Chapter Text
Hey you, keep your head down
Don't you look around, please don't make a sound
If they should find you now
The Man will shoot you down.- Steppenwolf
"I think we missed our turn." Willow cranes her neck as she slows down, squinting through the lush forest growth.
"Told you I can't read these for shit." Faith rotates the map again before giving up and dropping it in her lap. "Any idea where?"
"Back at that farm. The one with the vegetable stand?"
"Told ya that too," Faith mutters, not quite under her breath.
"Sorry, honey." The Slayer sounds more impatient than bitter, and Willow doesn't take it too personal. Much. "But statistically speaking -- you're way more likely to get pulled over in smaller towns."
"And this burg's about as tiny as they come." Faith glares down at the map, ready to shred it for insolent refusal to cough up its secrets.
"That's why you want the other map," Willow says, casual as can be. "It's not on the state one. Remember?"
"Obviously not." Faith doesn't exactly look like she's pouting, or it's not a word anyone who valued their skin would use to describe her expression. Willow, however, has grown more discerning when it comes to things that are genuinely bugging her traveling-slash-other companion.
"You'll get your chance," Willow smiles. "If we're ever in Florida? Kennedy says we should rent a convertible. There's this stretch of desert they call Alligator Alley --"
"Whatever." Faith leans on one elbow, staring out her window at the vast countryside. "You wanna try callin' again?"
"I don't think so." Willow lets the blatant change of subject slide, trying to quell the nagging worry starting to reassert itself. "I'm not real good on the phone with strangers. Especially when I'm not being a hundred percent honest."
"Now who's the worrywart?" Faith sounds less snappy as she watches the abundant scenery go by. Hardly an interest Willow would have predicted. "Not sayin' it'll be a piece of cake --"
"Famous last words."
"Least we got a decent story." Faith shakes her head. "Man, am I glad they didn't put Andrew in undercover."
Willow silently concurs. She still hasn't gotten the full report -- or read Andrew's own on his mishandling of the Dana fiasco -- but it's trivial to read between the lines. In her opinion, their resident ex-not-so-supervillain ought to be thankful the Council hadn't shipped him to Siberia. Or its Watcher equivalent.
Luckily, Dawn has been providing her with supplementary reports on Dana's condition, and Willow feels reasonably comfortable with the current delegations. It's been a week since they left Maryland and entered West Virginia, following Giles' last email. His writing style in that medium has always been communiquey at best, and her curiosity at the lack of phone contact was soon eclipsed by the unprecedented sense of freedom.
Their current assignment is to approach, inform, and hopefully recruit the latest reported Potential turned Slayer, in a town small enough that its population's annual fluctuation continually threatens to revoke that title. The initial telephone call from Giles, vaguely claiming some form of scholarship, had met with no response, and he had subsequently assigned Dawn to the case, with the junior Watcher's reports indicating that she had left multiple messages to no avail. Every call since just rings.
"There. That side road up ahead --"
Faith follows the pointing finger. "Looks more like a driveway."
"Well, does it look like I can turn around?"
"I don't know. Can you?"
"If I can't?" Willow resists the urge to grit her teeth. "You get to drive a little sooner."
Faith remains silent throughout the thankfully brief maneuvering required. The last bit of asphalt was hours ago, and every road appears disconcertingly alike to Willow's citified eyes. Half lead to a creek or a dead end, the track of dirt they're currently navigating winding up and around the mountainous terrain like a snake eating its tail.
"There!" Faith gestures at a worn wooden sign, obscured by weeds, invisible from the other direction. "Hollow Springs, next left. What'd I tell you?"
Willow hazards a guess. "Piece of cake?"
"And pie." Faith stretches in her seat, back to her unflappable self. "We find this chick, you give her the speech, I step in if I have to. Anything else -- we deal as it comes."
"No word of a Hellmouth round these parts --"
"See?" Faith smirks. "Already you're blending right in."
"There's a thought. Hordes of rednecks bearing pitchforks?"
"And right back out." Faith sounds bored as she leans back and closes her eyes. "You don't want to piss off the natives, you need to quit actin' so damn white."
"I'll assume that's meant to be metaphorical?" Willow spots her missed turn, taking extra care to avoid potholes as she eases their abused rental vehicle over the well-packed gravel.
"It's like prison -- hell, it's like life. You don't ever assume you're safe. But if you think everyone's out to get you?" Faith shrugs. "They will be."
"Self-fulfilling prophecy," Willow muses.
"Just don't act like Cordy and you'll be fine." Faith's left hand reaches over. Willow's ready to utter a half-hearted protest in the name of safety when she realizes the Slayer is rummaging through the pocket of her coat, on the seat between them.
"Besides, they ain't all like that. Wasn't Tara --" The Slayer stumbles momentarily as she locates her crumpled pack of smokes. "Wasn't she from someplace like this?"
Willow knows she looks troubled, but the memory provokes a smile.
"I never did ask where she was from. I always envisioned her like Tori Amos on that album cover. Barefoot on the front porch of this little shack in the woods, with a --" The smile fades, and she swallows.
"What?"
Willow tries not to force out the words. "With a shotgun across her lap."
Apparently, Faith has once more decided that silence is the best medicine. Willow concentrates on the road, trying not to skid as they crest the top of the hill; and then all is forgotten.
"Wow." Willow comes completely to a stop as she stares at the immense vista laid out below, the shine of a lake in the distance.
Even Faith looks impressed. "No offense to Katie -- now that's a friggin' valley."
Willow realizes she's perilously close to tears, wanting Tara with her to share this beauty. "Big time."
Faith throws her a suspicious glance, but again says nothing as Willow finds the tissues, producing a vigorous honk before resuming their now downhill journey. Still, the ice feels somehow broken, a hypothesis confirmed when the Slayer seamlessly resumes their earlier discussion as though it had never been interrupted.
"No matter where you go, people are people. Most of 'em suck, more or less. Degrees of suckitude." The lighter pops, adding its own punctuation as Faith pulls it out. "And a few really suck. And a little less than that --"
"The halfway decent?" Willow's amusement outweighs the vague feeling that she ought to be appalled as this level of cynicism. "Good and bad, two ends of the bell curve?"
"When I was inside." Faith takes a drag, puts her arm out the window and kicks back. "Every time someone came in with any kind of an accent, they had to take an extra dose of crap. And the country girls were the worst. Everyone acted like they were retarded."
"Ouch." Willow can hear an additional note of bitterness. Faith remains nonchalant.
"So I figure round here, on the one end you got your Dukes of Hazzard. On the other, you got Deliverance. And the rest in between --"
"The majority in their grey zone of suckitude?"
"More or less." Faith takes another drag. "Shit, you hear some of those California girls talk -- South, West, didn't matter. Far as they're concerned it's all the same. Like nothing between there and New York really exists."
"Wow." Willow ponders a moment, trying for light humor. "And you picked up all this in your extensive cross-continental travels?"
No response. She risks a glance over, ready to apologize.
"Don't sweat it." Faith does look a bit ticked off, but this and similar phrases are recognizable as Standard Operating Procedure.
"I am sweating," Willow replies, moving to defuse the tension. "Very unladylike. So we need to find a motel and a nice cold shower before my underwear gives me heat rash --"
"Sexy."
"-- and I cut you off." She adds a hopefully unnecessary smile.
"Spite yourself." Faith shrugs, with a tiny smile of her own. "So how far to --"
The thunderous noise fills her ears before she realizes what's happening; the roar coming up behind before something whips around them, tears by in a spray of gravel in less time than it takes Willow to rear back and suppress an ungodly shriek as she clutches the wheel, barely conscious of the rapidly vanishing cyclist.
"Asshole!" Faith leans back inside. "You okay?"
"Ah --" Willow's hands tremble, attempting to ease their death grip.
"You can't let 'em get to you that easy." Faith's disapproval is clear. "Specially not when you're ridin' a couple tons of metal --"
"At least I drive better than Buffy --"
The road rises to meet his wheels; reflected in dark sunglasses as he shifts gears. Flying toward destiny, looming large in his sights.
Toward new prey.
The Hunter has come to town.
**