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If Sunnydale was Buffy's town, Cleveland is Faith's. It's not sunshine or art galleries, not beaches or high school. Cleveland is cold and dirty, a river so polluted it once caught on fire, the mistake by the lake. But it's baseball in summer and hockey in winter, cigarettes and jukeboxes and leaves that change color like they're supposed to. It's the solid, reassuring feel of a stake in her hand. It might be the mouth of Hell, but it's hers.
There's a place where Faith can sit, on the corner of this old mausoleum in Riverside Cemetery, lean back against the marble and just blend into the shadows. She lights up a cigarette and smokes it as the sky shifts from dark to light over her city. She doesn't do it every day, or even every week, and never on a regular pattern because a predictable slayer is a dead slayer. But tonight, she wants some peace and quiet and it feels good out here, where she can flick the ash from her cigarette into a pile of dust she worked hard to make.
Usually when she gets in at this hour, everyone's asleep. Hell, avoiding conversation is why she stays out so late half the time. Tonight is different, though: as she gets close to the house, she can see that there's somebody sitting on the porch, waiting. The porch light is on as usual, but the beam is weak now that the sky is lightening, and all Faith can see is blonde hair and a shadowed face. For a second she thinks of Buffy, but then the girl raises a hand to her lips and takes a drag on a cigarette. At that, it's clearly not Buffy, and Faith realizes that the hair color was wrong from the beginning, a little too long, too bottle-colored and brassy.
Jo.
If every random hookup started calling and sending her knives in the mail, Faith would probably move to Rome or something, just to get away. But every random hookup is not this girl -- and she's given Faith some good leads, she knows her shit. Plus, that knife was pretty fuckin' awesome. Showing up on the doorstep is weird, fine, but no way is this just a booty call. Something's got to be going on.
Jo looks up as Faith gets closer to the porch and takes a drag on her cigarette. "Hey, you," she says, and blows the smoke out in a steady stream.
"Blondie," Faith says, leaning against the porch railing. She doesn't ask for a cigarette and Jo doesn't offer. She watches Jo smoke for a minute, the way her slim fingers hug the paper, the way her lips purse at the corners, the way she's sitting on the step, casual but not really relaxed. Her lips are pale, all traces of lipstick bitten off.
When she's finished, Jo stands and stubs out her cigarette in the little clay flowerpot Faith keeps on the porch railing. She's standing on the porch now, looking down at Faith on the lawn.
Faith doesn't say hey, come on in, but she says, "So you want a beer or something?" Jo nods, and when Faith walks through the front door of the house, Jo follows her easily. Faith lets her shoulders relax a little.
The house is big and dark, and it's obvious from all the stuff sitting around that other people live here, too -- high school textbooks and ratty old flip-flops, a yoga mat and a Playstation 3. Some stupid picture on the wall of a kid dressed up like a cabbage, and one of that vampire from Sesame Street. Faith remembers the feeling she had when she walked into the Roadhouse, like there was something watching over the place. She wonders now what Jo thinks of the house.
They walk into the dark kitchen and Faith crosses to the fridge. When she opens it, light spills out onto the old tile floor. Faith blinks into the sudden brightness and pulls out two bottles. She hands one to Jo and shuts the fridge, and the room is dark again.
"Thanks for the tip about that missing kid," Faith says finally. There's some pale light coming in through the window, and as her eyes adjust she can see the side of Jo's face, just the curve of her jaw and the fall of blonde hair.
"No problem," Jo says. "It give you any trouble?"
"Nah." Actually all the tips that Jo has sent her way are easy to handle, like either Jo is keeping the best stuff for herself, or maybe like she has a weird idea of what's easy and what's tough. Faith has never said the word "slayer" to her, but then, she thought it was obvious. It is to most other people like Jo, people who know what's waiting out there in the night. It seems strange, how this girl can know so much and so little at the same time.
"So what's goin' on?" she asks, when her beer is halfway gone and Jo hasn't volunteered anything.
"Maybe it's just a visit," Jo says, and even in the low light Faith can see her face move and take on a flirty look, like for some weird reason she thinks she needs it.
"Yeah," Faith says, not buying it for a second. "Why now?"
Jo skims one finger around the mouth of the beer bottle, tracing a little circle over and over. Finally she speaks. "I'm lookin' for something," she says. "Thought maybe you could help me get it."
Get it, Faith thinks. Get, not find. "Where?" she asks.
"The Cleveland Pioneer Museum," Jo answers right away. "At least, I think it might be there. I need to try." The fake-flirty look is gone from her face, and her voice is almost painfully earnest. Faith wonders if that's an act, too. She can't remember the last time she felt so strongly about something like that.
"What is it?" she asks Jo. She hasn't made up her mind, but she knows there's no real chance she'll say no. What's she gonna do, let this little girl go out by herself and get killed?
"It's a gun," Jo says. "And if it's not there, there might be papers there that will help find it."
"A gun?" Faith asks, more than just skeptical. These days, Faith doesn't even mess around with a crossbow, just gets in close and fights hand-to-hand. Guns are for amateurs and gang kids.
"It's a special gun," Jo says. She looks excited, like a schoolgirl or something, like the way the baby slayers look sometimes, worked up in a way that Faith thinks she hasn't been since... maybe ever. "It could... if we had this, it could change everything."
"Everything, huh?" Faith asks, and she can't keep the amusement out of her voice. Still, there's a part of her that envies Jo that excitement.
"Everything," Jo agrees, with a dirty look that says she heard the amusement. "So, are you in?"
"What are you gonna do if I'm not?"
"Go alone, I guess." Jo tilts her chin up and tries to put a mean look on her face, but it doesn't quite fit. Faith knows she can't say no to her, can't let her stumble out there on her own.
"I'll go," Faith says, shrugging as if she doesn't care either way. "Why not?"
Jo smiles, and her mouth is so wide that it seems like the smile spreads all the way across her cheeks. Just another thing that Faith doesn't do, ever.
"So what's the plan?" she asks, glancing away from Jo's broad smile and down at her beer, just looking at the green glass bottle and the way it reflects the early-morning sunlight outside, growing brighter now.
"The place closes at five on Mondays," Jo says. "We go in, look around, play the tourists..."
"Then hide in the bathroom till it's closed?" Faith asks, grinning.
"Yep," Jo says, not at all ashamed that she's picked the oldest trick in the book. Still, it'll probably work.
Faith tips her head back for another sip of beer, and is surprised when she feels only a trickle of foam cross her lips.
"Alright," she says. "Time to hit the sack. You comin'?" She doesn't know she's going to issue the invitation until she says it, and is almost surprised when the words come out. They've hooked up before, but that's no guarantee -- usually Faith's not one for a repeat performance.
Jo looks a little surprised herself, but she covers it. "Sure," she says. "It's a long drive from Nebraska."
They walk back through the quiet living room, and Faith waits on the porch as Jo gets her duffle from a beat-up pickup truck at the curb. Then she leads the way upstairs and down the hall, past doors where the newbies sleep, each one decorated with magazine clippings and blurry snapshots.
She opens the door to her room and walks inside, and Jo follows behind and shuts the door. Faith has been patrolling all night and her muscles ache, but she's not tired now. The sun is streaming in through the window-panes, shining right on the narrow twin bed. Faith has never brought anyone here before, but Jo doesn't say anything about the place, just crosses the room and looks at the top of her dresser where that big knife is sitting, handle wrapped in leather. She reaches out a finger and touches it, traces the handle and the simple sheath, and the sunlight shines through her yellow hair.
Faith kicks off her boots and walks barefooted across the room to where Jo is standing next to the window. She wraps one arm around Jo's waist and presses herself against her body. They're the same height, although Jo is slimmer and narrower where Faith is curvy, and they fit together just right like this. "Thanks for the knife," Faith says. There are other things on the top of the dresser, too -- other knives, some stakes, and a sword that she hardly ever uses cause it's such a pain to carry around.
"I thought you'd like it," Jo says, and doesn't ask about all the other ones. Faith is glad, but she wonders again about this girl and the kind of places where knife collections are normal things.
"Mmm, I do," Faith answers, tilting her head and brushing her lips against the spot where Jo's neck meets her shoulder. "But I didn't get you anything." The sun is fully up now, and they've both been awake all night, but Faith can feel Jo's body vibrate a little with excitement. She knows Jo is feeling every bit as wide awake as she is. They can sleep later.
"Yeah?" Jo asks, clearly distracted now, pressing back against Faith.
The question goes unanswered as Faith traces her tongue across Jo's neck, tastes the salty-sweet flavor of her skin, and Jo shudders again. She has one arm wrapped around Jo's waist, and she slips her fingers under the hem of her Jo's shirt, touching the skin there at her waist. After a moment, Jo grows impatient and turns to face her, meeting Faith's lips with her own.
Jo is trapped between Faith and the edge of the dresser, but she kisses with force and hunger, as though she were the one in charge here, her lips and teeth and tongue bold and wanting, seeking more and more. Faith remembers Jo pressing her up against the wall outside the roadhouse, slipping those little hands inside her jeans as the crickets chirped and the cars drove along the road nearby, and she grins into Jo's mouth.
Quick and dirty was great, and Faith is all about that usually, but this time she's got Jo here in her own room and she can take her time. If she wants to see and hear and taste every bit of her, that's what she's gonna do.
Jo's little breasts are pressing up against her own, but this time there's no shift to get back to in a few minutes, nothing keeping them apart except for the thin fabric of bras and t-shirts, and Faith can grab the hem of Jo's thin little top and pull it off over her head, unsnap the bra and drop it on the floor. She can lean down and take a nipple in her mouth, tongue it and suck it and scrape her teeth across the nubbled flesh as she kneads the other breast with her fingers, and hear Jo's voice encouraging her, breathing hard and saying yes, there, more, oh yeah, so good.
Faith unbuttons Jo's jeans and pushes them down with both hands, slips them past her knees and Jo kicks and wriggles until they're off completely, a little pile of fabric under her bare feet. Jo is doing the same to her, small hands struggling across her hips to push away the denim, but Faith is quicker and sinks to her knees on the floor before her jeans are truly off.
Jo's hipbones are prominent beneath her pale skin, and Faith presses on them, pushing Jo back against the side of the dresser and holding her in place as she dips her head to kiss Jo's stomach, her thighs, the little patch of blonde hair. Jo's hands grasp her hair, pulling and pushing as if she doesn't know what she wants, but Faith has a pretty good idea she does.
She flicks out her tongue and catches Jo's clit, and Jo gasps above her. When Faith looks up, she can see Jo framed against the sunlight of the window, her blonde hair shining and one hand massaging her own breast, pinching and rubbing. Faith tongues her clit again, and raises one hand up to stroke the folds as well. Another flicker of her tongue, and she slips a finger inside, setting up a rhythm of tongue and hand, in and out and in and out, the soft sound of flesh and skin sliding together accompanying her motions, filling up her ears along with Jo's gasps.
Her own cunt aches with arousal, and Faith can feel herself getting wetter, wanting. Jo is gasping and writhing against her hand, holding her head in place and Faith knows it won't be long but she's not willing to wait. She takes her other hand from where it's holding Jo's hip in place and slips it inside her own jeans, touching herself just as she's touching Jo. Shifting position, she slips two fingers inside Jo and pushes deep, pushing two fingers into her own cunt at the same time and bearing down on the heel of her hand.
Oh fuck, Jo says above her, and Faith works herself furiously, knowing just where to push and stroke, feeling her own clit hard against her hand. Oh fuck yeah, I'm close, Jo says, and Faith knows she is too, knows that it's just out of reach but any moment now she'll be there, almost there, so close, so so close...
Jo's cunt clenches around her fingers and her thighs shake against Faith's shoulders and Faith grinds down against her own hand hard, fucking herself as deep as she can manage on her own fingers, and just as Jo's gasps begin to slow and her legs stop shaking, Faith feels her own climax come and she rests her forehead against Jo's hip as she shakes and trembles through it.
The sun is already shining brightly by the time they close the curtains and go to sleep, Faith sprawled on her stomach with Jo's arm around her waist. It's strange, but not unwelcome, to have another person in bed with her. The best part is, when she wakes up in the afternoon, there's another warm, sleepy body next to her own. She opens her eyes and looks around the room, sees the pile of their clothes near the base of the dresser and smiles. Jo stirs slightly, and Faith rolls over to whisper suggestions in her ear. After all, Jo owes her this time.
Jo's hair is in tangles all around her face, and her eyes are ringed with the remnants of last night's mascara. She opens her eyes slowly, and against the black border of smeared makeup they are shining, a beautiful light brown like the Charles River. A grin spreads across Jo's face, and she licks her lips before disappearing beneath the covers to carry out Faith's suggestions.
By the time they leave the room, it's the middle of the afternoon and Faith is starving. She slaps some peanut butter on bread and pours herself a big glass of milk, then stuffs half the sandwich in her mouth at once and heads back upstairs to take a shower.
When she gets back to her room, Jo is there in jeans and an old cotton bra. Her hair is blow-dried into that style that makes her look like some old Hollywood starlet, and all her earlier comfort is gone -- she looks stiff and nervous and she's back to the put-on expressions that make her look like she's trying to be someone else. Now it's a tough, determined look that slips onto her face as she puts her arms into a worn plaid shirt and buttons it up.
Faith slips on a pair of jeans and a plain black t-shirt, and pulls her wet hair into a ponytail. Her nerves are jumping a little bit in the way they always do before something big goes down, and she grins. It's the best feeling, next to the give when the stake punches home, or the sudden loss of resistance when the vamp explodes into dust. The hunt, the kill -- it's what makes this job worth having. The nervous energy is just the first part of it, the build-up.
She grabs Jo and pulls her into a kiss, pouring her own energy into it and getting Jo's back in exchange, tongues and lips and teeth all in accord, tangling and building and pressing toward what they're about to do tonight, both ready and wanting. She can feel Jo's urgency and her nerves, can taste how much she wants tonight to go well, and Faith dives deeper, drinking in that desire and newness, stroking Jo's tongue with her own. When they break apart, they're both gasping, and Faith can feel the energy in her stomach has doubled or tripled and she's ready to go out and kick some ass, to get something done.
She looks at Jo with a smile on her face, and Jo grins back, and it's obvious that she's feeling the same way, that tough-girl look replaced now with a determined, exhilarated expression that Faith knows is closer to her own.
Jo drives them across town to a little old-fashioned house with Victorian trimmings, and they park the pickup truck across the street and a half-block away -- close enough for an easy getaway, but far enough away that it won't raise suspicion. This is different from most of the stuff that Faith does -- usually she's just getting in and out fast, getting the job done and getting gone. This is the part she usually lets the watchers handle: watchmen and research and undercover shit are not her gig, and she knows nothing about guns and old papers. For the first time she begins to wonder what the hell she's even doing here. Jo is grinning at her with that same excited look, though, and Faith knows she can't back out now.
Instead, she pats the knife at the small of her back and asks, "So you're sure this place doesn't have a metal detector, right?"
"Right," Jo says, and checks herself out in the rearview mirror, smoothing her hair with one hand and touching up her lipstick. "Ready?"
"Sure," Faith says. They get out of the truck and walk slowly, casually toward the little house. When they get to the sidewalk, Faith can see a little faded sign in the front yard that reads: "Cleveland Pioneer Museum, Open Monday through Friday 9 to 5." The place looks tiny, harmless. They walk up to the front door, and the stairs creak under their feet.
Inside, there's a grey-haired old lady sitting at a desk who says, "Welcome, girls."
Faith takes a pamphlet from her, uncomfortable. Museums are not her scene, even ones full of weapons. Why can't there be a haunted hockey rink or something? This is Buffy's kind of deal -- books and museums and art galleries and shit. She should be here dealing with this, Faith thinks.
Jo steps forward and Faith looks up and catches her eyes, full of excitement and nerves and just a little bit of what-the-hell-are-we-doing? Right then, Faith changes her mind. She wants to keep this one all to herself.
She smiles back at Jo real fast, then turns away and tries to pretend like she knows what she's doing in a museum. In the corner there's a real hokey-looking covered wagon, with a couple of mannequins sitting in it in old-fashioned clothes. The walls are lined with old black and white pictures, and Faith walks around pretending to look at them even though they're all the same as far as she can tell. She flips through the brochure in her hand too, but there's no map, just more old pictures and some begging for donations.
They walk up a creaky staircase to the second floor -- there's another flight of stairs going up after that, but it's blocked by a little purple velvet rope -- and find themselves in a room full of guns. They're all behind glass, of course, and all really old. Some are big and some are about the size of a cell phone, and the outsides are covered with different shades of dull metal, but other than that Faith can't see much of a difference between them.
There's a freestanding glass case in the middle of the room holding three guns and a few old books. Jo goes straight for it, so Faith follows. She looks down at the guns, but they just look like guns to her -- old, but nothing real special -- and she feels stupid, so she steps back and goes around to the other side of the case to check out the books.
Faith's no watcher, but she's been a slayer for a long time and she's learned the difference between a grimoire and a demonology, and this ain't either. It's just some old dead guy's diary, with drawings of gun parts all labeled in tiny handwriting. A little bit of that earlier energy rush dies off, and she looks at Jo hoping that if this doesn't pan out she'll take it okay. Girl knows her shit, sure, but not every job goes the way you want it to and that's a fact Faith's learned the hard way.
Jo's face is turned down as she stands in front of the case and studies the guns on display. Her blonde hair falls down around her face and her eyes are almost closed, long lashes caked with mascara. She looks so intent that Faith looks back at the guns just to see what she missed. They're laying on a piece of blue velvet, and the metal is a dark grey with black detailing on it. One of the guns is propped open to show the round revolver chamber, and the others are closed. Each of them has little details carved into the metal, cross-hatching and designs and writing.
Jo points to the gun on the left and reads off the little card on the front of the case. "...a prototype for the gun Colt was reputed to be building at the time of his death, but which was never recovered." Her voice is soft, hesitant. "This could be it."
It still looks like just a gun to Faith. "So what's the big deal?" she asks.
Jo looks surprised. "I didn't...? Oh, um." Faith looks back down at the guns. She should've asked in the first place. Stupid. "The story is that Samuel Colt built a gun before he died that can kill anything," Jo says in a whisper, as if she's afraid the little old lady from the front desk will hear her. "Anything," she repeats again.
Faith's fought a lot of nasty shit in her time. "That could be pretty good," she admits.
"More than that," Jo whispers urgently, her voice still light but getting higher as she gets excited. "This gun can kill anything. We could finally do more than just make a dent. It could make a difference. It could really change things."
Faith looks up at Jo, sees the way her light brown eyes shine and her voice trembles with emotion. And Faith thinks of all the vamps she's staked, all the demons she's killed and the big bads she's ended. No matter what she does, there's always another one around the corner, another one waiting to take his place. Even with a gun like this, Faith knows it'll always be the same.
She doesn't tell Jo that, though. All she says is, "You think this is it?" Jo nods, her cheeks pink with excitement. "Then what're you waiting for?"
Faith steps over toward the door and stands there like she's looking in the glass case at some more guns, which look pretty much like every other gun she's ever seen. In the reflection of the case, she can see Jo drop to her knees and pick the lock on the case. Every few seconds Faith glances down the stairway to see if anyone's coming.
She hears the scribble-scrabble of the pick scraping against the lock, and then click when the lock springs open. Faith holds her breath for a second, but the room is silent and no alarm sounds. The hinges on the case squeak a little as Jo opens it, and then just the quiet sounds of Jo's knees moving against the floor, the velvet cloth shifting as she picks up the gun, the case shutting again with a tiny thud.
Jo stands and tucks the gun inside the front waistband of her jeans, and turns back to one of the other cases with her lock-pick in hand. Faith watches her warily, unsure of what she's doing or why. She's got the gun; they need to get out of there. Jo points to one of the guns in the case, then gestures to the empty space where the other gun was, and Faith gets it. Still, there's an itch between her shoulder blades, and she watches intently as Jo picks the lock, wanting to get this over with, get out, get gone. The job is done.
Faith is so intent that it's only chance when she glances over her shoulder and sees the little old lady making her way upstairs. Shit. Jo has the case open and is reaching in for the other gun, rearranging things so it doesn't look like anything was removed, and Faith looks back again, and there's the old lady moving up the stairs, silent and fast.
Too fast.
Faith doesn't stop to think, doesn't analyze, doesn't measure risks and rewards. She's a slayer; that's not what she does. She acts.
She steps forward and kicks the old lady right in the chest, hard, and sure enough the woman flies backward and turns a neat flip in the air, landing on the floor with her game face on, yellow eyes gleaming and fangs exposed above her neat little cardigan and the reading glasses on a chain around her neck.
"What--?" Jo asks quickly from inside the room, but there's no time to explain. Faith is already vaulting over the banister, landing on the hardwood floor with her new knife out and ready to go. A stake would be nice right about now, but what she has is the knife.
The old bat circles, and Faith stands on guard, waiting for her opportunity. It's not easy to decapitate someone with a seven-inch blade, but she's done it before.
"Stay away from here," the vamp hisses, and Faith thinks, yeah, right. 'Cause she had her doubts before, but there's gotta be something good in this place if a vamp is willing to come out during daylight to guard it.
Faith aims another kick at the old lady, and she dodges quickly. Just then, Jo appears at the top of the stairs. "Faith!" she says, sounding shocked until the old bag turns her yellow eyes on her. "...Faith?"
The lady turns back to her and cocks an interested eyebrow. Shit. She hasn't been making any effort to keep her identity secret in town, and the vamp's recognized her name. "How very interesting... Slayer." Faith can see her thinking, changing her plan.
The vamp's next move is obvious, and Faith moves fast to intercept, but the vamp is faster, and she's lunged up the stairs toward Jo before Faith can get in the way.
The vamp has Jo by the shoulders, but Jo's not gonna make it easy for her, fighting and struggling so she can't get close enough to bite. The old lady bares her fangs and flashes her yellow eyes at Faith. "Say goodbye, Slayer," she hisses, predictable to the end. She's about to bite down when Jo kicks the wall with one foot and uses it to push them both through the banister. They fall through the air, from the top of the stairs to the floor below, little shards of wooden stair rail falling all around them, hitting the hardwood floor at the same moment. Jo is gasping to breathe, but she uses her hands to roll her body away from the vamp. Faith can't stop to check on her, see if anything's broken. Instead, she does what she does best -- moves fast, on the attack. She bends down to grab a piece of curvy, symmetrically carved stair rail off the floor where it's fallen, and hefts it in her hand. Pivoting on one foot, she plunges it through the old bird's knitted cardigan and into her heart.
Her body crumbles and bursts apart, and the air is filled with a cloud of dust. Half of it lands on top of Jo, who coughs weakly in response.
"You okay?" Faith asks quickly, not waiting for an answer before she's helping Jo up off the floor, half-carrying her to the door. "We gotta get out of here, in case this one had any friends." Normally she'd stick around so she could take care of the others when they got there, but right now she has someone else to worry about.
"Okay, yeah," Jo says, and she's obviously in pain but she's supporting her own weight all right as they walk out the front door. Faith knows she should play it cool, step away in case anyone's watching, but she doesn't move back. She can feel Jo right next to her, under her arm, warm and breathing.
Once they're in the truck, Faith drives and Jo gives directions. She keeps the gun out of sight but she keeps touching the bulge of fabric at her stomach that's hiding it. Faith grins.
"Good job in there, Blondie," she says impulsively.
"I didn't do anything," Jo answers quietly. "If you weren't there..."
"Just planned it, picked the lock and got the gun," Faith points out. "The hard stuff. Plus, you brought me in."
Jo is silent then, as they drive past little brick and clapboard houses, neon-lit convenience stores, and shabby storefronts of Cleveland. Faith just drives, and doesn't say anything.
Finally, Jo speaks. "So, Slayer, huh?"
"Yeah." There's a whole speech she could give right now: the demons, the forces of darkness, but it's all a bunch of bullshit and Faith has never been much good at speeches, anyway.
Jo gets quiet again, and she doesn't ask any more questions after that. Faith knows she'll look it up when she gets back home to Bumfuck, Nebraska. That way's easier than a whole bunch of long explanations.
They pull up to the house, and Faith hops out. Through the windows she can see people moving around inside, the flashing light of the TV. She walks around the side of the car, and Jo still hasn't gotten out, so she opens the truck door to help her up the walk, thinking that Jo must be more injured than she's let on.
"I got a long drive ahead of me," Jo says, turning sideways on the bench seat so that she's facing Faith.
Faith doesn't know what to say, so she just nods. There's a strange empty feeling in the pit of her stomach.
"Hey," Jo says. She reaches out with one hand and presses it to Faith's hip, then grabs a belt loop and pulls her closer. Faith steps in so that she's standing on the curb right next to the truck, her thighs between Jo's knees. Jo leans forward and links her hands behind Faith's waist, and it feels comfortable, as if they've done this a hundred times.
"Thanks," Jo says, looking up at Faith. Her eyes are shining, and her whole face looks calm and happy. "For everything."
Faith leans down and presses a kiss to Jo's mouth, and it's smooth and dry and soft, a goodbye-for-now kiss. "Next time you're in town..." she says, but doesn't finish the thought.
"I will," Jo says.
She gives Faith a little squeeze around the waist, then she pulls her arms away and Faith steps back. Jo shuts the truck door with a bang and slides away across the seat to start up the engine. Faith turns around and goes in the house, not watching as the truck drives away.
When she gets inside the house, she goes to find Giles, who is standing next to the bookshelf in his little office. "Faith," he says, as a greeting.
"What do you know about guns, G?"
"I'm sorry, guns?" He takes off his glasses and cleans the lenses on his shirt, and Faith leans against the doorframe and watches.
"Some gun that can kill anything," Faith says. "Made by a guy named Colt. Ever heard of it?"
He gives her a funny look, holding her eye for a minute. "I can certainly do some research," he says finally.
"Thanks, G," she says, and goes upstairs to her room, where the sheets still smell like sex and Jo. She puts the big knife back on the dresser, still warm with body heat.
Three days later Giles tells her the gun was stolen from Colt's estate in 1922, and it hasn't been seen since, but a non-working prototype recently went missing from a museum in town. He doesn't ask why Faith wanted to know, and she doesn't tell him.
Faith goes back to her regular routine, patrolling the city at night and watching the sun come up. She keeps the knife. It's a damn good knife. She thinks about Jo whenever she uses it, wonders about that gun and if she ever found the real thing.
It's years before she sees Jo again, though, and she never does ask.