sunnydalealum | (no subject)

Historically, as a rule, the funeral of a Slayer has been a quiet affair. On occasion there have been families to make the arrangements, but most of the time, the parents and (if any) siblings have long since lost all contact with their daughter, whether deliberately or not. The Council has always seen to it that the Slayer is given a decent burial: a hardwood box, and six feet of consecrated ground, and someone to say the words, and the Watcher as sole mourner.

This, like so many other things since the Call, has changed.

It's the first time they're all back together again in over a year, the women who came to Sunnydale as Potentials and fought the First Evil there as Slayers. Caridad and Chao-Ahn, Rona and Vi and Shannon, half a dozen others. Many of them died in the battle at the Hellmouth ... but Kennedy is the first of them to have died since then.

So they're here, and so are newer Slayers who had Kennedy as their first combat instructor, and field Slayers who had her as their team leader. And so are at least one ex-lover, and at least one current one. About four-fifths of the Slayers are in somber black; the rest are in equally somber white.

Kennedy's parents and her half-sister are here somewhere too, in the crowd. Buffy and Giles are talking to them.

Soon someone's going to stand up front and start the memorial service.

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Somebody's not supposed to be here.

Somebody's supposed to still be in bed, resting from, you know, getting stabbed.

Somebody really doesn't care what other people say she's supposed to be doing.

Somebody is getting a handkerchief held out, silently, and a disapproving look. But only a mild one, because...yeah. His face is still healing and he's here anyway.

Faith accepts the handkerchief, with some confusion.

".....am I crying and just don't know it?"

It seems unlikely, but she can't imagine why else he's giving her a handkerchief.

"D' you really think that we're going to make it through this without someone crying?" Spoon asks in turn, "Got handkerchiefs in every pocket. If you don't need it, you can pass it along."

"Point taken."

Faith keeps the handkerchief. Just in case.

"Thanks."

"Welcome." Spoon says, and avoids leaning on her. He's there, though. To be leaned on. If, you know. She should want to give him comfort. Or take some. Whatever.

Spoon does not do good in this kind of stressful situation. He's not killing anything. There is nothing to kill. Killing is wrong, here.

You hear no faint and confused whining.

There could be leaning. A little. I mean. Not that Faith needs it. But, you know. If Spoon's down with it. A little leaning.

Faith doesn't do well with this kind of thing, either.

Spoon's down with it. Spoon shamelessly appreciates it. Spoon is saying, very, very quietly, "I saw her die. But I couldn't do anything, Faith. I couldn't fuckin' do anything. I'm just a killer. An' I couldn't do anything."

You and me both, is what Faith thinks, but wow, is that unhelpful.

"I know."

It'll be her in that box someday.

Probably a lot fewer mourners.

She wishes it was her today. Better her than Kennedy. Better her than any of them.

(She won't say that, because B would slap her, and then the others would do the same. But she thinks it.)

"Keeps happening, Faith. The squad, the guys in Dardania, Kennedy. We gotta figure sommat out, Faith. 'Cause you and me...don't think we're hard enough to keep surviving." Spoon's voice is very low, but very matter of fact, "Worked too hard to not be lone wolves, if you'll pardon me species-centric metaphor. They're our girls."

He's not looking at her. He's looking at Slayers who are in various states and stages of grief. He's looking at the future through the glasses of the past.

He's totally leaning on Faith.

Faith wishes she agreed with him, that she wasn't hard enough to keep going. She wishes she could believe that there was any end in sight for her.

But she knows better. Of course she's going to keep going, alongside the others, until the day comes when she's just that little bit too slow, not strong enough, not good enough. She knows herself well enough, now, to know that. That's what Slaying is. Hard and brutal and everyday, a futile, bloody race, and their spell, all the new Slayers, that's not going to change the basic facts.

Marathon's the same whether you've got one runner or one thousand.

He's right about one thing, though. Well, two things.

They've got to figure something out.

They're our girls.

"Metaphor pardoned," she assures him, quietly. "And we will."

He didn't say keep on going. He said keep surviving. It is a fine, but dramatic line. On one side you're a an organic machine, on the other you're a person.

"Ta, Faith." Spoon says, taking comfort as best he can, "Dunno if it's exactly the right time, or exactly the wrong time, but my girl...she's going to make an honest wolf of me. Marry me."

"Good on you, Spoon."

Maybe it's not exactly the right time, but Faith thinks Kennedy wouldn't mind.

It is possible that her arm just went around Spoon's shoulders, to facilitate sort-of-hugging.

It is probable that Spoon's echoes the arm movement. He has to remember life. Because otherwise everything is death.

Faith has a rosary in her hand, mostly hidden, when the service starts.

She's Irish Catholic to the very marrow of her, but most people will never know that. Most people she doesn't trust with knowing it.

Spoon is Church of England. He doesn't mind people knowing that. He does make a point of not looking down at her rosary.

These things are personal, even when they're in public.

The leaning doesn't let up, during the service.

If anything it gets more neediness-intensive.

(no subject)

there-is-a-me.livejournal.com - 2008-03-06 04:27 (UTC) - Expand

faithful-slayer.livejournal.com - 2008-03-06 04:43 (UTC) - Expand

there-is-a-me.livejournal.com - 2008-03-06 04:51 (UTC) - Expand

Aren't you supposed to be convalescing?

*It's an Andrew, studying her pensively.*

"Wheelchair," Faith points out.

It's a fairly big concession for her.

Seriously.

*He takes a chair nearby and sits on the edge of it, leaning forward.*

You doing okay? I mean, aside from the aftereffects of near-disembowelment?

Faith shrugs.

"I guess. Okay as anybody would be. I mean, we weren't ever gonna be close friends, but....mostly I'm pissed."

*He nods.* I hear that.

We hurt them, you know. The raid. We hit them hard enough that they'll still be feeling it in a month.

"Yeah."

Faith's mouth twists into a bitter almost-smirk.

"Funny how it wasn't nearly hard enough."

Yeah.

*He draws a deep sigh, lets it out slowly.*

How come every time we save the world, things end with a funeral?

"Nothing's free. Or fair."

They've all learned that by now. Many times over.