Fic: Scorned 1/8
Sep. 3rd, 2010 12:37 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dragonyphoenixTitle: Scorned
Series: Lotus in Muddy Water
Fandom: BtVS
Characters/Pairing: Faith, Wesley
Rating: PG-13
Concrit: Please, in comments
Disclaimer: They aren't mine, not yet, but the will be once I've taken over the world. Bwah-ha-ha.
Summary: As she pinned the comb in her hair, whiteness snaked out from the comb, bleaching her hair. She screamed, arching forward as she fell into the sea. Twisting under the waves, she writhed under the water, as if scrabbling for escape. Her hand reached upward but was unable to break through the surface. With a final grimace, she relaxed into the sea's cold embrace. As her feet touched down to the bottom, white locks drifted in the current. The moon drifted across the horizon and was close to setting before she moved again. Her eyes opened and looked up from below the sea.
Notes: Many thanks to my most awesome betas: deird1, for making sure Wesley and Aidan didn't do anything totally unBritish; and diebirchen who had the agonizing job of checking my grammar and telling me when what I wrote just didn't make sense - she put in a lot of work, which I very much appreciate.
Notes: Petra Hyde Burnand was Faith's previous Watcher, the one killed by Kakistos.
Notes: The Narbon XL-7 is named after Helen Narbon from the most excellent comic, Narbonic
Notes: The song Faith sings in Wesley's car is “Strange Phenomena” by Kate Bush.
Notes: Much like Brigit, I couldn't resist the scene from Young Frankenstein.
Notes: The gag with the spilt milk in the kitchen is from the original Pink Panther movie (Peter Sellers version).
Deepwater, Connecticut extends out from its center, a tourist town on the shore of the Atlantic, through homes ranging from merely moderately-expensive to ultra-expensive and onto more private stretches of beach. It was in one of those more secluded spots, an area that had belonged to a limited and related number of families for generations, that the woman, a mere girl really, no more than twenty, strode towards the sea. By the expression on her face, it was clear that fury gripped her heart as tightly as her white knuckled-hand clenched her bag.
A few feet from the shoreline she stopped, so lost in her misery that she didn't even notice how her hand had started cramping. Her jaw tightened as she gazed out over the water. “Bastard.” Her scream was echoed by the cries of the gulls flying overhead. Undressing quickly as if her clothes were scalding her, she discarded them were they fell. Putting her hands to the bun on the back of her head, she let the pins drop onto the beach until her auburn hair hung down to her hips. The wind picked up and wisped her hair about as though snakes were writhing around her head.
Kneeling down, she pulled a candle and a knife out of a bag. At the edge of the shore, where the waves washed against the sand, she lit the candle and left it behind. She was hip deep into the water before she stopped to slash a cut across the palm of her left hand. Yanking off her engagement ring, she dropped it on top of the wound. “Be'thatet” she cried out, chanting in a tongue that hadn't been a living language in over a thousand generations. The candle flame flickered wildly and then went out. She opened her hand, and the ring was gone, replaced by a comb showing three waves before the sun. The stones, making up the three stylized waves that decorated the comb, shifted in color so that they seemed to ebb and flow with the waves at her feet. As the comb's red sun darkened, she thought of a setting sun. “Perfect, the end of the day to reflect the end of his life.”
As she pinned the comb in her hair, whiteness snaked out from the comb, bleaching her hair. She screamed, arching forward as she fell into the sea. Twisting under the waves, she writhed under the water, as if scrabbling for escape. Her hand reached upward but was unable to break through the surface. With a final grimace, she relaxed into the sea's cold embrace. As her feet touched down to the bottom, white locks drifted in the current. The moon drifted across the horizon and was close to setting before she moved again. Her eyes opened and looked up from below the sea.
As she crawled out onto the shore, one final wave washed over her, leaving her dressed in a gown as dark as the sea. She stood uncertainly, as if she wasn't sure what legs were for, and then she began walking over the dark, wet sand. After she'd traveled a bit over a mile, she spotted a man sitting on a rock, smoking something sweet smelling. “You're not him, but you'll do for a start,” she whispered before calling out with a sound that wasn't quite whale song. It sank into him, drowning any part of him that might fight her until he couldn't resist her call. The song reeled him in. When she saw the terror in his eyes, she smiled, showing teeth so sharp they weren't even close to human. Reaching her cold hands out to him, she pulled him into the sea with her, dragging him down under the water until the last of his air bubbled its way to the surface, vanishing in the crashing of waves.
* * *
Faith couldn't believe that Aidan had dragged her back to Boston, to the townhouse that her new Watcher apparently thought he could take over lock, stock, and barrel. Wes was clumsy where Petra – her real Watcher – had been calm, skittish where Petra had been assured, and an asshole where . . . well, Petra could be a real bitch at times. Maybe it was a Watcher thing, although in that case, you'd think Aidan would be arrogant too. Not that he was really a Watcher, but there was some sort of connection there, and he was Petra's cousin. Aidan wasn't much like Petra though. He had an economy of movement that told Faith that she'd be hard pressed to beat him in a fight, even if he was old enough to be Wesley's father.
As they left the townhouse, Wesley was working out how to get Faith back to Boston and under his firm control within the week or, well, within two or three weeks at most. His thoughts were interrupted by Faith's exclamation. “Tell me this isn't your car.”
“The Infinity Q45 is a perfectly serviceable vehicle,” Wesley told her, while wondering if all Slayers were so difficult.
“It looks like something my granny would drive, if she were still around, that is,” Faith said. “You sure I can't ride with you?” Faith asked as she traced a finger over the sleek shell of Aidan's Narbon XL-7, the most brutally beautiful motorcycle she'd ever seen.
Aidan shook his head but only said, “Let's get on the road.”
Wesley handed her a map. “If you could find Deepwater, that would be most helpful.”
Faith shoved the map back at him. “Aidan wrote down the directions for you.”
“Faith,” he said condescendingly, “neither a Watcher nor his Slayer can ever be over-prepared.”
Rolling her eyes, Faith got into the passenger seat, leaving Wesley to try and refold the map. Wesley carefully refolded the map, glaring at Faith all the while, and then pointedly reached over her to place it in the glove compartment. As he pulled the car away from the curb, Wesley started in on a litany of complaints. After a mere five minutes of this barrage, Faith wasn't sure she'd even make it out of Massachusetts, much less all the way to Connecticut. “And I do not understand why you called in an outsider in the first place. I assure you that training with a Watcher is more than adequate to prepare a Slayer for any demons she might face.”
Faith reached over and turned on the radio. Big band? she asked herself. How'd he even find a station that plays this crap? Turning the dial to WFNX, she sang along, drowning out Wesley's complaints with, “We raise our hats to the strange phenomena. Soul birds of a feather flock together.”
Wesley turned off the radio with an angry jerk of his hand. “Are you listening to a single word I'm saying?”
“Trying not to,” she replied honestly.
“You may not take your responsibilities seriously, but I can assure you that I–“ Faith leaned out the window until she couldn't hear him anymore.
* * *
Leaping out of the car as soon as it hit the driveway, Faith raced to the house, getting only a glimpse of white walls and pillars in her haste to escape. She slowed down enough that she was merely jogging up the three steps to the oval porch. The door opened, and a dark-haired woman carrying an umbrella, walked out. “Hi, you must be Faith. I'm Brigit, Aidan's assistant.”
Faith ran a hand through her hair to hide her surprise. When Aidan had said his assistant was a widow, Faith had pictured the crazy cat lady who'd lived down the street when she was a kid. Brigit did seem to be a bit odd, carrying an umbrella on a sunny afternoon, but she certainly wasn't old. She looked a few years older and had a slighter build than Faith, and her hair, which was as dark as Faith's, was also straighter, curling only slightly where it ended at her neck. Her top, a bright red sleeveless bit of fabric, hung comfortably over her blue jeans. While Faith tended to be uncomfortable around new people, Brigit's impish grin put her at ease.
A voice drifted down from above them. “Hi.”
“Claire,” Brigit said lazily, as Faith jerked her head up to see a girl leaning so far over a railing that Faith couldn't figure out what was keeping her from crashing to the ground.
“Hey,” came another voice from above. “I want to see them too.”
“Meet you down there,” Claire replied. She vanished but then reappeared as she flipped down to hang from a post at the edge of the porch before dropping to the ground.
“Hi,” she said, holding a hand out to Faith. “I'm Claire.”
“So I gathered. Wanna tell me how you did that?”
“Gymnastics.” Claire, a young teen with blond hair, was small enough to make her comment seem plausible.
“Don't show off,” Aidan said, coming around from behind them.
“Oh, come on, Uncle Aidan,” she said. “I've got to keep in practice.”
As another girl stepped out the front door, Brigit introduced her sister, Grace. The girl was close to Claire in age, with Brigit's dark hair, although her features were finer. Just as Grace seemed about to speak, she was interrupted by Wesley, who was dragging three large suitcases, which crashed into each other at every step.
“Can I help?” Claire asked, bouncing down the steps.
Wesley looked up, surprised. While he'd been pulling the bags out of the car, he'd been too caught up in his fury to notice what was going on.
“It's all right,” Brigit said, misinterpreting his expression. “Your bags will be safe, I promise. Grace, why don't you help too.” She led her sister down the steps, joining Wesley on the walkway.
“But I–,” he protested as the girls took his bags away from him.
“And you?” Brigit asked Faith. “Do you need help?”
Faith nodded towards the bag of weapons in her right hand and gave a tug on the strap of her backpack. “Nah, I'm good.”
As the girls vanished into the house with the bags, Wesley reached out a hand. He was about to follow when a spate of giggles, obviously coming from the girls, stopped him in his tracks.
“I'll be in my study. Anything interesting while I was gone?” Aidan asked Brigit.
“Nothing definitive.” He nodded to acknowledge her response and headed into the house. “Dinner's in two hours,” she called after him. When he didn't respond, she rolled her eyes.
“Did you say something about food?” Faith asked. “'Cause I'm starved.”
“Sure,” Brigit replied. “We'll get you two settled in, and then get you a snack.”
Turning to Wesley, she gave him a quick once-over, and then, hitching up one shoulder as if she had a slightly hunched back, she told him to “walk this way” as she clumped up the three steps, leading with her right foot while leaning on the umbrella as if it were a cane. At the top step, she repeated the phrase while waving the umbrella at Wesley. “Walk this way.”
Exhausted from his rage at Faith, Wesley shook his head a bit, as if not quite understanding what was being asked of him. He repeated Brigit's motion, limping up a step and leaning on the umbrella. Faith burst out laughing as he took the second step. He glared up at her and then glanced down at the umbrella that he was using as a cane. Standing up straight, he shoved the umbrella at Brigit and stormed into the house.
Brigit rushed in to find him standing just inside the entryway, between the dining and living rooms, looking around as if lost. “I don't suppose you could show me to my room without any more shenanigans,” he asked.
“I am sorry,” Brigit said, trying to make amends as Faith laughed in the doorway. “A bunch of us went to see Young Frankenstein at the Playhouse last weekend, and I wanted to see if the gag would really work.”
“Don't worry about it,” Wesley said with a distracted air. He'd noticed that nobody had invited them in although given that it was mid-afternoon, he and Faith obviously couldn't be vampires. He was starting to wonder who lived in the house and how much they knew. It could prove tricky, keeping Faith's status as the Slayer a secret. On the other hand, perhaps the Council would allow him to remove Faith from Aidan's supervision if they knew of all the laypeople in his home.
“Bedrooms are upstairs,” Brigit said. Turning to Faith, she added, “You can store your weapons downstairs, just off of the training room, if you like.”
“Um, thanks, but no thanks. I'd rather keep them with me, if you don't mind,” Faith replied.
In response, Brigit gestured towards the staircase. Faith started up, and Wesley, with a bland “Ladies first,” brought up the rear.
“You get a lot of guests carrying weapons?” Faith asked.
“Oh yes,” Brigit replied cheerfully, “given Aidan's interest in the martial arts, and of course I expected you to have your own.”
“Oh yeah, why's that?” Faith asked absentmindedly.
“Because you're the Slayer.”
“What?” Wesley shouted. Rushing to join Brigit on the second floor, he whispered, “What makes you think– That information is highly confidential.”
Brigit took a step back. “Aidan's books are full of Slayer lore.”
“And he told you that Faith is the Slayer?” Wesley whispered violently. When Brigit didn't respond, he continued with, “What reason could he possibly have– I don't suppose he's kept that information from his friends, neighbors, and, oh, those girls.”
Brigit shrugged uncomfortably.
“He told those children that Faith is the Slayer?” Wesley asked, sounding shocked.
“No,” Brigit said, defending her boss. “It's just that Claire's training is in demonology,” she said, glancing towards Faith as if for approval. Something in Faith's face reassured her, and she continued more confidently. “Along with demon identification, she's being taught how to recognize the Slayer.”
“Why would he even–” Wesley started to sputter. With a look of determination, he added, “Take me to Mr. Taylor this instant.”
“Of course,” Brigit replied in a monotone. “Mr. Wyndam-Price, your room is two doors down. Faith,” she added in a friendlier voice, “yours is right here. After you've dropped your things off, come down to the kitchen, and we'll see about getting you a snack.”
“Um, yeah,” Faith replied, wondering how much she'd be able to hear of what was being said in the study from the kitchen.
* * *
Dinner was so uncomfortable that Faith almost dragged her plate up to her bedroom, but the formality of the dining room – it had it's own cabinet just for plates and was lit by a fucking chandelier – and Aidan's we-are-not-amused manner kept her in her seat.
Wesley reminded her of her previous Watcher, Petra; whenever they were pissed off, instead of letting that anger out, they each got unbelievably polite.
“Mr. Taylor, would you please pass the salt?” Wesley asked.
Aidan, obviously lost in thought, didn't respond.
“Here you go,” Claire chirped, handing the salt to Wesley.
“Thank you.” Wesley's words were so clipped that even the girls picked up on it. Claire gave an uncertain glance towards Grace who shrugged in response.
Collateral damage, Faith thought. It's me he's mad at, not you.
“You're welcome,” Claire whispered, staring down at her food.
When Wesley put it down, the click of the salt shaker against the table was the loudest thing in the room.
“What do you do for fun around here?” Faith asked, trying to lighten the mood.
“You are not here to have fun,” Wesley informed her.
“Hey, all work and no play, right?” Faith asked.
“My family has a big get-together for the 4th,” Brigit offered. “You, I mean both of you of course, would be more than welcome.”
Faith could tell Wesley was about to decline, probably for the both of them. “We're in,” she said. “Come on Wes,” she added. “Show the rebel Americans how it's done.” Wesley sputtered for a moment, obviously searching for a polite way out, but then reluctantly agreed.
The way he carefully avoided looking at Faith for the rest of the meal told her that he was planning to tear into her in private as soon as dinner was over with the same old litany she'd had more than enough of in the car. So, she slipped into the kitchen at the end of the meal, pretending she was going to help Brigit bring in dessert. Instead she'd hightailed it up the stairs, but apparently not quite as stealthily as she'd have liked. Either that or Wesley was smarter than she'd given him credit for. He found her on the stairs just as she was half-way up and chased her to the second floor. Faith raced into the bathroom and shut the door with a slam, but she knew he wasn't giving up. Time for a bit of misdirection.
Faith turned on the shower with her left hand while sniffing her right armpit. Deciding a real shower could wait, she clambered out the window and over the roof to her bedroom. From her backpack she pulled out a dark shirt, cut to show off her tits, and a pair of black jeans. After a quick change, she fluffed her hair and climbed back out onto the roof. Faith was just about to jump to the ground when she remembered the shower. If Aidan is anything like Petra, she thought, he'll have my head for leaving that water running. With a shrug, she slipped in through the bathroom window and then blotted her lipstick before turning the shower off. “Don't give your enemy a chance to predict your actions,” she told herself, repeating Petra's words. Leaping to the ground, she ran off towards the beach.
About two minutes later, on an empty stretch of shore, Faith stopped. Looking at the sea, she concentrated on the sound, which was faint but definitely there. Faith shivered, not from the cool night air, but from the eeriness of the drawn-out tones. She listened until the sound faded completely away.
Series: Lotus in Muddy Water
Fandom: BtVS
Characters/Pairing: Faith, Wesley
Rating: PG-13
Concrit: Please, in comments
Disclaimer: They aren't mine, not yet, but the will be once I've taken over the world. Bwah-ha-ha.
Summary: As she pinned the comb in her hair, whiteness snaked out from the comb, bleaching her hair. She screamed, arching forward as she fell into the sea. Twisting under the waves, she writhed under the water, as if scrabbling for escape. Her hand reached upward but was unable to break through the surface. With a final grimace, she relaxed into the sea's cold embrace. As her feet touched down to the bottom, white locks drifted in the current. The moon drifted across the horizon and was close to setting before she moved again. Her eyes opened and looked up from below the sea.
Notes: Many thanks to my most awesome betas: deird1, for making sure Wesley and Aidan didn't do anything totally unBritish; and diebirchen who had the agonizing job of checking my grammar and telling me when what I wrote just didn't make sense - she put in a lot of work, which I very much appreciate.
Notes: Petra Hyde Burnand was Faith's previous Watcher, the one killed by Kakistos.
Notes: The Narbon XL-7 is named after Helen Narbon from the most excellent comic, Narbonic
Notes: The song Faith sings in Wesley's car is “Strange Phenomena” by Kate Bush.
Notes: Much like Brigit, I couldn't resist the scene from Young Frankenstein.
Notes: The gag with the spilt milk in the kitchen is from the original Pink Panther movie (Peter Sellers version).
Deepwater, Connecticut extends out from its center, a tourist town on the shore of the Atlantic, through homes ranging from merely moderately-expensive to ultra-expensive and onto more private stretches of beach. It was in one of those more secluded spots, an area that had belonged to a limited and related number of families for generations, that the woman, a mere girl really, no more than twenty, strode towards the sea. By the expression on her face, it was clear that fury gripped her heart as tightly as her white knuckled-hand clenched her bag.
A few feet from the shoreline she stopped, so lost in her misery that she didn't even notice how her hand had started cramping. Her jaw tightened as she gazed out over the water. “Bastard.” Her scream was echoed by the cries of the gulls flying overhead. Undressing quickly as if her clothes were scalding her, she discarded them were they fell. Putting her hands to the bun on the back of her head, she let the pins drop onto the beach until her auburn hair hung down to her hips. The wind picked up and wisped her hair about as though snakes were writhing around her head.
Kneeling down, she pulled a candle and a knife out of a bag. At the edge of the shore, where the waves washed against the sand, she lit the candle and left it behind. She was hip deep into the water before she stopped to slash a cut across the palm of her left hand. Yanking off her engagement ring, she dropped it on top of the wound. “Be'thatet” she cried out, chanting in a tongue that hadn't been a living language in over a thousand generations. The candle flame flickered wildly and then went out. She opened her hand, and the ring was gone, replaced by a comb showing three waves before the sun. The stones, making up the three stylized waves that decorated the comb, shifted in color so that they seemed to ebb and flow with the waves at her feet. As the comb's red sun darkened, she thought of a setting sun. “Perfect, the end of the day to reflect the end of his life.”
As she pinned the comb in her hair, whiteness snaked out from the comb, bleaching her hair. She screamed, arching forward as she fell into the sea. Twisting under the waves, she writhed under the water, as if scrabbling for escape. Her hand reached upward but was unable to break through the surface. With a final grimace, she relaxed into the sea's cold embrace. As her feet touched down to the bottom, white locks drifted in the current. The moon drifted across the horizon and was close to setting before she moved again. Her eyes opened and looked up from below the sea.
As she crawled out onto the shore, one final wave washed over her, leaving her dressed in a gown as dark as the sea. She stood uncertainly, as if she wasn't sure what legs were for, and then she began walking over the dark, wet sand. After she'd traveled a bit over a mile, she spotted a man sitting on a rock, smoking something sweet smelling. “You're not him, but you'll do for a start,” she whispered before calling out with a sound that wasn't quite whale song. It sank into him, drowning any part of him that might fight her until he couldn't resist her call. The song reeled him in. When she saw the terror in his eyes, she smiled, showing teeth so sharp they weren't even close to human. Reaching her cold hands out to him, she pulled him into the sea with her, dragging him down under the water until the last of his air bubbled its way to the surface, vanishing in the crashing of waves.
* * *
Faith couldn't believe that Aidan had dragged her back to Boston, to the townhouse that her new Watcher apparently thought he could take over lock, stock, and barrel. Wes was clumsy where Petra – her real Watcher – had been calm, skittish where Petra had been assured, and an asshole where . . . well, Petra could be a real bitch at times. Maybe it was a Watcher thing, although in that case, you'd think Aidan would be arrogant too. Not that he was really a Watcher, but there was some sort of connection there, and he was Petra's cousin. Aidan wasn't much like Petra though. He had an economy of movement that told Faith that she'd be hard pressed to beat him in a fight, even if he was old enough to be Wesley's father.
As they left the townhouse, Wesley was working out how to get Faith back to Boston and under his firm control within the week or, well, within two or three weeks at most. His thoughts were interrupted by Faith's exclamation. “Tell me this isn't your car.”
“The Infinity Q45 is a perfectly serviceable vehicle,” Wesley told her, while wondering if all Slayers were so difficult.
“It looks like something my granny would drive, if she were still around, that is,” Faith said. “You sure I can't ride with you?” Faith asked as she traced a finger over the sleek shell of Aidan's Narbon XL-7, the most brutally beautiful motorcycle she'd ever seen.
Aidan shook his head but only said, “Let's get on the road.”
Wesley handed her a map. “If you could find Deepwater, that would be most helpful.”
Faith shoved the map back at him. “Aidan wrote down the directions for you.”
“Faith,” he said condescendingly, “neither a Watcher nor his Slayer can ever be over-prepared.”
Rolling her eyes, Faith got into the passenger seat, leaving Wesley to try and refold the map. Wesley carefully refolded the map, glaring at Faith all the while, and then pointedly reached over her to place it in the glove compartment. As he pulled the car away from the curb, Wesley started in on a litany of complaints. After a mere five minutes of this barrage, Faith wasn't sure she'd even make it out of Massachusetts, much less all the way to Connecticut. “And I do not understand why you called in an outsider in the first place. I assure you that training with a Watcher is more than adequate to prepare a Slayer for any demons she might face.”
Faith reached over and turned on the radio. Big band? she asked herself. How'd he even find a station that plays this crap? Turning the dial to WFNX, she sang along, drowning out Wesley's complaints with, “We raise our hats to the strange phenomena. Soul birds of a feather flock together.”
Wesley turned off the radio with an angry jerk of his hand. “Are you listening to a single word I'm saying?”
“Trying not to,” she replied honestly.
“You may not take your responsibilities seriously, but I can assure you that I–“ Faith leaned out the window until she couldn't hear him anymore.
* * *
Leaping out of the car as soon as it hit the driveway, Faith raced to the house, getting only a glimpse of white walls and pillars in her haste to escape. She slowed down enough that she was merely jogging up the three steps to the oval porch. The door opened, and a dark-haired woman carrying an umbrella, walked out. “Hi, you must be Faith. I'm Brigit, Aidan's assistant.”
Faith ran a hand through her hair to hide her surprise. When Aidan had said his assistant was a widow, Faith had pictured the crazy cat lady who'd lived down the street when she was a kid. Brigit did seem to be a bit odd, carrying an umbrella on a sunny afternoon, but she certainly wasn't old. She looked a few years older and had a slighter build than Faith, and her hair, which was as dark as Faith's, was also straighter, curling only slightly where it ended at her neck. Her top, a bright red sleeveless bit of fabric, hung comfortably over her blue jeans. While Faith tended to be uncomfortable around new people, Brigit's impish grin put her at ease.
A voice drifted down from above them. “Hi.”
“Claire,” Brigit said lazily, as Faith jerked her head up to see a girl leaning so far over a railing that Faith couldn't figure out what was keeping her from crashing to the ground.
“Hey,” came another voice from above. “I want to see them too.”
“Meet you down there,” Claire replied. She vanished but then reappeared as she flipped down to hang from a post at the edge of the porch before dropping to the ground.
“Hi,” she said, holding a hand out to Faith. “I'm Claire.”
“So I gathered. Wanna tell me how you did that?”
“Gymnastics.” Claire, a young teen with blond hair, was small enough to make her comment seem plausible.
“Don't show off,” Aidan said, coming around from behind them.
“Oh, come on, Uncle Aidan,” she said. “I've got to keep in practice.”
As another girl stepped out the front door, Brigit introduced her sister, Grace. The girl was close to Claire in age, with Brigit's dark hair, although her features were finer. Just as Grace seemed about to speak, she was interrupted by Wesley, who was dragging three large suitcases, which crashed into each other at every step.
“Can I help?” Claire asked, bouncing down the steps.
Wesley looked up, surprised. While he'd been pulling the bags out of the car, he'd been too caught up in his fury to notice what was going on.
“It's all right,” Brigit said, misinterpreting his expression. “Your bags will be safe, I promise. Grace, why don't you help too.” She led her sister down the steps, joining Wesley on the walkway.
“But I–,” he protested as the girls took his bags away from him.
“And you?” Brigit asked Faith. “Do you need help?”
Faith nodded towards the bag of weapons in her right hand and gave a tug on the strap of her backpack. “Nah, I'm good.”
As the girls vanished into the house with the bags, Wesley reached out a hand. He was about to follow when a spate of giggles, obviously coming from the girls, stopped him in his tracks.
“I'll be in my study. Anything interesting while I was gone?” Aidan asked Brigit.
“Nothing definitive.” He nodded to acknowledge her response and headed into the house. “Dinner's in two hours,” she called after him. When he didn't respond, she rolled her eyes.
“Did you say something about food?” Faith asked. “'Cause I'm starved.”
“Sure,” Brigit replied. “We'll get you two settled in, and then get you a snack.”
Turning to Wesley, she gave him a quick once-over, and then, hitching up one shoulder as if she had a slightly hunched back, she told him to “walk this way” as she clumped up the three steps, leading with her right foot while leaning on the umbrella as if it were a cane. At the top step, she repeated the phrase while waving the umbrella at Wesley. “Walk this way.”
Exhausted from his rage at Faith, Wesley shook his head a bit, as if not quite understanding what was being asked of him. He repeated Brigit's motion, limping up a step and leaning on the umbrella. Faith burst out laughing as he took the second step. He glared up at her and then glanced down at the umbrella that he was using as a cane. Standing up straight, he shoved the umbrella at Brigit and stormed into the house.
Brigit rushed in to find him standing just inside the entryway, between the dining and living rooms, looking around as if lost. “I don't suppose you could show me to my room without any more shenanigans,” he asked.
“I am sorry,” Brigit said, trying to make amends as Faith laughed in the doorway. “A bunch of us went to see Young Frankenstein at the Playhouse last weekend, and I wanted to see if the gag would really work.”
“Don't worry about it,” Wesley said with a distracted air. He'd noticed that nobody had invited them in although given that it was mid-afternoon, he and Faith obviously couldn't be vampires. He was starting to wonder who lived in the house and how much they knew. It could prove tricky, keeping Faith's status as the Slayer a secret. On the other hand, perhaps the Council would allow him to remove Faith from Aidan's supervision if they knew of all the laypeople in his home.
“Bedrooms are upstairs,” Brigit said. Turning to Faith, she added, “You can store your weapons downstairs, just off of the training room, if you like.”
“Um, thanks, but no thanks. I'd rather keep them with me, if you don't mind,” Faith replied.
In response, Brigit gestured towards the staircase. Faith started up, and Wesley, with a bland “Ladies first,” brought up the rear.
“You get a lot of guests carrying weapons?” Faith asked.
“Oh yes,” Brigit replied cheerfully, “given Aidan's interest in the martial arts, and of course I expected you to have your own.”
“Oh yeah, why's that?” Faith asked absentmindedly.
“Because you're the Slayer.”
“What?” Wesley shouted. Rushing to join Brigit on the second floor, he whispered, “What makes you think– That information is highly confidential.”
Brigit took a step back. “Aidan's books are full of Slayer lore.”
“And he told you that Faith is the Slayer?” Wesley whispered violently. When Brigit didn't respond, he continued with, “What reason could he possibly have– I don't suppose he's kept that information from his friends, neighbors, and, oh, those girls.”
Brigit shrugged uncomfortably.
“He told those children that Faith is the Slayer?” Wesley asked, sounding shocked.
“No,” Brigit said, defending her boss. “It's just that Claire's training is in demonology,” she said, glancing towards Faith as if for approval. Something in Faith's face reassured her, and she continued more confidently. “Along with demon identification, she's being taught how to recognize the Slayer.”
“Why would he even–” Wesley started to sputter. With a look of determination, he added, “Take me to Mr. Taylor this instant.”
“Of course,” Brigit replied in a monotone. “Mr. Wyndam-Price, your room is two doors down. Faith,” she added in a friendlier voice, “yours is right here. After you've dropped your things off, come down to the kitchen, and we'll see about getting you a snack.”
“Um, yeah,” Faith replied, wondering how much she'd be able to hear of what was being said in the study from the kitchen.
* * *
Dinner was so uncomfortable that Faith almost dragged her plate up to her bedroom, but the formality of the dining room – it had it's own cabinet just for plates and was lit by a fucking chandelier – and Aidan's we-are-not-amused manner kept her in her seat.
Wesley reminded her of her previous Watcher, Petra; whenever they were pissed off, instead of letting that anger out, they each got unbelievably polite.
“Mr. Taylor, would you please pass the salt?” Wesley asked.
Aidan, obviously lost in thought, didn't respond.
“Here you go,” Claire chirped, handing the salt to Wesley.
“Thank you.” Wesley's words were so clipped that even the girls picked up on it. Claire gave an uncertain glance towards Grace who shrugged in response.
Collateral damage, Faith thought. It's me he's mad at, not you.
“You're welcome,” Claire whispered, staring down at her food.
When Wesley put it down, the click of the salt shaker against the table was the loudest thing in the room.
“What do you do for fun around here?” Faith asked, trying to lighten the mood.
“You are not here to have fun,” Wesley informed her.
“Hey, all work and no play, right?” Faith asked.
“My family has a big get-together for the 4th,” Brigit offered. “You, I mean both of you of course, would be more than welcome.”
Faith could tell Wesley was about to decline, probably for the both of them. “We're in,” she said. “Come on Wes,” she added. “Show the rebel Americans how it's done.” Wesley sputtered for a moment, obviously searching for a polite way out, but then reluctantly agreed.
The way he carefully avoided looking at Faith for the rest of the meal told her that he was planning to tear into her in private as soon as dinner was over with the same old litany she'd had more than enough of in the car. So, she slipped into the kitchen at the end of the meal, pretending she was going to help Brigit bring in dessert. Instead she'd hightailed it up the stairs, but apparently not quite as stealthily as she'd have liked. Either that or Wesley was smarter than she'd given him credit for. He found her on the stairs just as she was half-way up and chased her to the second floor. Faith raced into the bathroom and shut the door with a slam, but she knew he wasn't giving up. Time for a bit of misdirection.
Faith turned on the shower with her left hand while sniffing her right armpit. Deciding a real shower could wait, she clambered out the window and over the roof to her bedroom. From her backpack she pulled out a dark shirt, cut to show off her tits, and a pair of black jeans. After a quick change, she fluffed her hair and climbed back out onto the roof. Faith was just about to jump to the ground when she remembered the shower. If Aidan is anything like Petra, she thought, he'll have my head for leaving that water running. With a shrug, she slipped in through the bathroom window and then blotted her lipstick before turning the shower off. “Don't give your enemy a chance to predict your actions,” she told herself, repeating Petra's words. Leaping to the ground, she ran off towards the beach.
About two minutes later, on an empty stretch of shore, Faith stopped. Looking at the sea, she concentrated on the sound, which was faint but definitely there. Faith shivered, not from the cool night air, but from the eeriness of the drawn-out tones. She listened until the sound faded completely away.