Disclaimer: All My Children belongs to ABC and Anges Nixon; Buffy the Vampire Slayer and Angel the series belong to Mutant Enemy and the Great All Knowing Head. I know that Joss will never sue his Followers but I'm not too sure of Frons and McTravesty...

AN: This is an All My Children and BtVS crossover so I'd advise you to not read this unless you have some idea of who the characters are in the soap-side of this fic. However, that side is AU to the extreme so that might be highly variable. I made the difficult decision to post this on the BtVS side and not the AMC and I do hope it pays off.

This goes AU as of 'Chosen' for Buffy and 'Home' of Angel and the ships are many, including a few that some might find disturbing. Flames will be used to feed my rabid Plot Bunnies and my narcissistic Muse. If you do not enjoy a loving and relationship between two females, I suggest you find something different for yourself since this will include the Buffy/Faith pairring and the Bianca/Maggie (AMC) pairring. If anybody reads this, and you would like a list of the couples I ma planning for this, give me a review and I will send you a list. Now, read and, please, if you enjoy, give me some feedback.

Come On

You've got your lights turned so they can see you
The very best of what you've got to offer
Tell them what your hands were made for
Tell them who your mouth was made for

You've got your prophets and your mathematicians
The vocal fuel of a generation
Tell me what my hands were made for
Tell me who my mouth was made for

And please don't be mad at me
You'll get what you ask for
Come on come on come on

So very close to what you had expected
It makes it hard to keep my head up level
Tell me I'm what your hands were made for
Tell me I'm who your mouth was made for

And if you come down on me
Well you'll get what you ask for
Come on come on come on

I, I want to get myself back
I, I want to get myself back
All of the things
That you promised me that you'd be
Now your hands are tired
And all of the things
That you promised me that you'd need
Now my hands are tired
Come on come on come on

- Tegan and Sara, "Come On"

Chapter One

Seattle, 2006

Dr. Jameson had started her on a stronger medication a few days before and they had been sitting in the bottom of her black bag ever since she had gotten them. Now, her feet chilly against the tile floor of her bathroom, she studied the bottle in her hands with dark eyes, biting her lip the smallest bit.

Her reflection, stark beneath the jarring florescence of the light above her, was just as jarring, large smudges beneath eyes once bright even in the face of the funeral a year before, eyes that were now beginning to show the strain of the nightmares and the resulting sleepless nights, eyes now murky in the silence. She had taken to getting up and basically drowning herself in coffee to stay awake, to keep those… things out of her head.

The bites along her lip became stronger, teeth gnawing unhappily as she shook the bottle once, the pills inside rattling and the sound disturbing in the perfect silence of her perfect bathroom, a room of white porcelain and soft pastels, of expensive shampoos and exotic lotions, things that she used without a second thought.

Jonathon had said these would work.

It was the thought that decided her and with an explosive sigh, Bianca popped the lid off the bottle, hesitating for a moment before dumping two into her palm and studying the tablets with a pained wariness. Anything strong enough to keep his nightmares away had to be enough for these things that had been plaguing her…


Even as quickly as she swallowed them, followed by a guzzling of mineral water, she still tasted them and it made her stomach lurch harshly and she hoped she wouldn't bring them back up because then she'd have to take them again and who wanted that? Well, certainly not her.

The lid was replaced and she put them in the cabinet, closing it and turning away from the reflection as quickly as she could, leaving her bathroom and treading across the floor of her bedroom towards her massive bed, the sheets and covers upset and tangled, pillows strewn about. She tidied it up quickly, noting joyfully how sluggish her movements were already becoming.

When she finally crawled into bed, she managed to move her head twice before she fell asleep, eyes closing and dark hair mashing into her pillow as her breathing evened out and her muscles loosened and her mind went blessedly, wonderfully blank. For the first time in weeks, Bianca Montgomery finally slept, the drugs doing their job.

Maggie's meal, a burger from work, sat cold in the paper bag on the end of the bed. She wasn't hungry; she usually wasn't these days, and she'd dropped it there when she got back to the apartment, left it there while she changed out of her uniform and showered, pulling on something out of her duffel bag and settling against the headboard, flicking through the six channels silently.

Her only real possessions, other than her clothes, sat by her bed, a neat stack of photos, bound by rubber bands. The photos were looked through constantly, flipping through them and, sometimes, she cried but only when she was truly tired, really exhausted and her control over her memories slipped and she let herself wallow in her unspeakable grief.

Tonight was no night for grief and she found herself considering that with a numb sort of curiosity.

The pain had no words, no way to put them out and speak them and she didn't want to, didn't want to bind such things to words that could be twisted, had been twisted around to hurt her and make her weak. She'd learned her lesson, curled in the back of the bus, bruises and scratches aching in the silence that had become her life, the scent of the smoke clinging to her hair and her skin, sunk into her jeans and top and jacket.

Maggie dropped the remote away, sliding her legs up and wrapping her arms around her knees, chilled by the remembrance of that heat. Her eyes flicked to the pictures and she gave in, gave up and pulled them into her lap, yanking off the band with oddly numb fingers and flipping through the images.

She'd promised herself, all day long while avoiding trucker hands and trying to keep count of orders and plates, that tonight she would relax and just plan for her next move, come up with the next place she would go to after she left Seattle. The next town, the next city, the next place that Frankie would never see.

Slayers healed fast, they healed well and rarely carried real scars. Faith had been injured many times in her life, both before and after being Called and she bore old, slight scars from her childhood, like the spot behind her knee from when she had fallen off that tree and the mark on her shoulder from climbing out of a broken window in the middle of the night.

The only real mark that marred her body was the line that had been created by a knife on a clear May evening in 1999.

Now, silent and still, Faith ran a thumb along the scar on her stomach, a constant reminder of something not put into words or spoken of anymore, not now that the world was saved and the whole Utopian society could be created. Yeah, that was what B always wanted, right?

She pulled her hand from her stomach, shifting in the driver's seat of the truck and eying the shape leaning against the wall of the alley, a huddled mass just perceptible within the heavy trench coat and the Fedora pulled low over his face, squirming nervously every few minutes like the twerp he was.

Nothing in the world was more insanely boring as stake-out.

Faith Lehane was, and always would be, a woman of action and being forced to fold herself up in a truck was beyond torture for her. As of this moment, she had not left the seat in over three hours and was literally itching, body tightly wound in anticipation of whatever she'd hopefully be pounding on sometime soon.

Some of her stress might also have something to do with the fact that she hadn't had sex in how many months?

Sighing, propping her feet up on the dashboard, she checked her watch unhappily, noting the time and knowing full-well that he wouldn't be there tonight, just like he hadn't been there for the last week. All this bribing and threatening and, what, he decided to play hooky every chance they gave him?

Giles' attempts to get Buffy to help them find such evidence about the existence of this Seer person—wherever the hell he or she was—had been a failure since god knew she couldn't be taken away from her precious job of buying shoes and dresses and other junk while she whined the entire time about how she couldn't have a normal life.

Who said Faith was bitter?

Jonathon Lavery jiggled his keys furiously in the lock, then jiggled them more forcefully. After a moment, he growled softly and kicked at the door, swearing quietly in disgust at his stupid lock, the lock that apparently had something against him. Yeah… everything had something against him…

He was the slightest bit drunk and while he knew this, on some level, he was still pissed off at how his door refused to cooperate with him at the moment.

A look of surprise crossed his face when the door opened and he shook himself a little bit before pushing his weight against it, slipping into the apartment and pausing, going completely still at the sight of the wreckage. The sofa was torn to shreds, ripped open while papers and Post-Its lay strewn around resembling, to Jonathon's booze-fogged mind, dead fishes.

His apartment, cheap as it was, was broken into on a regular basis but this, accompanied by a nervous lift of the hair on the back of his neck and arms, was different and the sudden flare of concentration startled him a bit of his drunken daze, making his dark eyes narrow and his shoulders tense in warning.

The next minutes were spent stepping his way through the mess, now focused on his worry and the nagging uneasiness that they somehow had found what they were looking for and had left with it. So the question became, what the hell had they been looking for with such fervor and why the hell was he suddenly so worried?


He'd had worse and he was oddly grateful for it now, with his arms half-curled around himself and his head bowed, blue eyes intent on the steam pouring out of the shower, fogging up the mirror behind him, a soft heat that made him oddly pleased and made it easier for him to move, albeit slowly.

Hot water was something Connor still felt awed by, even after the years since he had gotten here.

He managed to get his clothes off, wrestle them off with only the barest sounds of pain, hating them and knowing full well that they would have spelled death in the place that he had grown up in. he was getting soft and he hated it, could feel himself becoming weaker in those dangerous invisible ways with every day spent like this.

He'd had worse.

And because he'd had worse, he was able to clean off the blood, able to take care of his broken body, slow cautious movements becoming stronger and braver as his muscles grew less sore beneath the heated water, something he'd never had in that other place and something others in this place took for granted.

He'd had worse.