A Few Key Sunnydale Alum

Wells is silent as he makes his way into the room. He thought about it for a while and opted against his black suit for this; he looks like a gangster in that thing at best, and Father at worst. No, for this he's got his old uniform out instead and added a black arm-band to it. He reckons that's as appropriate as it's going to get.

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Today is not a day to be as different as possible. Spoon's got his braids out, and his hair pulled back and pinned tightly. After a while, a long while, he went with his instincts and pulled out the uniform.

He's the beta. He follows.

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sunnydalealum

Willow's standing not far from the door.

Her dress is black and unadorned, and it's not just the dark fabric that makes her look pale.

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Wells hasn't met her before, but he's seen her about often enough. Silently, he starts heading her way; if it turns out he's wrong and he's not supposed to know her, well, it's not as if being by the door is unusual or anything.

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Spoon doesn't move back with Wells, the last thing anyone needs right now is to feel like the werewolves are ganging up on them. He's just standing, uncomfortably, where he was left and watching passersby.

He has handkerchiefs folded into every pocket that he has.

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She glances at him, and there's a moment's pause before recognition comes into her face.

"You're Harry Wells, right? Andrew's cousin."

Beat.

"Hi."

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"Yeah," says Wells quietly, "yeah, I am. Hallo, miss."

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sunnydalealum

Her hands are whitely clasped in front of her; she unclasps them long enough to hold one out to him.

"Willow," she says. "Rosenberg."

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Spoon stands, awkwardly, where he was left. He's not good at this kind of thing.

He's really not good at this kind of thing.

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Wells shakes the offered hand; it's a thing you get practise at eventually, even if he hates it. "Hallo then, Willow," he says. "It, ah... I'm sorry you hand to be here today." He pauses, swallowing a little, and his voice has more gravel in it than usual when he speaks again. "My condolences for your loss."

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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.

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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.

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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.

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"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."

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"Point taken."

Faith keeps the handkerchief. Just in case.

"Thanks."

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"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.

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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.

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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."

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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.)

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"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.

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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."

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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."

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"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.

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

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