan, and this time, she actually blushes. I still think it's cute.

"Faith, please..."

"I know, I know - for the spell stuff. You told him about the stupid effect?"

"And the chill in your lungs, yes. He said he would do some research and bring the ingredients for a countermeasure. Also, he's bringing reference materials to help identify that crystal you took off the machine."

"Hot damn! It's about time my petty theft instincts paid off. We get a little info, get the magic on our side and this'll be wrapped up in no- time flat!"

I'm nearly jumping up and down, but Detective Kate is subdued. She purses her lips and nods, then heads back down the hall, leaving me alone with a fast-fading happy. It's tough being the only cheerleader on the squad. I don't get it -- I thought this was *good* news.

On the way out, I peek into the bedroom for a sec - nice and clean and almost bare, just like I expected. No lamps, no dresser, nothing at all but the bed and night stand. There's vacuum tracks on the carpet. The bed is made with hospital corners. There's a light blue pillar candle close by that almost matches the sheets. Only one pillow, though.

Kate must've left most of her stuff at her regular place, wherever that is. I bet it's spic-and-span, too, probably real nice. My head starts to drift that way and I cut back, reminding myself that I'll never see where she lives. Once this is over, I'm going back to jail. Doesn't do any good to daydream about dead ends.

The tv set is on and I go check out what she's watching. The early news is getting started, and I sit down on the sofa beside her to see what's going on in SoCal... well, not really. I think we're mainly waiting for any news of a police-aided jailbreak this morning, but the half-hour passes without chatter and without any mention of yours truly. The show closes out and Kate mutes the set.

"We got away with it," she says. "If no one questioned the release forms today, the computers won't note the inconsistency for months."

It takes me a tick to swallow my shock and respond. "Did you say months??"

"Mmm. Even then, they'll probably write it off as a processing error and correct the entries without re-checking the paperwork. Corrections is the busiest department in the justice system, and clerical mistakes happen. Nobody has the energy to run them all down."

Man, I've heard of people slipping through the cracks before, but this is just wacked. I wonder if she's being dollar honest; maybe she's planting this in my head to get me to reconsider running. I've never run off before with nobody chasing me. Now, I can only think of one person who'd even notice I was gone.

"Angel might think that you've decided to stop responding to his letters," Kate says. "He wouldn't know you were out for at least a week, maybe two, depending on when he has time to check your status."

I turn to face her, but her eyes are fixed on the carpet. "Quit reading my mind, okay? It's creeping me out."

She smiles a little. "Sorry. Bad habit."

"Cops," I say, like that explains it. "Bet your dad had ESP, too."

I wait and wait and it seems like she's not gonna respond at all. "No. He didn't," Kate finally says, in a cracked whisper that makes me wish I hadn't brought him up. He just died within the last year or two, I remember her telling me that. Probably still stings too much to joke about him, especially with a nobody like me. Okay, sooo... distraction time.

"Gimme the remote," I demand, reaching over and plucking it out of her hands before she can respond. "I wanna check MTV, see what fashion taboos I'm breaking this year."

Kate just groans quietly and sinks into the sofa pillows as I channel surf on up to music television. Strangely enough, MTV's actually playing a music video. It's some yummy boy band singing in tandem, doing weak little pelvic grinds for screaming teenyboppers. I don't turn the sound on, but I can't help watching. The effect they have on those girls, the power of being popular and cute and famous... lucky fuckers.

I remember being fifteen and boy crazy, chasing down the ones who ran and blowing off the ones who wanted me to stick around. I went to shows in Boston, but I wasn't content to just stand in the throng and yell - I had to get noticed. I had to get backstage and bluff my way through the cursory 'are you jail-bait?' interrogation so I could get high and go down and get gone. Thing is, the high was never long enough, the sex was blank, and I was already as *gone* as a girl could get without being dead.

It was just something to do because I could, something to hold over those middle-class 'burb bitches who sneered at me and talked shit behind my back. Hey, you go ahead and wear that t-shirt and buy the CD, sweetie - I know what his cock tastes like.

God, I was so pathetic, thinking that rubbing against some flash guy would change what I was. Garbage. Whore. Nothing. I can still hear those girls saying those words. I can still hear B saying those words. It doesn't matter. It's over now. Let it go, just let it go...

"Faith, are you okay?"

I drop the remote. Kate's hand is on my arm and she's watching me close, looking all concerned like she does. I blink at her and smile... and I taste tears leaking over my lips. I'm crying? When the fuck did that happen? Jesus, talk about pathetic. Weak. Dirty.

I pull away from her and stand up, give her my back. "Can I take a bath?"

"Listen, if you're worried about this and you want to call it off - "

"I'm not worried," I snap. "I missed latrine break today and I just want to get clean, okay? Unless you don't want me using your tub."

She steps around front and reaches out a hand, but I can't help jerking away. I don't need pity. I'm supposed to be the one helping her, right? The strong one. Kate's eyes fix on me and won't move off my face and I hate it that she's seeing me like this. I hate being like this, all weak and blubbery like some goddamned Oprah guest. I should be over this by now, right? I've been in therapy for over a year now -- how long does it take to grow past this crap? I shut my eyes and want it to be over right now.

"There are towels under the sink," she says. "I'll get you some fresh clothes."

By the time I look, she's walking away and letting it drop. Not pushing me, not trying to figure me out. I'm not sure how to react. I don't recall dealing with anybody this up-front and real before. Deeds, not words. Don't just talk nice, do nice. That's her.

"I think these will fit you," she calls out, coming back with a pair of chinos and a dark green tee shirt, a pile of clean socks and undies on top. She kinda stares off to the side while handing me the clothes. If I don't want her to see me cry, she's not gonna look. Kate. Why the hell was I crying, anyway? I wipe my face and haul out a weak grin.

"You know, you say you don't want me to kiss you again," I tell her, "But you're making it awful tough not to."

Again with the blushing. Still cute. "Maybe you should take a cold shower instead."

I shake my head, lean in and whisper as I walk by. "It wouldn't help."

++++++++++

I'm soaking deep in hot water, eyes shut, washcloth over my face, lights out. It's quiet here, just the plop of the faucet leaking, the random sounds of Kate cleaning up the kitchen. The only noise I can't block out is in my own head. I'm trying not to think about the last time I had a real bath instead of a shower. Naturally, this isn't working and I can't *stop* myself from thinking about it. It was nearly fifteen months ago, in Joyce Summers' house on Revello Drive. She only let me use the tub because I was wearing her daughter's skin at the time.

It was so weird, feeling that skin from the outside and the inside at once. I wondered if that was how it felt for her when I laid my hands on her body, if she got those same tingles and spasms under my fingers. I ran my hands down those legs, soap-slick, smooth-muscled... and sorta short. Same with the arms, but they were still nice. Strong as steel, too. I was hard under soft and golden everywhere... well, *almost* everywhere, but I already knew that particular secret. I used to tease B about that, told her we were both dark at the center. She never laughed at that line. At the time, I didn't know why. I didn't want to know.

I didn't even consider how it would feel if she got her body back, how it would feel being pulled out of her life again... albeit in a totally new way. I didn't think about seeing things through her eyes until it was almost too late. I just plain *didn't think,* you know? I didn't use the time right, just fucked it away like I always used to do. Only learned two things from that switcheroo mess, and both of 'em surprised me. First off, the Mayor, for all his smiles and sno-cones and fatherly poses, felt sure that I'd be dead meat without him. Erroneous assumption, boss. Second and even more surprising -- I hated me a lot more than Buffy did.

I wonder if she's still with that blond dude, the one who said he loved her. What was his name? Riley. Livin' the life of Riley. Mrs. Donnelly from my old school used to say that about people who had it made. If B's still with him, Riley Finn's sure got it made - just don't fuck around on her or lie to her, and don't tell her what to do. Don't hurt her. For God's sake, don't hurt her. If you really do love her, causing her pain will eat at you for the rest of your days.

There's a soft knock at the door. "Faith?"

I groan a little and whip the washcloth off my face. "Present. Come on in."

Kate hesitates. "Are you dressed already?"

"Nope. I repeat, come on in."

No response. Either she's thinking it over or she's trying to suppress

her gag reflex. I wonder what I'd do if she called me on all this flirting, if she did come in and wanted to... naah. Not gonna happen.

The knob turns and the door opens. Okay, so I was wrong. Sometimes, being wrong is a good thing. Kate steps through and leaves it open just a crack, so a little light slants in from the hall. She's finally taken off the shoulder rig. Her blue shirt is untucked, sleeves rolled up.

The room seems smaller now, smaller and a whole lot warmer. I'm not gonna assume anything off her coming in, I'll just lie here in the tub and see what's what. Kate sits on the toilet lid and folds her hands, kinda looks over at me, but only my face. Doubt she could see much else, anyway. It's still pretty dark in here.

"I just wanted to know if you were okay," she says. "You seemed upset earlier."

"Passing thing," I tell her. "All better now."

"I meant what I said. If that was about you being nervous or not wanting to go forward with this - "

"It wasn't, okay? It wasn't about that. I'm over it."

Looks like she only wants to talk about my boo-hoo fit. Just my luck. This is kinda cool, though, her being this comfortable around me, even with all the trash I've been talking. I swish the rag in the water and soap it up again, take another scrub at my arms. She watches me, and I catch myself flexing a bit, showing off my new prison muscles.

I've never been this cut before, never spent so much time on the weights. Didn't need to; I had the strength already, it just didn't show. Now it shows. I used to work out mostly by sparring, but nobody will fight me anymore. Chuny's taught me some capoera moves she learned from her Brazilian dad, but she won't step onto the mat with me so I can try them out. She says I'm too fuckin' scary, even though I'm reining in the Slayer Bam as best I can.

Kate doesn't seem scared of me. For me, yeah, but not of me. As far along as we are with this Tailor demon mess, she's still trying to give me an out. I wonder what Judge Guerlain would have to say about that, about her coaxing me to run off. I see her shift around a little and whatever she's gonna ask, I'm probably not going to feel like answering, so I jump first.

"Are you doing that judge?" Stupid, rude question, but now I want to know.

She adjusts to the change pretty fast, doesn't seem offended. "No," she says, shaking her head. "Daniel is just a friend."

"Must be some friend. You say the word and he sticks his neck out like a giraffe."

Kate shrugs. "He had no choice. I have pictures of him with a three- headed prostitute."

Despite the deadpan, I know she's pulling my leg this time. "Come on, straight-up. Why'd he sign on to help you in the first place?"

After a few seconds of dead quiet, she sits back against the tank, slumps a little. She looks tired in the shadows, the dark circles around her eyes stand out worse. Maybe the dim light and the heat from the tub are working on her, making her sleepy. Good. She could use a nap. Just when I think she's on the edge of dozing, she straightens and the eyes snap wide.

"In college, I was engaged to Daniel's son," Kate says. "His name was Hulce. We were too young, it ended, we remained friends. He was killed last year. I went to the funeral, cried with Daniel, met Hulce's family. I placed a lily on his coffin and said goodbye. Two days later, Hulce... rose... and fed on his own wife and son."

Jesus. I stop scrubbing and sit still. "Vamp?" I ask, low and quiet.

Kate shudders and nods. "Next evening, he came for Daniel in the courthouse parking lot. I was waiting... and I staked him. Daniel saw it happen, so I had to explain about what's out there, all the stuff we don't want to see. He sees it now, looks for it in his cases. He's become Wolfram and Hart's least favorite judge."

That explains why he was talking up Mexico when he was here earlier - the satanic lawyers must have his picture on their dartboard. If they really want him gone, he'll get gone.

"Maybe *he* should take that trip south of the border," I suggest.

"Only if there's no alternative. He'd rather stay here and fight the good fight," Kate replies.

"See, that's why I don't wanna vacate." I splash a little to sell my point, and I start scrubbing at my legs. "I don't wanna quit on California - it's already in deep shit."

"We don't want to quit, either, but without a badge, I'm just another vigilante. Without his seat on the bench, Daniel has no authority to punish Wolfram's dirty clients. We risked all that when we... you know. Now we have to fix it by using the Tailor, or fix it by confessing. If we confess, we either run or go to jail and, either way, we're deserting our obligations.

"You, on the other hand, can take the fight anywhere, and you don't need some huge organization to back you up, to give you the power to act. You can make a difference on your own, anywhere in the world. That's what I want you to keep in mind."

Yeah, right -- I'm hell on wheels solo. Righting wrongs and singing songs... where have I heard that before? Hmm. Well, I've shampooed and scrubbed as much as I can stand, so I rinse off the suds and pull the tub stopper. Kate stands up and hands me a big, fresh-smelling yellow towel.

"You know, Detective, the truth is that every time I go it alone, I wind up diving headlong into a pile of crap," I tell her while toweling off. She's still looking at me, but not in a pervy way. Just taking me in, I guess. "Until I know I've smashed down my Darth Vader tendencies, I need something pushing against me to keep me straight. Jail does that pretty good."

She only makes a hmph noise in response. Her eyes have stalled somewhere over the middle of me. "How did you get that scar?" she asks, pointing toward... oh. *That* one.

"Tragic, senseless accident." I wrap the towel around my head turban- style, and Kate hands me another. I assume this one is for the bod, so I oblige and cover myself. She's still waiting for the rest of the story. "See, I was making a bologna sandwich and the knife slipped - "

"Forget it," she sighs, waving her hand for me to hush. "I see this is a one-way thing. I don't mean to push."

Uh-oh. She's serious; the flip trip is ticking her off. She serves up something real, and I hand her a stack of tired jokes. "Hey, I'm sorry. My shrink says it's a defense mechanism."

"I didn't realize I put you on the defensive."

"You don't. It's me, you know? I'm just not used to this."

"Faith, you can tell me something's not my business and I'll drop it," she says. "I'm trying to get to know you, even though it's against my better judgment, and if you want me to back off, I don't have a problem with that. I just... it's been a while for me. I was enjoying having someone to talk with."

Kate turns to leave, opens the door just as I open my mouth. Hope it's not too late.

"Buffy. Big knife. Kidney damage. Tall building. Head trauma. Eight month coma."

She takes all that in, turns her eyes on me and says, "I'm sorry. That must have hurt."

Big, fat understatement, which I shrug off. "Ehh, I earned it. Everything healed up okay... except I pee through my left ear now."

"Well, I'm impressed," she says, rubbing her eyes and trying not to laugh. "You were serious for all of twenty seconds. Maybe next time, we'll try for a full minute."

"Don't rush me. I'll keep trying."

"I'm counting on that."

She speaks in that sly fox way some people have, like a bunch of things are being said at once. They all sound good to me.

Kate steps out and shuts the door, and my face gets split in half by a hugely dopey grin. Bet I look completely stupid right now, stupid and happy. I snag one of the broken mirror fragments from the trash can and take a look at myself -- yep, stupid and happy. I doubt I've ever looked like this before, 'cause I sure don't remember feeling like this before. Too bad it won't last. Nothing good ever does.

++++++++++

I spent about an hour and a half reading nifty little things from The Temporal Arcana of Jeulnor while Kate watched CNN. She let me alone so I could focus and take the stuff in properly, but I got pretty tired there toward the end. I think the text and the tv audio started getting crossed up in my head. I quit reading right around the time the Chronos crystals of Meregar were rescued by sports anchor Inga Hammond. Shortly after that, company arrived.

Magic Shop Rick identified the crystal I stole from the Tailor, and I was pretty much on target. He said the thing is kind of like a battery charged with temporal magic, so it probably works as a power source for the machine. He said the seam ripper was pretty hot, too, that it's charged-up with magic just like the crystal. For the moment, I've got that rocket scientist feeling, all shiny in the eyes from my brush with smartness.

Kate and me are standing by the stove, watching this moderately cute wizard-for-hire do his thing on the kitchen table. He works fast, this guy. Measures out the ingredients, mixes 'em up like a pharmacist.

"You don't have asthma, do you, Nadine?" Rick asks me.

I key in on the southern accent -- Kate's suggestion, like the fake name. Another puff of smoke to keep me hidden, just in case. "Naw, sugar. I'm healthy as a horse."

"Super. Glad to hear it."

He's fiddling around with a small metal cylinder, hitching it to this thing that looks like a miniature air pump. The feed chamber for the pump is filled with all his weird little magic fartblossoms. After I explained in detail about the spell effects, he chucked a bunch of stuff in that chamber and burned it to ash, trapping the smoke until was "ripe." Ripe is a good word for it -- a little bit of it leaked out, and whoo! The stuff smells worse than dead cats on fire.

"And here we go!" Rick flips on the air pump and the smoke is sucked from the chamber and shushed into the little metal canister. He shuts down the machine and plucks out the canister, then slips it into a short L-shaped plastic holder with a button and a crimped mouthpiece... uh-oh. I've seen one of those before. I'm gonna have to suck that crappy smoke into my lungs. Shitsticks.

"Voila!" he says, handing the inhaler to Kate with a flourish. "This should counteract the inhibition spell and effectively neutralize the malleability enchantment. I took the liberty of adding a second-sight enhancer, which could come in handy if you find yourselves temporally displaced, or in non-linear positions."

"Non-linear positions -- like in the Kama Sutra?" I wink at Kate and she rolls her eyes.

"Are you sure this will work?" she asks Rick, one eyebrow on full skeptic alert.

He flashes a salesman smile. "Double your money back guarantee, Detective. But... there may be a side-effect."

"Lemme guess," I chime in. "Skunk breath?"

He nods slowly. "Extreme, lingering halitosis is a possibility."

"Lingering for how long?"

"Up to and possibly exceeding three days," he mutters. "The taste of food and drink could also be... altered. Unpleasantly."

"No eating, no drinking, and no kissing? Christ, just shoot me now!" I complain.

Rick shrugs in apology. "Your results may vary," he offers hopefully.

I huff, Kate nods, and Rick gathers up his stuff in a big black leather duffle. On his way out, Kate slips him an envelope. He checks inside, smiles, then tucks it inside his sport jacket and goes on his merry way. I wonder how much she paid him.

"How much did you pay that guy?" Geez, that was direct. Almost Kate- like.

"Tonight?" she asks, dropping onto the couch. I nod and she says, "Eight hundred."

Holy crap! $800 for that rat to make a housecall? What a racket! "How much, total?"

She thinks for a second, taps her chin."About four thousand."

"Holy crap! Four large for a couple of spells, an old box and a piece of string??"

"And his silence," she adds. "Don't forget that."

"Katie, consider the bargain route: I can stuff his mouth with five singles and and a tape gag and he'll be quiet as a monk!"

"Faith..."

"The guy's ripping you off!" I'm trying not to yell and pace, but I'm yelling and pacing anyway. Jesus, my head feels like it's gonna pop! "Plus -- no offense -- but I know cops don't draw much green, not unless they're some scumbag on the take and I *know* you're not on the take! You can't afford to let people jack your cash like that!"

"It's not my cash," she says quietly.

I stop pacing at the edge of the carpet. "Come again?"

"It's not really mine," she repeats. Her eyes are down, her voice is shaky. "I didn't want it, but my father... he left me some money. Actually, he left me a *lot* of money." "But he was a cop, too, right? Where did he get that kind of... uhhh... "

I see it now, in the ABC logic of us talking and in the way Kate's reacting. Her dad was on the take. I want to suck those stupid words back into my mouth, but it's too late. I am such an asshole. Super- sized. Biggie. Kate's got her elbows on her knees, her face stuffed in her hands.

"I'm sorry." My voice cracks, and I take a step toward her. "I'm surprised I can even talk with this damn foot wedged in my mouth. I'm real sorry for saying that."

Kate shakes her head, sighs. Her eyes look red, but she's not crying. She just looks beat. "You called me Katie," she says.

I think back a minute and remember -- it just slipped out. "Sorry." "Stop that. You haven't done anything to me that merits being sorry."

Hard tone, but at least she didn't threaten to beat me to death for apologizing. "If it bothers you, I'll quit... and I'll try to remember not to call you that anymore."

"No, it's okay," she tells me. "Dad called me Katie. I think my mom did, too, but it's hard to remember. I liked hearing it again."

"Oh. Good." She liked it. I like that she liked it. I did something right. I take a couple more steps and lean against the end of the couch. "Your cop friends don't call you Katie?"

She squints and frowns. "No. These days, nine times out of a ten, they call me Lockley. The tenth is usually either 'Kate' or 'ball-busting bitch.'"

I laugh through my nose and it comes out as a loud piggy snort. Man, I hate when that happens, but it's usually only when something totally takes me by surprise and I forget to be cool. Kate is taken aback by the gross noise and she starts laughing at me, which makes me laugh even harder. She looks like a kid when she laughs; light and sweet and pretty, no worries.

"I think your family tree may have sprouted from a pig pen," she cracks, wiping good tears from her eyes. She sighs and flops back into the couch cushions, sinking in deep. "I didn't know sounds like that could come out of human beings."

I'm bent over the couch arm trying to catch my breath and I can't think of a clever comeback, so I just lay my face against the pillows and get my air back in order. The back of my head hurts, all tight and hot from laughing. My stomach muscles are tired, too, like I've racked off a few hundred ab crunches. Come to think of it, between the Tailor's wacky moron spell and Kate's B.B. Bitch crack, I've laughed more today than any day I can remember.

I feel good. I really feel good. It's hard to say how much of it is from the situation, since breaking out of jail and running around like a free fool gives me a serious misbehavin' high, and how much of it is from today's action - I really felt a couple pegs above worthless after dancing with that demon. Kate factors in there somewhere, too. It's just that, after what she said about the circumstances making us imagine some connection that isn't there, I'm trying to be careful. I don't wanna buy stock in Warm Fuzzy, Inc. just to see it go belly-up tomorrow.

"If we're gonna get that early start, I better hit the rack," I mumble into the cushions. The couch is in good shape, so I oughta be able to catch some winks out here, drift off watching the tv. Kate says nothing in reply, so I look up and... I'll be damned. Lady Blue is zonked-out.

"Kate?" I lean over and nudge her leg. Nada. She's down for the count.

I think for a second about taking the bed and letting her doze on out here, but that doesn't seem right. She hasn't slept right for a while, and it'd probably do her a world of good to snooze eight hours and wake up in a bed, like normal people do. I touch her leg and give her a little shake, but she's not waking up. Maybe she's passed out from exhaustion. I hear that can happen to people when they're under heavy stress for long stretches.

Whatever. Point is, she's not couching it tonight. I loop one arm under her legs and slip the other behind her back, scoop her up careful and slow. Her head lolls and she makes a little moany noise when I start walking, but we make it to the bedroom without any trouble. I lay her down flat on top of the sheets and she turns on her side, slips her hands up to the pillow - same position I tend to sleep in. Back against the wall, hands up high to guard the head. The posture of someone who expects trouble, that's what the doc calls it.

I take off her shoes and set them at the foot of the bed, then turn to leave. Wait -- blanket. She needs a blanket or something. I don't see one near the bed, and I don't want to turn on the bright overhead light to look around. There's a lighter and a candle on the nightstand, so I flick and flame and use the wick light to see. I find a folded throw in the closet, one of those soft things that feels nice against the skin. Buffy's mom had one on her sofa.

Don't go back there. That is not a happy place. Put the candle back on the stand, unfold the throw and drape it over the sleeping cop. The one who broke me out of jail this morning, who I kissed this afternoon, who looks as lost and lonely in sleep as I've ever felt awake. Impulse takes over again as I lean down and tuck the throw around her shoulders, brush a fingertip across the cuts on her knuckles - and she grabs my right hand.

I don't think she's awake, maybe less than half-way, so I whisper to calm her back to sleep. "It's alright. Everything's okay. Rest now." I try to pull away but she hangs on.

"No," she murmurs. Her eyes squeeze tight and her fingers dig into my palm.

I sit on the edge of the bed and try to make my voice smooth, low. "Shhh, shhh. Everything's gonna be all right, I promise. Sleep now, Katie." Again, I try to slip from her grip, but she hangs on. Jesus, she's got strong hands.

"Stay," she says. At least, I think she said it. Maybe I just imagined it.

"I'll be close-by. You need me, just call." Another escape attempt, no luck... or too much luck. She's not letting me go.

"Stay here."

Her voice was clear that time. Stay here. I heard it. I wonder if she's actually asleep, or if this is some guilt-free way to get me in bed. Oh, it wasn't my fault - I was asleep! Would she pull a cheap stunt like that?

Shit. Who cares? No matter why she's asking, I'm not gonna turn her down.

I quietly kick off the borrowed Adidas and stretch out on my back beside her. No pillow for me, which means my neck is gonna have a crick in the morning. I fold my left arm under my head and Kate finally lets go of my hand... and her arm slides across my stomach. Just when I think 'the move' is about to be applied, she sighs and nestles her face in the pillow. She really is asleep. I don't know whether to be disappointed or relieved.

Relieved, I guess. After all, I can't think of one person I've fucked who doesn't hate me or think I'm a total slag. Kate likes me. All that psych-jabber aside, she actually likes me and I know that for a fact. So as much as I'd love to roll a quarter-turn to the right and give her a three-to-one kiss (called such 'cause the odds are three-to-one that she'd wake up horny as hell and ready to spread for me), I *will not* do it.

I'm not gonna wreck this. I know it won't last much longer, but I'm not gonna be the one to drive us into the wall. Instead, I think about tomorrow morning and the return trip to the Tailor's den. I have a game plan this time. Screw Slayer instinct; I want to beat this demon fast and get Kate back on track. I can't afford to blow it. I go over the routine again and again until my brain gets muzzy and all I can hear is my own inner voice and Kate's breathing.

Needle, blood, fatecord, wind into machine, small pedal, large pedal, hissing sound, green glow, seam ripper, gap opens over mirror, go into the black...

Then what? Assuming I can crank the machine, how do I get Kate back to three p.m. on January 13th? And once she's done there, how do I get her out? That's what the demon's gonna tell me tomorrow, unless he wants to swallow a whole lot of pain. I'd surely love to feed him some.

A smile slides across my face. I lick two fingers, reach for the candle and snuff the wick.

++++++++++

A rude brightness sneaks under my eyelids. I must have slept through lights-up and first bed check. Wonder why the hacks let me sleep in? I'm on my side facing the light and it's so warm, it's almost like the sun. I don't want to get up, but it feels like nearly six-thirty and the breakfast bell is gonna ring soon. I frown and dig my face into the pillow that smells like hair and breath but not mine and not Chuny's and the long arm around my waist cinches tight and pulls me close and I remember that I'm not in prison.

That was yesterday morning; today, I'm in bed with a cop.

"Wha?"

I hear her speak and I open my eyes just in time to see Kate wake up. Her face is about three inches from mine, so it's hard to miss the sparks of panic jumping off her like fleas. Her eyes dart downward and she notes that we're both still dressed, that she's under the throw and I'm not. I can see her relax in that very second. Her eyes drift shut and she sighs.

"Thank God," she mutters.

I yawn and smile as I notice she hasn't moved her arm. We're side-by- side, face to face on the same pillow -- you couldn't slide a cigarette between us in most places. She doesn't seem in a big hurry to let go, either. "Thank God, my ass. You dig me like a ditch."

Kate grins, slaps at my hip and rolls onto her back. "I slept through the night?"

"Sure did. How do you feel?"

She stretches her arms out, arches her calves, moans kind of low. "Good. Really good."

"Beauty." I sit up and throw my legs over the side, reach for the sneakers. I feel her hand rest on my back and I freeze half-way down.

"You carried me in here?"

Come on, nimrod. Speak and move. Take shoe, slip on foot, repeat. "Yeah. Slayers are handy that way."

"Thank you," she says.

Her hand draws away slow, trailing along my spine and making my sides clench. I know she had to notice that -- I practically *shook,* for Christ's sake. What is wrong with me? Steinman hasn't gotten around to picking apart my sexual problems yet, but I know this is something I need to tackle, why my brain automatically translates "friendly" into "naked friendly." Maybe it's something I can work through, or maybe I'm just doomed to be arrecha por vida (horny for life), like Chuny Escobar or Angelina Jolie.

"Are you hungry?" Kate asks.

Lady, you have no idea. "Hell, yeah. My appetite's rolling in, Code Three."

A snicker over my stab at cop jargon, then she's off the bed and stretching her back. I hear a couple of pops and she groans deep and long, then turns around and smiles at me. "I think I can find you something suitable to eat. Let me go clean myself up first."

You're clean enough for me right now, is what I'm thinking. I am *such* a dog. When I get this way, everything sounds like a come-on. I need a second to wipe the smut off my brain before I can respond.

"10-4, Detective," I say, martialing a half-salute. I should probably advise her to proceed with caution, but part of me wants her reckless and stumbling through whatever this is, whatever's happening between us. I don't want to be the only one who's ass-backward lost.

++++++++++ Kate's running low on clothes; I'm wearing her last pair of clean jeans and a U.S. women's soccer team t-shirt, and she's sporting a sleeveless black t-neck under yesterday's suit. I told her the wrinkled look works on her, gives her that rumpled Columbo vibe. She told me I was full of crap.

I'm loading up on protein and carbs, fuel for the day ahead. Eggs, bacon, English muffins with jam, juice and coffee, and it's all ten times better than anything I've had in forever. It's taking a real effort on my part not to fall on the food like a starving dog. Good thing the talking is slowing me down.

"The demon gets his mojo from the machine," I'm saying around a mouthful of turkey bacon, "so it makes sense that if the machine is hobbled, his power is slashed, too. He might not even have those wards up -- the stupid spell, I mean."

"If he does, you'll use Rick's inhaler."

Eww. Skunk breath. "I don't *want* to, but yeah, I'll keep it handy. Either way, I don't think he's real dangerous without his gadget feeding him juice."

"But will he be weakened enough to intimidate?" Kate asks.

"Total wuss. I popped him once in the gut and he went down hard."

Kate nods and licks a spot of strawberry jam off her fingertip. "A lover, not a fighter."

"I don't think he's either one," I say. "It evens out, though. Some of us get to be both."

She looks at me for a long tick, her finger on her lips, eyes locked on my mouth. Poker face is in full effect - I can't tell if she sees a piece of egg on my chin, or if she's thinking about sweeping the dishes aside and pulling me across the table. I honestly can't tell and the not knowing just sucks like a Hoover. Makes it hard to pick your moments.

Kate turns her head. There goes another chance, up in smoke.

"Do you want to take something in with you? A weapon of some sort?" she asks.

I haven't fought with a weapon since I killed that demon in Angel's apartment. I don't think I'm ready to run with scissors yet. "Naah, don't need one. I'm the all-American bad-ass, no accessories required. My hands are usually enough to get the job done."

She glances at me sharp, then shakes her head. "I guess it would be pointless to ask you to stop that."

I didn't realize I did anything. I'm not fidgeting or whistling, not even chewing with my mouth open. "Stop what?"

"Flirting with me. Being so... suggestive."

Oh, she thought the stuff I said about hands and accessories was... heh. Katie's got a naughty streak. Good to know. "I'm not sure I can go cold turkey."

The corner of her mouth turns up; guess she's not too disappointed. "Could you scale it back a little? Until this is over."

"I'm getting to you, huh?"

She looks me straight-on and says, "Yes, you are. So, please... "

I know it wasn't all me, but I started it, I pushed it to a place where she's saying 'please let me alone.' God, I am such a dick. "Okay, consider it dropped."

I'm reaching for another piece of toast, something to stuff in my yap so I don't have to talk anymore, when Kate reaches up and takes my hand, gets my attention back.

"Until this is over," she repeats. "Then I'm gonna come see you."

Dazed now. She's gonna come see me. "In jail?"

"That's up to you. Wherever you are, we're gonna take some time to talk - without this strangeness hanging overhead - and we'll see if there's something here."

Something real, she means. Something that doesn't depend on intense circumstances and close quarters. Makes sense, but there's a big downside. "What if there's nothing?"

"I'll thank you for your help and I'll walk away." She blinks slow and tightens her fingers around mine. "But I don't foresee that happening. I can't write this up as a false alarm."

My eyes feel like they're stretched wide open - the always popular 'deer in headlights' look -- and my hands are starting to sweat. On the

outside, I must look terrified, but the truth is that I'm not scared at all. I'm on intimate terms with scared, and this is different; it feels like excitement, like anticipation but better.

Not too familiar with it, so this is just a guess: I think it might be hope.

A few seconds slip by quiet before I tighten my hand around Kate's, lean across the table and kiss her again. It's better this time. She sees me coming and she's ready; her mouth softens and takes me in, tongue wraps me up, strikes a bright flare inside me and I know in that instant that it's not a false alarm for me, either. This feeling is too good, makes me forget everything that got me here, makes me believe that nothing bad will ever happen to me again... it's too good. If I don't stop now, I won't stop at all. We won't leave this place for a long, long time.

But there's work to do. A demon to whip, mistakes to set straight. This can wait, right? It's gonna have to wait. We'll have time to pick this up later. Kate's surprised when I break off and back away, but I smile at her and eventually she smiles back. It's embarrassing, how much I like seeing her happy. I sit down and let go of her hand, fold my arms over my stomach.

"That'll have to hold you," I tell her. "Until this is over."

Kate groans and buries her face in her hands. "I have completely lost my mind."

"It happens. Just treat it like a roller coaster ride -- throw your hands up and scream! Enjoy it! I'll make sure you don't fall out."

She rolls her eyes, shakes her head... then Detective Kate Lockley of the LAPD literally throws her hands up and screams loud enough to shake the windows.

Damn. I think she's one of the coolest people I've ever met. I want more time with her, wanna hear everything she has to say about anything. Well, visiting day comes every week.

Then again, I've never been to Mexico. Wonder what Cabo's like this time of year.

++++++++++

It's nearly nine and we're back on the road, cruising toward the scene of the crime. This time *I'm* the one having second thoughts. I can't put my finger on it, but there's something gnawing at my confidence, something telling me to back off. It's just nerves, I guess. Only reason I was so gung-ho before, I had nothing to lose. Now, I just might have something to look forward to. For the third time on the drive, I check my pockets. Inhaler in right front, seam ripper with the point wrapped in left back, spark plug/crystal dealie in right back... and a wad of fifties from Kate in the left front. Running money, in case the sky falls down and we have to split up. She has a plan for this.

There's an airport locker key tied into the laces of my left shoe. In that locker, there's a couple of birth certificates, driver's licenses and passports under the names Rita Lance and Stephanie Frieberg -- two fake broads who bear a freaky resemblance to me and Kate, though I'm pretty sure Katie got the cool name.

I'm to pick up the papers, buy a shuttle ticket to San Francisco, and meet Kate and Judge Guerlain at the Southwest terminal. From there, we'll head to Cabo and regroup, figure out what steps to take next. This is Kate's plan B, and she says my participation is totally optional, since there's another way out of trouble for me.

In the locked case under the back seat is a letter to the warden excusing my absence from prison, explaining that I was just an innocent caught up in a misguided cover-up scheme. It details the events that led to those two boys getting convicted, and gives the location of two security camera videotapes that would back the boys' version of events. The letter is signed by Detective Kate Lockley and Judge Daniel Guerlain, and it would get me off the hook for sure, but it would also turn their names to mud for cops and judges and the Hispanics to throw at each other. Sure, they screwed up big-time, but they don't deserve that kind of eternal dissing.

I haven't told Kate yet, but even if I have to walk back to jail, I won't be using that letter. I can leak the videotape tip to the boys' lawyer so they can appeal the convictions and get a new trial, but that's all I'm giving up. If the cops want more answers about the case or about my vanishing act, let 'em sniff around that dummy paper trail and earn their paychecks.

I can take the heat for the escape. Let Corrections tack as much time onto my sentence as they want, since it doesn't really matter what the number is, anyway. If something comes up, if somebody worth helping needs this backup Slayer, you can bet your ass that I will leave prison again. It's not like they could stop me if I really wanted out.

Jail was my choice. I went inside to get my shit together, to have time away from everyone I hurt so I could figure out why it happened and make sure it would never happen again. I figured it would take a long time to get things sorted out, and I know I'm not done yet, not by a mile. There's still a few black wells hiding in my head and I need to keep searching them out, keep tapping and capping before they blow.

I'm pretty good now, though, better than I thought I'd be after fourteen months. Part of that's Doc Steinman helping me see things clearly, part of it's Angel writing to me and believing in me, but it's mostly just me. Just me trying to do the right thing minute by minute. After the first few months, jail wasn't a challenge anymore. I knew the routines. Nothing tested me or pushed me except the therapy sessions.

Steinman says that people are like tea bags, since you never know how strong they are 'til you drop them in hot water. Prison was lukewarm, tops. Kate Lockley, on the other hand, dropped me in some seriously hot water and took a sip to check my brew. She says I can pass muster now and I want to believe her. Like I told Kate, I just don't know if I'm strong enough to jump into Slaying again, especially alone.

The world is way bigger than Boston and Sunnydale and Los Angeles. There's so much I want to see and do and feel and touch and taste... I want to live some more before I die. I'm not in danger of croaking in prison, but inside I was half-dead and getting stiffer as the months dragged on. I feel alive now, my blood is loose and warm. I don't want to let this feeling go.

If there was a way to know that I could trust myself, a way to be sure that I wouldn't do that dark side dance again, I'd say buh-bye to prison life. I'd fix this Tailor demon mess, slip out of the pen, then take Kate Lockley to Cabo San Lucas to raise some serious hell. Maybe she'd go back to the force after her vacation days were used up, or maybe she'd decide to hang with me for a while, see what kind of trouble we could get into together.

I haven't come right out and asked her about that. If she can go back to work clean, I'm assuming she'll want to do that. Being a cop is her total deal, as far as I can tell. She's not a Watcher, not trained to back a Slayer, and why the hell would she want to try it? It's a hazardous gig. She could get hurt. Killed. I've failed my backers before. What if I couldn't protect her?

My stomach's starting to hurt. I'm getting ahead of myself, worrying about things that might not even happen. The Tailor demon could ambush me inside the shop, split my skull with an axe... but I seriously doubt it. I've got this sinking feeling that working the machine and dealing with the demon will be the easy part -- I don't mind sitting in the way, way back. There's nothing behind me that scares me or tempts me as much as what's ahead.

My future. I don't know where it's set - an 8x8 cell or a Baja beach. I don't know what role I'll play - the convict, the fugitive, or the hero. Maybe I'll make good and Buffy will forgive me. Maybe I'll sprout wings and fly over Sunnydale, drop a loaf on Willow Rosenberg's head. I don't know. All I'm sure of is that by the time I wake up tomorrow, this will be over and at least one thing's gonna be different. At least one thing will change.

When this is over, Kate's gonna come see me. And we'll talk without all this strangeness overhead. And there *will be* something there, something real. That's what I'm worried about.

Every time I've wanted something this bad, I've gotten it. But I always lose it. I want Kate Lockley, and the chances are pretty good that I might get her. The chances are also pretty good that I won't have her for long. Something bad will happen and it'll probably be all my fault. Jesus, my stomach hurts...

"You're awfully quiet," she says.

Her voice startles me. I wince, then try to play it off as a grin. "Makes two of us."

She snorts softly, hangs a slow right turn. "I wish I knew what to say."

"Makes two of us." I look at her, then out the window. We're in the city, on surface streets, probably getting close to Melrose. "Are we almost there?"

"Yeah. Another three blocks."

"Good." She lifts an eyebrow and I explain, "Nerves are starting to jangle."

"Mmm. Does that always happen before you face a demon?"

"No, it's not about that," I tell her. "I'm thinking about after. What comes next."

"Is that a question?" she asks, half turned to me.

I'm not sure. Maybe it was. "You got an answer?"

We're waiting at a stoplight, one block away from the Tailor's last known location, as Kate locks onto my eyes and reaches for my hand. Her fingers wrap around mine and squeeze tight. My stomach eases off a bit and a warm feeling spreads inside my chest. I don't want her to let go of me; I like how she hangs on.

"The good part," she says. "That's what comes next."

Aww, fuck it. Seriously, just FUCK IT! I wanna go to Mexico. I want to lay on the beach and drink sangria and eat at Edgardo's and slay vampires who don't speak English and make love with this woman until we forget our own names.

I don't care how long it lasts - a week, a day, an hour - if Kate's around, I'll take it and smile like a drunken monkey. I won't screw it up. I won't lie and I won't steal and I'll only kill bad guys and I won't ever, ever do anything to hurt her. Please, God, please... just give me one more turn. I fucking swear on my fucking life that I'll do it right this time.

I'll even stop cussing. Just... please... please... please.

The Dodge stops and Kate tries to pull her hand away. I hang on. She gives me a look, then reaches over and awkwardly uses her left hand to shift the car into park and cut the engine. Over her shoulder, through the driver's side window, I can see the Tailor's shop. The Retro Active illusion is still up and running, and the "Closed" sign is still in the window -- as is the blue leather jacket. I point at the shop and Kate turns to look.

"That leather jacket really got me. It was part of the spell, sucked me right in."

"I only see an empty storefront," she responds. "For Lease from McKenna Realty."

"The demon slid us together, me and that jacket, and it was wicked trippy. Sweet and warm and nauseating all at once. Like eating a peyote coin and a half-dozen chocolate bars."

"Really." Kate looks amused. "I have no point of reference to help me understand what that might be like."

And I don't know why I'm telling her this. I might be stalling. My stomach is churning again and I'm none too eager to start sucking on Rick's skunk smoke, which I'll probably have to do real soon. Uggh. I think I *am* stalling.

"You didn't miss any big wing-ding. I saw a giant chicken jump into Boston Harbor, then the water started boiling and I was thrilled because now there was enough soup to feed everybody in the world. I was so hungry, I actually drank some of that sludge, then I puked for about three hours and passed out. I woke up next afternoon on the roof of a Burger King in Watertown -- no clue how I got there."

Kate's quiet, letting my tirade slack and fade. That's the closest I've come to poor-mouthing myself in front of her, and it's as close as I ever want to get. No pity.

"Maybe the giant chicken dropped you off," she suggests.

Heh. I forgot for a second who I was dealing with - Miss Unflappable '01.

"Smart-ass." I squeeze her hand, smile a little. "Chickens don't fly."

"You can," she whispers. "It's not too late."

One last reminder that I'm not obligated to stick around, that my safety means more to her than her job, her rep. She's not the kind who puts herself first. She'd go to jail to spring those two boys she wronged, and she'd probably go with me to the far side of the planet if I told her I needed her help.

"If I cut out right now, you'd have to leave, too," I remind her. "Like you said, you and the judge would be over in this town. No badge, no robe."

Kate glances down, nods. "I know."

"You sure you could give it up?"

"We wouldn't stagnate," she tells me. "Daniel has connections in several countries. I think that, between the three of us, we could make a real impact somewhere."

"A cop, a judge and a Slayer." The words don't seem to go together. What's that kiddie song? One of these things is not like the others, one of these things just doesn't belong...

"Team Faith," Kate says, smirking.

"Aww, geez! Just cut it out." I'm blushing so hot, it's like a bad sunburn. Add that to the stomach ache and the warm wash in my chest that's happening every time I look at her too long, and I'm feeling altogether too weird. "I gotta go in there and finish this thing, okay?"

Ten, fifteen seconds pass in silence. I haven't let go of her hand and she hasn't tried to pull away. She must be waiting for me to do something. Even though it means breaking my word, and even though we're parked on a very public street within view of heaps of people -

Kate slips her free hand behind my neck and pulls me into a kiss. I've finally come to a decision about how she heads me off; I like it. Third time's the charm as far as this kiss goes. I feel my scalp tighten, my toes stretch, and everything in between is melting. All good things in my mind: soft black leather, butter and maple syrup, a straight grassy path under blue skies, clean and honest and no more pain...

I feel Kate tense up and pull back and the door opens behind me. Shit! Carjacker? I turn around and a something smashes against my head and I hear Kate yelling "No!" just before the black sky rolls in and the stars dance and dance just for me.

++++++++++

"... and I don't feel it would be wise to leave the two of you alone while you're in this agitated state. Angel should return shortly after sundown."

That's the first thing I hear when I wake up. Is that Wesley talking? I can hear, but I can't see. Blindfolded. Hands bound behind my back. Feet tied. I'm laid out face-up on a bed, as best I can tell. Shit, I'm surprised he doesn't have me trussed up like Hannibal Lecter.

"Wesley, I understand your concern, but I'm not the one who started it."

Kate's voice, close by me. I feel her weight shift on the bed and she leans over me, presses a cool damp cloth against the throbbing right side of my skull. "Her head's finally stopped bleeding. She needs medical attention, a CAT scan -- "

"Faith will be fine. She always is."

I know that voice, too. Goddamn sonofabitch. Buffy's here.

"You're in need of a physician as well," Wesley says to one of them. "I've stitched you both up as best I can, but you need anti-biotics to stave off infection."

He better not be talking to Kate. I swallow to wet my scratchy throat and aim my words toward the sound of her breathing. "You okay?"

She shudders and wraps her hand around my left biceps, squeezes slightly. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm good. How do you feel?"

"Like some self-righteous bitch knocked me in the head with a tire iron."

Kate snickers. Wesley clears his throat. The self-righteous bitch says nothing.

"How you doin', B?" I ask, casting it out loud and clear.

"Aside from my heightened annoyance at seeing you again, and this excruciatingly painful bullet wound in my shoulder, I'm just *super,* thanks for asking."

Her voice is low and tight, pained. Without consciously wanting to, I halfway sit up and my black world spins. "Jesus, B! Somebody shot you?"

Buffy snorts softly. "Don't sound so hopeful -- it's just a flesh wound. Too bad your new girlfriend isn't a better shot."

"I hit where I aim," Kate responds. She sounds cold, hard, but her hands are gentle as she eases me back to the pillow. I feel her fiddling with the blindfold.

"Leave that alone," Buffy snaps.

"Kiss my ass."

Okay -- gunplay and cursing. Lockley is ticked. Wesley clears his throat again. Kate slips her fingers under the blindfold and slides it down over my face, carefully avoiding the head wound. It takes a second or two for my vision to clear, then I see her holding up three fingers; looks like one of Chuny's gang signs.

"What do you see?"

"West coast rocks the mike," I say.

She lowers one finger and raises an eyebrow, waits for me to recognize the shift.

"Peace, out."

Kate smiles at me and I feel better, not so dizzy now.

"I told you she was fine," Buffy grumbles.

B sounds weird, all pissed-off and dry. Maybe it's the pain or something, but she's not her old sassy self. Not making with the smarty-pants routine that used to charm the pants right off of me. Literally, on a few occasions. Whatever. She was mad at me last time we met, too, when she thought I was nailing Angel. Maybe this is all she's got left for me.

We're in a bedroom with white walls and gray carpet, blue curtains and bed linens. Clothes and shoes and knick-knacks are laying everywhere; the place looks like a tornado tore through it. Two windows to the right; beyond the curtains, I see iron burglar bars. Trapped.

Buffy sits in a straight-backed chair in the far corner. Her pink shirt is splotched with red and there's a bandage just above her collarbone. Wesley stands in the doorway, leaning against the jamb with his hands behind his suit jacket.

"Where are we?" I ask Kate, since I don't recognize the surroundings.

Buffy whispers, "I'm surprised this room wasn't your first stop," just loud enough for me to hear. Nobody else - just me. I try to ignore the crack, focus on Kate instead.

"This is my place," Kate says. "They caught us, Sundance."

"Shoot."

I notice she's sporting new duds, a short-sleeved gray sweater and faded jeans. She picks up my drifting eyes and explains, "Bloodstains. I looked pretty ghoulish."

Great. I probably bled all over her. "Sorry."

She smiles, smooths my hair away from my forehead. "I thought we had an agreement about the apologizing."

I shrug as best I can; it's a trick, being all bound up. "Guess I broke my word."

"Get used to it," Buffy announces. "It's one of her specialties."

"Buffy, please," Wesley moans. "You're only making this more difficult."

"Oh, so sorry! By all means, let's make things easy and comfortable for the psychotic fugitive murderer and the crooked cop."

"I am not psychotic! I am a reformed sociopath with waning paranoid tendencies!" I counter, realizing too late that screaming out Steinman's last diagnosis makes me sound pretty freakin' psycho *and* makes my head ache something fierce. "And Kate is not crooked... goddamn, that hurts."

Kate turns to Wesley. "There's a bottle of T3 in the medicine cabinet."

He straightens and I see for the first time that he has Kate's fancy gun hidden behind his back. Guess that tells me who's in charge here. "Perhaps you could retrieve it," he suggests. "I feel I should remain here, for *everyone's* safety."

Kate nods, glances from me to Buffy, then gets up. "Stay away from her."

"Like you could stop me," B shoots back.

"Detective, please don't start this up again." Wesley sounds like he's tired, like he's been stuck between them for hours. Wonder how long I've been under. I see a clock on the dresser - 10:02 a.m., it says. That means I cruised through the twilight zone in about forty-five minutes. Not bad; I've shaved over eight months off my last race time.

"I'll be right back," Kate says to me. She strafes the icicle eyes over Buffy again, then darts out the bedroom door.

Buffy's staring at me, looking like she wants to toss me off another roof. "You do tend to attract the protective ones. Still doing that same tired routine? Little girl lost?"

And another happy Slayer reunion is underway. "Not that it's any of your biz, but I was trying to help her."

"Ahh, I see. You were helping her." Buffy nods and leans forward. "So, she stopped breathing and you were giving her mouth-to-mouth?"

What? Oh. In the car, before B turned my lights out, that kiss... "That is *definitely* none of your business."

"I thought all those anti-depressants they give people like you were supposed to dampen the libido," Buffy snipes. "From what I saw this morning, you need a higher dosage."

"I'm not on anything." Not that she cares, but I want her to know.

"You must have the prison psychiatrist fooled, too. Nailed him yet?"

Wesley's squirming like a worm on a hook. "Buffy, stop it."

"Come on, Wes. You know Faith only has two stages: torture and seduction. Their order is the only thing that varies."

I should say something here, I just don't know what. She's mad for sure, but I can't read whether it's pain from being shot, anger at having to be around me again, or something else. Truth is, I don't give a rusty fuck. She still hates me and it's plain that I'm never gonna be able to make that better. I'm different now and she can't see it. She won't see it. I turn my head and shut my eyes; I can't stand looking at her. All I see in her is what I did, who I was. Buffy's still talking, but it's just noise to me now. She's not saying anything new, and I hate oldies stations.

"Back off."

Kate's voice. I open my eyes and find her in the doorway. Buffy seems to have shut up for the moment. Kate moves past Wesley and comes over to the bed with pills and a glass of water. I raise up a little, open my mouth, and she lays the pills on my tongue, gives me a sip of water. It always gets me, how gentle she is with me, careful not to hurt me.

"One guess which stage they're in now," Buffy spits.

"Why are you still here?" Kate fires back. "You've cracked her head open, you've had your fun. Go home and entertain your friends."

"Believe me, I would like nothing more, but I'm not leaving until Angel gets here."

"Then the least you can do for all of us is to shut the hell up."

Buffy huffs, throws her hands up. "I'm getting that Cassandra feeling. I warn and warn and nobody listens."

"Because you're a crackpot with old information," Kate says. She points at me. "You've never even met *this* person."

"And you've known her for all of two days." Buffy shakes her head and sits back in the chair, crosses her legs. "Let me clue you in, Detective. Faith is like a condemned building with a new facade. Enjoy the outside all you want, but don't go in. You'll fall through the floor."

Kate's shoulders go back, chin tips up. "Like you did?"

Buffy's smug face turns hard and she glares at me, probably thinking I told Kate something I swore to keep secret. I didn't, though. If Lockley knows, she guessed it all by herself. This could get even uglier if it keeps up, so...

"Katie?" She looks over and I give a quick 'no' shake. "Not worth it. Let it fly."

She swallows hard, then sits down by me. "Can you sit up?"

I struggle a bit, but manage to sort-of sit up. Her hands go to the bonds on my wrists. Buffy and Wesley start in at the same time.

"Don't - "

"Kate, I don't think - "

"Would both of you please calm down?" Kate shouts. "There's a Slayer and an armed Watcher in the room. Faith's not going anywhere and she won't try anything. Right?"

"If you say so," I tell her. Not like I could jump up and throw down just yet, anyhow.

She nods in reply. "I'm untying her. If you want to stop me, shoot me."

Wesley brings the gun around, but sputters and lets it dangle by his leg. Buffy just rolls her eyes and groans. In a few seconds, my hands are loose, but totally numb. Kate takes them in hers and starts rubbing to get the blood flowing.

"So, what did I miss?" I ask her while trying to smile.

"Angel had people watching for me. Someone called his office and reported seeing me with you. Angel's out of town, so Cordelia phoned Buffy, who showed up this morning and tried to beat you to death."

"If that's what I wanted, she'd be dead," Buffy contributes.

"You were rearing back to hit her again. If I hadn't I shot you, she *would* be dead."

"And we wouldn't be enjoying this scintillating banter."

Kate gives her the evil eye. "No. I'd be on my way to prison for murder, and the world would have two brand-new Slayers."

Oh, boy. The air in here just got really thick. Speak, Fido. "I bet it was the bartender."

"What?" Kate's back on me now, thank god. She lets go of my tingling hands and tackles the knotted ropes around my ankles.

"The creepy bartender. The one who knew you."

"You took her to a bar?" Buffy gasps. "Jailbreaks, alcohol and sex. Let me guess - this was going to end with the two of you driving a convertible into the Grand Canyon, right?"

Before either of us can respond, Wesley steps forward. "Now, I've had just about enough of this childish baiting. If you can't behave in a more mature manner, I'll have to insist that you wait in another room."

Buffy stiffens and hisses at him. "You'll insist?"

Wes clears his throat and stands up tall. "I am the one with the gun, Miss Summers."

It takes a few painfully long moments, but she backs down. Wesley's got stones, I'll give him that much. Kate's got my feet loose now, and she slides back up beside me.

"Hey - if you shot B, how did Wes wind up with your piece?"

She half-shrugs and says, "I gave it to him right after we got here."

That was about the last thing I expected to hear. "Why??"

"To calm them down, show trust. Nobody's been shot or brained since I handed it over, so the plan seems to be working."

Huh. Not what I would have done, but okay. "So this is where you hang your holster?"

"Mmm. It was the closest place for you to recuperate." She tips her head toward Buffy. "Her, too. You like it?"

"Messier than I expected, but it's nice."

"The mess isn't mine. They were hoping to find the Tailor demon before I did, so they searched the apartment, hoping to find some kind of artifacts to do a locator spell. Wesley, if I had been home, I could have told you that I didn't have any such things and spared you the effort."

She's slipping me clues. Didn't have any such things. They don't know how far along Kate was, don't know about the box and the fatecord, about Rick's helping her. Guess she was right again; the guy was worth four grand after all.

"I apologize again for the disarray," Wesley says. "You had a head start, and we were in a great rush - "

"It's okay, really," Kate interrupts. "I know you were doing what you thought best. Too bad you didn't have any luck, either."

Either? They didn't know where to find the Tailor? Shit, they must have done some voodoo spell to locate *me* instead. That's how they found us this morning.

"Truly, I am glad that the two of you were unable to find the demon," Wes goes on, "Tailors are a virtually unknown species. They could be highly dangerous, even to Slayers."

I bite down on my tongue to keep from laughing. Without the spells from the machine, that demon was about as dangerous as a bag of wet noodles. I hadn't noticed before, but my pockets still feel lumpy; the crystal and seam ripper and all that stuff are still on me.

We could still pull this off. If Kate could get her gun away from Wesley and cover Buffy, we could make a break for it, get back to the shop and slip inside before they catch up. Crap, why did she give it to him in the first place?

Wes is still yammering and Kate's nodding, humoring him. Buffy looks like she's about to fall asleep.

"... so when Angel finds this Rick fellow he's seeking, he will no doubt locate the demon and bring an end to this entire debacle. Oftentimes, the only way to avoid a temptation such as the Tailor offers is to remove it entirely. In this case, I feel this is the appropriate course."

Angel's gone looking for Rick. Even if he finds him, it won't be safe for him to chase after us until nightfall. If we could just shake these two, we'd have a real chance to -

"Can you stand up?" Kate asks. Heading me off, natch.

I take stock of the bod and find the pain is slacking off. Not too dizzy now, either. "Yeah, I think so."

"Try to stand up and take a few steps."

Buffy rouses and bows up. "Just what do you think you're doing?"

Kate's slipped her arm around my waist and is helping me find the floor. "Without benefit of a CAT scan, we don't know if she has a concussion. If she can walk a straight line, that's a good indicator that there's no cerebral damage."

Sounds like bullshit to me. Buffy, too, I notice, but Wes is buying it.

"Just a few steps, then," he says. He lifts Kate's gun and rests his finger on the trigger. "I have no wish to fire this weapon."

"Don't worry," Kate tells him, "you won't be using that on us."

I'm wobbly on the first step, better on the second, good by the third. I'm at the end of the bed when Kate lets me go and I stand on my own. A couple of neck turns and I feel okay. I'm not sure I can dance yet, but I'm better. Those pills must be kicking in.

Buffy's standing now, looking grave and deadly. She wants to hurt me some more, I can see it in her eyes. "Satisfied? Good. Back on the bed, Faith."

"Now where have I heard that before?" It's out of my mouth before I can think better.

She's bull-mad and moving toward me and I see the fist coming up and I react. Just react. One hand on the bedpost, tilt the torso sideways back and bring the left foot up, spin on the right foot and BAM!! Right against her jaw. I feel the impact still running through my bones as I finish the turn and come back around and the room keeps spinning while I stand still.

I expect Buffy to pop back up and deck me. I expect Wesley to shoot me. Neither thing happens. Buffy's on the floor, a hand on her cheek, spitting blood. Capoera. Thanks, Chuny.

Wes is holding up the gun and pulling the trigger, but no shots are coming. Kate steps right in front of him and yanks the gun out of his hands, kicks him square in the nuts. Wes goes down.

"Let's go," Kate says to me. Businesslike and calm.

She takes my arm and we're moving out the door. She stops in the hall, slams the bedroom door and drags a chair under the knob. We continue down the hall and into the living room; more windows, more burglar bars. This place is like Fort Knox -- my girl's made it almost monster- proof.

She grabs a long iron rod by the front door, which is made of metal itself, and rushes me out of the apartment and into the stairwell. There's a small rug underfoot, which she kicks aside, revealing a dime- sized hole drilled into the cement. Kate drops the bent end of the iron rod into the hole and tilts the other end toward the door, fits it into a metal-cased divot, pulls the door shut. Never seen a burglar bar that works two ways. Then again, I've never met anyone quite like Kate Lockley.

"Sweet."

"It won't hold them for long," she says, turning her keys in the deadbolts, "but it might be long enough to make the airport."

Shit. She wants to bolt.

I feel kinda queasy as we take the stairs down floor after floor, but it's not from my busted head. I know this feeling, this sickly tilt-a- whirl sensation. This is what it felt like when I killed Finch and blamed Buffy, when I dusted Trick and visited Richard Wilkens.

This is a bad feeling, an on-the-verge feeling. I'm about to start running in the wrong direction again. Kate's probably not stained enough inside to know this energy for what it is; at first, it always feels like thrill, like if you just make it past an obstacle or two, the good times are gonna come rushing in. That's a lie. The things you leave undone always catch up to you, always overtake you and push your face in the mud. You wake up scared every day, go to bed every night with one eye open, waiting for the fear to take shape and grab your throat.

I won't live like that again... and I won't let Kate do it, either.

++++++++++ People stare at us as we fastwalk down the concourse at LAX. Why wouldn't they? Gorgeous blonde dragging a scraggly brunette with a head wound, blood on her sporty soccer t-shirt - not your typical air travelers. We reach the locker bank and I take the key out of my shoe, give it to Kate. She unlocks number 219 and pulls out an envelope.

"In there," she says, nodding toward the ladies room.

We go in and head to the handicapped stall, lock the door. She rips open the envelope and digs out the papers, hands me all the creds I would ever need to prove that I am Stephanie Frieberg, twenty-five years old and hailing from Albany, New York. Clean as a whistle.

"Daniel's on his way down there. He'll be at the hotel by the time we arrive."

I nod and keep my face neutral. She called him on the cell phone while we drove here, said three words to him: early retirement, immediate.

"Go to the counter, buy a first-class ticket and get on the plane. I'll follow in a few minutes. I'll sit in coach. We shouldn't be seen together again until the plane lands."

Now or never, Faith. Show some class. Come through for her.

"One for the road?" I ask, my smile shaking like every other part of me.

Kate looks puzzled, so I take the lead. I put my arms around her shoulders and pull her in, kiss her deep and soft and crazy, let everything out like a breath I've been holding all my life. It's the best thing I've ever felt, her cradled against me, hands around my waist, holding me close. Best thing I've ever felt.

As soon as the kiss ends and she backs up a step, Kate Lockley smiles at me.

I punch her in the face. Drop her with one quick blow and catch her before she falls.

Goddammit, I want to scream 'til I go hoarse. Knives and guns and tire irons don't mean anything right now -- *this* is pain. I settle her on the toilet seat, slip my fake papers back into the envelope, then take her car keys. I fish out the money she gave me and take one fifty dollar bill, tuck the rest into her pocket.

"I'm gonna make this right, Katie," I whisper. "But if I do fuck it up, have a margarita for me."

I lean down and kiss her forehead, then slide out under the door so it's still locked from the inside. A couple of kids see me and laugh, then go back to playing with their Pokemon cards while their mommy changes a diaper on the counter.

++++++++++ The taxi ride back to Melrose takes forever. Fucking Los Angeles traffic. The driver looks at me funny, all bloodied as I am, but like most cabbies he doesn't ask questions. When we get on the Tailor's block, I tell him to pull over and let me out. I fork over the fifty and tell him to keep the change, and he starts raving about how lovely American actresses are. He thinks I'm in movie make-up.

I don't have time to think about how screwy that is. I hit the street, march right up to the door of Retro Active, whip out Rick's skunky inhaler and take a deep hit.

Then I go through the door.

It's different inside, not so creepy as before. The decor is the same - black walls, roses, Terrazzo underfoot - but it's lost that mausoleum feeling. It's just a place now, a place where a demon plies his trade. I clomp past the mannequins and through the beaded curtain into the back room where I find the Tailor demon sitting in his puffy chair, sipping a glass of lemonade.

"I was wondering when you would return," he says.

"Stop wondering. Let's crank this mother up."

He twitches his mustache. "The machine will not function without the crystal, though I am sure you already know that."

"You mean this little thing?"

I produce the rock and his eyes bulge. He wants it back in the worst way, knows he's helpless without it. No rock, no magic. No magic, no stupid Faith to manipulate.

He sets his glass on a coaster and stands up, steps toward me.

"Nuh-uh. Stay back." I don't want him to smell the immunity on my breath, but he takes my response for fear.

"I have no desire to harm you, Faith. Give me the crystal and I will bring your wishes to reality. You know I can."

I nod and toss the crystal to him. He bobbles it, but hangs on, sighs like bliss once it's in his hands. It's like I just handed him back his dick.

"Marvelous," he says.

He goes straight to the machine and slides the crystal into place. I see that the same thread is still on the needle, the thread stained with my blood. Old blood, old desires. We need to do that part again.

"Prick me."

He turns around, all confused. "I beg your pardon?"

"Things have changed since last time. I want something else now."

"Ahh, I see."

He takes the needle out, slips a new fatecord into the eye, and comes toward me. I hold my breath and pray that he can't pick up the monumental reek coming off me. I offer a finger and he stabs me quick, runs the cord through the bubble of blood, just like before. Places the needle in the machine, just like before, winds the thread around the crystal.

Everything's just like the first time, everything except me. I know where I'm going.

The Tailor sits at the machine, works the pedals, and the crystal starts glowing green. He looks over at me expectantly, and I take that as my cue. I smile and let out a little giggle, which sets him at ease. He thinks he's got me now. He keeps working the machine until the hissing sound comes again, that sound that scared me straight yesterday means something entirely different today. It's like a factory whistle calling me to work.

The Tailor gets up and walks over to me. I see him coming this time, no hocus-pocus to make him seem all mysterious and floaty, and he opens his hand.

"I believe you borrowed an implement from me. Please give it back."

I take the seam ripper from my back pocket and unwrap the sharp end. I smile at the demon and step up in his face. He doesn't know what hit him as I grab his tie and yank him down, place the point of the tool against his throat.

"Do exactly what I say and there's a small chance I won't *gut you* like a tuna."

"You, you, you don't want to do that," he stammers. "Just take a deep breath and calm yourself, my dear."

I take a deep breath. No chills in the chest, no happy buzz. Magic Rick fuckin' rocks.

"How do you feel?" the demon asks meekly.

"I feel like taking a trip. You're coming with me."

I say a quick pleasepleaseplease to the universe and whip the seam ripper across the air in front of the big mirror... and a hole opens up. Six feet tall and glowing around the edges.

"Hot damn! Grab your balls, Johnny! We're going in!"

"Oh, no, please ...

... don't do this!"

What a rip off. I thought it was gonna be some psychedelic ride, all colors and fast speeds and falling down the rabbit hole, but it's nothing like that. Without the magic twisting my melon, the trip is just like stepping into a totally dark room. I've still got the Tailor's tie in my fist and the seam ripper is pressed against his neck. Gotta hang on to him since I can't see shit.

"Where are we?"

"In the between space where there is no time," he whispers.

"Layman's terms, Johnny."

I hear him sigh and I think I hear him roll his eyes. "This is the staging area between was and will be, past and future."

"How do we get to the past from here?"

"That is the function of the spell... the one which you took it upon yourself to neutralize," he sneers. "When your inhibitions are lowered, the spell elegantly guides you through the darkness, whisking you back to the moment you secretly seek."

"Drops you on your ass in the middle of a scene, is more like it," I counter. "So how do we get anywhere without the spell? Hoof it?"

"It's impossible," the Tailor snorts. "Nobody walks in Los Angeles."

He just repeated Kate's words back to me. The blood, the thread, he knew all my favorite flavors... he knows how to do this. I jab the seam ripper into his skin, just a little wound to get his attention. He shrieks and struggles to get away from me, but I yank hard on his tie and wrap in around his neck, step behind him and cinch it tight.

"Let's get kinky and do it manually," I suggest. "Get moving or die where you stand."

He's shaking, scared real good. I feel him nod and he takes a step. I move with him.

There's no light in here at all, and the only sound is coming from us. Breathing, walking, fabric whispering as we go... somewhere. After about twenty steps, the Tailor pulls up short.

"Here. The bolts are here."

"Bolts?"

I feel his moving his arms up, grabbing hold of something, and I press the ripper tighter against his throat. He shudders and stills.

"I need to loosen the edge of the fabric. Give me a small amount of latitude, please? I have not worked in this manner since the time of the Stroganoffs."

The fuck? He's talking about noodles? "Whatever, just go slow - I spook easy."

He nods, begins again and I hear cloth rustling and something squeaking, like rusty metal turning... and then I see myself.

Out of the dark, just in front of the Tailor, comes an image of me and the demon standing in front of the big mirror, half gone into the glowy-edged black gap. The picture is flat on a roll of fabric, like it's been ironed on to a t-shirt. The demon is holding the edge of the cloth, snapping and straightening it until it comes into clear focus. It's awesomely strange, and I stare at it for a while until find my voice.

"What the hell is this?"

"This was the last thing that happened to you in the real time," he says. "On these bolts are embroidered the moments of your life, every second since your birth is here, sewn into the fabric of time.

"We Tailors were gifted with the ability to correct bad seams, to darn the torn times and restore the fabric to suit the being it clothed... at a premium cost."

"Souls."

"The currency of the underworld; like gold, valued by all."

It shouldn't matter to me, but I want to know. "Why were you guys hunted down?"

In the dim glow from the fabric picture, I see his mustache twitch.

"Some of us stopped accepting payment. The overlords were displeased with our impunity. An edict was nailed to the door of the Temple of Jeulnor - our death warrant. Once, we were legion. Few of us remain... one less after today."

His voice is soft, and he sounds resigned to dying by my hand. I can't think about that right now.

"Do you know where I want to go? When, I mean."

"I believe I do."

"Then let's get on with it."

I let go of his tie and step back, take the ripper away from his skin. He steps closer to the fabric bolt and starts pulling down reams of the cloth, faster and faster. I catch glimpses, still frames of myself bloodied in the taxi, playing pool with Kate, practicing spinning kicks with Chuny, then it's all too blurry to pick anything out. The fabric's not pooling around the Tailor's feet like I expected - it's just rolling itself under the bolt, slipping out of sight.

I realize now that Angel was right, that no matter what the book says, a regular schmuck like me couldn't have done this. This is skilled labor, what this demon is doing. His hands are fast and light, moving over the scraps of my shoddy little life with care... like Kate. It's the same way she touched me. Gently, with affection.

The Tailor stops moving and I see the place he's picked. Bingo.

"Will this be adequate?" he asks.

"Looks good to me," I say. He waits, watches me. "What now?"

"You have the tool."

"And I'm not giving it back 'til this is over. What do I do?"

He smiles a little; I think he heard something hopeful in my words, like maybe I don't intend to kill him unless he fucks me over. I guess maybe I don't.

"Insert the point of the seam ripper along the line of your body and pull open a gap, then step through."

"That simple?"

"Just so. When you are done making your alteration, rip a gap along any mirrored surface and step back here. I will mend the tear and thy will be done."

I do exactly what he said; insert the ripper and tear a gap along the line of my body, then tuck the tool into my front pocket. Be strong. Just tell the truth and everything will be cool. I step through...

... and I'm sitting in a small chair with my hands cuffed in my lap. I smell bad, since I'm wearing the same clothes I wore that night. I remember I sweated right through the shirt, I was so scared. I'm not scared this time.

There's a table in front of me with a running tape recorder and a pitcher of water. Two glasses - one for me and one for the cop sitting across from me. Dolman. His name is Dolman.

Kate Lockley sits off to the side, watching me, listening to Dolman ask me about the guy I beat down. The one who tried to hassle me at the bus stop.

"You broke bones, young lady! And the vic claims you only used your hands! How did you manage that? Roll of dimes tucked in your fist?"

I know how I answered him, but I don't have anything to say to this guy. I'm here to talk to Kate, who at this point doesn't know me from shit. If this works, she never will.

"Detective Lockley?"

She stiffens, seems surprised that I called her by name. "I'm only observing Sargent Dolman's interrogation. Direct your comments to him."

No time to screw around, just get to the point. "You're investigating a robbery homicide in the hills, right? Rich people, home invasion, wife raped and murdered, husband stabbed multiple times."

Kate stands up, comes over and stands by Dolman. "You have information about that?"

"The guy who did it, his name is Rafael Acevedo. Hispanic male, six- two, two-twenty. He lives in Watts with his cousin."

She leans down, braces her hands on the table. "How do you know this?"

"A friend told me. Someone I trust."

"Who?"

"That's not important. Thing is, if you don't stop him now, he'll do it again and things will get *really* out of control. But he's a mean fucker, so be careful. He hates women and he loves to cut people up."

"Heh. Old boyfriend?" Dolman asks me.

Kate takes a pen and notepad from her jacket, jots down the info. I see her gun in the shoulder holster and a question occurs to me, one I didn't think to ask her before.

"Detective?"

She fixes me with those goddamned beautiful eyes and my train of thought derails.

"What is it?"

"Uhh... not that I'm planning to try anything stupid here, but does your gun have one of those security things that keeps other people from firing it?"

Dolman tenses up, but Kate puts a hand on his shoulder and eases him down.

"Yes," she tells me. "It's a grip lock, molded to fit my hand."

I nod and give her my best smile. "Cool. That's a good thing."

She looks at me with this weird expression, like she's wondering what to make of me, then she blinks and shakes it off. She raps Dolman on the arm.

"Sargent, could I talk to you outside for a moment?"

Dolman grunts a yeah and gets up. He shuts off the tape recorder and follows Kate out of the room. I get a glimpse of her standing in the hallway, looking back at me, then the door closes and I'm alone.

I draw in a deep breath and it comes out broken. I did it. I fucking well did it. I changed something for the better. Kate's gonna catch this guy and January 13th won't happen. Her life won't crash into the wall. She'll never get desperate enough to break me out of jail. None of it will happen... not even the good parts.

Just when I think I know what pain is, something new comes along and redefines the whole fucking concept. I'm aching in a whole new way; it's different because I know I did the right thing. There's no shame attached to this.

I stand up and walk over to the mirror, the one the cops are standing behind, watching me cry. Let 'em look. I might be crying, but my head is up high.

I take the seam ripper out of my pocket and run a fast line across the mirror, jump through the hole into the black...

... and the Tailor demon is there, catches me as I stumble. He's stronger than he looks and he holds me up until I get my feet back. I look up at him and ask,

"What do I owe you, Johnny?"

He shakes his head, twitches the 'stache. "Professional discretion. I never charge for selfless acts."

A weird sound comes out of my throat and I realize that I'm still crying. Fuck it. I'm hurting and I need to let it go. I drop the seam ripper and put my arms around a goddamned demon and cry for myself, for doing the right thing and losing anyway.

Steinman says I don't normally cry because I don't allow myself to feel deeply enough. I'm feelin' it now, you hippie sonofabitch. Hope you're happy.

After a while, after I'm tapped and snuffling like a baby, I pull away from the Tailor and scoop the seam ripper off the floor. Even in the dim light, I can see he's afraid.

"Sew it up," I tell him. "That's all I wanted."

Silently, he turns and starts darning the tear with a needle and fatecord, closing the hole in the police station mirror until it's completely shut. I see the scene has changed; now I sit alone in the interrogation room. The Tailor only lets me look for a second before he begins rolling the following days back onto the bolt. They all look pretty much the same as I remember.

"Nothing looks different," I say. "You sure it took?"

"You changed *her* life much more than your own. The differences are subtle, but you will notice some changes in the hand... in the way your days drape around you."

He's done now, back to the end of the bolt, the picture of us halfway through the black gap, and when it rolls away, the darkness falls again.

"I'm ready," he says from close beside me. One hand lights on my shoulder and the other takes my hand, guides the ripper to his throat. "The needles and thread are in my left coat pocket. Make the stitches as tight as possible."

He can't fight me, so he won't even try. I take his tie and start walking, pacing off the twenty steps back to where we started, then I pick a random point in the blackness and whip the ripper down. A gap opens, though I can only see the edges glowing green - beyond the black is just more black. I turn toward the demon and I feel him tense, preparing for attack.

I lean down, wedge the ripper under Kate Lockley's sneaker, and snap off the point. A bright green flash washes through the dark, and we both know the thing is broken. He can sew things up, but his days of ripping holes in time are over. Not everybody who comes to a temporal demon for help is as nice as me.

"Get out of the game before you get killed, Johnny," I tell him. "Call it early retirement."

"But... but where will I go? What will I do?" His voice is shaking bad.

"I hear Cabo San Lucas is a pretty happenin' place. Open a juice stand."

"A juice stand?"

I wipe my eyes and chuck him on the shoulder, and I'm laughing as I step through the gap...

... screw you, Luther! Can't you see she's sleeping?"

I open my eyes and find myself on my bunk, in my cell, with Chuny Escobar smart-mouthing my favorite prison hack. I groan and take a moment to re-assemble my brain before chiming in.

"What's up, Sipowicz?"

"See there? I told *you* she was just faking!" he says to Chuny, who flips him off and goes back to reading her magazine. "You gotta come with me. Cops wanna talk to you."

"Cops?"

"Two of 'em. Down in the lawyer room."

He unlocks the cell door while I get up and give myself the once-over in the steel mirror. The good news is that I have no head wound. The bad news is obvious - I'm back in fucking prison, wearing my ugly-ass orange suit. Everything else is up for grabs.

Luther leads me down the halls and into the conference area by the vending machines. He waits by the door. I look at the machines and wish for the thousandth time that they had something in them besides milk and Snapple and those lousy peanut butter cheese crackers. Seems like just yesterday I had Pepsi and chocolate... among other things. Things I don't want to think about just yet.

I sit at the table and wait for the cops to show. No idea what they might want with me, so I'll just try to roll with the punches, feel my way through. I lean down and start picking at the sole of my slipper when two sets of legs appear in the doorway. Black boots and pants in front, tan loafers and faded jeans behind.

I raise up and find Angel looking down at me. I'm so happy to see the bloodsucking bastard that my face breaks out in a smile and my heart skips a beat.

Then I see Kate Lockley behind him, talking to Luther, and my heart just plain stops.

"Sorry we're late," Angel is saying as he sits down. "Traffic."

Late? I was expecting them? That sounds good. "S'okay," I say. "What's up?"

"Not much this week. Some activity down by the docks, but Gunn and Wesley handled it without incident."

"Uh-huh. Good, good."

"The comic shop was closed by the time we got there. I'll send Cordelia next time, just to be sure we don't miss the guy."

What's all this we business? Does Kate come with him every week? "Yeah, okay."

"I did manage to smuggle in some junk food."

He slides a brown paper bag across the table. I only see it from the corner of my eye, since I can't seem to stop looking at Kate. "Great. Thanks."

"Faith, are you feeling alright? You usually attack that stuff like a wolverine."

I should answer him, but Kate's coming into the room and my mouth won't open.

"Hi, Faith," she says as she walks up behind Angel. Puts her hands on his shoulders, leans down and whispers into his ear. "Luther told me a dirty joke. Remind me to share it on the way home."

Angel sort of nods, turns his head to the side as if he's embarrassed.

Some things I don't see right off, but I've never been slow on the uptake when it comes to signals like the ones Kate's sending him. She's totally into him. They're together now.

Probably goes something like this: I tell Kate where to find that killer guy, she does me a solid by arranging for Angel to visit me in the evenings by posing as a cop. Months pass, they bond over mutual good deed-doing and the long drive up here or whatever, and things get physical. She falls for him, but he doesn't fall back.

This is Angel sneaking me junk food and comic books, not Angelus. He doesn't love her.

He doesn't love her, but I do. Jesus, my stomach hurts.

"Guys, I'm feeling pretty crappy," I mutter. "Mind if we cut this short?"

I get up and head for the door without waiting for an answer. Angel calls after me, but I ignore him. I start walking back toward my cell and Luther comes scrambling after me, keys jangling, words coming out of his mouth that I don't hear.

First Buffy, now Kate. Everybody loves Angel. Shit, I wish I could hate him again.

Things were so much simpler when I could just turn the hate on and forget all the stuff underneath. I try it for a minute, try cursing him and telling myself that it's not fair, that I never get a break, that this ISN'T FUCKING FAIR!!

And it burns out just as fast as it flared up. What has Faith learned from this experience? When you do evil, you get evil back. There's nothing more evil than showing somebody a little happiness, then taking it away. Angel knows it, and he tried to warn me that this might happen.

Jail isn't my punishment. My penance is knowing that I could have had Cabo San Lucas and Kate Lockley and I chucked it all because I'm a good person and I put somebody else ahead of me. Nice guys finish last.

"Luther?" I call ahead.

He stops unlocking the cell block door and turns to me. "Whatta you want now?"

"Call Doctor Steinman for me. Ask him if he can see me tomorrow."

"Your appointment ain't until three days."

"Please, Luther. I need to talk to him. Please."

He scratches his bald head with a thumbnail, nods. "Okay."

Minutes later I'm back in my cell. I drop on my bunk and stare at the ceiling 'til lights out. Just after bed check, Chuny comes over and slides in beside me, slips her hand over my ass.

"Don't."

She pulls back, shoots me a look. "You don't wanna?"

"No."

Chuny shrugs and starts to roll off the bed, but my arm rockets out and grabs her, pulls her close.

"Stay, okay?"

She lays still, stiff, like she doesn't get it. "Just lay here?"

"Yeah. Sucks being alone."

She laughs a little, loosens up and presses back against me. I shut my eyes and try to remember what Kate smelled like, how her arms felt around me, how she looked at me like I was worth something. She'll never know what I'm worth. It's up to me to remember.

It takes forever to fall asleep.

++++++++++

END

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