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Second Nature

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This story is No. 2 in the series "The Second". You may wish to read the series introduction and the preceeding stories first.

Summary: Time flies. One minute you're a 12-year-old Boston junkie, next you're some kind of superhero, and then... you're family. But nowadays, "family" doesn't mean much.

Categories Author Rating Chapters Words Recs Reviews Hits Published Updated Complete
Harry Potter > Faith-Centered > Theme: Real FamilyWriteTheGoodWriteFR1833,477093,37225 Aug 1016 Sep 10No

Chapter One

Title: Second Nature
Series: The Second
Author: Tamora
(i.e. WriteTheGoodWrite)
Setting: Post BtVS Season 7, Pre-Season 8 comics. Pre- end of OotP in Harry Potter.
Disclaimer: I do not own, nor do I claim to own, any of the characters, settings or concepts presented in this story which originated in Joss Whedon’s “Buffy” or J.K. Rowling’s “Harry Potter” series. I do hold claim to the words written here, though I make no profit off of it.
Author’s Notes: This story switches timelines every other chapter or so. The earlier timeline takes place around 1994 or 1995, when Faith is 11 years old, though it is narrated by an older Faith. The later timeline takes place after the events of “Chosen”.

Second Nature:
Chapter One

I used to make up stories about my dad.

Mom told me that he was dead when I was old enough to ask about him. Four or something? I dunno. Anyway, I didn’t like that idea, so I just fudged it a little. First he was a spy for the government, who had to pretend that he was dead so he could go on top-secret missions to Brazil or Spain or Israel, but he’d always carry around a little picture of me in his pocket, and ever night he’d look at it and say “Good night, Faith,” before he went to sleep.

Then he was a fighter pilot who was stationed in Africa. And his plane got shot down, but he survived, and he stumbled through the desert for years before finding a village where he stayed until he could get healthy again. And when bad guys came to attack the village, he would get everybody together to fight them off and he’d be a hero. And every night he’d take out a picture of me and say “Good night, Faith.”

Then he was the President of the United States. But on the news he looked kind of old and had dorky glasses, so I didn’t really want him to be my dad.

Then he was a demon hunter. With a fedora, cause “Raiders of the Lost Ark” was my favorite movie. And he’d fight bad guys in suits and slimy monsters with horns and stuff and he’d stab ‘em and kick ‘em in the face!

There’s a reason for that, I swear. I wasn’t a little psycho kid… at least that’s not what the shrink tells me. It was cause’a the dreams. I’d been getting the Slayer visions since I was 6. My first Watcher, Diana Dormer, she told me it was a combination of my Slayer visions and my own… weirdness. ‘Coping Mechanism’ she called it.

But that’s not important right now. Lady Di is dead. Which sucks. A lot. She was like a mom to me, kinda. Not the actual Lady Di, but... well, that one too. But Diana got really mad at me when I called her that, cause the real one was dead and she was, like, insulted...

Sorry. Back to the matter at hand. My actual mom. What a bitch. Seriously twisted piece of work, lemme tell you that. And this is coming from Little Miss Dark-Side-Of-The-Moon. She drank a boatload… which I did too for a while, but not so much that I got completely batshit crazy like her. After all, I had Slayer metabolism to balance it out, and for an Irish chick, ma could not hold her liquor. Hollow leg? No such beast.

Anyway, I really hated my mom. When I was little I’d just cry and whine and walk around Southie and think about running away before feeling stupid and guilty and pathetic and crawling back home to get my ass whuped a little more. Later on I grew a pair. Actually managed to run away around 6th grade for a couple months… funniest thing: Ma called the school to ask if I’d been in. I hadn’t gone to school since the beginning of 5th! Man, these Irish-Catholic beer-guzzling mother fuckers...

Granted, not all the Irish-Catholics guzzled beer, and not all were such mother fuckers. I think it was just my luck I ran into all the ones who were.

Anyway, the cops found me eventually, squatting butt-naked in a house with a couple other kids and a stash of PCP the size of your great granny’s ass.

I got put in a foster home. But not before getting my little one-up on mom.

Okay, so I stole a fuckin nickel or something that I found in her jewelry box. Around that size, at least – this funny looking round-ish coin with some French writing on it. Weird that it was French, cause she was always so damn proud of being Irish. I hear she even visited. Once.

Goddammit, I miss her. I really do.
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