You'd think that.

Maybe it's defiance. Maybe it's a lack of survival instincts -- it definitely brought me a lot of trouble when I was small and helpless. But I haven't been helpless in a long time. Maybe, since then, it's that I just couldn't give a shit.

But I'm working on getting a handle on it. Just for the baby slayers. Some of them you can set off with little more than a look. So there's been a dropoff in the scowls, eyerolls and smirks. B's noticed, though I'm not sure anyone else has.

Despite the new improved Faith, sometimes a look gets through. I haven't had much practice smothering jaw-dropping shock, so Harris sees the full-on effect as he finds me at the baggage claim.

Jesus, he looks like a scarecrow. Scrawny, all angles. A belt that's had a few extra holes punched in it, and still his clothes hang off him.

I know he got sick over there, but shit.

In return, I get a little of the unvarnished reaction from him. His gaze lands on me, then flicks behind me, looking for the others, no doubt. He doesn't manage to cover his disappointment. That's no surprise, though.

I move toward him. "Hey, Watcher. Welcome home. How was the flight?"

"Long." He scrounges up a little upbeat. "Not bad."

"Why don't you park it while I get your bags. Just tell me what to look for."

He nods his head toward the battered backpack he carries in one hand. "This is it."

"You're kidding."

"Nothing fit anyway. People there needed it a lot worse than me, so why drag it around?"

No shit. I can actually see his muscles quivering with the effort of carrying the pack. "Gimme that, then."

He actually resists letting go. Too proud sometimes for his own good.

"C'mon, that's the rule. Returning hero gets his shit carried for him."

He snorts at hero, but it's enough to make him let go. Jesus. It's stuffed to bulging, but it doesn't weigh that much.

"Damn airport's crazy today," I say, though it's apparent it's not that bad. "I had to park way the fuck out. Why don't you wait inside by the door and I'll get the wheels?" There's a row of chairs there; he'd see me pull up, no problem.

"I've been sitting for a dozen hours," he says. "I'll walk."

Guy won't give himself a break. I say nothing, just shift his pack to my other hand and start toward the parking garage.

I have to adjust my pace a couple of times. He's running low on gas, for sure. "So what's this Bengay fever, anyway?"

He laughs. "Dengue. Though Bengay's kind of apt -- the other name for this is bonebreak fever. Let's just say it's something you want to avoid."

I figured that. If this is what he's like when he's over it.... "That blows. How do you come by that?"

"Mosquito bite."

"Shiiiit." We've made it off the elevator and gone a couple of rows into the garage when he stops walking, puts his hand on a white van. I almost tell him no, ours is another three rows down when I realize he's stopped to rest. I put down the pack and shake out my hand, like I'm glad for the break.

"So I guess everyone's busy," he says. "Should I be bracing for some new apocalypse?" He looks tired and at the same time charged up by the idea.

"Nah, it's pretty normal." Then I realize what he's really asking, and I feel like a retard. "They all wanted to come. But I asked if I could." Asked. Cajoled. Campaigned. Traded kitchen duties. Begged.

"Why?"

"There's things I want to set straight, that's all. It's hard to get a moment there. It's not as crazy as the last days of Sunnydale or anything, but it can get nuts."

Harris pushes off the van. "Which way?"

"Down a couple more rows." I'm not sure what that means, whether he's blowing me off, or just wants to have this talk on the move. Starting off in the direction of the van, I keep my voice casual. "I was a chickenshit when I first came back to Sunnydale. Told myself you didn't want to deal with the past, that there wasn't time, all that shit."

"I don't want to deal with the past."

"Not even to hear me say I'm sorry about what I did?"

"Not even." He sounds beyond tired.

Call me a stubborn, selfish cunt. Not like I haven't heard that since I was four. This is something I need, and I wouldn't be alive now if I didn't go after what I really need. "Well, I am."

This is all fucked up, not how I planned it to go, and I can't tell if that's because he cut me off at the knees, or because I couldn't back off and do it right another time. One of those scowls sneaks up on me, but at least I turn my head before Harris can see.

"This is the one." I gesture toward the van and walk on ahead to slide open the panel door and settle his pack on the floor. I wedge a few things around it so it won't tip, and when I pull back, I see him taking that in. I'm in his way, but that's intentional. The passenger door's had so many slayers jerking it open that the latch has gotten warped; even Rupert can't get the damn thing open without a struggle. I open it, all casual.

I don't give him a hand up, because I know he'd hate that. Christ, boys are so hard to deal with sometimes. Never met a slayer, no matter how cussed independent, who won't take a hand to help her up when she's been knocked flat.

When I come around to the driver's side and get in, he's gone so slack that it doesn't look there's anybody in there. I have a flash of panic -- could he have died in those few seconds? -- then he says, "Buckle up, would you?"

"Uh, sure." I fumble with the seatbelt.

"Saw a guy who was thrown out of a jeep once. That put me in the habit."

"Guess that would." I fire up the van, and a song blasts out of the speakers: I'll be as gone as a wild goose in winter -- I snap the stereo off.

"Right there with you on the Johnny Cash," he says.

"Who? Oh, that? No, see, the radio's busted, it only gets one station."

Rupert said once that I can't lie for shit -- well, he put a little more tweed on it, but that's the basic thought -- and it doesn't seem like I've gotten any better. Harris doesn't say anything, but I know he knows. I ignore it. "It takes an hour and a half to get to the hacienda from here, and I can guess how likely it is they fed you enough on the plane. How about stoppin' somewhere?"

I can tell he's torn. He's been a long way from home for a long time; it's always the last hour or so that's the worst. I decide to switch tacks on him. "You know how they are. You'll want to get your second wind before you walk in there, or they'll freak. Soft foods and sponge baths, and the saucer-eyed baby slayer vigil."

A faint smile. "Depends who's doing the bathing." A moment, then he says, "You're right. Let's call, though."

I pass over my cell, and he works his way through everyone at the hacienda as I negotiate the airport traffic. He pours on the upbeat, and I can see it wearing him out. Finally I hold out my hand for the phone and he wraps it up and gives it back.

I pull off at a mom and pop diner. "This suit you?"

"Fine."

I try to order him a steak, my treat, but all he wants is a bowl of lentil soup and some rolls. "You know how to live it up, Harris."

"It's what I'm used to. The meat most Americans eat in one meal is at least a week's worth. You eat a lot of stews, use meat as a flavoring. I think a steak would half kill me right now." He does a pretty good job tearing through the lentil soup, though, and orders a second bowl while I have pie.

"So what's the first thing you want to eat when you can have anything?"

"Willow's brownies. A cheeseburger with caramelized onions and some steak fries. A box of Twinkies. Maybe some Ben & Jerry's for dessert."

Well that's a relief, at least. "I thought for a minute you were gonna say an MRE."

"Don't laugh. I've had one or two in my day."

"I'm not laughin'," I say, and I can hear how it comes out too intense, all half-loony Christopher Walken.

He gives me a look, trying to puzzle that out.

"I laughed at you before. It's on my Top Five Moments I'd Like to Take Back."

He half laughs. "You have a Top Five?"

"I have a Top 100. You get a lot of time to think of shit, in prison. That just happens to be in the top five."

"Laughing at me."

"That time you came and offered to be my friend. You remember. That time I woulda killed you, if Angel hadn't come and clocked me with a ballbat."

He'd been picking up some color, a little bit of energy, but now he looks flattened again. "I don't know what you want from me, Faith."

"Right now? Just to let me say it. Let me say this, and I'll cheerfully admit to the Johnny Cash."

His expression is wary, shuttered. "Say what, exactly?"

"That I've done shit I can't take back. That I wish I could. That I didn't just hurt you, I hurt myself. That part took a long time to realize, by the way. That 'I'm sorry' doesn't begin to cover it, but I have to start there anyway. You don't have to forgive me, or say anything back. I just needed to get it out, that's why I asked for airport duty."

He just looks at me for what seems like a wicked long time. Then he goes back to eating his soup.

I pick at the meringue on my lemon pie, but it's gone all rubbery, and I've lost my appetite.

"So," he finally says. "You're into Johnny Cash."

I laugh, half in relief. "He was all about the evil-doin' and redemption, he was wicked sexy, and you didn't see him in anything in black. Shit, since Angel's not around, he's the best I got." That started out as a joke, but ends up a little closer to the bone than I meant.

"You and Angel got close."

I nod. "He got me straightened out." I pick at the meringue some more. "Actually, that's not right. He was just the last. It was a big job. Took Giles and B and even Wes. And you."

"Me? I didn't do a thing."

"You planted a seed. It landed on some pretty hard ground, but eventually it took root. I thought it was time you knew that."

There's another long pause. "That's good to know. There's nothing but hard ground over there. It was tough to think anything made a difference."

"It all makes a difference. Maybe now. Maybe later. If nothin' else it makes a difference in who you are."

"I couldn't even stay."

"You gave what you had. When you have more, you can go back and give more. You got a new job right now, and that's to receive. You do that right, with enough grace, and you'll still make an enormous difference. Nobody knows better'n you, Xander. People need to give. Christ, listen to me. Next it'll be Lay your hands on your TV and be healed, and by the way, Jesus wants you to send me your Social Security check." I apply the conversational bootlegger-turn. "So how'd you end up listening to Johnny Cash?"

"I always liked the twangy stuff when I was in a certain mood. But it was an aid worker over there who got me listening to him."

There's something in the way he says "an aid worker" -- subtle and indefinable and nothing I could prove -- that I know he's talking about a lover. For no good reason, I feel a pinch of jealousy, yet I'm glad he wasn't completely alone over there.

"Your fan club's waitin'. You about ready to go?"

He nods and tries to go for his money, but I wave him off. His gait as we head to the van is a lot less draggy; maybe he won't scare the shit out of everyone when they see him again.

I climb into the van and fumble the shoulder harness in place. It digs into my tit and I hate it, but it's a small thing I can do for him.

And there's a second. I crank the stereo on as I back out of our parking space.