Part Six: Tell Me Your Tale

 

Nightingale, sing us a song of a love that once belonged.

Nightingale, tell me your tale. Was your journey far too long?

 

Does it seem like I’m looking for an answer to a question I can’t ask?

I don’t know which way the feather falls, if I should blow it to the left…

 

Nightingale, sing us a song of a love that once belonged.

Nightingale, tell me your tale. Was your journey far too long?

 

All the voices that are spinning around me are trying to tell me what to say;

So can I fly right behind you, and you can take me away?

 

- Norah Jones, “Nightingale”

 

 

August 13th, 2008; Los Angeles, California

 

“Go away,” Faith says again, firmly. It’s amazing she doesn’t look more panicked, Spike thinks. The Slayer stands on a deserted street corner, cradling a barely conscious Willow in her arms. Blood stains the whole front of Willow’s torn shirt, drips down Faith’s hands. Despite this Faith seems calm, if unreasonable. Spike can’t particularly say the same for himself or his grandsire.

 

“Damn it, Faith,” Angel says. He asked the first time, but he’s getting tired of this, and now he’s trying to give out orders. “Get in the goddamn car. We’re going back to the hotel.”

 

“You seem to be missing the part where I said ‘no’,” Faith says, and turns to go. Willow shifts in her arms, turns to press her cheek to Faith’s chest. Willow’s hands are completely bloody up to the wrists. She holds them weakly to the wound in her stomach, but there is a steady trickle from between her fingers.

 

“If we don’t help her right now, she’s gonna die, Faith,” Angel says from between clenched teeth. “Stop being stubborn and just get in the car.”

 

“Willow doesn’t want to go with you,” Faith says. “And I’m working for her, not you, so it’s her I listen to. Go home. I’ll call you in the morning.”

 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” Spike interjects. Angel sighs in frustration and runs a hand through his hair. Faith’s eyes flicker to meet Spike’s and then settle at a point somewhere beyond his left ear. “You expect us to go and just leave Willow with you while she’s fucking *bleeding* to death?”

 

“Excuse me, but considering it’s your fault she’s bleeding to death, I don’t think you’ve really got the moral or reasonable high ground. We’ve got a medkit at home. Willow doesn’t wanna talk to any of you, she didn’t want you to know she was here, and she doesn’t wanna play sleepover at the Hyperion. We’re not going back with you.”

 

Faith seems unable to place all the blame for Willow’s injury on Angel, and is instead dividing it between her sponsor and Spike. Spike finds this unfair but decides to ignore it for the moment while he comes up with a suitably cutting response to Faith’s dismissal. Angel beats him to it.

 

“Fine. We’ll go to your place. Get in the car.”

 

Faith blinks at him, surprised at this change of tack, but recovers herself. “No.” She starts walking.

 

Angel shrugs and presses down feather-light on the gas, coasting alongside Faith as she walks briskly down the street. “At least let us drive you there. You’re a good hour away on foot, and Willow’s gonna bleed to death.” He’s using his best Reasonable Voice, the one he usually uses on Gunn’s kids when they’re getting too friendly with a battleaxe and won’t put it down.

 

Faith hesitates but doesn’t stop. Angel keeps this up for the next three blocks until Faith stops and says, “Fine. You drive us there, you drop us off, you leave. Go.”

 

She gets in the back, handling Willow like she’s made of china. Angel goes.

 

Spike notices that Angel hasn’t agreed to any of those terms.

 

“So,” he says, to fill the tense, blood-scented silence, “Willow’s your friend who doesn’t like vampires in her house?”

 

“I never lied,” Faith says. “She doesn’t.”

 

“How come I never smelled her on you?” Spike asks.

 

“I always took a shower before I came to see you guys,” Faith says. She sounds completely unapologetic.

 

Spike blinks and is thinking back on this when there is a scrabbling at the back of Angel’s car, like there’s a cat trying to climb up the back, and then Willow’s familiars are sitting in the back seat next to their mistress and Faith. If he didn’t know better he’d say they were glaring at him. He glares back.

 

“Screw off, Spike, you deserve it,” Faith informs him when she sees their staring contest.

 

Angel’s hands are white-knuckled on the steering wheel of the car as he drives. “Faith, why didn’t you ever tell us Willow was here?”

 

Spike had been working up to asking that.

 

“’Cause she asked me to keep it a secret,” Faith says.

 

“Everyone’s been so worried,” Angel says, reprimanding. Like Faith doesn’t know this. “We all thought she was dead.”

 

“I never did,” says Spike.

 

“You gave up looking for her, didn’t you?” Angel says.

 

“That’s ‘cause I knew I wouldn’t find her,” Spike shoots back coldly. “Wherever she was, it wasn’t anywhere any of us could’ve gone.”

 

“Faith, you should have known better,” Angel continues. Faith’s eyes widen in surprise. “Jesus, what right do you have to keep this from us? I was so worried—Spike was so worried. God, Buffy, Oz—”

 

“Fuck that,” Faith says, indignant. “Fuck *you*, Angel, I’m not some little kid, you’re not my daddy. Listen to me, would you? Willow didn’t wanna be found. She doesn’t want you or Oz or Buffy to know she’s here. She didn’t want me to know either but I promised her I’d keep my mouth shut and I did. Don’t get all pissed ‘cause I didn’t come running to you right away. This isn’t any of your business.”

 

“Faith,” Willow says. Her eyes are open. This is the first word Spike has heard her speak. Her voice is hoarser, deeper than he remembers, but that could just be the pain from the stab wound in her stomach. “I need your hands.” Spike savors her voice in his mind.

 

Faith nods and places her hands on top of Willow’s, intertwining their fingers. Faith’s skin is darker. “Here. Take as much as you need.”

 

What?

 

Willow closes her eyes and her mouth twists in a grimace that looks more like concentration than pain. Spike squints at her, at her hands and Faith’s pressed against the bloody T-shirt, at the soft glow from beneath her skin.

 

This is new.

 

“We’re here,” Angel says, but Faith and Willow do not move. “Faith?” Angel says, and the Slayer’s eyes open slowly, like she’s swimming up out of a dream.

 

“Go away,” she says faintly, and closes her eyes again.

 

For a half an hour they sit in front of Willow and Faith’s store. Willow and Faith and the animals huddle in the back seat, dripping blood on the leather, glowing.

 

When the glow stops, it is Willow who opens her eyes first, who disentangles her fingers and her legs from Faith’s, who speaks. “Thanks for the drive,” she says. Her voice really is that husky. “Faith’ll call you in the morning.” Her torn shirt is still bloody, but there is nothing beneath it but healthy skin.

 

Faith shakes her head woozily. “We done?” At Willow’s nod she sits up, opens the car door, swings her legs out, stands using the car for balance. “I’ll call you, Angel. Don’t worry about it.”

 

Willow gets out after she does, offers an arm for support, which Faith takes. The animals flow out behind them, a river of rippling muscle and soft fur, and all of them, teetering slightly, make their way to the building and inside. They don’t look back.