Full Circle

by Persephone

Chapter Two

'Just when you think life can't get any stranger,' Jack Dawson mused as he stepped over the stone threshold of the church, 'it inevitably does.' Take now, for instance. He found it ironic that this young woman, Faith, had chosen this place as a meeting ground with her first Immortal, even though she was fully aware of that fact at this point. It was especially ironic since nearly a century earlier, he had walked into this self-same chapel, young, pre-Immortal and made his first contact (unknowingly) with Immortals. In this case, the Immortal priest Darius. Jack remembered how bewildered he had been at the amount of attention the man had given him, almost to the point of ignoring his parishioners. He hadn't understood it then. Of course, that had been long before he'd met John Kiran or Moira, long before he knew there were such creatures as 'Immortals' or that he was one of them. And just before he'd drifted over to England where a hand of poker had life-altering consequences.

Before Titanic.

Though it had gotten easier over time, Titanic still had a powerful hold on him. It took very little to make his mind go back there-- the name alone was often enough. And if he let himself, he'd sit all day and just re-live those memories. All the sounds and the scents and the faces would rise up, not one day older, all vividly preserved thanks to his Immortal memory. Both a curse and blessing, it was. He put the memories aside with some effort. There was no time for them now; right now, he had a very confused, belligerent young Immortal to deal with.

He wished Isabelle were here. She was so much better at handling situations like this than he was. Something, he surmised, that came from seven hundred years worth of experience. Jack was only a little past the century mark and much of his Immortal life had been spent in a state that, while not dead, could hardly be called living. Living hadn't started until he'd mysteriously washed up on the shores of Maine and been found by Claire Neason. Jack shut his eyes against the memory of Claire's elfin face smiling down at him. As painful as the memories of Titanic were, they at least lacked the freshness of the memories of his now dead wife carried. After Rose, Jack had been convinced he would never love anyone again. Claire had proved him wrong and his feelings for her had never wavered over the years. Not even with her death. He loved her still, just as he was convinced he would be in love with Rose until the day he lost his own head. Which would hopefully not happen any time soon.

"So, JD, are we gonna stand around here admiring the architecture or are we gonna have that talk you were so hot about?"

Jack returned his attention to the young Immortal. She was leaning against one of the stone window ledges, examining her nails with a slight frown before digging into her jacket and producing a nail file. She seemed calm, almost singularly unimpressed by him, her surroundings, or anything else. Jack wondered about that. Faith was proving to be an interesting paradox. She claimed to have no knowledge of Immortals. Certainly, her reaction to his question wasn't the kind that could be easily faked--if at all. Yet... Yet, she moved like a warrior, like someone who was accustomed to fighting on a regular basis. The relative ease in which she had flipped him to the ground outside told him that if she wanted to, she could have hurt him worse than simply knocking the air from his lungs. Sure, a lot of people these days took self-defense classes and it could be attributed to that, but Jack didn't think so. It didn't explain her level of proficiency--she hadn't just acted out there, she had reacted to his touch. The kind of reaction that can only be drilled in over time and with use. And then there were her eyes... She was a young girl--twenty, at most. But to see the expression in her eyes, that haunted, almost hungry look, she seemed so much older. And if she was telling the truth, he couldn't help, but wonder what could have happened to put that expression there.

"How old are you?" he asked suddenly.

She stopped her filing, dark eyes filled with surprise. "Eighteen," she replied at length, "Old enough to be jailbait. Why? What did you have in mind?"

He felt a dull flush crawl up his neck at the insinuation. Despite all the changes he'd undergone, the frankness with which modern women discussed sex wasn't something he had quite gotten accustomed to. "Why do you do that?"

"Do what?"

"Throw insinuations around like that."

"Who says I'm insinuating anything?" she purred. A slow, seductive smile spread across her face and she shifted her posture in blatant invitation.

"Aren't you?"

The seductive mask shattered and he found himself having to back up as she got in his face. "Maybe I am. 'Course that could be because I'm waiting for you to stop staring at me and get to the damn point. I'm not getting any younger here."

"You're not getting any older," he corrected. He winced inwardly. This was not how he had hoped the conversation would get started but he had to take the opening that was presenting itself.

"What?" Now she was confused.

"You're Immortal."

"You said that before, *Jack.* Maybe you'd like to tell me just what the hell you mean by it," she snapped.

"Immortal. You know, you're never going to get any older, you're never going to die," he paused, "Unless, of course, someone chops your head off."

Faith stared at him. Raised her eyebrows and remarked, "You have problems, you know that?"

"Me?"

"Yeah, you. And I must have problems because I'm still here listening to you. Listen, I need you to do something for me."

"What?" he asked curiously.

"Start making sense. Now."

Jack sighed, running his hand nervously through his hair. "You don't ask for much, do you?" he asked ruefully. "All right. You died recently, did you not?"

"Well--"

"A yes or a no."

She narrowed her eyes, lips thinning in displeasure. "Yes."

He waited for her to say more, perhaps even the manner of her death, but instead she remained quiet, clearly waiting for him to continue. "And you got a strange, unpleasant feeling when we first came in contact, right?"

"When are you going to tell me something I don't know?" she demanded.

Her constant snapping was beginning to wear thin but he forced himself to remain calm. She was uncomfortable, probably a little scared. It was natural. Being rude to her wasn't going to improve matters. "The reason you're able to sense me is-- well, that is to say," he fumbled. 'God, how had Moira and John been able to do this?' Why had it seemed so effortless when they explained it to him and why was it so hard for him to explain to this girl.

Faith waited.

"You can sense me because you're Immortal, Faith. Just like I am. And the thing that you feel from me--it's what makes us Immortal. It's called the Quickening."

He paused, searched her face for belief, disbelief, any emotion that would give him a clue as to how to proceed. Nothing. It was like staring at a polished stone. Taking a deep breath, he went on, "The Quickening is our life-force. Everything that makes us what we are--our strengths, weaknesses, our knowledge, and memories. It's the source of our Immortality and it is the reason we fight each other."

"Okay, here's where I have a question. If we're Immortal then why do we have to fight at all? And you said earlier that I couldn't die unless someone chops off my head. Wouldn't that imply that I'm not Immortal?" Faith cocked her head to one side in triumphant askance.

Jack shook his head. She was quick, almost too quick. "It's a misnomer," he admitted. "We're not truly Immortal in the precise sense of the word. We will never grow older, we can't be killed by any means save one and that's to have our head separated from our body."

He noticed a shiver run through her at his last words and wondered if deep down, she sensed the truth of his words no matter how badly she might want to deny them.

"Why would anyone want to cut a head as adorable as mine," she joked weakly, "off?"

"It goes back to the Quickening. You have it and other Immortals want it. It's part of the Game."

"Game?"

"A sick way of describing our battle eternal," he admitted, "We fight each other, Faith, and we kill each other to receive the Quickening from the loser. We will do this until the time of the Gathering, when the last Immortals will be drawn together for the final battle. The last one left standing will receive the Prize."

"What Prize?" Interest flickered in her eyes.

"Power, knowledge--maybe enough of each to rule this planet," Jack shrugged, trying not to be bothered by that speculative gleam in her eyes. "If the Immortal who wins is good, then he or she could be the saving of this planet. But--"

"But if it's a bad guy who wins we're all in deep kaka?" she guessed shrewdly.

"That's about the size of it." He waited for a reaction.

Instead, she posed him another question, "When you say fight, be a little more specific. If we're talking about cutting people's heads off here then I'd say we're talking about a sword fight."

"That's right."

"I don't know how to use a sword. Not in a serious fight," she protested, before adding, "Assuming that I believe you and all."

"You'll learn. I did."

"When, five hundred years ago? When sword fighting was still in style and the earth was flat?" she asked derisively.

"Ten years ago."

His words threw her. "What?"

"Ten years ago," he repeated, "I learned how to use a sword ten years ago."

"And you still have your head?" she actually marveled at that, "Amazing. So you're only, what? Thirty then?"

"No, I'm over a hundred," he replied, ignoring her snipes.

"But you didn't learn to use a sword until ten years ago?" she was clearly having trouble buying that.

"It's a long story," Jack shook his head, "And not one I really want to get into right now, if you don't mind."

"Why, are you afraid I'll find the holes in this little fantasy world you've got going here?" Faith stuck her hands in her back pockets, regarding him with ill-concealed scorn. "Well, JD, I'll admit that you spin a damn fine story, but do I have the word 'stupid' tattooed on my forehead anywhere? If you'd wanted to get me alone, you could have just asked. I would have said yes. Maybe."

"But now you'll just have to wonder because I have had *enough*." She started to edge past him towards the door.

"Faith, wait," he touched her shoulder in an unspoken plea.

Jack had to give her credit for something--she was fast. Damn fast. He never saw the blow coming until her fist connected with his breadbasket and he was leaning forward gasping for air.

She leaned forward, too, as if to help him up. Instead, her warm breath grazed his ear as she whispered, "I warned you about touching me. Unless I want it, it's not a good idea, JD."

Then she rose and swept around him, leaving him to gape after her for a stunned moment before managing to recover enough to follow her.

"What is it going to take to make you believe I'm telling you the truth?" He called to her from the door, wheezing in exasperation.

She spun around, dark eyes flashing dangerously. "You don't know when to quit, do you?"

"Listen, I know what you're thinking because I know how this all sounds--"

"And still you go on," she glared at him. "Why me? Why do you people always find me? Why can't I just be left alone? That's why I came to Paris--so I could be alone."

"That's not an option anymore," Jack walked down the stone steps, one stair at a time, his eyes never leaving hers. "You're in the Game now, like it or not. And the only way you're going to stay in the Game is if you start learning now about what it means to be Immortal. I'm just the first, Faith. Others are going to come after you. Many of them aren't going to give a damn whether you understand what you are or even care. They're just going to follow the one rule that we live by--'there can be only one.'"

"Then why are you bothering?" she challenged him, "If there can be only one then why the hell haven't you taken my head? Why are you wasting time?"

He drew closer, stopping just short of her, "Because I don't consider it a waste of time," he replied softly. "I fight, Faith, and I've killed. But never willingly or because I enjoy it. I do it because I have to, because I want to survive. I don't kill for sport."

"I don't know you. Not yet anyway but I think its only fair to offer you what I was offered."

"Which is?

"Help," he replied simply, "You need help, Faith, until you can learn to take care of yourself. If you'll let me, I'll help you, just as someone once helped me."

She raked a hand through her curly dark hair. "This is crazy," she shook her head in an attempt at denial.

"A lot of things are," he took a deep breath. "I can offer you proof of my words, Faith, if you'll give me a chance."

"How?" she asked, suddenly wary.

He approved of that wariness. It would keep her alive later, providing he could convince her of the truth of his words and there was only one sure way that he knew of to do that. Jack reached into the folds of his coat, letting his fingers close around the cool base of his sword. She made a small half-gasping noise in surprise as he unsheathed the weapon, bringing it into the light.

"Don't be afraid," he held a restraining hand towards her.

"Yeah, right," her eyes never left the weapon.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he repeated, "I couldn't anyway. We're on holy ground."

At her confused expression, he added, "Immortals are forbidden to fight on holy ground. As long as you stay here, you're safe."

"Oh, goody," she replied. Her voice remained sarcastic, but she did relax a little.

Bringing the blade up, Jack closed his hand around it, and scored his palm against the razor sharp edges. He winced, closing his eyes as the blood began dripping.

"Why the hell did you do that?" she demanded, coming forward to catch his hand, heedless of the lowered sword, "You're going to need medical attention."

"No, I won't," he opened his hand for her to see.

The blood flow had already abated, miniature threads of lightning stitching his flesh back together. Faith dropped his hand, stumbling back a step but her eyes never left his hand. Using his other hand, he swiped at the blood to reveal pink, healthy flesh.

"Now do you believe?"

"Une biere. Maintenant," she snapped at the bartender in rapid French, pushing a wad of francs towards him. He gave her an evil glare, muttering something that sounded highly uncomplimentary, before uncapping a beer for her.

"Screw you," she muttered, catching the beer as he slid down it the bar's surface towards her. She didn't even bother with the cut glass he sent after it, instead swinging it up by the bottle's neck and taking a long swig. It didn't help.

Maybe nothing ever would.

She laid the beer aside, burying her face in her hands. 'What,' she wondered, 'it wasn't enough that I was destined to become the Slayer, the girl who has to stand against all the bad karma and bozo demons in the world, but now I've got to worry about people with really big knives coming after my head?' What was that oldies song Mina had used to tease her with whenever she started griping about her Slayer duties? Oh yeah. It started off with something like 'born under a bad sign' and went on from there. Well, she had to be born under the *worst* sign possible.

And no amount of alcohol or anything else was going to change that.

It had been easy to write Jack off as a wandering crank at first. To scoff and belittle his 'wild' story. Until he had proven that story to be truth. Until she had seen the evidence with her own eyes. She passed a hand over her eyes, wishing to God that she could erase the sight of his cut skin healing itself. Or her own later on. Faith raised her head and rubbed her index finger against her thumb gingerly. After Jack's little display, she had fled, as if fleeing would make his words and everything nothing more than a dream that she could wake up from. That idea had been shattered when, after walking the streets of Paris for about an hour, she'd finally ducked into a cutlery store. She'd glimpsed the store in passing and now some crazed instinct had driven her back there. Under the pretense of buying a knife, she had asked the shop owner if she could examine a particularly wicked dagger. As soon as she had felt that heavy, palpable weight in her hands, she knew what she was going to do. What she had to do. So she had pretended to give the knife a once over and had 'accidentally' cut her finger on the edge. The shop owner had started clucking in alarmed French at her, too fast for her to really make out, but the tone had conveyed concern nonetheless. She hadn't really been paying too much attention at that moment in time anyway. No, she had been too busy watching in horror as Jack's words became truth. Her hand healed, leaving behind a smear of blood and an itching sensation from the now healed wound. She had dropped the knife then and fled the store, despite the distraught calls from behind her.

It was true. Every bit of it. She was some---thing, some creature who would rise from any wound, would live forever until some other Immortal creature decided to take her head. 'Hey,' she tried to console herself,' you're gonna live forever. Not too shabby considering that the Slayer handbook gives you a pretty limited lifetime guarantee. You're still gonna have these looks forever while everyone around you goes all saggy and wrinkly. Wonderful. I'm just dancing on the ceiling,' she grabbed the beer and took another swallow.

Which she nearly spit out when that horrible, sinking pit in her stomach returned. The same feeling she had gotten earlier when Jack had showed up, assailed her again. Only this time, fear and knowledge made it far, far worse. She knew what that feeling meant now--and it frightened her more than not knowing ever had.

'Get out,' she told herself over the rising fear and sickness she felt. She wished she hadn't run off now. She wished she had done the smart thing and accepted Jack's offer. He was who knows where now and she could be in major trouble. 'Wait a minute,' she tried to bolster herself, 'you've been fighting evil hellmouths and vampires long before you ever met Jack Dawson. One little Immortal can't be that bad, right? Right?'

It really bothered her that she wasn't able to answer that question with an affirmative.

'Holy ground,' she seized on that scrap of information, 'Jack said that Immortals can't fight on holy ground. I have to find a church, that's it. I--'

"Faith?"

She inhaled sharply, mortified that she wasn't able to stop the small shriek of surprise from leaving her mouth. Catching the bar for support, she turned her head towards the source of the voice and that unbearable feeling, both of which were familiar.

Jack. She very nearly disgraced herself by hugging him in relief. Which was ridiculous because she didn't know him or need him. And she most certainly did not *hug*.

"Take a couple of deep breaths, and the feeling will lessen," he instructed her, surveying her with obvious worry.

"All part of your devastating charm, eh, JD?" she picked, but nonetheless did as she was told. He was right. Once she took a few calming breaths, her mind started to clear of the fear paralyzing it and her heart stopped racing in panic.

"It will get better you know," he slid up onto the stool beside her.

"What will? And how did you find me?"

"I've been following you since you left the church," he shrugged, "I stayed just far enough out of range so you wouldn't be able to sense me. I was worried about you."

"My own personal stalker, eh?" she tried to sound annoyed, but failed miserably. She felt something warm inside her that he had actually cared enough to follow her as she had roamed through half of Paris. After the way she had treated him earlier, she was surprised he had even bothered.

He gave her another shrug and a crooked smile. A silence rose up between them, comfortable and encompassing. She wanted nothing more than to hide in it, but knew she couldn't. There were things she had to know. Things that only he could answer.

"Can I trust you?" she broke the silence, her voice soft.

"Not to take your head?" he asked.

She nodded.

"Faith, if I'd wanted your head, I could have taken it any time today."

Some last fear was laid to rest by his words. She had thought as much but she had needed to hear the assurance from his lips before she would ever be able to put it out of mind. Jack Dawson, whatever else he might be, was an honorable man. Some instinct told her that if he gave his word it would take a lot to make him break it. Now that she was able to breath easier, she propped her arms on the bar, asking, "So you were saying something would get easier?"

"Accepting what you are. You'll adapt. You'll be surprised at what you can do when you have to."

'Oh, I don't know that I would,' she thought, thinking of how she'd adapted when she'd been called as a Slayer. She had raged against that, too, before finally accepting her duty. She'd adapted to that but never completely. She had never gotten used to the idea that one day the forces she battled against would rise up and kill her. And another girl would be chosen, a new Slayer and she would be forgotten.

"But I'll never completely accept what I am, will I, Jack?" she asked softly.

He regarded her steadily then shook his head. "Not completely, no. Not if you're lucky."

"Lucky? Why lucky?" she took a drink from her beer. His expression grew faintly disapproving.

"Because it means you're still human, that you still care. It's more important than you know, Faith," then he paused, "Aren't you a little young to be drinking beer?"

"Jack, we're in the middle of France, I'm of legal age here. I can drink if I want to," she gave him a piercing stare, "Besides, I bet you've been known to indulge in a beer or two yourself. And you don't look that much older than I do."

He squirmed. "But I am older than you, Faith."

"Yeah, but you don't look it," she pointed out. "You may be an old man yourself, Jack Dawson, and you may feel that I don't really have an idea of what I'm doing, but I bet that people think the same thing about you whenever they see you drinking."

"I give up," he threw his hands in the air. "I don't know why I'm bothering to argue with you. It's not like I'm going to win anyway."

"Exactly," she purred, and took another slow drink. Then she inclined the bottle towards him in invitation. "Truce?"

He went still as if he weren't quite sure he'd heard her right. Then with a wry expression, he took the bottle from her and had a drink.

"I knew there was a bad boy just waiting to get out of you, JD?" she teased, "Careful, I wouldn't want a school boy like you to start sputtering because you drank too much."

"Very funny," he passed the bottle back to her.

"I thought so," she stretched her legs and yawned. Casually, she asked, "So, is that offer for help still open? Not that I need any or anything but I thought...I thought it might be a good idea to explore my options."

This time his smile was a genuine one. A slow, sweet smile, the kind that made your knees go weak and your heart start a racin' though not in fear. "Options are good," he commented neutrally, "Of course there's a lot we'd have to talk about and work out."

She hopped off of her stool. "Then why the hell are we hanging around this dump?" she demanded.

"We were waiting for you to come to your senses and realize that I was right all along," he joked, with a twinkle in his eyes. 'Damn him,' she thought. He was just too cute. Too precious.

"Well, I wouldn't go that far," she tossed her head, "Come on, JD, we've got things to do. And I know this great place where we can go afterwards and dance the rest of the night away. We'll get really drunk, do a little dancing, maybe even get you a tattoo. You'll love it."

"I can hardly wait," he muttered, rising to follow her. But his smile never wavered or grew cool.

Then again, neither did hers. For the first time since leaving Sunnydale, she felt as though she had some control over her life. That she had regained some sense of direction. She knew who she was again.

And that was the most important gain of all.

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