November 2005
You have a new Bible, two weeks old, and you intend to love, honour and obey it.
For without faith there is fear.
“What do you think?” Your pseudo-wife asks, as if she actually expects an answer.
She’s working on the idea that you can speed up a baby’s development by talking to them as if they’re fully aware. “They’re both blue Faith, I don’t think she much cares.”
But no, Faith spins with a look of utter shock on her face, “Don’t say that! One has a gross kitten on the front!” The two tiny outfits she’s holding on those miniature hangers dance as she talks.
“So put her in the other one and hide that for the next time Andrew visits.” You consider, “Actually, who cares about Andrew’s feelings- throw it out, it’s puke-worthy.”
“Thank you.” She smiles conspiratorially at your daughter, as if they were working together for that result all along. “See pumpkin, we’re gonna teach you some taste!”
“She’s a month old Faith, do you not think this is starting a little soon?”
For one very scary second you have the feeling she’s about to pull out her new bible; Everything A Daddy Needs To Know (the ‘daddy’ version because apparently Baby needs both sides), instead she just sighs with exaggerated patience and shakes her head, “Buffy, Buffy, Buffy… it’s never too soon. Besides, it’s not like you were playin’ her Bach while she was in ya womb or nothin’.”
Ha! As if she could ever even recognise Bach if she heard it! “Should you really be judging here? You can’t even say the letter ‘R’.”
“Dude, that’s like… cultural differences.” She snorts in amusement and ruffles your hair, plopping the ugly baby-grow down on top of your head. “Besides, I don’t want her to be like me- I want her to be better. She can’t get worse than us, right? With your nose and stubbornness and my…”
You try not to laugh as she looks comically from side to side, a grand pretence of grasping for straws.
“Oh. No. Wait. I’m perfect!”
“Except for your mind. And occasionally your body. Oh- and your soul!”
The two of you hold a glaring stand off before crumbling into fits of giggles.
Pretty much everything is funny right now. You’ve been stuck in that funny half-life new parents live- where there’s no such thing as night and day, just living in the moment and trying to work out exactly what it is you’re supposed to be doing (because, to be honest, you don’t really know). Sleep is this odd thing that you kind of remember but aren’t really sure actually exists…
There’s this uneasy feeling somewhere deep down in your chest that two weeks is really not long enough to judge whether or not you’ll be a good parent. It’s all so fresh and new, no one expects you to be good at these things yet because you’ve never done it before. But what about in four months time when you’re still putting nappies on the wrong way round and mixing up all the creams and shampoos and… and what about that day you forgot to change her- for a full five hours?! That’s a really long time in the life of a person who’s only lived for six days!
Yet there’s something so beautiful about it, so magical; she fits in your arms so exactly and you can’t stop this fascination you’ve developed with ‘firsts’- her first Monday, her first smell of muffins, her first listen to MTV (ok, that one was a little accidental), her first everything. You hold her life in your hands and not just literally but figuratively too. She is introduced to things through the two of you, you mould and shape who she is going to become.
You thought she’d be angry and cry stubbornly until she gets her own way but instead she’s quiet- so quiet that in the hospital nurses used to give you special attention just as an excuse to take a break in your peaceful room. She’s beautiful… in that tiny, red, old man sort of way. But with two such attractive parents how could she not grow up beautiful?
She’s like a tiny package- the type you have in pass the parcel- so many layers of things to discover until you get down to the real person inside. Will she be sporty? Artistic? Kind? … Challenging?
It seems so hard to wait, so easy to wish for the days to speed up, until you can meet her properly, until you know her so well you don’t have to check the list Faith has pinned to the wall; “Baby crying; is she hungry, tired or in need of a change?” with a list of options underneath and instructions on where things are kept. At the bottom, in big, scrawled, green letters is ‘Give Her A Hug!’ with two ‘g’s on the end of ‘hug’ and then the second hastily scribbled out.
You like that your room is so messy- predominantly on Faith’s side- while Baby’s room and every other place she might touch is tidied to within an inch of its life. Faith’s odd selective-OCD strikes again. “Kidding! Kidding!” You squeal, trying to squirm away from her tickling fingers.
She ignores you and reaches to pin your arms behind your back, holding you flush against her. For a moment you part your lips as if she might make to kiss you but instead her head dips and… blows a raspberry against your neck!
“Stop it!” You shriek between chortles, thrusting your shoulders forwards in an effort to avoid falling over, “I’m really trying to be an adult here!” Still safely on her changing mat Baby slips back into slumber, uninterested in your flirting.
“You are an adult B!” Faith lets go of your hands to grip your hips tightly, her little fingers slipping down inside the waistline of your trousers.
“Faith…” Her hips press into yours and she leans over to press a kiss to your temple.
You’re so tiny in comparison to her, her little doll. “B,” She murmurs against your skin, “You know I’m proud of you right?”
Your heart swells with pride. This… thing is amazing. She is amazing- so adult and in control.
It’s tentative, and new. You’re not thinking about the future, or the past or saving the world. For now your life is in this tiny bubble.
“I know, I’m proud of you too.” For being yours, for being such a good mother, for being everything you ever thought she couldn’t be.
“So proud you’re vibrating?”
“Well, a little, but isn’t that a conversation not to have in front of our suddenly smart daught- oh, you mean my phone!” Wedged down in your back pocket and… and ok, so there’s a certain extra layer of something sort of resembling fat that’s keeping it from you and these jeans are a little (a lot) bigger than the size you usually wear but that doesn’t mean you can’t feel the stupid vibrations of your stupid-
“B? Phone?” Faith chuckles then sucks on your neck for a moment before bouncing off to finish dressing Baby.
You smile to see her so happy.
“Phone!”
“Oh!” You scrabble to grab it before it stops ringing and try to cast aside possible weight issues (you just gave birth! And they make really nice crackers in England!) “Right! Uh… Hello?”
It’s a police station somewhere on the other side of the city; Kennedy is currently sulking in one of their cells and asked that they call you.
“I’m not actually related to her or… in any way responsible for her.”
The gruff, London voice says he knows and doesn’t care- apparently she’s already fought her way through three cells and broken his partner’s nose. You consider making a joke about ‘life partners’ but this perhaps isn’t the time for humour… plus isn’t there a law against being ‘cheeky’ to policemen here? England is weird.
“I get what you’re saying, and I’m sorry but I have a baby- a tiny one, a little, little baby and I can’t exactly just drop her and- not that I would! I wouldn’t-! I-! Dropping! That was a joke! You can’t arrest me for making a-!”
“B!” Faith snatches the phone from you and shoves you towards Baby with her hip. “Hello officer? … Uh-huh, mm…” She makes those weird little agreeing-grunts that people make when they’re on the phone and tries to sign what he’s saying to you before remembering you’re not the one who inexplicably knows both British and American Sign Language. You sometimes wonder why she can’t have a useful talent like being able to put up shelves, but then Xander wouldn’t really have a reason to pop over every day ‘just to check’.
Baby coos when you pick her up and makes funny pop-pop noises that according to Faith means she wants to be fed. “Hello lovely, you hungry? You want milk?”
“Some milk.”
“What?”
You give Faith a funny look, she’s still on the phone but gestures towards the two of you with an impatient look, “Ask if she would like ‘some milk’- you have to use full sentences with her else-” Luckily the police officer comes back to the phone before you can club her over the head. “Yes, hello, I’m still here.”
“Stupid Fay-Fay and her silly psychobabble!” You whisper to Baby who just wants to be fed.
“Right, well I’m not sure if I can come officer- I’ve got a very small baby.”
You roll your eyes at Baby, happily sucking away at your chest, “We can do without you for two hours Faith, she’s probably just going to eat, sleep and poop. Like normal.” Jesus, that hurts! “Ow, chew less!”
“Really? Just a moment.” Faith covers the receiver with her hand and gives you a doubtful look, chewed lip and all. “I don’t know, two hours is a long time…”
“It’s a long time in her life, not yours- and you’ve got the rest of it to make up those two hours to her, ok?” It’s not that you want her to go so much as Kennedy is probably causing property damage as you speak and Giles has already had to hire lawyers for forty different slayer-cases this month.
“Are you sure?”
“Go! We’ll be fine.”
You’re almost affronted when she asks ‘really?’ in a completely doubting tone.
Maybe you’re not the world’s best ‘straight-off-the-bat-haven’t-had-time-to-read-all-the-stupid-parenting-magazines’ parent but people can be surprising.
Sometimes they can prove themselves in ways you wouldn’t have imagined.
Faith falters a moment to adjust her coat. It’s actually pretty weird to see her without a baby strapped to her chest. She’s working on the idea that as she didn’t actually carry Baby the two of them need to form a strong physical bond that can only be achieved by near constant skin-to-skin contact.
“Really.” You sigh, “And when you come back we’re totally having sex because I haven’t seen your breasts once in the last two weeks.”
Her eyes flick down to your own exposed breasts and the child currently eating there. “Wow, that is such a turn off…”
“Out!”
She darts away before you can smack her ass and it’s only once she’s gone that you realise you’ve never yet actually been left on your own with any baby.
“Oh crap.”
Baby gives you the kind of look that lets you know she’s going to grow up to be the type of kid who makes you put money in a ‘swear jar’. She may also actually be named ‘Baby’ if you don’t put in some quality baby-name-book time. Faith has expressed no interest what so ever in the subject though you know she cares.
It’s this odd block she has where Baby’s concerned… the way she stares at her sometimes, the look she used to give you, a sort of worshiping gaze as if she can barely believe you’re real. Though it’s nice, in a way, to be treasured, you wish she’d see you as a person more. If you leave the milk out and it spoils Faith gets mad at herself for not putting it away sooner. If she makes dinner reservations and you take so long to get ready that you miss them she blames herself for not factoring in that time.
If Rosy cries when someone picks her up, it’s always Faith’s fault.
Your friends find it so easy to blame her that she thinks it herself now. It’s always Faith’s fault.
Her cocky attitude is still there and she smiles practically all the time when you’re together but as soon as you’re around Willow or Xander or even Giles she shrinks into the background, even going so far as to ask you if it’s ok for her to pick up her own daughter.
Only Kennedy (and Angel that one time you let him visit) seem to have noticed it, the others act as if that’s her rightful place.
But she means more to you than anything-bar your daughter.
God, that sounds weird; ‘daughter’, ‘child’, ‘baby’. As if you’re some kind of adult with this big, sorted life and a regular job that’s not going to kill you.
‘Daughter’ comes with ‘mother’ and you don’t think you’re quite there yet. You’ve had ten months to get used to the idea- getting pregnant was solely your idea- and Faith’s had six weeks, yet she’s the capable one and you’re just a willing student. ‘Mother’ makes you think of your own, not yourself.
Faith fits comfortably into the role. You’re actually a little lost as to whether she hates change or loves it… either way she seems to mould to it pretty well! Like… like some kind of weird play-dough… flesh coloured and kind of… ok, there’s no way a child’s gooey toy could ever be sexy. But if there was, Faith could do it!
She’s a good mother- a great mother and a good ‘wife’, as Satsu calls her. In just six weeks she’s proven how dedicated, devoted and just generally wonderful she can be to the two of you.
Having a baby does weird things to your head. Mainly it makes you think about your own parents- how your father could ever bare to leave you, how your mother ever had the patience to put up with you.
You think about Faith’s parents too because you know that just like when you hold Baby in your arms and hear your mother’s reassuring voice saying you’ll do fine… Faith hears one that tells her she can’t do this, that she’ll ruin everything. So she works extra hard to be the best goddamn parent the world has ever seen.
Everyone else is amazed. You’re just proud.
And you don’t even know her surname.
“What’s your surname Baby? Summers or…” You pause to think of a fitting surname for someone like Faith- something dark and mystical or… horribly normal. ‘Raven’ perhaps or- “Blah?” You’re really not as imaginative as you think you are. “Ok, so ‘blah’ for now. Which makes you ‘Baby Summers-Blah’? Or ‘Baby Blah-Summers’? Actually, ‘Blah-Summers’ sounds pretty good- we should call you Blair!”
Baby doesn’t respond either way so you lay her back down in her crib- it’s an amazingly beautiful wicker thing with lots of creamy cotton lining that you found in an antique shop- and go off to hunt for more crackers and the baby name book.
You were so scared to name her when she was born, this tiny, tiny yellow thing. The doctor frowned when she was born and you almost had a heart attack before they placed her on your chest. She was too small for a full-term baby but aside from a little jaundice there was nothing wrong with her and they decided she was just petite, like her mother.
It didn’t help your panic; you’re a mother- you know when there’s something wrong with your child! But there’s no way to tell until she’s a little older.
So for now you’re just concentrating on the important things. Like a name.
And not searching through ads for property on the Internet.
This house is Watcher’s Council-owned and it irks you to no end. When Giles had offered you the house you’d smiled and been nice about it but really you’d only taken the house to make Faith happy.
That and the two of you have absolutely no money to speak of (hence your prior bank robbing experience).
It’s a sweet little house, two bedrooms, on a nice street and, for some unknown reason, coloured entirely in whites and creams. You like it, it’s become home in just a few weeks- Giles made sure you were smuggled back to England in time for the birth- but you still wish you were the one taking care of your family. Or at least Faith!
“Not Faith… Felicity? Fiona? Flick? Flo? Flora? Oh! Butter! Flora butter on crackers… mm…”
The house phone rings, flashing Faith’s number so you flick it to speakerphone and go back to trying to work out the difference between Louise and Louisa and why you have an odd mental block that makes you dislike both versions.
“Hey Baby, how are you doing?”
“You’re talking to the actual baby and not me aren’t you?”
Faith coughs in embarrassment at being caught out “No, I… love you too.”
“Sure you do.” You chuckle, buttering another cracker, “How’s Ken?”
“No idea- I’m still stuck in traffic. You know, ya really shoulda have mentioned that London is just one big pile of congestion before you convinced me to move here.”
“I seem to remember you being desperate to live with me ‘wherever that may be’.”
“See now, ya tryin’a quote me but I’d never use ‘may’.” You concede with a shrug and she knows you well enough to change the subject, “I was thinking, once I’m back, that Baby and I could run out to the shops for a bit, she needs to be around crowds to increase her confidence as a toddler so she’ll make friends easier at playschool.”
“She’s two weeks old.” You chortle, “That’s fourteen days. That leaves like…” 365 days in a year… minus fourteen… 351 days… plus a year and a half… that’s 365 plus half a year which is 150 plus 30 plus 2 plus 351 equals… four hundred… seven hundred… and ten- no, eight hundred and- “A lot of days, there are a lot of days left until playschool.” Math sucks, your head hurts.
“Oh.”
“Besides, shouldn’t her name be more important? She’ll probably be more affected by not having a real name at school. The other kids will laugh at registration.” You should know.
“Nah, nobody puts Baby in a corner.” She giggles and even over the phone line you’re oddly aware of her sticking her tongue out.
“You think you’re so funny! I’m serious, do you…?” You hesitate, chewing on your lip, “Are there any… Have you thought of a name?”
There’s a bump as she jumps in surprise, “Oh. I thought that you… I didn’t think I… You mean I get a say?”
Why does she still think that’s so weird? The tiny baby in the crib is only half you but why does that seem to be the important half?
And yes, you’ve been thinking of a name for the past ten months- the joy of a child with only female parents is that it cuts the number of possible names in half- but that doesn’t mean you have to use it! She might have something better, more personal, more fitting.
“Of course. Just give me some suggestions, we can… work on them together.”
“Right.” She chuckles, “How about… Frank?”
“Could I pay you to be serious? How about ‘Ianthe’?” You ask through a cracker.
She groans, “You reading through the English Guide to Posh Names?”
“It’s Greek!” Baby doesn’t make any kind of movement when you call her Ianthe so you let it drop- for now. “Ok, how about another flower name?”
“Ianthe’s posh for ‘flower’?”
“Let it go Faith.”
“Ok, sorry, sorry… Rose.”
It takes you a second to stop yourself from replying ‘Buffy’. “Rose? You want to call her Rose? You hate roses.”
“No I don’t.”
“Yes you do- should I use a direct quote because I’m pretty sure it goes something like ‘I hate roses’.”
“What’s with you and the misquoting? That’s just red roses, I like the ones that change colour.”
You laugh, “Magic roses? You like magic roses?”
“No, the ones that are sort of orange at the base and then turn into purple at the tips… or white… Oh! I saw ones once that were sort of blue and ice-white. But it’s mainly the orange and purple ones.” Orange and Purple?
“Gay flowers? You like gay flowers?”
“I like roses- as long as they’re interesting.”
“Is this the part where you say ‘I love our daughter- as long as she’s interesting’.”
“Dude,” Faith snorts, “She’s our kid. Like she’ll ever be dull!”
Actually, ‘dull’ isn’t really that bad. ‘Healthy’ would be great. So would ‘happy’.
People can be happy and dull, right? Just because you have certain issues with normality and can’t really be satisfied unless something’s going wrong and you’re in control, that doesn’t mean that those people don’t exist right? Even tiny bald people who currently look like a creepy and non-cute lizard (not that lizards are generally cute).
She’ll be beautiful. Beautiful and happy and… hopefully dull.
She’ll be a B-grade student, not so high she’ll feel isolated, nor low enough to feel bad, just enough to be proud. She’ll have a nice boyfriend, he won’t dote to inflate her ego, nor be reluctant to call, just enough to make her friends jealous. She’ll be popular, not so the regular kids hate her, nor so low she’s a nobody, just enough to not worry.
Then she’ll go to a good University, get her dream job and meet a great boy. They’ll have two or three children, who you’ll dote on and spoil the way you never should with her. You already love her more than anything in your life so far and you know that no matter what she does, how she lives her life, who she chooses to be… you’re going to keep on being soppy and talking in clichés because she’s perfect.
And you can’t wait to tie ribbons in her pretty hair and put her in colourful dresses…
Oh! Is she going to be blonde or brunette? Or have a random black-haired or red-haired gene because that really makes her colour schemes interesting. Pastels suit pretty much everyone but with redheads there’s a whole range of greens and blues that will look just-
The doorbell rings, breaking you out of what was starting to be a very sweet little fantasy. It’s probably the baby-loving granny from next-door and knowing you’ll have to hang up to talk Faith whistles to catch your attention, “So, Rose?”
“Rose.”
You say your goodbyes, declare your undying love and hang up.
Weirdly, when you open the door it’s not to Mrs. Grey but one of the people you were least expecting to see.
“CONGRATULATIONS!” She near-bellows.
“Oh… my god… Willow! What are you doing here?” You’re pretty sure that wasn’t meant to sound so apprehensive.
“We came to see our favourite niece.” She grabs you, pulling you in tight to her breast, conveying her glee with a bone-crushing hug.
“We?”
“Xander’s parking the car.”
You try not to smile too fakely and instead let her pull you into the house.
It’s not that you don’t like Willow any more- you love her! She just has a habit of alienating brunette woman… like that unfortunate incident with Cordelia’s ghost and the ectoplasm-, which is much harder to clean up than previously imagined.
“I’m glad you’re here.” And hopeful that the London traffic really is that bad.
“I’m glad I’m here too.”
She coos over your baby, admires your house and lends a sympathetic ear until you’re gossiping like teenagers. Then Xander bumbles into the room and swoops Baby- Rose! Swoops Rose into his arms, joining you on the couch. “Hello Gorgeous.”
He looks so happy, the proud uncle. You haven’t seen him much since Renee’s death and the apocalypse after. It’s your own fault of course, he means so well and puts up with Faith better than Willow and Dawn. There’s no real reason. In some weird way he’s your safety, the big, warm teddy bear with a gentle heart.
Then there’s Willow; who, if Faith didn’t exist, would be the closest woman to you. Actually, despite Faith existing, she’s probably the one who knows you best. Sure, Faith has that creepy way of knowing what you’re feeling and exactly how to piss you off when she wants to but it’s not as if you tell her your hopes and fears or your dreams. You didn’t see her every day for seven years.
And ok, so you’ve made it pretty obvious whom you’d choose if you had to but friendships mean a lot. Maybe even as much as screwy meant-to-be relationships.
You love them all. And that’s the problem.
“Actually, it’s not ‘Gorgeous’ anymore- we’ve decided on a name.”
Xander gasps, “What did you choose?” And you get the feeling that’s a singular ‘you’.
“Rose.”
“No!” Willow gasps, “Rose? The baby name you wanted in high school?!”
“Not that I wanted to have a baby in high school but yes.”
She looks proud for remembering and motions to Xander to pass Rose over.
Your little baby squirms and makes mewling noises. It’s still so unreal, a tiny little person made of you. And Faith, obviously. Actually she doesn’t look like either of you right now. You’d seen her lying in Faith’s arms this morning and suddenly realised whom it is she looks like; “Sweetheart, you know I love our daughter but… the poor thing looks a hell of a lot like my dad.”
Xander chuckles suddenly and you jump, wondering in your sleep-deprived state if he can read your mind, “You know, it’s a good thing you didn’t have a kid with Satsu else it’d have a name you couldn’t pronounce.”
“Hey! You don’t know that!” You pout, “I’ve gotten… ok, yeah, language isn’t really my thing.”
“You know what else is funny?” Will giggles extra-quietly, cradling Rose carefully.
“This is going to be Sassy-related, isn’t it?” Despite her being even younger than Faith and far too sweet to be drawn into your messy love life Willow hasn’t given up hope that you’ll end up with Satsu.
“If Rose was a normal baby you’d need a paternity test.”
Because you slept with Satsu before you went out to Miami? It creeps you out that she knows that. “How do you…?”
“Angel told me- you’d be amazed what he can smell.”
Of course. Angel.
Xander notices your brisling and changes the subject to some small, trivial baby thing and you let yourself get sucked back into the conversation for another half hour, until you turn Faith’s key turning in the lock and excuse yourself to make tea and butter crumpets- you’re so getting the hang of being English!
You pass Faith in the hallway, holding a frazzled and sulking Kennedy by the hand. “Willow and Xander are here.”
She cuts her eyes to her oblivious best friend and pouts petulantly. “Do they have to be?”
“Sorry darling, I think they’ve attached themselves to your daughter. But please, do go in there and prize her away before Willow tries to make off with her.” Faith glares angrily so you rest a hand on her arm and remind her you’re just joking.
Sliding slowly down the wall, Kennedy groans, “I think I’m gonna be sick!”
You share a look with Faith and shrug, “Hey, you know where the bathroom is.”
She runs off and Faith shakes her head like a disapproving parent, making you chuckle. God she’s going to be an amazing parent!
“I have to go… make biscuits…” Her eyebrow raises, “I have to go take biscuits out of their packets, put them on baking trays and heat them up to pretend I made them.”
So you do. Because you’re weird like that.
But then the biscuits are warm and they’re still sitting in silence in the living room and there are crumbs everywhere so really you should be cleaning. And scrubbing. And hey, there are dishes to be done!
“Buffy?”
“GAH!” Biscuits fly everywhere.
Kennedy smirks at the big bad slayer, squealing like a little girl. “Hi.”
“Uh…” You try to calm your racing heartbeat, “Hi?”
“You mind if I come hide in here with you?”
“I’m not hiding!” She rolls her eyes at how completely unconvincing you sound.
“Sure.”
So not hiding! There are things in the kitchen to tidy and clean and… huh, when did your house get so clean? “I’m sorry, I should have warned you they were here before you came home- they just turned up!”
Kennedy has been living in your house (or, more accurately, your fridge) for the past few weeks since the messiest break up of the century. “It’s… well, it’s not ok. It still feels like a hole in my heart every time I see her.”
“Again, Sorry. I’m pretty mad at her myself. Though to be honest, if someone was going to cheat in your relationship I would have thought it’d be…”
“Me? Same here. Really should have taken the chance when Faith offered.”
You guffaw at Faith’s idea of a good deed. “Yeah, she’s sweet like that.”
“She is. And hot.” Kennedy sighs then jumps to correct herself when you glare, “Whoa, not like that! Hot in a friend way!”
“Sure, whatever you say…” You chuckle as she gets more flustered then visibly tries to calm down.
“Seriously though, what you guys have, it’s amazing. She’s so happy and… stable.”
“That’s what being clean does to you.” You fake-laugh, a little too breezily.
Kennedy scowls. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Don’t play dumb and don’t make a symptom a cause. You know damn well the drugs are just to-”
“Kennedy!” You hold a hand out to stop her, wishing she’d just shut up, “Please, can we not talk about this? It isn’t playing up currently so lets not jinx things, ok?”
She frowns, “It wouldn’t have to keep ‘playing up’ if you’d just make her go to a doctor.”
“She doesn’t need-”
“Oh come on, the guilt, the depressions, the-”
You growl, half angry that’s bringing this up and half that she dared to cut you off, “What part of ‘not now’ don’t you understand? I love you Kennedy but I’m not above smacking you. Hard.”
What makes her think she has the right to bring this up? Isn’t she supposed to be on Faith’s side? God, you spend enough time trying to convince your friends to be nice to Faith!
And yes, sometimes she’s a little… off, but really, does anyone know what ‘normal Faith’ is like?
Kennedy fiddles with the top of the counter, still swaying with the effects of the alcohol, “Ok, ok, sorry. I’ll stop trying to spread my misery.”
You study her for a second; wonder if she’s really sorry, if she really understands just how hard it is for you to keep your fears buried, how much you want to confess.
For a second the words burn in your mouth, like bile threatening to overspill.
“We thought of a name.” You blurt instead. Kennedy isn’t the person to have this conversation with
“Yay! A speck of light in my miserable world. I might not kill myself now.”
“There’s no need to be so sarcastic.”
She looks around at the spilt biscuits and frowns, “Bleeding wound. Redhead in the other room.”
“Still.”
“Ok, fine, I’m sorry. Go on then, tell me.”
“Rose.”
“Aw, it’s so classy!” You grin and reward her with a packet of crackers, “I’m surprised you didn’t go for something trashy like Candy or Britniii with three ‘I’s.”
“Excuse me?”
Kennedy rolls her eyed and stuffs two crackers in her mouth at once, “Oh come on, ‘Buffy’ and ‘Faith’- what else should I be expecting?”
You flinch away from the spray of crumbs, “Says the girl who has a last name as a first name.”
“How do you know it’s not my last name?”
“I’ve seen your monogrammed towels.”
“Damn my mother’s maid! There is nothing that woman doesn’t think of!” Still creepy no matter how many times you hear it.
“Right…”
Faith is still standing in the corner of the living room, looking decidedly uncomfortable. It’s so strange to see her, since Christmas you’ve gotten so used to not seeing her she’s gone back in your mind to that little girl she used to be. The one who wasn’t really real, wasn’t really here. ‘Grounded’ seems like the right word. That’s what she is now. Grounded, happy and yours.
There’s a giggle from behind you and you straighten up from the odd ‘totally not spying- honest!’ position you were in. “What?”
Kennedy’s sitting on the counter cramming more crackers in her mouth and your tummy rumbles jealously. “You love her don’t you?”
“More than anything.”
Her eyebrows shoot up, probably not having expected you to reply.
“I love her, I love… little her, I love them both. I’m sickeningly in love.”
“I’m aware.” She snorts, sliding down to the floor and throwing her arms around you. “I’m the one being sickened.”
You lean past her to check on the other room again. Rosy has started crying in Xander’s arms and Faith is so obviously itching to take her back it makes you laugh. She’s such a protective first time parent and you thought you’d be the one!
“Ok Little One, you want your mommy, I know.” He coos too her. Faith steps forward to take the baby back, relief written across her face. “Buff! Baby wants you!”
Wrapped around you Kennedy freezes, her eyes dart backwards and forwards.
You choke, trying not to believe what you just saw.
When Faith opened her arms and reached he turned his back, pulling Rosy away from her and towards you.
Faith blinks rapidly, her body locked so as not to tremble, not to show weakness to these predators.
He waits expectantly, completely oblivious to the tension in the room. Kennedy glares at you, willing you to do something, when you don’t she strides forward purposefully and plucks Rosy out of Xander’s arms. “So give her to her mother.”
As soon she’s settled in Faith’s arms Rose calms, making gurgly baby noises. It takes a second for Faith to shake herself back to conscious but when she does she holds her daughter tighter, smiling hesitantly at first Kennedy and then you. “I think she might…” She stops, realising how her voice sounds and continues in a more authoritive manner, “She needs to sleep, I’m gonna go put her down.”
As she walks out you grab her free arm and mould yourself to her side, biting down on that delicious bottom lip and drawing her into a sizzling kiss. You can feel from her juddering chest that she’s forgotten to breath, too busy feeling your lips on hers, your breath, your tongue, you.
She gapes once you pull away then smirks as you wink and flounces off with her baby, confidence fully restored.
Because it’s going to fucking work and you don’t care if you have to murder people in the process.
