Chapter Text
The Ritz ballroom looked like a dragon's hoard that had mated with a wedding cake and birthed triplets. Gold leaf, crystal, and enough white linen to mummify the city council three times over. On the far side, a string quartet played something old and expensive, every note dissolving under the low roar of donors, officeholders and powerbrokers.
Buffy moved along the periphery, half-hidden by her black vest and the rented bowtie squeezing her neck. The catering tray was a wobble away from disaster, her wrists straining from the weight of a dozen flutes and a expensive looking bottle. The champagne was real. The uniform wasn’t. The play tonight was simple: they had one page from the vital ledger, the ledger showing all the dodgy dealings Travers had been conducting for Morgan. But they needed the rest. And the intel was it was being delivered to Morgan tonight through a third party. Buffy could feel the earpiece prickling under her hair, every brush of sound a reminder: Don’t fuck it up.
Across the ballroom, Faith wove through the crowd, moving more like a wolf than a waitress. Her uniform was a size too small—on purpose, Buffy was sure—but she wore it with an insolence that kept every handsy donor at bay. Every so often, Faith would tap her temple, just once, a signal: I see you, B. You good?
Buffy was good, if you liked heart rates north of 120 and the smell of caviar making you want to gag.
She set her tray down on a sideboard and reached for the cleaner’s cart they'd planted earlier. Underneath the pile of soiled napkins and glassware, her hand found the case with the micro-camera. She palmed it, pressed the adhesive to the underside of the bar, and let the lens settle on the dead angle between the ice bucket and the register.
Then she stood upright, grabbed a rag, and pretended to wipe the counter as she scanned the crowd.
The guests were a fever dream of privilege—men in sharkskin and silk, women with diamonds that could cover the down payment on a duplex. A few faces she recognized from the city’s Most Entitled list; a lot more she didn’t, but that didn’t matter. The only name that did was Lilah Morgan, and she hadn’t made her entrance yet.
Faith’s voice tickled the earpiece. “Ten o’clock, B. West balcony.”
Buffy shifted, feigning indifference, and looked. The staircase wound up to a second-floor mezzanine, glass balustrade overlooking the entire ballroom. A dark-haired woman in a stylish tailored dress stood at the rail, two men at her shoulder. Lilah Morgan had the kind of beauty that looked manufactured, precise. Her face was bone and lipstick and the cold shine of eyes that never lost a negotiation.
Buffy breathed out, slow. “Visual,” she murmured, and picked up her tray.
Faith replied, “Bodyguards are pros. Don’t try to play cute.”
Buffy’s heart thudded. “You saying I’m not cute?”
Faith snorted, but the sound was soft, close, intimate. “Only when you’re not trying.”
Buffy sidestepped a knot of donors arguing about who should fill a vacant seat on the School Board. She moved toward the base of the stairs, keeping her head down and her tray up. She waited for Lilah to start down, then positioned herself to intercept.
The plan was simple: Wait for Morgan to make the exchange, trigger the cameras, and catch the confession on tape. Don’t draw, don’t panic, don’t make a move until they had what they needed.
As Lilah reached the bottom step, the crowd shifted, making a corridor just for her. One of the guards scanned the room—ex- military, the posture said it all. The other was bulkier, slower, more of a threat if it came to grappling. Lilah Morgan smiled at the crowd, and let the guards part the way.
Buffy kept her head down as she approached, then lifted the tray just enough to block her face from the nearest camera. “Champagne?” she said, and the voice that came out wasn’t hers—it was higher, lighter, and sounded wrong.
Lilah’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. She took a glass, sipped, then leaned in, just a breath away. “Tell your partner she’s not nearly as subtle as she thinks.”
Buffy didn’t blink. “Which one?”
Lilah’s smile went real for a split second, then vanished. “Cute,” she said.
Buffy moved away, head spinning. In her ear, Faith whispered, “She made me. Still want to run it?”
Buffy hesitated, the instinct to charge in and clean house screaming at her. But she closed her eyes, pressed her thumb against the stem of a glass, and stuck to the plan. “We run it,” she said.
On cue, a man appeared from the service hallway, crossing to the far corner by the windows. He wore a suit too expensive for the room, and a cologne that Buffy could smell from across the dance floor. The ledger was in his hand. The handoff would happen in thirty seconds, maybe less.
Faith was already in motion, weaving through the crowd with a tray of canapés. As she passed the DJ, she tapped the side of the equipment rack, flipping on the second camera.
Buffy took a deep breath. “On my mark,” she said. “One, two—”
Lilah and the suit shook hands. The ledger changed hands.
Buffy pressed the mic. “Now.”
Everything went bullet-time.
Faith dropped her tray. The canapés exploded against the marble. She drew her sidearm from a hidden holster, swept it up, and leveled it at the guard’s chest. “Police! Hands!”
Buffy did the same, left hand still holding a champagne glass, right hand on the weapon. She angled herself between Lilah and the bodyguards, knees bent, ready to move.
For a half second, nobody moved. The quartet stuttered to a halt. The hum of conversation became a vacuum, every voice sucked out of the room. Only the sound of a single flute rolling across the floor, spiraling into silence.
Buffy’s own voice sounded alien: “District Attorney Lilah Morgan, you’re under arrest for conspiracy and racketeering.”
Lilah didn’t hesitate, didn’t even blink. “Do you have any idea who I am?”
Faith’s voice, razor sharp: “We do. You’re the bitch who’s going to jail for a long time.”
The big guard twitched, hand moving for his gun. Faith didn’t flinch. “Don’t.”
He stopped, frozen by her tone.
The suit with the ledger tried to edge away, but Buffy kept her weapon trained. “Not unless you want a starring role on the morning news,” she said.
From the back of the room, cameras flashed, all pointed at the action. The city’s elite, suddenly paparazzi.
Buffy stepped forward. “Hands on your head.”
Lilah held the ledger up, careful, then set it on the table. “This is a mistake,” she said, and her voice was all silk, no panic. “You’re making a mistake.”
Faith circled the guards, sweeping them with the muzzle of her gun, then cuffed the first one with a zip tie pulled from her sleeve. She did it with one hand, not taking her eyes off Lilah.
Buffy collected the ledger, sliding it into a plastic evidence sleeve, then fished a pair of cuffs from her back pocket. She motioned Lilah to turn around. Lilah didn’t, not at first, so Buffy took her by the wrist and twisted her arm just enough to get the point across. Lilah turned around.
Buffy cuffed her, then held her by the elbow, guiding her past the rows of stunned faces.
The ballroom was silent for a moment, then whole place erupted. Reporters shouting, donors shrieking, security scrambling. Through it all, Buffy kept a hand on Lilah, guiding her through the chaos with Faith clearing the way.
At the door, Faith grabbed Buffy's sleeve and leaned close. “You did good,” she said, breath warm against Buffy’s neck.
Buffy grinned, and it felt real this time. “So did you.”
They hustled Lilah out the front, past the police tape, past the mass of press, and into the waiting cruiser. As they loaded her in, Lilah met Buffy’s eyes one last time.
“You’ll regret this,” Lilah said.
Buffy just smiled, shut the door, and watched the cruiser pull away, lights wailing against the winter night.
Faith stood beside her, hair falling wild over one eye. “You think she’s right?” she said.
Buffy shook her head, watching the red and blue disappear down the boulevard. “No,” she said. “I think we finally did it.”
They stood like that, side by side, until the last of the crowd drifted away and the night felt empty again.
Buffy’s heart still hadn’t slowed.
But for once, she didn’t mind.
——
The station at six a.m. was a second skin—fluorescent, muggy, alive with a pulse of coffee and burned-out ambition. The two-way glass in the interview suite felt less like a window and more like a finish line, and Buffy couldn’t stop staring through it.
On the far side, Lilah Morgan sat in a plastic chair, hands cuffed, posture uncannily regal despite the stain of sweat on her designer dress. She wasn’t talking. She wasn’t even blinking. She just stared at the blank wall, a half-smirk twisting her mouth like she was already writing her own press release.
Buffy watched, arms folded, the ache in her shoulders settling in for the long haul. She didn’t feel satisfaction. Not yet. Just the thrum of unfinished business, like the whole department was waiting for the other shoe to drop.
The door clicked, and Faith slid in, balancing two paper cups. Her hair was damp, her face newly bruised, but her eyes were bright. She handed Buffy a cup, and their fingers brushed, brief but deliberate.
Neither said “good job” or “nice bust.” They just stood shoulder to shoulder, watching Lilah through the glass.
After a minute, Faith murmured, “She looks smaller now.”
Buffy sipped the coffee. “She’ll get big again. The minute a camera’s on her.”
Faith’s lips twitched. “Not for a while, B. Not after tonight.”
Another silence, this one easy. In the next room, a uniform set a stack of case files on the table, then left. Morgan didn’t even look up.
Faith leaned her head against the glass, exhaled. “You ever think about how many times we almost lost? Like, it was just us and the clock, and one mistake—”
Buffy interrupted, “We didn’t.”
Faith shrugged. “Guess not.”
The second door swung open, wider this time, and Willow entered flanked by Tara. They both wore the long night on their faces, but Tara’s uniform had a fresh captain’s badge pinned just above her heart. Buffy caught it, and Tara noticed, blushing almost imperceptibly.
Willow grinned, tired but real. “I thought you two would be sleeping it off by now.”
Buffy shook her head. “Didn’t want to miss the show.”
Faith toasted Willow with her cup. “Nice hardware, Captain.”
Tara’s blush deepened, but she looked right at Faith. “You make it possible. Both of you. And I got it the right way. The Chief came by personally. I guess…the city needed some good news.”
Willow drifted over, leaning on the edge of the desk. “Travers flipped as soon as he heard we had Morgan. And the DA’s office is eating itself alive”.
Buffy allowed herself a breath. “So it’s over.”
Willow shook her head. “Not over. But we’re getting there.”
Faith sipped her coffee, then caught Tara’s eye. “You believe in us the whole time?”
Tara smiled. “Always.”
Willow added, “Even when we probably shouldn’t have.”
They all watched the glass for a minute, letting the silence settle. In the interview room, Morgan finally lifted her head, fixing her eyes on the mirror with surgical precision.
Buffy wondered what she saw. She wondered if Morgan recognized her outline through the glass, or if she saw just the badge, the system, the whole weight of everything she’d tried to corrupt.
Giles’s voice broke the moment. “May I?”
He entered quietly, no mayor’s pin, just a gray cardigan and his ID badge. He looked different—smaller, maybe—but the eyes were sharp.
He gave a soft nod to Willow, then to Tara. “I suppose this is what passes for closure in this line of work.”
Willow said, “Morgan’s going down. And everyone who thought they could hide behind her is next.”
Giles nodded, looking through the glass at Morgan. “She’ll try to barter, of course. Leverage. But there’s enough here to put her away for a long time.”
Tara’s voice was thoughtful. “We’re going to need to sweep the city. Top down. The Council’s not dead, just stunned.”
Willow said, “We’ll be ready.”
Giles looked at Buffy, then Faith, then Tara and Willow “You are the rarest thing in this city. Not because you’re incorruptible—no one is, really. But because you keep each other honest. That’s the only thing that works.”
Buffy flushed, not sure what to say. Faith just nodded, a little softer than usual.
Tara said, “Thank you.”
Giles’s smile was thin, but his eyes were bright. “It’s me who should thank you.”
He left, quiet as he came. Willow watched him go, then glanced at the glass. “He’s not wrong.”
Faith stretched, rolled her shoulders. “Never thought I’d say this, but… playing by the rules actually worked better.”
Buffy laughed. “Don’t get used to it.”
Buffy watched the room through the glass, watched as the uniforms came to lead Morgan to booking. The DA stood, smoothed her dress, and walked with head held high. It was almost impressive, the way she managed dignity even with plastic cuffs digging into her wrists.
Tara said, “Let’s get out of here. There’s a sun coming up somewhere.”
Faith nodded, and for the first time in forever, she looked like she could sleep for a week.
Buffy followed her into the corridor, Willow and Tara behind. As they left, the glass reflected their four shadows, all blurred into one.
Outside, the city was still dark. But the horizon was getting lighter by the minute.
——
The precinct had changed in three weeks—less in the paint or the broken blinds, more in the mood. The walls still held up the ceiling by sheer will, but the squad room hummed with something like optimism. Willow’s office door was open; inside, she, Tara, and Giles sat at a round table, sorting through the new department policy manual.
Tara looked up, smiled. “You two happy with the new protocol?”
Buffy nodded. “Only if it comes with a donut clause.”
Faith grinned. “Extra chocolate, none of that healthy shit.”
Giles laughed, a gentle sound. “I believe we can arrange it.”
They stood together, not as suspects or cautionary tales, but as equals—maybe even friends.
Willow leaned forward. “You did good. The city noticed.”
Faith shot Buffy a sideways glance, then shrugged. “Not gonna lie. Feels weird.”
Buffy said, “Get used to it.”
From the hallway, Cordelia’s voice cut through the moment. “Summers, Lehane—got a 187 on Fourth and Main. Get your shit in gear.”
Buffy looked at Faith, and Faith looked back, the old adrenaline already sparking between them.
“Duty calls,” Buffy said.
Faith grabbed her badge, her gun, and the notebook still full of angry handwriting. “Let’s go.”
They left the office together, footsteps matching, the doors swinging closed behind them.
On the street, the sirens sang their old, dangerous song, but this time, Buffy didn’t feel outnumbered. She didn’t feel outgunned.
She felt ready.
Side by side, they headed into the blue dawn. This city was theirs now.
And for the first time, Buffy believed it might actually make a difference.
Faith reached for Buffy’s hand. No hesitation, no performance. Just fingers laced together, skin warm against the early morning air.
Buffy squeezed, and didn’t let go.