101 - A Perfect Sky; A Storm

8

I wake up in heaving breaths and in a puddle of my own sweat. It takes a second to remember where I am, and another moment for the sleep to dissolve from my vision. Then the yellowed lobby walls come into view, assuring me that I'm in the safety of the hotel, and my breath becomes steady, my heartbeat calming.

Glancing at my phone, I see that it's two in the morning; I've only managed a couple hours of shuteye. I shouldn't be disappointed; I never get more than a couple hours of sleep nowadays. But that dream...

Faith had informed Andrew about Sineya's remains and the dream we had of the beam, and he said he would pass the message along to Buffy, but she's currently unreachable right now. He hadn't given any further details about where she was, saying he'll get back to us soon, and then hung up.

So we assume the responsibility of guarding Sineya until we hear from Buffy about how and where to set her to rest.

Faith stirs in her own bed just a few feet away. Groggy and half-asleep, she asks, "What is it?" Her fingers find my arm, seeking to offer comfort, but instead grips me with a barely controlled strength that betrays she's had a dream of her own. The deep crease between her brows, harshened by the phone light, only confirms it.

While Faith makes tea, I retell my dream—at least the parts about the Doctor's office and the beam. With the latter being recurring, I must pay even closer attention to it. I leave the part about Jay out, wanting to decide on my own what it—he—may mean.

If something comes up where I have to tell her, then I will.

Tea isn't really my cuppa, but I appreciate the calming components of chamomile. It is more the tradition that comforts me. Decompressing with the hot drink is a practice passed down to the slayers of the Organization, adopted from Rupert Giles, who used it to calm Buffy at the end of a rough day.

Traditionally, it is tea and cookies, but the limitations of our current situation become apparent every time we try to do the little things... like heat water. There is no oven, no functional plumbing, no synthetic lighting. Faith makes our tea with bottled water and MRE heaters from Giles's emergency stock—and I'll have to see if I can make another trip to the apartment before we run out.

I nod at Faith's cup. "What about you? I know you despise this shit as much as I do."

Faith takes a cringe-filled sip before setting the drink down. "I saw Buffy. She was in the Deeper Well, fighting something. There were no words, just flashes. Willow and Illyria were there as well. I don't know who else; it's all a blur. I just remember the way I felt..."

"Is it that bad?" I ask, shifting when I hear my name spoken, knowing she isn't talking about me. And usually, with Buffy, things are just that bad. Especially if the Old One is involved.

Faith doesn't bother confirming.

She takes another gulp of tea, exhaling the taste in a sigh. "I don't know what she's doing, but it felt powerful. Maybe I'll dream about it again if I can get back to sleep."

I drain my cup and place it beside my mattress, idly taking a sweep of the lobby.

Then an unsettling feeling washes over me, so swift and sudden it could've been a gentle breeze despite all the windows and doors boarded up. It pulls my gaze to the center of the room, at the bare floor.

"Faith...," I breathe, "where're the bones?"

The air seems to suck right out of the room the instant we realize the lack of remains that were laid out on the floor; the only sign of it having been there is the disturbed dust: finger trails where Moira repositioned pieces, two circular areas where she'd knelt, Faith's tracks from when she approached.