*****

I wake up with a start. I skip the whole "sitting bolt upright" thing and jump out of bed, ready for anything.

It only takes a few seconds to realize there's nothing in the room. I climb into bed again and lie down. Yeah, I'm ready for anything. Anything except the empty stretches of night. And lately, since Riley left anyhow, that's all they are.

+++

I know what they're thinking.

I had to tell them something, because I can't just pick up and leave even for one day without accounting for myself. I had a whole story prepared but when it came down to it, I couldn't get past the part where I tell them I'm going to Los Angeles. So I left it at that.

Now they're thinking that this is so not a good time for me to be away. And they're also thinking that they understand it perfectly. Of course I have to get out of town, they're thinking. They're thinking that, naturally, there's only one person in the world I want to see right now. Only one person who can help me through. Obviously, they're thinking, I am running to Angel.

+++

I stand outside the building, across the street. Now that I'm here, it's so much harder than I thought it would be. I don't know what to say. I don't even know how to walk up to the door. I've been standing here so long, I'm beginning to look suspicious. I can't keep standing here all day. Someone is bound to notice me, and do something about me. I have to either go in, or go away. Even though I thought this is what I wanted, I'm beginning to think this was a mistake. Maybe I should just go away.

But that would be another form of running away, wouldn't it? And that's the problem. I'm always running away, one way or another. I have to stop running and hiding; it has to stop some time. Maybe this is the time.

I take a deep breath, and walk up to the main entrance.

+++

I'm fidgeting, shifting in my seat, bouncing my the heel of my foot, twirling my hair. I'm about two seconds from chewing on it, like I did when I was six. I can't seem to help myself.

I bite my lip and that sensation, that reminder of my body and the outside world, is enough to still me. I sit quietly now, but I'm starting to think this is a mistake. I'm thinking that maybe I should get up and walk out of here while I still can.

She knows I'm here, though. I mean, they've already told her. Or they're telling her now. Whatever, the point is that even if I get up and walk out right now, she'll know I was here. So I should stay and face her, because after all, I came all this way just to talk to her.

I had to come this far just to find anyone at all to talk to. It's not that I can't talk to anyone back home - I love my friends and my family - it's just that I can't talk to them about this. I don't want to upset anyone; I can't let them know how upset I am. I'm falling apart here, and I can't. I can't fall apart, ever, but especially not now. So I've come to L.A. because I can't keep it inside. (God, there's so much I can't do!)

My gaze is fixed on the door because, somehow, focusing on that door keeps me from walking out the one behind me. When it opens at last and the guard brings her in, I let my lower lip slide from between the teeth that have been worrying it for the past few minutes; I don't want her to see me chewing my lip. She sits opposite me and picks up the phone and for a moment we just sit there, looking at each other through the thick plate of glass without smiling or blinking.

"Faith," I say into the receiver. I smile involuntarily, and she smiles back. I almost sigh with relief, just seeing her smile. I relax into my own smile a little more and continue, "How are you?"

Almost as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I see I've made a mistake. She's still looking at me, still smiling, but the joy has gone out of it. For a moment, she looks at me with that smile. It looks the same on the surface, but she's freezing beneath it. Then in one movement she puts the receiver down and stands up, and starts to walk away.

My hand curls into a fist and knocks insistently, desperately on the glass that separates us. I don't expect it to work, really - but, miraculously to me, she turns. She actually stops and turns and looks at me, so I tilt my head apologetically and motion her back to the table hopefully. My gestures are so pathetic; *I'm* so pathetic. I don't know what else to do, though. If I thought it would help, I would pound through that glass and go to her. But I don't think that will help either of us, in these circumstances.

Pathetic or not, she comes back. She sits all the way back in her chair this time, but at least she's sitting there. I want to smile again, just because she's sitting there with me, but I don't think she's in the mood for any more smiles right now.

"I'm sorry," I say, trying to show her that I know I fucked up. That's part of what this is all about, coming here to see her, dealing with all my internal stuff - admitting that I fucked up. That I've fucked up a lot. I have to get to the heart of all the fucking up I've done, so I can stop it. I know she's not going to say anything to that pitiful, half-assed apology, so I go on: "I, uh, just wanted to talk to you." Still no response, and my lip is back between my teeth getting gnawed on while I look at her. I'm not sure how to continue, or if I even should continue. I don't know what she's thinking; I never could read her right, and god when I think of how much badness could have been avoided if I'd just read her right.! "Can I talk to you?" I ask, not knowing what else to say. She nods right away. "I just." I hesitate once more, and am disgusted to find that I'm playing with my hair again. I put my hand back in my lap. "I need to talk to someone." I'm getting that desperate feeling, the one that comes upon me when I wake up in the empty night. I need her to understand; I need her to understand *me*, even though I don't really understand myself. "I need someone to be honest with me," I tell her, looking deeply into her eyes. "Will you be honest with me, Faith?"

I think I've made a mistake with my words again. In that fraction of time between the words leaving my mouth and her reaction coming back to me, I think she's going to walk away from me again. If she does, I know a simple knock on glass won't get her back this time. I'm not afraid of her honesty; though maybe there was a time I couldn't deal with it, I'm ready for it now. I really and truly am. What I'm afraid of, in that weird moment of distorted perception, is that she'll think I'm calling her a liar. But she surprises me again, with another nod.

I take a deep breath, and the words come out with the exhale: "Was it my fault?" Her lips part, but not to speak. I guess it's my turn to take her by surprise. Now that I'm past that first sentence, the rest of it comes easier. I've thought these words over and over, I've even written them down in letters I never sent and rehearsed them in mirrors for conversations I never had. Never had until now, that is. "Did I fail you, Faith? Was it." I pause because rehearsal is not the same as the real thing. "Was it something I did, or didn't do, that drove you away?"

I practiced those words, but I never got farther than that. I never practiced the tears that are threatening to spill out of me. I never practiced the next words, either.

"Riley left."

I don't know why I said that. Why would I tell her that? Why would I think she would care? But the words have spilled out, and the tears are right behind them. I can't seem to stop myself. "He left me," I tell her, knowing that she doesn't care about this, knowing that right when we were about to get to something real I've derailed, again. "He left Sunnydale," I continue inanely. I know she's disgusted with me. *I'm* disgusted with me. But I keep going, as if I can't control myself. "He's gone, and." I want to say what I came here for; I want to stop fucking up. "And it's my fault," I finish. I start telling her about it, even though I know she doesn't really need the backstory. But once I've said his name, I can't stop talking about him. I thought I came here because I needed to talk to Faith and about her and me, and I do, I swear I do. But this is part of it, isn't it?

I'm trying to explain to her how I keep fucking everything up, but I can see she's getting restless. I'm desperate to keep her attention, so I start telling her about Glory, hoping she might be interested in hearing about slayer stuff. But she slips down in her chair just a little more, and I don't know what to do to get her back.

I don't know what to do to get her back.

I never did know. With any of them.

I'm looking at her, and I'm seeing Riley, too; I'm telling her about Riley again, but I'm talking to her about us, too.

I wonder if she can understand me. I mean, literally, if she can understand my words. Because I haven't been able to stop crying, and it's interrupting my breathing not to mention my words.

I wonder if she *wants* to understand me.

I know she has her own problems and it must seem selfish at best that I want to tell her mine. But I do want to tell her. It doesn't have to be the problems. It can be anything. I just want to talk to her. I came this far just to talk but as I try to do it, as I try to *talk* to someone, I feel this panic rising up. It's taking over me from the inside out, prickling just under my skin, coating me in vague hysteria, and I know I'm out of control a little, I can feel how far out I'm about to spin and I know it's because I'm trying to talk, because in my backwards and roundabout way I'm trying to open up and lay myself bare and fuck! Fuck, this isn't working! Because she's totally withdrawn. She's just sitting there looking at me, her eyes boring holes into me. The more silent she is, the more I spill myself out.

I want to stop now. I have to stop. I'm ready to stop.

No more words. No more tears.

We look at each other.

Isn't there

Tundra, without a smile. Waiting to come to life, waiting for the sun to be warm enough.

That sun isn't me.

This shouldn't surprise me. I guess it doesn't. But a part of me was hoping.

~ Hoping what? Jesus, when will you learn to put hope away? It only leads to disappointment! ~

"I'm sorry," I whisper between hiccups.

I don't mean to be so fucking selfish. I don't know what I'm doing here. I don't know what I thought would happen! I would talk, and then she would talk. and then. then what? Would either of us say anything worth saying? There's only one thing worth saying, that's what I think sometimes -

I keep looking at her. She keeps looking back, as unflinching as ever.

It's hard to say it, to say it and mean it and hear it back and believe it. and neither one of us is going to say it. Not here, not now, not to each other; not to each other maybe ever - because the time to say it and mean it and hear it back and believe it has passed us by.

I hang up the receiver. Then I stand, and I just turn and leave. There's nothing else to do, nothing else. No more words, no more tears, no more smiles. Just no more.

This feels like an ending. Not a conclusion, just an ending where nothing gets figured out but you know there's never going to be another chance.

Somehow, I have fucked up again.

+++

I get on the bus and I let myself cry half-way back to Sunnydale, but only half-way. Once we're past that mark, I start to gather up all the spilled out parts of me and put them back inside, so I'll be ready for anything when I get back home.

+++

THE END