Merry Christmas part II: Faith shortfic
anonymous
December 25 2005, 01:06:05 UTC
She has not forgotten her wounds.
Sometimes she catalogs them, late at night when Robin's asleep and she's too tired to hunt; Buffy's knife wound, Angel's bite, the spot where Wes shot her up with that drug.
She...if she didn't make it up to Buffy, exactly, they'd come to some kind of peace. And she and Angel...well, they'd understood things for a long time.
But Wes....
A knife and a chair and she'd wanted to die, she had, desperately, and it'd almost worked and Wes had been a shit Watcher, but....
Some debts don't get paid. Not really.
She'd flown to LA when she got the call, fought her way into the city, dragged Andrew with her and forced the little shit to hack Wolfram and Hart's systems.
Wes's last known location had been a burnt-out pile of rubble that had once been some kind of mansion.
She'd picked through the rubble for hours and finally, finally found a twisted scrap of metal that might have been part of his glasses.
Getting the flight to England took a day and a half, and when she handed the box to his parents the look on their faces told her everything.
Well, close enough to everything.
Couple of years ago, she might've gutted them both, but a couple of years ago, she wouldn't have given a shit about Wes, either, so she just said goodbye and flew back to Robin.
She didn't cry. There wasn't any point in it.
It is the only one of the old wounds she feels pain in. There will be no resolution, no forgiveness, in the end, she knows; the pain will not fade.
Sometimes she catalogs them, late at night when Robin's asleep and she's too tired to hunt; Buffy's knife wound, Angel's bite, the spot where Wes shot her up with that drug.
She...if she didn't make it up to Buffy, exactly, they'd come to some kind of peace. And she and Angel...well, they'd understood things for a long time.
But Wes....
A knife and a chair and she'd wanted to die, she had, desperately, and it'd almost worked and Wes had been a shit Watcher, but....
Some debts don't get paid. Not really.
She'd flown to LA when she got the call, fought her way into the city, dragged Andrew with her and forced the little shit to hack Wolfram and Hart's systems.
Wes's last known location had been a burnt-out pile of rubble that had once been some kind of mansion.
She'd picked through the rubble for hours and finally, finally found a twisted scrap of metal that might have been part of his glasses.
Getting the flight to England took a day and a half, and when she handed the box to his parents the look on their faces told her everything.
Well, close enough to everything.
Couple of years ago, she might've gutted them both, but a couple of years ago, she wouldn't have given a shit about Wes, either, so she just said goodbye and flew back to Robin.
She didn't cry. There wasn't any point in it.
It is the only one of the old wounds she feels pain in. There will be no resolution, no forgiveness, in the end, she knows; the pain will not fade.
She finds she almost prefers it that way.
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