B just looked at her with shame. Like when they'd been caught breaking into that weapon store by the cops. Only multiplied by a factor of ten. The ambiguous thing was that she couldn't figure exactly why. Was it because of the knight in shining fangs or because Buffy was supposed to be as straight as they come? See, in Buffy's little self-involved world there was nothing beyond the non-stop angst fest that was her look-but-don't-fuck relationship with Angel. Buffy in her self-imposed martyrdom couldn't see that there was whole line of people who, wow! did have souls and could hold hands with the intent for more without turning evil. Faith was one of those people and, yeah, she'd elbowed her way to the front of the line.

Faith was also a glutton for what she couldn't have. She leaned in again to kiss that angry, pouty little mouth but B turned her head away. "Don't."

With one hand, Faith pushed away from the wall, shoving down the urge to lash out. She walked a few paces away, squinting at the moon before turning on her heel. The blonde was still huddled against the wall, watching her like a caged animal. "What is it with you anyway? One minute you want it, then next you don't. Make a choice, B." She waited, and Buffy said nothing. "Well, guess that says it all."

When she turned to walk away this time, she heard the approach of soft footfalls behind her and felt Buffy's hand on her upper arm. "I don't want to be alone tonight."

Faith turned to face her. "Alone? You have Angel, your friends and family," the brunette said with open scorn. "You got no idea what alone is."

"Alright! I get that you're some world expert on loneliness, Faith," Buffy snapped. She looked away, sighing, annoyance warring with apology on her face. "It's just, okay, I have these people around me but sometimes. I wonder if they know me at all. They see me as this perfect being, on call to save the world 24/7. Sometimes I'm selfish, sometimes I don't want to avert the end of the world, sometimes I'd like to stay in bed." The slayer laughed despite herself. "And I can just see Giles clucking with disapproval as I'm saying this, I didn't *ask* to be a slayer. It was thrust upon me and a lot of the time I'd like to throw it back."

Buffy was watching Faith closely for her reaction. "You're the first person I've ever said that to."

Shit. Faith didn't know what to say. She knew Buffy wasn't the most enthusiastic person about her calling but� For Faith slaying was life, for B it was death. She'd never seen so clearly that they were the flip side of the coin for each other. The brunette couldn't imagine not loving the buzz that she got from slaying, there was nothing else for her.

She was surprised when Buffy took a step closer, staring back at her with sincere green eyes. "Again I say, I don't wanna be alone tonight."

The soft admission hung in the air between them and Faith took the initiative, because, if she misjudged the situation, the worst B could do was kick her ass. So she reached out with one - fuck - slightly shaking hand and touched the blonde's cheek. With her heart in her mouth she watched B's eyelids slide shut, fanning cheeks with dark lashes.

Then she kissed her and Buffy opened her mouth to deepen the kiss almost immediately, making Faith think that she hadn't been the only one who'd imagined and plotted this moment. She felt B's arms around her back and B's tongue touching and coiling around her own.

There was cool, dirty concrete against her back, soft curves and hard muscles pressing against her. Damn, wasn't she supposed to be the one in control here? B's hands had wormed their way inside Faith's jacket and were now moving deliberately over her breasts, skimming the hard nipples that poked through the thin material of her tank top.

Faith broke the kiss. "Much as I'm getting' off on this, can we take this someplace less public? I got a perfectly good motel�"

"My place is nearer, c'mon," Buffy interrupted and sloped off, not looking back. Running a hand through her hair, Faith took a moment to catch her breath before following the blonde.

They didn't talk at all as they power-walked to the Summers house and B remained a couple of paces ahead so it didn't actually look like they were together. Funny how some things don't change even when it comes to screwing. The blonde climbed up the tree in the garden and disappeared through the window to her bedroom. Obviously, B had done this before. With a smirk, Faith followed. Almost as soon as she got one leg over the sill, Buffy grabbed her and tossed her onto the bed.

"Wow, B," Faith drawled, not entirely a taunt, "I never figured you were so wicked butch."

Buffy just smiled this cryptic little smile and threw her jacket onto the floor. Next off were her shoes and B stalked towards the bed, climbing on and crawling over Faith's body. The brunette watched, mouth dry, as B pulled her top up and over her head, casting it onto a nearby bookcase. Small but perfectly formed breasts were just *there*, the way Faith had pictured them countless times. Kinda tanned and petite like the rest of B's body.

Grabbing a handful of jacket, Buffy pulled Faith into a sitting position. "This isn't right. I mean, here I am all semi-naked and�," the blonde paused to glance down at Faith, a mock pout on her lips, "you're not."

Faith just grinned and shirked her jacket, quickly followed by her tank top. "There. We're even now, girlfriend." B was just staring at her chest like she'd never seen a pair of tits before and Faith had to bite her lip when one small hand curled around her breast.

Suddenly B was kissing her again, almost fiercely, as she stroked and caressed Faith's flesh. A thumb brushed tentatively against Faith's nipple and she groaned, the sound echoing in her ears. Her own hands moved down Buffy's spine, playing over the ridges like some musical instrument.

Buffy ended the kiss with a tease, drawling lingering kisses before finally pulling away. The lust in Buffy's eyes burned like a fucking blast furnace. She smiled shyly as if it'd only just hit her that they were on her bed, naked from the waist up. Faith watched as Buffy slid off the bed to lock the bedroom door and slip out of her jeans. Wouldn't do for dear old mom to walk in on her daughter fucking another girl, much as that mental image cracked the brunette up.

Faith used the respite to peel off her leather pants and dislodge the stuffed toy she'd been sitting on, flinging it across the room. It knocked over a photo frame with a snapshot of the Scoobies but B didn't seem to care. That was B, always wicked focused, and at this moment she was focused on Faith.

The blonde returned to her place on the bed, those wise green eyes never leaving Faith's dark ones. "Make love to me?" B asked quietly.

For once, Faith didn't make a smart-ass response. She just cupped Buffy's face and kissed her, 'cause she craved those lips much more than she wanted to admit. Fingers curled around her wrist, guiding her hand to that much fantasised place between B's thighs and B shivered against her.

"Buffy," Faith said, something between a groan and a whisper.

"Please," Buffy whimpered.

Without needing any further encouragement, Faith's hand slipped under the waistband of the blonde's underwear. "Oh, God, B," she said, feeling just how desperately the other girl wanted this.

****

"Buffy," Faith said in protest at the hand that was shaking her elbow. Her eyes snapped open, and she stared straight ahead, knowing immediately that this wasn't Buffy's bedroom, hell, it wasn't even Sunnydale. It was raining now, spots of drizzle streaking the windshield and obscuring the view of an alleyway at the back of an apartment block.

Just for a moment there she'd actually believed that she was with B still, that they were really... It made her want to scream and shout and break things, not necessarily in that order. But she controlled that urge, like she controlled all her urges now, under a blanket of regret and medication.

She was aware of Oz sitting next to her, silent and watching her carefully.

"We're here," he said in a tone that never strayed far from neutral.

She looked at him, at what was visible of his usual blank expression. "Cool." She hoped he didn't hear the catch in her voice and plucked the gum out of her mouth for something to do. She shoved his thigh playfully. "So, lead me to the weed, man."

After locking up the van, Oz led her round to the front entrance of the building and up the two flights of stairs to this Eve chick's apartment. The sounds of blaring TV sets, stereos and crying kids filtered through the paper thin walls as they climbed the stairs. There was a loud argument going on in one apartment, some guy freaking at his wife or girlfriend, followed by the sound of a slap and a slamming door. So, this place wasn't exactly a condo near the beach but she'd crashed in much worse dives. A ten by ten cell with a toilet in the corner being one of them. Comparatively, this was a slice of paradise.

Once inside Oz's place, Faith shirked her jacket and kicked back on the couch. There were rips down the sides, the stuffing seeping through torn fabric, and mysterious stains on the upholstery. Looked like they'd hauled this couch from a skip or something. "Got any beer?" she asked Oz when he returned with his stash, kept in an innocuous cookie tin with cartoon characters on the lid.

He nodded. "Couple of Buds in the fridge." He tossed the tin to her and disappeared into the kitchen, returning moments later with the beers.

Taking a slug of the sweet, malty liquid, Faith watched as the bassist expertly rolled a couple of roaches, passing one to her when he was done.

"So," Oz said calmly, taking a long toke on the joint, watching the thin plume of smoke rise towards the ceiling, "that dream seemed pretty intense."

Damn, she hadn't expected that. She took a quick drag on her roll-up, washed down with a gulp of beer, and tried to avoid his too-damn-cool stare. "Just crazy shit that was in the past."

"About Buffy," Oz said and it was a statement of fact not a question.

She nodded slowly. None of B's friends had known what really happened back then, stuff that she hardly knew herself. They'd fucked one time and afterwards B had acted like it hadn't happened. Hell, she was used to that kinda shit, she was get some, get gone girl but she never saw it coming from Buffy Summers. And, damn, if she hadn't already let B get to her and she was left with feelings that weren't reciprocated or acknowledged in any way. So she wanted to hurt B like the blonde had hurt her. Only Faith was more creative, giant snakes and all.

"You can tell me," Oz prompted and she stared at him, his head resting on the back of the couch, flattening bleached spikes, his lazy eyes rooted on the burning embers of the joint in his hand. She knew that she could trust him because he didn't want anything from her. If he helped her, he wouldn't gain anything from it, not like Angel who was looking to score points with some higher authority she knew jack-squat about.

Faith hung her head. "Ever screwed someone and regretted it?"

Oz considered that question for the longest time and Faith wondered if he'd dozed off or something. She was about to nudge him when he answered. "I've had sex with someone I maybe shouldn't have, if that's what you mean."

"Yeah?" she grinned. "Who?"

"Devon. Sings with the Dingoes."

"No shit?" Faith whistled low. "I love watchin' two guys goin' at it. And dogs," Faith deadpanned.

Oz just raised an eyebrow. "Hey, I'm joking, man," Faith said and pulled a leather clad leg up underneath herself, making herself comfortable. "So, spill dogboy."

The bassist took a swill from his bottle and sighed. "Well, it happened before I started dating Willow."

*****
Part 6:

"Oz, man, did you know your sofa was so. . . soft?"

Devon was drunk. Not that this was an uncommon state for the singer to be in. He was at a droopy stage, sprawled across the furniture; long legs half-balanced on the arm of the couch, head resting against Oz's side. His right arm drooped towards the floor, a beer bottle clutched tightly in his hand.

Oz was not drunk. Which is not to say he hadn't been drinking. But, smaller person though he was, he could hold his drink much better than his best friend. . . but then, he'd started early. Oz's parents had decreed that he should learn how to respect alcohol from an early age. So he'd drank small glasses of wine at the table from 13, moving up, four years later, to the point where he could take bottles of Bud or whatever from the fridge with impunity. Well, ok, maybe with a deduction from his allowance.

Devon, on the other hand, had had no such training and three bottles of weak beer later he was intoxicated. But it was cool; Devon had smoked pot long before Oz, and so the same was true in reverse for weed; Oz would be very-not-Ozlike and giggling at old Tom and Jerry re-runs until his sides ached whilst Devon would sit with a wry smile and roll another joint.

But tonight was Oz's turn to smile at his friend, as Devon got his words confused and lost what few inhibitions he had left. Which could lead to bad things, maybe. But at least he wasn't a maudlin drunk.

Devon had rambled for a bit and eventually got onto the subject of their friendship. Oz and Devon had known each other since grade school, but only when Oz's initial attempts to learn guitar and Devon's natural instinct to break away from his Church choir into a more rebellious form of singing clashed in the form of a band had the 14-year-olds got to know each other well.

Because they hadn't been obvious friends. Devon was one of the cool set, the little inner circle of popular people that were good-looking, or good at sports, or good with fashion or just good at putting the others down. Naturally half the time they bitched mercilessly at each other, but to the rest of the kids. . . they were admired, desired, hated and feared. Oz wasn't part of that set. He was one of the quiet kids that no one really disliked, but no one particularly made an effort to get on with. Not one of the bullied like Jonathan, or the nerds like Willow, or the clueless like Xander and Jesse (all in the year below, of course). Just part of the background, filling in the spaces on the yearbook photo between the memorable people.

Their relationship worked because Devon, for all his outward shallowness, was quite, well, deep. Intelligent, though he'd fail a couple of classes so he didn't seem it. He managed to make Oz laugh, give Oz's character a little colour when the others just saw grey.

"You're my best mate, y'know that?" Devon asked, stretching his gaze to try and look at Oz.

"Yeah, Dev. I do. And you're mine," Oz answered, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Devon pushed slightly into Oz's side, making himself comfortable. "This is cool, y'know. Us just being here. With beer. Talkin'."

Oz shook his head in mock despair, and they lapsed for a moment into companionable silence. His fingers, idle, began to fiddle with the Bud label, peeling it slowly, carefully from the bottle, dried adhesive and paper fibre leaving a white mark on the glass.

Devon heard the soft ripping sound. "Peelin' off the labels?"

"Yeah."

The singer let out a snort. "Y'know that's a sign of sexual frustration."

"You sound surprised," Oz replied, still peeling.

Devon swivelled round to a sitting position, and looked at Oz. "Hey, that's a good point. Why ain't you getting any pussy, man? Fuck, the last time was that Nancy chick, and, yeah, ok, you got some then but that was, like, six months ago. You need to get back out there, man!"

Oz turned his head to face Devon. "Dev, look at me. I'm 5 feet 4, I have red hair, I'm not good at sports and I'm not rich. Girls. don't seem to dig me."

"Oz, shut up. You're a sexy bitch an' you know it. Ya just need to find a girl that puts out."

Oz just smiled. He didn't believe Devon, about the looks bit. But. . . it was nice.

"C'mon man, you're in a band. You have wheels. You could so get some."

"I don't think I could get you, and you're a big slut."

A grin. "Oh, yeah, you're not handsome enough for that."

"I'm *that* ugly?"

"The ugliest, man. Fell out of the ugly tree and hit the branches all the way down."

It was a joke, but Oz's smile still disappeared; the funny bubble had just burst. Devon seemed to recognise that, for all that he was drunk.

"Shit, Oz, I didn't mean that. Arrogant fuck that I am." Devon paused, unsure how to proceed. "Kiss and make up? That way at least you'll get some tonight!"

"Sure." Oz only meant that Devon was forgiven, but Devon still took the invitation and planted his lips on Oz's own. It was rough and sloppy and probably a joke, but whilst Oz's mind attempted to figure out if it was or not, his mouth responded anyway and he kissed back. For a few second they rubbed their lips together, then just as suddenly as he had started, Devon drew back an looked at Oz with shock.

"Fuck, man! We're making out!"

Oz heart was thumping in his chest. That had been too nice, and his cock had already surged in length in response. "Yeah," was all he could mutter, for fear of saying something he'd regret.

"Shit, I've never done it with a dude before."

"Me neither."

Devon's hand had moved to his crotch. He squeezed it, still looking at Oz. "Fuck, it actually made me hard. Fuck!"

Oz swallowed, and a glance at his own crotch told Devon that the same was true for his best friend. Then, the look of horror disappeared as Devon's face was split by a wide grin.

"See? Told ya you were a sexy bitch. The ugly tree thing - that was so wrong. Of course, I could just be horny. Not that I'm ever not."

They stared at each other for a moment, Devon unconsciously licking his lips, before hesitantly moving his head back toward Oz's face. When the smaller man didn't shy away, he gently brushed his mouth against that of Oz.

Then he was kissing Oz again, more gentle this time, so the stubble didn't scrape so bad, and there was just the hint of tongue on Oz's lips. Oz opened his mouth a little, nervous, and the tongue gently pushed in, touching Oz's teeth and exploring. Devon's body was pushing against Oz's own, and Oz's head swam with lust.

Hesitantly, Oz placed his hands on Devon's chest, the thin cotton of a vest covering the smooth skin, the hard nipples two stiff bumps pushing at the fabric, Oz running his callused thumb across them. Then Devon sat back and peeled the undershirt off, watching as Oz responded. Then Devon sat astride the guitarist, and they went back to the kiss, and there they stayed for a time, just touching and stroking.

The singer began to buck against Oz, his denim-clad erection pushing at Oz's stomach. He leaned over and hissed urgently in Oz's ear, "Oz, can I fuck you, please can I fuck you? Man, this is so hot. . . can I?"

***

"I said yes, and he did."

I took another draw on what was left of the roach, wondering just why I'd told Faith all that, given that until three days ago I barely knew her and still didn't know that much more today. She looked at me with wide eyes, and a smirk on her face.

"That's it? You can't stop it there! It was just gettin' interesting."

"I'm not going there, Faith."

"Aw, c'mon - I want the gory details! Did it hurt? Was he your first? How big was he?"

"Faith. . ."

"Hell, I didn't know you had it in you. . ." she stopped and snickered at her innuendo, "well, if ya get my meaning."

I just glared at her. She took the hint.

"Alright, already. . . but, there's one thing I don't understand. You said you were really into this Devon - so what's with the regret?"

A good question. "Afterwards - like, the next day - Devon, he felt really bad about it. Y'know, he was drunk, this didn't mean anything, he's not queer. That next night, we had a gig and he got sucked off by this groupie, in the dressing room - and he knew I'd walk in on them. Devspeak for it doesn't change anything."

"Bummer. Men are like that," she flashed a grin, "present company excepted."

I nod, accepting the implicit compliment. "That wasn't so bad, but. . . we didn't use protection, y'know. So I didn't feel that great about it either."

She gave me a sympathetic look, "We've all been there, man. Wicked stupid an' all, but ya get caught up in the moment, dontcha."

"Yeah." I drained the last of my Bud, and got up from the sofa. "Another?"

Another grin. "Shit, yeah."

I returned a moment later with another pair of bottles. She looked up at me as I handed her the bottle. "So, you get yourself checked out? I mean, this Devon guy seems like a bit of a two cent whore."

"Oh, yeah. Clean. Dunno about Devon - he'd never go to the doc's. Didn't like to use anything, either."

"He's a dumbass," Faith observed, with a trace of scorn.

I smile a little. "I know. But he was my best friend. And, y'know, I do miss him."

She just gave me a sad smile, and then there was a pause as I started to roll another joint. I'd just got the cigarette papers laid out when Faith began to speak.

"The dream. . ." she began, then faltered.

I didn't reply, but simply looked up at her, then back at the skins.

She started again. "I was dreaming about me and B. Before I went all crazy. Well, actually at right about the time I went all crazy. Like, me and Buff? She was my Devon, y'know? We did the horizontal ho-ho, and next day she was all like 'Oh, I'm Miss Sunnydale 1999, oh, isn't Angel a broody hunk of an undead creature, we can only be friends, Faith.' Half the reason I got mad and ended up with the Mayor."

I looked up at her solemnly "I smelled you on Buffy, once. I wondered, but. . ."

A soft laugh at that. "You and your nose, huh? See, you're always found out by someone. I learned that lesson. Well, I'll tell you what happened. . ."

So she told me about her and Buffy, leaving out the "bits where my mouth was used for more than talkin,'" and that she would dream about it occasionally, like she had in the van. I just listened, and she seemed grateful to get it off her chest.

"Looks like we have that in common too," she said when she was done.

I smiled and nodded, and handed her the joint.

"Looks like we do."

When she left the next day, she promised to call me soon, and I found I was looking forward to it. And she did call me.

***

Two mornings later, the phone bleated in the hallway; I came out from my bedroom just in boxers, rubbing a sleepy eye and picked up the handset.

"Hey."

"Oz? Oz, it's Faith. I'm at the cop shop. . . Oz, it's bad this time."

"I'm on my way."

*****
Part 7:

Hunched over the low bunk, Faith stared at the crack on the wall, letting dark hair curtain one side of her face. She swayed slightly, tiredness tugging at her heavy eyelids, and she blinked to clear her vision. It was starting to get light now, daylight gradually pushing at the shadows that hid God-knows-what. Insects the size of your fist probably. She had a dim memory of waking up one morning as a small kid to find a cockroach at the foot of her bed. Unlike most girls would've, she didn't freak. Just prodded and played with the damn thing. And she remembered the way her mom had exploded, finding Faith with a dirty roach in her hand. she'd been black and blue for a week. But, fuck, you gotta respect a creature that could survive a nuclear winter.

She'd been awake off and on for twenty-nine hours. At one point she'd dozed off and woken in the night, drenched in sweat from a recurring nightmare. Unable to move, like her legs were glued to the sheets, she'd imagined the flash of a knife and Finch coming for payback, a huge gaping hole in his chest dried with blood. The Boss had appeared behind Finch's shoulder, his face hard and clucking with disappointment. She wanted to reach out to him, beg forgiveness, and ask him why he'd left her behind. He just nodded gravely to his deputy and Finch brought the knife down with this wicked freaky blank expression on his face.

The nightmares came every night now and Finch's repetitive words kept ringing in her ears. "You can't run away from what you've done." But that's the thing, because most of the time she was too tired to move, to think. She couldn't run, physically, mentally, she was just being dragged under by the feeling of helplessness. She knew, in part, it was the medication. Every day, twice a day, Prozac, lithium to stabilise her moods, and Desyrel to sleep at night. But she'd stopped taking the sleeping pills because there was a weird kind of comfort in the panic and horror in those dreams. It was a kind of punishment, a satisfying kind of payment that eluded her for those six months in jail.

But, damn, if it didn't look like she was gonna end up back where she started. Seemed there was an en suite room in the state penitentiary with her name on it. The cops were making her sweat it out because she didn't have a fucking clue what they were holding her for, except for 'questioning in connection with a suspicious death.' In police talk that meant they thought she'd turned homicidal again. She'd been picked up on the way back to Oz's place, pounding the sidewalk during the early hours when LA was washed out and grey and reminded her of back home. All she was doing was minding her own business, wearing the scuzzy and smoky clothes from the night before when a squad car pulled up beside her. That blonde detective had jumped out, flashed her badge and cuffed Faith before she could say 'Cagney and Lacey.' Made some lame show of reading Faith her rights before pushing her head down and into the back of the car. Next thing she knew a couple of cops from Sunnydale showed up. Maybe they'd finally sussed what the Mayor had been doing all along and wanted to place the blame.

There was the jangle of keys and Faith looked up see Lockley, the Sunnydale cops and an uniformed officer outside the holding cell. "Detectives Thorn and Newman would like to ask you a few questions," Lockley said, striking a butch pose with her hands on her hips, making sure her holstered gun was in clear view. That woman was such a closet case, Faith thought with an inner smirk.

She allowed herself to be cuffed and went quietly because, fuck, she didn't want a bullet wound to match that thin white scar on her stomach, a little memento of the year she'd cracked up. She also knew the cops wouldn't hesitate in pulling their pieces on her. Soon she was sitting in the interview room with the Keystone Cops. Thorn was a sweaty, balding guy with a huge gut that hung over his belly and Newman was thin and gaunt with a ratty moustache and beady eyes. She could tell, just by looking at them, that they were out for blood.

"So, you wanna tell me what this is all about? 'Cause I know my rights - you can't hold me here without charging me for something." Faith cracked a smile. "And if it's wearing leather pants without a license, I'm guilty as charged."

She glanced at Lockley as she spoke, giving an exaggerated wink and the detective shifted uncomfortably. Score.

The sweaty cop cleared his throat, his jowls wobbling slightly. "When was the last time you saw Elizabeth Anne Summers?"

Faith blinked, her brain still foggy. "Who?"

A file was opened and pushed towards Faith and the smile slipped from her face as she stared at the recent monochrome yearbook photograph. "B?" She swallowed, searching all their faces. "What's going on?" The detectives said nothing, just watched her with interest. Faith's eyebrows came together in distress. "She's.?"

"Miss Summers was found dead outside her mother's residence two days ago. The coroner has yet to complete his report but she suffered a severe chest wound with what appears to be a sharpened wooden object," the thin cop supplied, his voice cold and precise. "You've been known to have a personal vendetta against Miss Summers. So, maybe you can tell us where you were on Tuesday and Wednesday this week?"

Faith was having difficulty separating her thoughts, but that question brought her mind sharply into focus. "You think I killed her? Fuck, I." Her mouth clamped shut and she shook her head bitterly. Of course they thought that. As far as the cops and B's friends were concerned, Faith had set out to systematically destroy Buffy's life in every way. All they had to go on was that Faith had hated Buffy, they never knew about the rest. What is was like to love someone so much that you hate them, to have that used and dismissed, to be left behind.

She closed her eyes in resignation. "Can I have my phone call now?"

Lockley nodded. "Follow me."

Maybe Faith should've called Angel. He had connections, hell, he'd been tight with Lockley at one point. He'd know what to do about this. But she'd thought of Oz immediately, because he was a friend in the way that Angel could never be. Angel would always be caught up in his own pain, because everything he did for people was designed to put him that one step closer in the grand plan of redemption. It was all about him and his destiny, whether he meant it or not. Guess if she'd been a two hundred and something vampire she'd be preoccupied with becoming human again too.

So she picked up the receiver with slightly shaking hands and dialled the number from memory. It was early still and when Oz picked up after the fifth ring his voice was sleepy and disorientated. "Hey."

"Oz? Oz, it's Faith. I'm at the cop shop. . . Oz, it's bad this time."

There was an infinite pause and she knew that in that moment Oz was making a conscious decision about their friendship. "I'm on my way."

She let out a small breath of relief as she gave him directions. There was something about his complete calm that made her suddenly feel a little less lost.

******

It was hours later before they finally emerged from the police station and some part of Faith was glad it was dark again. The cops had to let her go after Oz and his roomie Eve had corroborated her alibi, she'd been staying at their place and there was no way she could've got to Sunnydale and back to kill Buffy. A call to her probation officer also confirmed that she'd been in LA yesterday for her weekly appointment. Without any evidence the cops couldn't pin a thing on her and Lockley had unlocked her cuffs with a terse warning not to leave the state in case she was needed for further questioning. So now she wasn't the prime suspect, it begged the question 'who was?' There had to be fucking hundreds of demons and monsters who'd like to see B taken out and somehow Faith doubted any of them would appear on the official pyschologist's profile.

Oz was so typically calm about the whole thing, as if one of his former classmates died every day. Which. . . they kinda had when he was at school but this was different. Buffy was supposed to be invincible, she was a slayer. It was almost inconceivable that anyone could take her out. Then again, slayers didn't exactly have a long life expectancy.

And all Faith could think was that it should've been *her* not Buffy. Mostly, what bugged was that she hadn't got to say any of the things she'd practised, the apologies (sincere this time), the regrets, maybe even the confessions that she'd shoved down deep. She was just left with this taste of nausea in her mouth, she felt so damn sick. She wanted to lean over the sidewalk and wretch until there was nothing left in her gut. Her eyes itched with unshed tears and sheer exhaustion.

Oz was watching her, his expression thoughtful. "Where do you want to go?"

There was something about his tone that made her think he meant more than a choice between McDonalds and Burger King. She couldn't go back to the apartment, not without climbing the walls. She had the urge to get stoned, to let loose and just allow lazy detachment to wrap around her bones. Another part of her just wanted to revel in the pain that came from somewhere deep in her chest.

Faith dragged stray strands of hair away from her mouth, taking comfort in the chill of the wind as it penetrated her thin clothing. "Let's go, man. Let's just get the fuck out."

"Where to?" But he didn't really need to ask. Faith just gave him a half-smile and he nodded in understanding. "I need to pick up my stuff and say a few goodbyes first."

As they sauntered towards the van, Faith couldn't help thinking that all hell was gonna break out when they reached Sunnydale.

*end*