Testament: Step Away From The Glass
by Beer Good
2. Step Away From The Glass

Faith flinched inside as a police car passed her. She knew not to let them bother her – at least as far as anyone could see; after all, it had been over a year since she broke out and so far she'd only had one close call. She was on the other side of the country, one of thousands of wanted fugitives in the US, and as long as she lay low the chances of a cop looking at her and going "Hey, isn't that chick wanted for murder?" were pretty slim.

Still, she flinched.

When she saw another black'n'white heading the other way (gee, two police cars in five minutes in downtown Manhattan, what are the odds... calm down, girl) she ducked into a bar for a breather. It was just her and the bartender, which suited her just fine.

"Double vodka. Plenty ice."

"ID."

"I stole a copy of And Justice For All the day it was released. Just give me a drink, OK babe?"

The bartender shrugged and poured her what she'd asked for. This girl seemed like a type 14 customer to him: the kind who desperately needs to talk to someone, but doesn’t really want to, and shouldn’t be too crowded. "I'm Jim, by the way."

"Good for you." Faith pointedly looked past him into the mirror behind the bar as she took the first mouthful. Not that he didn't seem like a nice guy, but... funny, with all the practice she'd had at being alone over the years, she still felt empty now that she wasn't part of the Slayer gang anymore. It had been her decision; they never said anything to her face about it, but she knew having a wanted murderer on the team was a problem. Everyone had to be extra careful at all times, and simple things like buying a plane ticket or renting a motel room became almost impossible; not very convenient for a mobile demon-hunting team. So like so many before her she’d gone to New York to disappear in the crowd, with no one but Giles knowing how to get in touch with her (usually through some outsider, so there was no connection) and hunted alone leaving as few witnesses as possible. And to think that her and B had actually been... OK, getting along might be saying too much, but...

"This seat taken, sweetheart?"

She was awakened from her thoughts as a man planted himself on the barstool next to her without waiting for an answer. Forty-ish, balding, overweight... and obviously bent on more than just conversation. Great, that's all I needed right now.

"So, what's your poison, honey? Mind if ol' Billy Bob buys you a drink?"

Is this dude for real? Faith felt a rising urge to just slam his face down on the counter, but reminded herself that she was low-profile girl these days and just clenched her teeth and looked away.

"Come on, darling. Don't be like that. I know you'd like to have some fun..." It was so out of the blue it took Faith a second to register what was happening: Billy Bob had actually reached out and grabbed her boobs. The old Faith would have sent him to the emergency room. The new Faith almost did, but reigned herself in at the last second and instead seized him by one wrist just hard enough to not snap it, part of her feeling way too good about hearing him gasp in pain as he pulled back his other hand so quickly he got caught on her jacket and almost ripped it off.

"Everything OK here?" Jim stepped a little closer as the guy struggled to free himself; in 20 years of bartending, he’d had to intervene more than once to stop a fight. Usually more than once a night. Usually over women not half as good-looking as this one.

"Five by five", Faith remarked casually as she wrenched the fatso’s hand from her chest and slammed it down on the counter. "Mr Three-seconds-from-castration here was just about to leave... ain't that right?" She gave his wrist an extra little squeeze and then let go. He was off the barstool and out the door so fast she was almost disappointed.

No rest for the wicked. Might as well pay up and leave. She reached for the wallet in her inside pocket, and found something else as well: an envelope that hadn't been there before the pervert stuck his hands inside her jacket. Whaddyaknow, one of Giles's couriers... What is it about carrying other people's mail that attracts psychos? She looked at the envelope with her name on it and recognized the handwriting. Rather than paying, she ordered another drink and then read Wesley’s letter.

From over by the register, Jim watched her read and saw her face harden from annoyance to shock to grief.

"Bad news?"

Faith didn't answer for a while, just sat there staring at the counter. Then, just as Jim was about to move closer she crumpled up the letter in her fist. She lifted her glass and toasted thin air, downed the vodka in one gulp and then hurled the glass past the bartender's ear, smashing a couple of bottles and the mirror.

Jim instinctively ducked behind the bar as he was showered with broken glass. It probably saved... maybe not his life, but at least his health, since the glass was quickly followed by two of the bolted-down barstools. He cowered behind the bar as Faith went apeshit on his furniture. When he looked up ten minutes later, she was gone, as was most of his bar; chairs broken, pictures smashed, the jukebox thrown halfway across the room... Jim picked up the phone, which turned out to be broken as well, and then headed outside to find a cop.

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