Chapter Four

Fate has led you through it, you do what you have to do. But I had the sense to recognize that I don’t know how to let you go – Sarah McLachlan

--

Faith was dangerous when she was cornered. Her heart pounded almost painfully in her ribcage, and her mind – GOOD GOD, her MIND – it swirled and exploded into bursts of white hot rage. It was nothing compared to the desperation that coupled with the panic of feeling entirely helpless. Faith’s whole life, she had searched for the one thing she had always envied the hell out of Buffy: Control. The power to twitch a finger and slice a knife, and KNOW things were gonna come out your way. The power to not feel so helpless, to not feel like you were drowning in your own vile blood, your own sin, your own torrent of rainfall and guilt.

FUCK. She almost had that. It had been there, slipping through her fingers, tangible, within reach. No one ever forgot, but she was starting to get over the hurt, even in her cell with Stacey snoring above her, during those long nights where she had nothing to do but go over each and every act she had committed, every torment she had inflicted, that had landed her in here.

Her control was splintered now, leaving behind a helpless, twenty year-old girl, with a sliced arm, a bloody forehead, and none of the strength that had kept her alive, brought her out of a coma, and traumatized so many.

The door continued to creak open, at the exact moment her headache flared, and she winced, keeping her eyes open, on the figure that stepped inside, holding the knife steady, way too steady.

Panic. Panic. Panic.

//It’s a kill or be killed world, B. That’s all it is. Want. Take. Have.//

Faith drew in a ragged breath, straightening as well as she could, hands pressed against the cold, wet concrete.

“How the hell did you get in here?”

Of course he didn’t answer. Of course he stood there, and of course, in the little light that drifted from the swinging fixtures in the hall, she could see his eyes perfectly: dark, black onyx.

FUCK.

Faith wanted to cry. She wanted to slide down to the floor, gather her knees to her chest, and sob her heart out, let out all the fear, all the sorrow…

Dizziness overcame her, she shook her head in an attempt to keep herself clear.

This one didn’t rush her. He stood in the middle of the cell, regarding her. Faith, breathing erratically, looked around him. “HEY! Someone’s trying to KILL ME IN HERE! Do your damned JOB and PROTECT AND SERVE!”

“The LAPD do that.”

He spoke, a crisp, clear, English accent. Her eyes locked with the ever consuming darkness of his orbs. “What?” she breathed in startled surprise.

“The Los Angeles Police Department protects and serves. The Sheriff’s department runs the jail.”

Well, thanks for the damned lesson. Fat lot of good it’s gonna do me, now.

She didn’t know what to say. She searched for the words – they used to come to easily to her, this word play. She knew the game. The smirk that should have come so easily to her lips, didn’t. Her mind, usually quick witted, ready to come back with a great response that would make him stumble, regard her with suspicious eyes, was slow.

For the first time, she was paralyzed with fear. He stepped forward, and immediately, she slammed her body back, against the wall. Fuck, Fuck.

“You are afraid.”

“You’re fucking delusional, if you think they’re going to let you get out of here after you killed me,” she whispered.

He smiled. “The prophecy does not lie. We will protect the world.”

What?!

The grin that stretched over the thin lips chilled her, she knew that grin. Knew it too well, and when he jerked forward, like a snake, she was almost ready. She jolted away from the wall, the knife flashed, and she let out a startled shriek when she felt the blade slice into her shoulder, a bite that made her stumble, crash into the floor. He almost danced away from the wall, rolling down, the knife swiping, and she scrambled back, seconds away from being impaled.

Oh, shit, oh shit, oh shit…

He came down at her again, and her mind snapped into place, palm wrapping around the hand to catch it, twist it down, over his shoulder blade, and wrench up. Break the wrist, force him to drop the knife, and then slice his neck with it.

That’s what should have happened. That’s what should have fucking happened.

But she couldn’t hold the hand, the knife sliced into her skin, and her eyes widened when he jerked away, tossing her to the other side of the room. Her head snapped against the concrete, blinding pain filled her senses, and she crashed into a heap on the floor.

Fuck.

Pushing herself up with every damned bit of strength she had left, Faith watched. He wiped the blade on a cloth he had taken from his pocket, inches away from the open door.

Okay, okay… strength not gonna work here. How the hell did Buffy do it?

She licked her lips, and closing her eyes, she took what she could get. He came forward, and she waited.

One seconds… two…

The blade came down, and she yelled, launching into a somersault, crashing with her body weight into his knees. He stumbled, hands flying back, and with a fragmented mind, Faith twisted her legs, keeping her steel toe boots straight. Both toe points crashed into his unprotected face. The hand with the knife slammed against the floor, the blade clattering away. He was stunned for a minute, and that was all Faith needed. With hasty, shaky, trembling and damned clumsy fingers, Faith tore at her boots, removing her laces.

As a kid she had stolen a boy scout manual from this guy, read it and fantasized, and no one knew how to do a better knot than she did. Stumbling up, erratic pants coming from her, Faith closed her eyes, practically falling backwards.

A flash slid before her, in her mind, words that came almost foreign- “Get OUT of there, nitwit. Through the hall, through the sewer, the way he came in. Get to Angel Investigations – we’ll be waiting.”

Her eyes opened, and Faith didn’t bother to wonder what the hell happened. The blood was streaming from so many different places, she was covered in it, and GOD, she felt faint. She reached down, grabbed the bloody knife, and ran for as fast as she could toward the door.

The figure left behind was silent, but alive.

--

Wesley slammed the telephone down with a curse.

“Bloody hell…” he whispered, gripping the handle in a clasp that could have very well broken it, had it been under a stronger hand. “Cordelia, no one is picking up…” His voice faltered as he turned around, and looked up.

“GET to Angel Investigations- we’ll be waiting.” Cordelia was floating four feet above the ground, hand on her head, eyes shut closed.

“Cordelia?” he whispered, throat constricting at the sight. Her eyes flashed open, and suddenly whatever was holding her up gave way, and Cordelia crashed to the floor.

“OWW.”

“Cordelia!” Falling to his knees, Wesley helped the Seer up, guiding her to the couch as she blinked, shaking her head.

“What the HELL?!” Cordelia ran her hand through her streaked hair, looking at Wesley with wide, relieved eyes. “She’s okay. She got out of there…” Wesley’s frown deepened.

“How do you-“

“I…” Her relief quickly turned to an expression of panic. “I don’t – Wesley, I think I was able to get into her head, talk to her, maybe THAT was why I was getting the play by play…”

What the bloody…

Things were going entirely too fast for Wesley to process. He stared dumbly at Cordelia, his beautiful friend bewildered, scared, like a mutant in that movie they had been dragged to see – the young one who discovered with a kiss. she could damn the world.

“I… Wesley…”

She stared, hazel boring imploringly into his, seeking an answer for what had just happened. He had no answer – had she learned nothing?

“Part-demon, Cordelia,” was his quiet answer. She stared at him, and he began to see the way her mind worked then. Part-demon reminded her of her birthday, her birthday of Connor, Connor of Angel – and Angel… when it was Cordelia, it always came back to Angel.

Her eyes darkened, closed in pain. Exhaling slowly, she waited only a second, gathering her senses, before she reached for his hand. “Help me up.” He did so, as well as his injury could allow. “We needed to get to the Hyperion. I think I told Faith to meet us there. I need to see Angel. You need to come with me.”

Wesley stilled, his heart beat hammering, thumping, skipping, never resuming its normal beat. “You think you told what to whom? To where?” She grabbed his hand, leaving no room for argument, dragging him toward the door. “Cordelia, Angel warned me-“

“Angel has to get over it.” she paused, a curious expression floating over features masked by pain, before she turned, stared at him frankly. Cordelia had a gift for frankness, as her delicate fingers slipped over his palms, held them close to her. Had she ever figured out, that perhaps SHE was the real boss of Angel Investigations? “We have a mission, Wes,” she began slowly, blinking away tears that made the hazel brilliant and captivating. “And… GOD – I hate the powers. I hate them. They should have told me, they should have – but they didn’t – and there’s a damned reason for that – We’re saving Faith-“

“Despite the torture,” he found himself adding, starting in surprise as he did. She gave him an even gaze, cool and almost angry. He swallowed, looked away, knowing she was thinking of Connor. Again his heart gave, his stomach dropped, he became almost nauseous.

“You took the action, you face the music.”

When she pulled on his hand, he had no choice but to follow.

--

Wesley had always been better at the research.

Fred was a physicist. A good one, granted. A multi-tasking one, okay. But she wasn’t a translator. Slipping off her glasses with a sigh, Fred took a moment to rub at her temples, put aside the books, and stare at the stairs.

Fred checked the clock on the wall, the one Wesley insisted they have, when she began her experiment on time and it’s implications on modernity. It was an odd subject, Cordelia’s eyes had promptly crossed, and even poor Angel stared down at Connor blankly.

Only Gunn and Wesley had listened, nodding at all the appropriate parts.

Wow. It seemed ages ago. She wondered if this was another relevant point in her theory, mind floating back to her thesis, before her wandering eyes caught a lone figure sitting on the orange couch, hands tangled into his fists. Immediately, she stood, forgetting about the books, just for a minute, venturing forth into the lobby.

Fred had never really taken care of anyone. Before Pylea, she had her parents taking care of her. In Pylea, she had herself to keep alive – nevermind anyone else. After Pylea, she had looked onto Angel Investigations to take care of her. It had never dawned on her that this might happen in a relationship, in friendship: the overwhelming urge to take care of someone – to worry about what might happen to one person, or five.

Fred was quiet, always quiet, and yet he always knew when she was coming. Charles turned, gave her a small smile, and looked back down at his hands. She stood still, taking in the slumped shoulders, the deep sigh that came from his body, and her big, beautiful Gunn just looked… small.

An aching hurt filled her, in the spot that had been hit several times since she had kissed him, starting the moment she turned in that ballet house and saw the demon stick the knife into Charles’ back. Settling down beside him, she waited a moment, taking an unsure breath.

Carefully, quietly, Charles reached forward, took her hand and brought it to his mouth, pressing it against his lips, holding it there as he leaned forward, eyes staring at something straight ahead. She held her breath.

Gunn closed his eyes, shuddered once, and pulled her hand away from his lips, into his lap. “It’s happening all over again.” Fred waited, not quite sure what he meant. Craning her head, she gently used her free hand to tip his chin toward her, until she caught her eyes. Her breath caught when she saw moistness.

“Charles…”

“I’m losing my family, Fred. It’s happening all over again. I let down my guard, and it happened. I can’t do this again. I can’t lose it all.” Her vision was blurry, stinging in her eyes made her blink, as she gently palmed his cheek. He stared at her imploringly. “The only person I can believe in is you, Fred.”

Her heart broke then, as her hand slipped around his waist, and his body leaned forward. She cradled him, pressed her lips against his scalp and murmured reassuring words into his ear. He was still, shuddering occasionally, eyes pressed tight, cheek pressed against her breasts. He held her tightly, tighter than she had ever been held by him before.

It was desperate, and needy. He needed her. Fred closed her eyes, pulled him closer, and suddenly understood that in this moment, there was no one else but she and Gunn.

Because she needed him, too.

--

Angel had gotten to know his ‘family’ pretty well.

The habits of a predator were never truly lost, and although Angel understood his family – their patterns and weaknesses – ways they could be overcome – he had forced himself to be blind to them. For some reason, they all came to the surface to his mind with startling clarity, now. Gunn, and his need to be impulsive. Fred, and her naivety – the gut instinct of a survivor underneath that made her just as dangerous. Wesley – his blind faith.

Cordelia…

Angel closed his eyes, sniffed, and immediately moved toward the door. When Lorne walked in, he had him by the collar, held up against he door, before the Pylean demon could even open his mouth to speak.

“You’re going to talk to the Powers,” Angel began crisply, in a voice that was husky with exertion, self control barely keeping the demon face from emerging, even as the eyes began to glow gold. “And you’re going to tell them that unless they want their Champion to take a permanent vacation, they’re taking me to Connor.”

Lorne was flabbergasted, jaw dropping, mouth opened, for the moment just stunned. “Angel-“

Angel kept him pinned. “Do it.”

Lorne was still, and maybe Angel should have given the Host more credit. The messenger for the Powers was straight and tall, the fear that Angel had seen before, disappearing before his very eyes. “What’s the matter, Angel?” he asked crisply. “Losing a little steam, there?”

Angel’s hands tightened around the lapel, dangerously close to his throat. “Don’t, Lorne. You don’t know who you’re dealing with.”

Lorne’s red eyes darkened, flashed in anger. “You’re wrong, honeybuns. I know exactly who I’m dealing with. And it’s still Angel.” His hands closed over Angel’s. “The Powers that Be care about the mission, Angel. They don’t care about your so-“

A growl, low and angry, escaped in a violet outburst. The haze of anger slid over him, seeping over the soul like boiling water in an overflowing pot, and when Angel blinked, Lorne was suddenly across the room, bleeding from his lip.

Angel stepped back, shaking his head, suddenly unsure. What the-

“Had fun?” Lorne said, picking himself up from off the ground, straightening his suit. “Fine. I’m done. I’m leaving you alone, Angelcakes. I’m tired of playing valet, and your personal beating toy. You wanna be dense? Be dense.” Moving toward the door, his hand on his lip, Lorne paused, staring angrily back at him. “Let me ask you one thing, Mr. Revenge. You’ve already lost your son – you really willing to lose everyone else?”

He had no one else.

Angel glared, hands into fists. He was exhausted, damned exhausted, and maybe that was why he didn’t bother to toss Lorne to the other side of the room.

Lorne slammed the door closed, and Angel, thankful for the silence, sank to the floor. Hands that were curled into fists, slammed into the carpeted floor, muffled thumps that did nothing to alleviate the rapidly growing tension.

Angel didn’t move, his face buried into the carpet, eyes closing, knees drawing into his chest. He couldn’t move: he moved, and he exploded.

Angel took in a deep, sucking breath, almost painful, if his lungs were actually alive and working. He kept his eyes shut tight, and he whimpered, growled… drifted…

The bed was soft… warm. She nestled into his side, backside pressed comfortably against his hips. When she shifted in her sleep, he hissed, head lolling back as he stilled her body from provoking anymore response from his groin.

Blueballs, he could handle – but not the mortifying embarrassment that would happen if Cordelia, who had once again fallen asleep in his bed, discovered the fact that he was most certainly, blessedly, NOT a eunuch.

She grumbled against the constraint, eyes fluttering sleepily as she twisted, tightening her hold on his son. Angel pushed himself up onto one elbow, a smile drifting lazily onto his features at the scene.

Connor began to squirm, and he frowned, carefully pushing off the bed, padding around the side, gently, delicately, extracting the child from the exhausted Seer’s arms. She mumbled in protest, but allowed it, locked away in dreamland. He gave a soft smile, and glanced down at Connor.

The child gave him a gummy grin. He grinned back. He had been doing that a lot lately.

The cradle was a little too stuffed with stuffed animals. Gunn and Fred had gone on a spree. Cordelia had cooed over them, more so than Connor, who liked his worn old rattle just FINE, thank you very much. Fred had preened, Wesley had smiled. Cordelia had elbowed Angel until he had thanked them, and even Gunn – that big manly… man – looked proud of his purchases.

Angel considered, and removed a large teddy bear, placing Connor in its place, turning back toward the bed. His Seer hadn’t moved, still curled into the same position. Angel sank down beside her, placed the bear carefully in her arms, and watched, contented, as she tightened her arms around it.

“Angel?” she murmured lazily.

“Yeah.”

“Admit it. You’re going to miss this…” He blinked, as her eyelids fluttered, and suddenly, brilliantly hued orbs gazed up at him.

“Miss what?”

Her fingers stole to his, slid up his palms, to his forearms. Angel was completely still, as her soft delicate digits gently massaged at his forearms. “These dreams,” she whispered. “Big old pervert.” He stared. “You know what I mean – I mean, sex dreams coupled with big family drama? About me? You’re gonna miss it.”

He swallowed, hard. “Why am I going to miss it?”

“Well…” Cordelia closed her eyes, shifted against his sheets, her scene wafting to him. “When it all becomes real, I refuse to let you cheat on me with a sex dream. Even if it IS of me.”

He laughed, he couldn’t help it. “Deal.”

She stared at him through heavy, sleep laden lids. “Isn’t this when I kiss you?”

He grinned, heart bursting at the smile on her mischievous lips. “Yeah.”

She smiled, a giggle bursting from her as he fell into her arms, into her lips. She pulled him over her, legs slipping upwards to wrap around his hips, and pulling him down closer. Angel laughed when she nipped him.

“HEY!”

“What! Only YOU get to bite?” Heart full, Angel cradled her cheeks carefully.

“I’m not going to miss this.” Before she could answer in huffed reply, he continued. “Because I’m never letting you go.”

Her lips welcomed him, tongue tangling with his, and when Connor wailed his protest at the moans, Angel laughed-

The loud crash from downstairs brought him out of his fantasy. Keeping still, Angel found himself flat on the floor, torn between images that never existed, and a room that was charred and burned – in a room that was reality.

Pushing himself up, Angel felt truly dead, and it was an odd feeling. He hated being the dead one, but it was where he belonged, where he was accepted – time and time again proved he had no place among the living.

His eyes lingered on the bed, drifted toward the crib, and he saw Cordelia there, so close he could almost taste her scent on his tongue. She held Connor in her arms, cradling him, singing an off-key tune.

“Go to sleeeep, my baby peeeep…”

And in her eyes was such LOVE-

The searing pain came then, forcing him to get up, remember a Cordelia who had walked into this room earlier with haunted eyes laced with guilt. The desolation was so clear, but she had been here, she had offered herself to him, to take solace, to attempt to understand…

And his soul wanted to badly to bury himself into her arms, pretend she loved him, understood – to take whatever he could get, now that he had nothing at all… She had always tried to understand…

Moving toward the door, Angel walked into the hallway, throat dry and hoarse as he called out to Fred and Gunn, jogging down the stairs. Charles turned, and Angel called out hopefully, “Have you seen Corde… lia.” He paused, when the slim figure turned, beautifully familiar eyes stared up at him hopefully.

He paused, relief flaring through him, and something besides the pain, something remarkably similar to hope.

His shoulders slumped. “Cordelia.”

“Angel,” she whispered, coming forward. He reached out, anticipating her warmth, until a familiar scent caught him, and an unwilling growl turned his attention.

Wesley stepped into the room, and Cordelia moved beside him.

“Hello, Angel.”

The soul stretched tight, and the relief shattered.

--

Figured – on the lam, scott free, walking the streets, and Faith actually felt safer in prison.

Hello to the irony.

She gasped, stumbling when the wound in her shoulder flared up, making her land against the side of the building, in the alley. Raising her blood streaked face to the sky, she wondered how long it would be before the bastards followed the blood trail. She looked back, eyeing the dark patches. ‘Cause she sure as hell was leaving behind a lot of it.

Come on, Faith. Do what the fucking voice in your head, told you to do.

Sure – maybe she was going crazy, but at the moment – the damned annoying voice had had a better plan than she did. Get to Angel – get to Angel and he would fix it. Maybe get away from the baby sitting and kill the bastards coming after her. Maybe that Cordy he seemed to crush on so much lately could have a vision or something, figure out what the hell was wrong with her.

She turned a corner, found a blissful sigh of relief emanating when she saw the old office, and she very nearly ran from her shadows, into the building, until she remembered something that the damned voice forgot to remind her.

New place – some damned hotel, they weren’t here anymore. Oh, SHIT.

Faith collapsed against the wall, sucking in her breath as she held her injured limbs to her, felt the pain in her chest twist and sear, and GOD, if she could just lie down in a box and sleep for years –

She shook herself, wiped hastily at the tears. No fucking way. She was getting to SOMEONE.

Closing her eyes, she willed the voice to come back, tell her where to go, where to find Angel – cause she could have sworn he had told her where he was – but damned if she could remember with the blood seeping into her eyes, making them sting.

A couple turned the corner and she slipped back into the shadows, holding her breath as they walked past, talking and laughing.

Okay, okay… think…

Her eyes snapped open. Cordelia. The damned Seer/May Queen/Priss that was practically raising Angel’s kid. She hadn’t moved, right?

The bitch better not have moved.

With an agonized groan, Faith closed her eyes, sucked in her breath, praying for strength to hold out before she fainted, and pushed away from the wall, once again turning into the alley, stumbling through as quickly as she could.

--

end chapter four

--

Chapter Five

What ravages of spirit conjured this tempestuous rage

Created you a monster broken by the rule of love

And fate has led you through it

You do what you have to do - Sarah McLachlan

--

In two flat seconds, everything he believed in, everything he had come close to admitting – every hope and belief, and every single nuance of trust, shattered. It emerged as an explosion, a single point of energy that burst, causing the vampire to come forth in demon form, forgetting anything and everything humanizing about himself.

Three seconds later, Wesley was flat against the wall, a strong, cool hand wrapped tightly around his throat, and the grip was tightening. Dimly, in a far away world, he could hear shouting, cries of warning, and somewhere behind him, something grabbed at his arm. He jerked back, and it wasn’t a problem anymore.

Until he smelled blood. The demon caught it, curiously – and found Cordelia bleeding from her lip, sprawled on the floor. Angel froze, hand slipping from Wesley’s throat as Fred, glaring at him with fear in her eyes, helped her up.

“God DAMN IT, Angel!” Gunn roared, coming forward.

“NO!” The red trickled down Cordelia’s lips, vibrant, and his knuckles were streaked with it. He could only watch dumbly, staring down at himself, body shuddering at the act of violence.

He swallowed, closed his eyes. “Cordelia-“

“Wesley, get your ass over here,” she whispered, eyes dark and angry, coming forward, arms outstretched, almost as if by standing in the center of the room, she could hold them all behind some invisible wall. The blood continued to slide down her lip. It rumbled a response from him, his expression frozen, stunned.

“Cordelia, I’m sorry-“

“It doesn’t matter,” she clipped, wiping at her face. But, it did. He took in a shuddering breath, tried to gain control, ignored the look of fear in Fred’s face, and was almost relieved at the anger in Cordelia’s. But she paid no attention to him. Again, she motioned to Wesley. “Get over here.”

Wesley. Angel turned, eyes darkening. He had hit Cordy. Oh, God, he had hit Cordy – and it was her blood, and he could smell it, chilling him down to his bones. Oh, God, oh – God…. He had hit her, and it was because of him – because of HIM-

“What the hell are you doing, here?” he hissed, finding it so much easier to stare into the eyes of the man who had taken his son, than to look at Cordelia and the wound he himself had inflicted. “I warned you, Wes. I warned you.”

“Angel, NO!”

“Stay out of this, Cordelia,” Wesley said sharply, body straight and tall as he backed away, Angel coming forward.

At the mention of her name on his lips, Angel growled. “Don’t say her name, and don’t say his – don’t say you’re sorry – don’t say one damned WORD, Wesley. Get out. GET OUT.”

To his credit, Wesley stood his ground. His voice was low, almost soothing, and if Angel had been any less angry, he might have laughed at the way Wesley spoke to him, like he was a rabid animal he was attempting to calm.

“Angel, Angel, listen. I need for you to learn the truth-“

“I don’t WANT to hear a word, Wesley. I want you out of here, before I-“

“What, Angel?” Frustrated, Cordelia broke into the conversation, and stepped in between them, keeping him from getting to Wesley. “You’ll what? Kill him? Do it, then!”

“God, Cordelia- don’t fucking tempt me. Get out of my way-“

“ANGEL-“

“He took my SON!” he roared, and the pain flared, deeper into his heart, forcing him to stumble, his knees to weaken, and the rumble to work it’s way from his throat into his mouth, a whimper as Cordelia’s eyes immediately softened. He saw it before his eyes closed. The pain, the pity, the sadness. He didn’t want it from her – she didn’t understand. She had brought HIM back – back when she KNEW what he had done. She had brought him back, and hadn’t given a damn –

“Angel.” An involuntary moan crept over him at the husky voice. Soft, and vibrating, drifting over him, seeping bitter warmth. In a second, she would touch him, a hand on his finger, digits slipping over his hand – and he would betray himself – he would betray Connor.

He whirled, Angelus’ words sifting through his own. “Don’t you have a boyfriend to screw? Or are you all done with him?” In that sentence, he knew he had gone too far, but he was past caring. Fred gasped audibly, Gunn froze.

Wesley whispered an intolerable, “Angel…” Cordelia was absolutely still, silent, face expressionless. His heart, already severed, broken, sunk lower, but he forced his expression passive. Her shoulders slumped, and she looked away.

That shut her up.

The tension swept through him, a coiled spring, and Angel, fully aware that he had hurt Cordelia more with his words than he had ever done with his hands, couldn’t face her anymore.

He turned his attention on Fred long enough to snap, “Keep searching,” and moved up the stairs, taking them two at a time.

When he reached his room, he slammed the door shut, locked it with fumbling fingers.

Oh, God, oh, God…. DAMMIT.

He knew what was happening. It splintered into his soul, whispered sinfully into his thoughts.

He was losing control.

--

“That bastard.”

The words were Gunn’s. In them was anger: pure, unfiltered disgust.

Cordelia was thankful for it. It distracted her, gave her a minute to block out the unbearable hurt at Angel’s insinuation, and allowed her to instead focus on Gunn, note the way he held the crossbow, realizing with a sinking heart he had held it all this time. Her eyes locked with Fred’s, and she pleaded silently. Fred looked visibly shaken, but she nodded, and when Gunn turned toward the staircase, Fred grabbed his wrist. “No, Gunn!”

“Fred-“

“Not right now,” she said, pulling at the crossbow, handing it to Wesley and returning to rub soothingly at Gunn’s arms, his chest, trying to alleviate his anger. “We have the vision, remember?”

Oh, thank God. At least Fred was getting it without Cordelia having to wave little white flags. She swallowed hard, tried to gather herself, and again stared at the staircase.

“Dammit…” she whispered. She turned to Wesley, and found him studying her face with something that was close to pity, and regret.

“Are you all right?” he asked gently.

Cordelia wasn’t all right. As a matter of fact, she was quite willing to stake Angel for what he had done – had she not seen the agony in his eyes – but that didn’t matter now. GOD – the Powers that Be really chose some SHITTY times to give them missions.

“I think it’s fairly obvious to say, Angel’s not going to help here,” she said quietly, sinking down onto the orange couch, taking a moment to breathe, before looking up at her friends. “Well?”

Wesley stood still, the crossbow in his hand. Gunn and Fred suddenly caught up in the silence, didn’t move, until Fred turned to Wesley.

“Wesley?” The thin girl came forward, and awkwardly, gave him a hug. “You’re okay?”

Cordelia’s emotions caught in her throat at Wesley’s reaction: the step back, the quick look in Gunn’s direction. “I’m fine… thank you. About Faith…”

It had been a hasty explanation Cordelia had given Fred and Gunn before Angel had come down and decided to play ‘Ass hole of the Year’, but it had been enough. Neither had known Faith personally, but she understood the inclination to cling to the mission, rather than face what was apparent to all of them.

It was almost too easy to push away Angel’s face, to pretend the nursery didn’t exist. And it was almost too hard.

“Cordelia, I’ll assist you in finding Faith,” Wesley said.

Fred glanced at Gunn. He blew his breath out, taking a moment to recover from his rage before answering raggedly, “Yeah, sure…”

Relieved, Cordelia took in a shaky breath. “I don’t know how she’s going to get here. She’s hurt… Wesley, I need you to do something for me.”

“Of course.”

“I’m… going to be staying here for a few days. But I can’t… I can’t leave here, thanks to the, hello – Sir Assness, upstairs – can you and Gunn go to my house – get a few things?”

When he gave her a dubious expression, she offered him a smile, her face naked. She knew her request was silly, but it served a few purposes: getting Wesley out while Angel calmed down, it gave Gunn some time to cool off, and gave her some time to… sort things out. And take care of the split lip, while she was at it.

“Of course.” Wesley was careful, almost humble as he turned to Charles, as the black man met his gaze head on, his face unreadable for a moment. “Gunn?” he asked hesitantly.

It was a terrible moment, until Gunn nodded. “Sure, dude. Let’s go.”

“We’ll wait for Faith,” Fred said. “She’ll be here, right?”

Offering an uncertain smile, Cordelia inhaled shakily. “God, I hope so.” Faith had to make it here. Los Angeles was damned big, and no place for a Slayer with no strength. She needed the sanctuary.

Right, Cor, ‘cause that’s what this place is. A sanctuary.

Cordelia’s eyes flickered to the staircase, and bitterly, she wondered if wherever she was, maybe Faith was better off.

--

Charles knew the power that women had over men.

He understood, in the moment that Fred and Cordelia crossed glances, that when Fred’s palm ran down his chest, she was just doing her job – a command taken from the queen herself: Get him under control. Don’t let him go up there- cause he’d kill Angel if the vampire said the wrong shit – gave him any indication that he was going evil.

He grimaced, opening the door of the truck and slamming it behind him when he slid in. They were right. He would have. Gunn was no fool. He knew that when Fred pressed herself into his arms, when she pressed her lips against his in a soft good-bye, she was giving him more than an embrace. She was also telling him to behave himself. To not treat Wesley like he was a dude who had been a best friend, and hadn’t even trusted him enough to tell him his world was bottoming out from under him.

Maybe, it should have made him angry. Maybe, he should have been pissed that Fred and Cordelia were protecting dudes that needed a serious kick in the ass. Maybe, he should have snapped at them both that they didn’t know what a man was capable of, what a fool did, when he knew he could get away with it.

People proved they couldn’t be trusted. People proved time and time again, that they didn’t deserve to be believed in. No one was perfect. No one got put up on a pedestal, ‘cause they got pulled down, and hard.

But, he wasn’t pissed. When Fred kissed him, eyes shining imploringly, his heart ached, and he slid his knuckles softly over her pronounced cheekbone, and pressed his lips against hers gently, offering her a soft, reassuring smile.

When Cordelia closed her eyes, winced slightly to herself, he didn’t say a word.

And when Wesley entered the truck, closed the door, Gunn turned on the ignition, turned to him, and said frankly, “You okay?” Wesley, startled, answered in more of a stammer than anything else, that he was fine. Gunn nodded, and drove.

He wasn’t pissed at them. His mind drifted over things, and he wondered why he wasn’t pissed, why all there was inside of him was this aching need, this foolish wish that just once, he could understand people. ‘Cause he was pissed at Wesley – but that didn’t mean he didn’t try to understand. And, even then – he was still pissed at Wesley.

He pulled up to the curb, shut off the ignition, opened the door, and stepped down. When they got to the apartment, and Dennis let him in, he knew why he wasn’t pissed at Fred or Cordy, for doing what they did.

Gunn wasn’t perfect. He was pissed enough to grab a stake, take it up the stairs – and if Angel so much as looked at Fred wrong-

He blew out his breath.

He staked Angel – he’d never forgive himself. Fred knew it, Cordelia knew it. He knew it.

Maybe that was why he was so scared. ‘Cause for the first time in forever, Gunn had no clue, no control. He was no leader here. No one was.

--

She had no clue why she was mentally screaming Alanis in her head.

On a normal day, Faith hated Alanis. Couldn’t STAND the whiny loser. But now, as she concentrated on keeping one foot in front of the other, eyes darting back and forth, looking for unmarked cars and cop cars and blood trails, and people with black eyes, all she heard in her head was ‘You Oughta Know’. Loud. Hard. Banging in her head.

//Well I’m here, to remind you, of the mess you left when you went away- //

She sucked in her breath, mouthing the words, when the world tipped slightly. She tripped, and found her balance by leaning against the mailbox. Shit. This was getting hard.

Groggily, she did a mental check of her wounds. One: the bloody bandage covering the stitches of the swipe that Stacey had taken at her on her right elbow. It had cut through some muscle, and so far, every time she moved, it ached in the annoying way. Two: the welt, high on her forehead from what HAD to be a baton. There was blood matted in her hair from it, and it gave her such a headache, she at times, wanted to crack her head open, thinking that might alleviate the pain. Three: The swipe at her shoulder blade from Black-Eyed Psycho Number Two. Right on her shoulder, dripping blood, because it cut deep. Four: The slash in her left arm from when she forgot that she was a fucking wimp now, not as deep, running from her elbow on the inside of her arm, to her wrist.

Not counting the exhaustion, the headache that came from when her head banged against the wall, and way she kept shivering from getting caught in the rainstorm.

FUCK – this was a bad day. And still, the song continued blaring in her head.

//It’s not fair, to deny me, of the cross I bear that you gave to me – //

She closed her eyes, pushed away from the mailbox, and stumbled forward, lightheaded and dizzy as hell.

“Did you forget about me, Mr. Duplicity, I hate to bug you in the middle of dinner,” Faith said in small sing-song, tripping on a crack in the sidewalk, turning the corner on the dark night. She was surprised she knew her way back, honestly. “Does she speak eloquently, and would she have your baby…”

Faith faltered to a stop, a jolt in her heart making her breath uneven. Towards the middle of the block, she saw it, the apartment building, damn near shining. The soundtrack in her head changed somehow, and now it blared Offspring, as she tried to pick up her pace, found she couldn’t, but found, thankfully, she COULD still walk – CAREFULLY.

Like the latest fashion, like a spreading disease…

“Hey- man you talkin’ back to me? Take him out – you gotta keep ‘em separated…” she whispered breathlessly, steps faltering ten feet away from the house. Licking her dry, chapped lips, Faith looked around the dark streets. There wasn’t one car that looked like the black convertible.

In Faith’s panicked, tired mind, there were a dozen new paranoias. What if she moved? What if she died? Suddenly afraid, Faith swallowed hard, eyes on a tricked out ugly-as-hell truck that was parked on the curb.

There was no way that Dennis-ghost was letting her in… Lights flickered on and off from the place, and Faith stepped forward gingerly, heart hammering with hope all the way, trying to peer into the window for some trace that Miss Priss still lived there.

FUCKING BITCH had to still live here.

Oh, God – please. Faith sank down onto a bus bench, craning her neck, shivering hard, slumping against the seat, wondering how the hell she was going to get to the front door.

Her eyes, attempting valiantly to stay open, blinked closed, and she shook herself, the soundtrack in her head banging against her eardrums.

“Hey man, you disrespecting me…” she whispered. “Take him out – you gotta keep ‘em separated. They don’t pay no mind… under eighteen… won’t be doing any time.”

Her heart jolted as her fingers, stained red, clasped around her shoulder, trying to keep it from seeping any more blood, watching the lights from Cordy’s house.

--

“You got any eights?”

Casper Lee shifted in his seat, turning his attention from the dial to stare at his companion. “I told you I’m not playing the bloody stupid game.”

Dawson frowned, shaking the playing cards. “You got any better ideas?”

“It’s a stupid game.”

Dawson dug the cigar further into his mouth, looked back toward the truck, and leaned his head against the seat. “You got any eights?” he repeated.

Mr. Lee sighed, glancing down at the cards thrown carelessly in his lap. “No,” he said finally.

“Now, come on- you gonna play, you bloody well have to do it right.”

Casper closed his eyes – and he thought going this alone was torture. “Go fish,” he managed through gritted teeth, fingering his gun.

Dawson grumbled good-naturedly, taking another card from the pile. He chuckled, showing him the card. “Ace!” he exclaimed happily. “Bloody wild!”

Rolling his eyes, Casper checked his watch. Bloody hell. Lost the Slayer, lost the mission – and idiot over here was happy about a bloody card?

Ponce.

Damned useless, following Pryce around. Lee never thought much of the Ex-Watcher – and if wanted to ‘save’ his souls in Los Angeles, let the man do so – what point was there in following him?

So, he had almost gotten himself killed – happened every year.

“Allright, mate. Your turn!”

Blowing out his breath, he glanced toward the house again, and suddenly froze.

“Blimey…” he whispered under his breath.

“Don’t sound so put out, you’ve got a good hand-“

“Shut up.” Lee straightened up, grabbing the binoculars from the back seat, fumbling with the controls, and leveling them almost clumsily at the front of the apartment. Through the constricted vision of the contraption, he spotted a dark haired girl, bobbing her head, eyes trained on the house.

“Bloody hell…”

“What?” Dawson straightened, peering. “Oh, hell! That’s not who I-“

“Call Pryce,” Casper clipped, reaching for his gun. “Now.”

--

Charles took in Cordelia’s apartment, wondering how someone who spent so little time in it could manage to make it so… lived in. Shifting his feet, he placed his hands in his pockets, let out a shuddering breath.

Wesley walked past him, shifting things around Cordelia’s phone. “Wonder where he is?” he muttered absently.

Gunn turned toward him, confused. “Who?”

“The Groosalug,” Wesley said, peering into Cordelia’s bedroom. He turned, catching Gunn’s clearly confused expression. “What?”

“I just – thought Cordelia and Groo, you know… broke up-“

Wesley’s hand slipped from the doorknob, thanking Dennis as the ghost floated over a suitcase filled with clothes, most likely at Cordelia’s request.

“Why would you think that?” he asked distractedly, placing the suitcase on the table and grabbing a notepad and pencil, scribbling down on it. “Cordelia didn’t want Groo involved. She considers this a family matter.”

Charles let that sink in. “Groo’s not family?”

Wesley paused, turning soft blue eyes on him. “Apparently.”

Charles pursed his lips, lost in thought. “That simple, huh?”

“I doubt it. Nothing is ever simple.” Charles glanced at the bloody bandage on Wesley’s throat, and said nothing. “Dennis, do you know where the Groosalug is?” Wesley asked, staring up at the air. Dennis gave a soft wind that rustled the house plants. “I take it that’s a no,” Wesley whispered. “Bloody hell… he would have been useful… Cordelia said he’d be here.”

Charles crossed his arms, and took a step toward the kitchen, opening the refrigerator door. The miracle light turned on inside, and he looked over the tub of peanut butter, the two jars of blood, and the leftover Chinese food. Blithely, he wondered if Cordelia kept anything SHE liked to eat in this.

“Charles?”

“What’s up?” Gunn asked, closing the door, watching the light as it blinked out. Wesley came forward, a card in his hand.

“I need you to check out the jail.” Placing the card in Charles palm, Wesley continued to explain. “Ask for the name on the card – he’s the warden. We need information about Faith – who’s had access to her, and so forth.”

Charles turned the card in his hand, looked up at Wesley with glinting eyes. His mouth twitched in open aggravation, as he shuddered, the wave of anger that had dissipated coming back with the hard glare. “I don’t think Cordy put you in charge, man,” he said matter-of-factly. “Sure you’re supposed to be giving me orders?”

English looked stunned for only a moment, before he winced slightly, looking away, and then back again, offering Charles a hurt, conceding, sad smile. “Fair enough,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean it like – you have the car, Gunn. I wasn’t attempting – it wasn’t an order… it was me asking a favor…” He stepped back, tearing his eyes away from his former friend. “I – forgive me. I’ll go-“

Gunn snatched the card back. “I’ll do it,” he said crisply. Wesley appeared startled, but drew his hand back, nodded. “You’ll get back all right?”

There was a moment of silent, until Wesley gave a shaky nod. “I’ll take a cab.”

Charles shoved the card into his pocket, turned toward the door, and once there, wavered. Shit.

Turning back, he offered no pretense. “Wes.” Wesley looked at him with misty eyes. “Wasn’t trying to be mean or nothing. Just saying how it is, now. You know? It’s not like we can just forget.”

It was important that Wes got that. And he did – cause deep down, Wes was a good man.

English nodded, gave a short smile. “Of course.”

Charles exhaled, and pushed open the door, leaving the apartment.

--

Fred had made a remarkable adjustment, everyone said so. To come so far after five years in a Pylean Hell dimension was evidence that there was a lot of strength in her somewhat fragile looking body. She was getting more proud every day, confident – finally able to say she found her niche in Angel Investigations.

Sure, she wouldn’t quite be able to tell you what that niche WAS, but she had one.

Fred still had habits, however – Pylean habits that she never quite broke, and sometimes, it made her learn things.

Eavesdropping was one of those habits – the slinking around that caused Cordy to shriek on more than one occasion – usually when Fred appeared over her shoulder, innocently asking about an article in a magazine or a particular webpage.

Cordelia always reacted like it was the devil himself appearing – drawing back and pressing a hand to her chest, sucking in. She almost wished she could see the relieved laugh that Cordelia would issue, instead of the somber face that she saw now, as she leaned against the doorway.

Lorne was humming slightly, holding Cordelia’s chin gently. Cordelia hissed when he pressed the cotton against her swollen lip.

“There, there, Nipper,” Lorne said, grimacing in sympathy. “It’ll be okay.”

“I’m fine,” Cordelia managed, from her position. Fred crossed her arms, but said nothing. Cordelia looked anything but fine. The Seer’s hands were visibly trembling, and her eyes seemed kinda dull. Fred frowned.

“I can’t believe he did this,” Lorne muttered, turning away to throw away the bloody cotton ball, choosing another. “Mr. Vampire is quickly losing my patience.”

“He didn’t mean to hit ME, Lorne,” Cordelia answered wearily. “Angel’s lost his son… that’s… gotta be painful…”

“He’s hurting, yes,” Lorne confirmed, mouth set firmly as he once again tenderly placed the cotton against her lip. “But he’s losing his priorities.”

“He’s losing himself,” Cordelia answered. She let out a hollow, angry laugh. “God, Lorne. Two weeks. I was gone for TWO weeks and this entire place went NUTS - oww.”

Fred’s frown deepened, her heart sinking.

“It should heal.”

“Lorne, I’m Vision Girl, remember?” Cordelia reminded him irately. “I’ve been burned, slashed, maimed, hanged, shot, squashed – all through the wonderful pipeline provided through the Powers That Be. A split lip I can handle-“

“Sure,” Lorne agreed. “What you can’t handle is why you don’t blame him for it – and sweetie, you should.” Cordelia gave him an even stare. Lorne put down the gauze, and stared at her frankly. “Then, why don’t we start with you not blaming yourself.”

“We should keep looking for Faith,” Cordelia said breathlessly.

“Stop avoiding, hon-“

“Lorne-“

Fred was silent, unable to hear anymore, and she turned, walking out of the office and back into the lonely lobby. Twisting her fingers into her hands, Fred made her decision. Gathering her gumption, she walked resolutely toward the stairs.

By the time she had reached the top, she had gathered her gumption, and before she could pause, and think, REALLY think about what she was doing (Fred WAS capable of psyching herself out, she knew that), she pushed open the door to Angel’s room.

She wasn’t sure what she wasn’t expecting, but finding a fully dressed Angel stuffing weapons into a duffel bag wasn’t it. Faltering in the doorway, Fred stared.

“What do you want, Fred?” Angel clipped, tossing in an axe. “Did you get the information?”

“I – uh… still looking,” she lied, feeling a welt of guilt slide through her. Angel had lost Connor – they had all lost Connor, really – but Angel … it was all Angel believed he had. His love in Connor – it was beautiful and sweet and a miracle and Angel had lost it… She took in a shuddering breath. “I promise, I’ll get right to it…”

“Hurry up,” he clipped, almost glaring at her through dead eyes.

“Okay, but-“ she swallowed. Fred – you’re just going to have to say it. Cause, you’re the only one who can… right? “Cordeliahadavision,” she blurted out.

Angel whirled, gave her a narrowed look. “What?”

Blowing out her breath, she tried to still her nerves, speaking slower. “Cordelia had a vision – of Faith… she’s in trouble.”

That had to do it, right? Because Angel cared about Cordelia, and Cordelia said he had cared about Faith – even visited her in the prison, and he would care – cause it was a vision and it was Faith, and Cordelia-

For a moment, she thought it did. His eyes softened slightly, he shifted his balance, nervous, anxious – thinking.

“Tell Gunn to handle it,” he clipped, widening the bag and grabbing another broadsword. “I’m going to find my son.”

Fred’s eyes widened in response. “I-uh…”

“Fred.” Angel turned, gave her an even stare that held such pain, she had to step back. “Do the research. Now. And don’t come up here again.”

Tears stung in the back of her eyes, and ashamed, Fred stepped back, her butt hitting the door as Angel continued to finger his weapons.

It wasn’t fear that paralyzed her, but realization.

She took in the wild eyes, the stance, the point of no return –

Up until this point, Fred had held a foolish hope that they could go back, find a way to the time when they sat at a ballet and stared in wonder and hope – drunk on the knowledge that they were in this together…

It wasn’t ever going to be like that now. Not anymore. Fred felt so stupid for believing it.

Turning, she closed the door behind her, unable to do a thing while her hero image of Angel crumbled at her feet, along with the heartbreak. She had been so stupid to think things could go back.

Just… so… stupid.

--

La-la-la-la-la-laaaaah – la lah.

Offspring.

Faith blinked, the bench beneath her remarkably cold. That had to be the reason why she couldn’t get warm. The bench was fucking cold, and when Cordelia came out of her apartment – or was she waiting for her to come in? Faith blinked- whatever. Whenever that bitch came out, Faith was going to do her damnest to kick her ass… She grinned. Hell – at this rate, it would be kinda fun to see Cordelia kick HER ass.

“The more you suffer, the more it shows you really care…” she whispered, palms wrapping around the moist, rotting wood.

When the door opened, Faith’s mouth went dry with anticipation, her heart came alive with hope.

She stood shakily to her feet, teeth chattering, thankful that the blood had crusted and nothing was seeping THAT much anymore – she was dizzy as hell, though.

//She came over, I lost my nerve – took her back… made her desert. //

She smiled, walking forward – blinking down when it seemed harder than she remembered.

Shit – one foot, then one, ha. Not that hard.

She wobbled, winced at the stabbing pain in her head, and moved toward the black guy –

She froze. He didn’t look like Cordelia – Cordelia wasn’t a six foot tall black guy. Faith found herself sinking to her knees, suddenly out sight as he locked the door, walked away, got into the big tricked out truck, and drove off.

Oh, SHIT. FUCK. SHIT.

Faith closed her eyes, despair that had been hovering now entering her full force, hitting her body and making her crawl.

//I may be dumb – I’m not a dweeb – I’m just a sucker with no self-esteem. //

FUCK. FUCK. FUCK.

Tears were streaming down her cheeks, as she knelt on the wet grass, soaked and dizzy, exhausted and hurting – and FUCKING CORDELIA MOVED.

She choked down a sob, panting in heaving breaths, wet hair in stringy strands hanging all over her face.

Somehow, she managed to get to her knees, she wasn’t sure how, and stumbled to the front of the apartment building.

Okay – not a problem… she’d just try to find some place to … hole up and maybe try to not die until she found Angel – even with no strength, and the fact that she had no money, maybe hypothermia, and had just escaped from jail.

No problem – she had been in a coma for six months – she’d kick this thing’s ass too…

She tried to move, tried to gather her gumption to move from the front of the apartment, but there was one problem, besides the blinding fear.

She had no idea where to go.

La-la-la-la-la-laaaaah – la lah.

--

Wesley winced, massaging at his aching throat, craning his neck as carefully as he dared, maneuvering the phone to his other shoulder, trying to find an angle that would hurt less.

“Yes,” he repeated. “Wyndham Price.” He listened, a grim expression on his features. “Yes, yes… good. Yes, I’m family. Yes- bloody- hold, please.” Walking toward the dresser, he grabbed a pen and paper. “All right.” He scribbled. “Off of Wilshire? Thank you. I appreciate your help.” Hanging up the phone, Wesley regarded the address.

Closing his eyes, he let out a breath of air. Wesley was a dweller, but in this moment, he was grateful for not having the time to think about the implications of his father being in town – of Faith.

He hadn’t had a chance to think about that, and he wasn’t going to allow himself the moment. Both brought back memories he would just as soon forget. He grimaced, taking the suitcase and waving a good-bye to Dennis, stepping out of the apartment.

Perhaps amnesia WAS spectacularly under-rated. It was tempting, the utter bliss in waking up not remembering what you were, who you came from, what you did – perhaps the nausea that made him keel would not be present, then. Perhaps the great weight on his chest that was making it difficult to breathe, would be lifted.

He heard the slip of metal as Dennis locked the door behind him, and Wesley turned, gripping the suitcase as he jogged down the stairs, fully prepared to walk to Melrose to catch a cab, when movement from a car on the other side of the street caught his attention.

It was parked the wrong way – as if someone had been driving on the wrong side of the road and slid in – facing completely the opposite direction of the other parked cars. It nagged him, and he paused, watching as two men emerged, walked quickly across the street, with quick paces, to something near him.

Curious, wary, Wesley craned his neck. All time stopped with a shuddering of his heart as he caught the profile of a very familiar looking girl.

His eyes darted back to the men in the tan jackets, a glint of metal in a hand that slipped out of the jacket.

Oh, Bloody Hell…

“FAITH.”

--

End chapter five

--

Chapter Six

You call me strong, you call me weak

But still your secrets I will keep

You took for granted all the times I never let you down

You stumbled in and bumped your head, if not for me

Then you’d be dead – Three Doors Down

--

Wesley stood completely still, feet planted to the ground as suddenly his mind snapped everything into place. There were two seconds of wasted time, when his mouth parted in aching realization, and his hands bunched into fists, that the two Watchers had time to come closer to Faith.

The Slayer turned, and stared, as one held out a gun, the other grabbing her arm, jerking her towards him.

Faith’s cry of surprise and pain – so foreign from this particular girl – spurred him into action. Ultimately, and upon later reflection, Wesley wouldn’t understand why he was able to be so sure of what he was doing, so unafraid as he gathered the stone from the garden, walked quickly, with powerful paces, and swung the stone into Casper’s head, grabbing the gun as it moved toward him.

The shot rang off, and the gun clattered to the ground, as the one he didn’t recognize let the Slayer go, catching him with a blinding punch to the jaw. It snapped his head back, tore at his stitches, felling him in a dazed heap.

A heavy weight rested on him, and he grew dizzy with pain, when the calloused hands wrapped around his throat, causing a searing agony as he gasped for breath. Choking, Wesley attempted to push him off, but a fist to his temple blinded him. Darkness was quickly closing in, and still Wesley fought, as the hand roughly rubbed against the stitches, making him grunt with pain.

Suddenly the man was off, the weight lifted, and Wesley blinked in surprise, his senses flooding back to him to discern a girl holding a rock in her hand, staring down at him.

“Hey, Wes,” Faith managed. “You look like shit. And you fight like a girl.”

Wesley lay his head back on the concrete and took a breath, allowing only a second for recovery before he pushed himself up, immediately locking on the two stirring bodies.

“We have to go,” he whispered, blindly reaching for Faith’s hand, in hopes of getting them to safety before both men awoke. He wasn’t strong enough to fight them, the gun was lost under curb, and he had no time to look for it. Suddenly, the hand slipped, and Wesley jerked his gaze back, just in time to catch the Slayer as she fainted into his arms. “Bloody hell,” he whispered, heart catching as his hand lingered on the blood streaked face, the ragged gasps. “Faith,” he said gently, stumbling to his feet, every bone in his body aching in protest as he half dragged, half carried her away. “We have to go.”

His eyes moved to Cordelia’s apartment, but immediately, he dismissed the possibility. They would be trapped if they knew where they were going.

Faith’s dark eyes opened, gazed at them with a glazed look of surprise. “Wes,” she said dizzily. “You look like shit.”

“Come on.”

“We going somewhere?” she asked, stumbling as she tried to keep up.

He looked back, saw Murray on his knees, and gasped inward. Immediately panic gave way to reason, which gave way to the part of his brain that obeyed laws, and he moved to the nearest car.

Turning his head away, Wesley smashed the window, wincing as some of the cut glass buried into his wrist.

“Woah.” Faith was on her knees, looking on in obvious surprise. “Shit.”

Unlocking the door, Wesley came forward, attempting to pull her up. “Faith…” her eyes closed, her head lolling back. Wesley felt his heart jump, and he rasped, “Faith!” Rubbing at her face, he felt his stomach twitch when he got her back. “Faith,” he said calmly, carefully. “I need you to hang on. There are some very dangerous men that we have to get away from. Now, can you hotwire a car?”

Faith stared, at first, seemingly through Wesley, and then her pupils dilated and she finally seemed to see him. “You want me to hot wire a car?”

“That would be helpful,” he mumbled, pushing her into the car seat, slamming the door.

He ran around the side, sliding into the car, and buckling hastily.

“Sure, I know how,” she said, eyes closed, leaning against the headrest. “Donna said that-“

“What?” he asked, turning, looking back to see the men start to walk. “Bloody hell-“

“Donna- big chick. With these boobs out to here-“ she demonstrated, molding out a chest that was considerably larger than her own. “And they were pierced-“

Dazed, Wesley stared, and shook himself out of it, fumbling under the hatch. “FAITH! HOW do you do it?”

She blinked. “With a girl?”

“The CAR, Faith!”

“Well, in a car you gotta worry about the gear shift-“

Wesley lost patience, turning and grabbing Faith’s hands, pulling them away to find them smeared with blood. Shock. She was going into shock.

”So the backseat-“

“Faith…” Gentle now, he managed to control his breathing, caressing her cheeks, trying to get her to concentrate on him. “Please, Faith. I need your help.”

Faith gazed at him, the dark brown softening. “Huh?”

“How do you hotwire a car?”

“Oh…” She closed her eyes, battled for clarity, and opened them again. “Donna said you gotta connect some wires…” she sucked in her breath. “Those guys coming?”

Wesley looked. “Yes.”

“Move. Am I the only one that hears that damned music?” She muttered, suddenly moving her head in between Wesley’s legs, hands fumbling underneath the steering wheel.

Wesley allowed one delirious thought – of what a policeman would say if he happened upon Wesley in a stolen car with a beautiful, bloody girl with her head between his legs - Bloody hell – maybe HE was going into shock. The machine roared to life, and Faith pushed herself off of him, burying herself into her side of the car. “There. Going to pass out now. Good to see you, Wes.”

She was out cold in a second. Wesley allowed one last look – the men were running toward them now – and he cursed, jerking the wheel and spinning away from the curb, foot slamming on the gas.

--

“Have you ever felt… disconnected?” Lorne looked up, curious when Cordelia spoke.

The Seer gazed at him with a conflicted gaze, unreadable at first. Unsure, the Host simply stared. “How do you mean, sweetie?”

Cordelia, beautiful face marred by an ugly lip that was swollen and split, trickling blood dried – and that thing HAD to ache – sat down beside him, laying out a map of Los Angeles between them. She seemed lost in thought, as if she was working out what she was attempting to say. Lorne had often admired Seers – there was something very… odd about all of them, and Lorne knew that Cordelia was the most original of the bunch.

“I mean – you’re connected to the Powers, right?”

He gave her a grim smile, reaching over for a cotton ball, placing it gently on her lip, soaking up a small sliver of blood. “Remotely, sweetie.”

“So, it doesn’t piss you off that this is all … one-way?” she burst, running a distracted hand through her hair. “I mean, sure it’s all well and good that we have a mission: help the hopeless and all that – but SHIT – Lorne… don’t they ever let up?” Cordelia slammed her hand down on the table, a testament to her pent up emotion. “Give their Champions a break? IF someone deserves happiness, deserves a break where he DOESN’T have to worry about turning evil, or losing his son, it’s Angel. And what about Wes and Fred and GUNN!? I mean – SHIT, Lorne!” Cordelia’s hazel eyes were quickly filling with tears, and a taken back Lorne immediately placed his hand on hers.

“Woah, sweetie-“

“And we can’t even GO to them, ask them to help…”

Lorne kept quiet, studying the obviously hurting girl. He wondered often why Cordelia was so committed to a mission that had never seemed to bring anything to her but pain. Aura reading hadn’t helped on whit when it came to understanding her, and it wasn’t until a day, a while ago, when he had looked into her eyes, did he truly felt he understood what the life of a Seer must have been like.

Lorne could choose his missions – he read against wills, but usually, when he allowed someone in, it was his choice.

Cordelia’s visions were coupled with a foreboding sense of helplessness. She stood, she watched, she felt – and yet, she could do nothing.

Perhaps the reason Cordelia was so hellbent on helping the hopeless was the fact, that during the ordeals, she was so helpless herself.

“I think you’re looking at it the wrong way, sweetie,” he said finally, fingering the soft curve of her fingers, eyes drifting over the skin. “You’ve got the Powers set up like some sort of Guardian Angels – like they can pick and choose who needs help. All they do – is try to keep things fair-“

“But it’s NOT fair…” Cordelia whispered furiously.

And people didn’t think this woman was a champion. He felt his heart sink, and he smiled grimly, conceding her point. “Maybe. But they do what they can.” “How?”

“You’re half demon now, aren’t you?” She blanched, but the words hit something, as she leaned back, hazel eyes suddenly darkening.

“Lorne,” she said after a moment. “Today, during the vision…”

“Guys!” Both he and Cordelia turned to find Fred burst into the office. “You have to see this.”

Curious, Cordelia and Lorne stood, albeit more slowly, weighted down with broken hearts, and searing souls, and followed Fred to the lobby, where the small television set blared.

Cordelia crossed her arms, face frighteningly impassive as she gazed with him at the screen.

“Police are looking for this girl,” the newscaster with the bad wig said, eyes dull and voice crisp. Lorne’s eyes narrowed at the young, dark haired woman in the picture. Sad eyes, sad mouth – dangerous face.

Cordelia sucked in her breath. “Oh, God…” When Lorne shot her a look, she swallowed. “I just didn’t think they’d come after her this quickly. I thought we had time…”

Suddenly tired, Cordelia turned toward the stairs. Lorne’s eyes widened, immediately sensing what she was going to do.

“Cordelia-“

”I have to, Lorne. We need him.”

He was still staring when Fred came up beside him. He dimly heard her hollowed voice meekly ask, “Do you think they’ll be okay?”

The ever unknowing reader of auras shrugged his shoulders, too tired to answer. Instead, he shot her a false smile, and turned back to watch the news, about the escaped convicted killer.

--

There was a painful ache that started from her chest, a weight that made it difficult to breathe normally.

Consequently, by the time Cordelia reached the stairs, she was openly gasping for breath. Her hand felt cold on the doorknob, and she knew that he could smell her even now.

Struggling, she tried to ignore every memory of what had happened in the past few hours, knew very well, that one of the reasons she had avoided coming up here earlier was because she didn’t WANT to think of Angel – of Connor.

Now, that she was forced to, she shook, her palms trembled, and she was grateful there was no one here to witness her near breakdown. Gathering herself, she closed her heart, closed her mind, thought of the mission – the damned MISSION – and pushed open the door.

He was pulling on his jacket, pausing only slightly when he saw her. She froze, eyes lingering on his action. “Where are you going?”

His hands wavered, an odd tremor to his tone before it became dismissive. “I’m going to talk to the Powers.”

A worry sunk deep within her, a realization that swept through her. “Why?” she asked dumbly, before clamping her mouth shut, and wincing. “Angel-“

“I’m finding my son.”

”Good for you,” she snapped, slamming the door behind her. The shaking intensified. “Angel,” she began, slower, calmer. “I understand about… “ her voice wavered at the word, “About Connor, okay? But we have a situation right now – Faith-“

“I told Fred to tell GUNN to take care of it,” he snapped, throwing his duffel bag on the bed.

“It’s NOT Gunn’s mission,” she answered, eyes widening in surprise. “YOU’RE the champion, Angel. It’s YOUR job-“

“I’m not a champion.”

Cordelia swallowed, wishing that she could see his face – maybe then she could find a way to reach him, to talk to him, to try and get him to understand that…

God – there was pain, there was so much pain, but she couldn’t voice it now. She couldn’t break down, and if she did, she wondered with Angel was so far gone, if he would even care.

“I’m not your hero, Cordelia. Get it through your head.” He turned, eyes flashing. “I quit. I’m finding my son.”

“You can’t QUIT, Angel. This is your mission, it’s YOUR life – we can’t just QUIT-“

“WE?!” The word was an outburst, and Cordelia found her throat rapidly drying out as he came closer, and closer, eyes hooded and dark: dangerous. “There’s no ‘we’, Cordelia,” he said dangerously. “There’s me, and my son. And I’m finding him.”

Anger was slowly beginning to take hold, ebbing through her frustration, mingling with her despair.

“Oh, really?” she said, eyebrow arching, hazel eyes matching his glare for glare. “If it’s just you and Connor, Angel – then tell me: would your son want to see you now? Turning your back on-“

She never got a chance to finish the sentence, before a growl that sent shivers into her spine ripped out from his throat, his hands clasping at her shoulders so roughly, she winced. “Listen, Cordelia,” he hissed. “You want a hero so badly? Go find your Groosalug. You want a ‘we’? Get him to fight your mission – you left with him, didn’t you? Left Connor-“

OH, NO he didn’t.

A stab of pain made her heart jump start, her breathing became even, dangerous. A flash of what she used to be resurfaced, mouth set and firm. He was blaming her. He was BLAMING HER for leaving.

And she couldn’t stomach that – she could barely stand blaming herself on her own. The last thing she could handle was Angel’s dark eyes telling her what she was so afraid to face.

“I left because you TOLD me to,” she answered quietly. “You TOLD me to leave. You wanted me GONE – so I left. Leaving wasn’t a choice.”

He released her, stepping back. “You didn’t put up much of a fight, did you? Didn’t think much of your mission, then did you? At the prospect of ‘com-shukking like bunnies’, was it?”

She closed her eyes against the assault, fully aware of the tear that had escaped her lid, inching down her face in a telling trail. Once again, she tried to gain control, tried to remember that this wasn’t about her or Angel – but about Connor – of about feeling alone and helpless, and having a child that meant everything in the world ripped out of your arms.

And she could understand that.

She took a breath, took a chance. “Angel,” she said softly, reaching for his face, trying to touch the soft skin. “I know you’re in pain, Angel. I know-“

He pushed her away, jerked away from her touch, fury in his face, anger in his eyes. “Don’t try to get into my head, Cordelia,” he snapped. “It’s not a place you want to be.”

That was it, then – that was that.

What a bastard.

Cordelia shook her head, unable to believe that THIS was Angel. This vampire who snapped like a snake – a selfish bastard who only thought about himself-

“How dare you,” she whispered finally, back straight, body tall, too furious to be afraid when she stepped into his face. “HOW. DARE. YOU. You’re not the only one who LOST a CHILD, Angel. You’re not the only one who LOST A SON. You’re not the only one who wants to DIE inside-“

“SHUT UP.”

“And your selfish obsession for getting Connor back is going to KILL you and KILL US-“

He grabbed her by the shoulders, shoved her toward the door, visibly battling for control. “GET out.”

This time, she needed no encouragement. Grateful, that at least she was able to SEE the door through the blur of her tears, Cordelia wrenched it open, slammed it closed behind her, leaving Angel in his beige aura, all by himself.

And she hated herself.

Because she had to physically push herself away from the door, to keep from going in there again.

--

It had taken the rest of the money in his already nearly empty wallet to secure them a motel room in one of the seediest parts of Culver City.

Wesley had no chance to be picky – he couldn’t afford to use his credit card, on the off chance they had a lock on that, and his cell phone, dropped in the chaos outside of Cordelia’s, was missing.

Beggars couldn’t be choosers.

He winced as he felt the rain soak itself into the back of his muddy coat, carefully pulling Faith out of the stolen car, walking the half block with the girl into the motel room.

He was grateful for the bad weather. One could not easily track someone in rain, everything was harder.

Faith was shivering in his arms, and he held her closer, whispering words of encouragement as they half stumbled into the parking lot, finally making it into the motel room. The girl collapsed as soon as they entered, onto the cheap shag carpeting. Wesley stared at the trembling figure. Briefly, he wondered how it was possible, that this was the same girl who had held a pane of glass to his face, cut jagged shapes in his chest.

Shaking off the images, he closed the door behind him, wincing at his own injuries, before gathering her to him.

“All right, Faith,” he whispered, pausing when she immediately turned into him, shuddering as she wrapped her arms around his neck, buried her face into his shoulder. For some reason, the sensation made his heart heave. Grimly, he wondered if anyone would ever place this much trust in him, sane. Cradling her to him, he picked her up, her body remarkably light for the powerhouse it had once been, and placed her on the small bed.

Disentangling himself, Wesley reached for the phone on the night stand, picked up the earpiece, and found there was no cord.

Bloody hell.

Cursing, Wesley slammed down the phone, pulled at the base, and found no telephone line. He froze, sitting on the edge of the bed, hands clasped together. He had dimly remembered a pay phone across the street, but –

A small moan redirected his attention to Faith. Grimacing, immediately he walked toward the bathroom, grabbing the two cheap cotton towels.

Faith’s eyes were open, and focused on him, when he reentered. She didn’t say a word, but watched him closely as he settled down, sinking the mattress with his weight, the box springs squealing at his invasion.

Turning her gently onto her back, Wesley carefully began to look at her injuries. The blue shirt was soaked clean through. He bit his lip, caught her gaze. She said nothing.

“Please don’t take this the wrong way.” He could have sworn that garnered a smirk from her, as his fingers went to the buttons, breath hitching slightly as he carefully pulled them out of their holes, exposing Faith’s toned abdomen, ample chest, with every inch. He ignored that, spreading open her shirt, grazing her skin slightly when he pulled her shoulder up, wincing when she hissed in pain.

“Sorry.”

“Didn’t figure you for a dom, Wes,” she mumbled, and it made him smile.

It was an odd partnership, him attempting to repair her, her trying to help, but when they got the shirt off, and she was there, cuts and bruises all over her body, vulnerable and helpless… Their eyes locked, and Wesley wondered if they were both thinking the same thing. Grim, helplessly, irony.

With the flimsy towels, he began to clean the wounds, taking a small one, and holding it to her shoulders, letting the warmed towel seep some heat into the shoulder. She was freezing. There was some thought, and he removed his glasses, thinking it might help alleviate the awkwardness if he wasn’t seeing clearly.

“You’ve got a hell of a blue in those eyes, Wes.” He gazed at her blurry face, but she turned it, away from him. Carefully, he peeled off her pants as well, pulling out the sheets from under her and wrapping them around her. “Wes.”

He paused in the middle of reaching for his glasses. “Yes?”

She was silent for a moment, staring at him in open contemplation. “Who died and made you my guardian angel?”

“I have no bloody clue.”

It was a hollowed laugh she gave, one that made her wince, moving restlessly against the hand at her shoulder.

Suddenly, she paused. Wesley gave her a curious look, and found her eyes locked to the spot on his neck that ached. Trembling slightly, she reached up a weak arm, fingered the stitches.

“What happened?” she demanded, voice much more forceful, panicked.

“I had an accident,” he said gruffly, taking her hand and pulling it from the wound.

She looked uncomfortable for a moment. Finally she shifted, rasped from a pain wracked voice, “Did I do it?”

He looked surprise, found an intensity in her eyes as she waited breathlessly for his answer. “No,” he answered.

Her entire body relaxed, visibly relieved, and Wesley frowned, reaching up and placing his palm on her forehead. Bloody hell!

He recoiled back, panic flooding through him. He should have bloody noticed – She was scalding to the touch, a burning fever. He looked again toward the phone.

“We have to get you to the hospital.”

“No.”

“Faith-“

“Not exactly legal, Wesley,” she said, eyes fluttering closed, lips beaded with sweat. His lips pursed. Cordelia had told her to escape… she was on the run. “Is it cold in here?” she suddenly asked, eyes opening, unexpectedly bright as she shivered.

Wesley immediately stood, hastily fumbling with the tub handles, spilling water into the tub, hoping he was doing the right thing.

“We have to cool you down,” he said, coming back to the bed. When he bent over, her hot body plastered against him, shivering all the while. Her lips touched his wound, and he stiffened, but Faith mumbled her apologies, leaning her head back, gasping for breath.

Wesley moved quickly, gentle as he lowered the Slayer into the tub.

“FUCK!” Her eyes opened. “It’s COLD!”

“Trust me,” he said quickly, grabbing a washcloth and running it over her skin. “We have to cool you down.”

“Trust you?” she repeated, teeth chattering. “I’m fucking COLD! You can’t get much colder than a freaking ICE CUBE!” His movements stilled, as he realized the implications of the words, but Faith only held his gaze a moment longer, and closed her eyes, grabbing his hand and holding on tight.

He continued to wash her, gripping her hand all the while.

Some time later, she spoke again. “Wesley?”

“Hmm?”

Her voice was quiet, scared. “What’s happening to me?”

He froze, swallowed down painfully. When she gazed at him imploringly, all he could offer her was a squeeze of her hand.

--

Charles parked the truck as quickly as he could, ignoring the ringing cellphone long enough to slip out of it, and close the door.

Walking into the patio, he answered it.

“Hello?”

“Charles?” The voice of his girlfriend was tinny and real.

“Hold on.” He opened the door, and found Fred pacing in the lobby, phone in her ear. “Right here, baby,” he said into the phone. She whirled, and found him, face breaking into a relieved smile.

“Oh, thank God.” Rushing into his arms, she gave him a hard squeeze that made him grunt (Fred had a damned strong grip for a girl) and released him. “Have you seen Wesley?” she asked breathlessly.

He looked down, confused. “Not since I left him at Cordy’s. Why?”

“We need to find him,” Fred said, entwining their fingers as she led him to where Lorne was sitting. “The news says that Faith-“

Oh. Yeah. That. “I heard it on the radio,” he said, nodding. “That’s why I came back here. Figured maybe she’d be here, and we could find a way to…” he trailed off at the look of uneasy sadness in Fred’s face. “What? What’s wrong?”

“She’s not here…” Fred said breathlessly.

“Times running out,” Lorne said, glancing back toward the stairs.

“And Cordy?” Gunn asked hopefully. “Didn’t have a vision or nothing, did she?”

“She’s upstairs,” Lorne informed him. “Maybe you should try Cordelia’s again,” he told Fred.

Fred gave Gunn a look, but seemed to agree, because she fumbled with the phone, and began to dial. Charles noted her trembling, and gave Lorne a questioning look.

The Host looked just as tired, once again looking toward the stairs.

An urge to panic was quickly settling into Gunn’s stomach, but he stilled it, long enough to gather Fred into his arms and drop a kiss on her forehead. She gave him a distracted squeeze back, just to let him know she appreciated it, and turned away.

Gunn and Lorne waited, watching as Fred waited. “Hello?!” she yelped suddenly, tugging a strand of hair back over her ear. “Groo? Hello! Hi! Yeah – No, we’re fine – Is Wesley there?” She waited, and her shoulders slumped. “No.” She listened, and when Gunn cocked an eyebrow, she hastily explained, “he went shopping or something – got lost on the bus trying to get back- “No, it’s… everything’s fine!”

Charles shook his head, and reached for the phone, taking it from Fred’s hands. “Groo?”

“Gunn, my friend! Your Fred sounds harried – is everything all right?”

Charles weighed his options, ignored the dagger look Fred was throwing, and made his decision. Damn family – fat lot of good it was doing him right now – Family Boy Angel upstairs wasn’t doing shit.

“Hey, man – you think you could get here?”

“Is that Groo?” Charles looked up to find Cordelia’s eyes fixed on him, hand poised on the banister, staring down at him as if he was some sort of servant at her event.

“Hold on,” he said mechanically into the phone. “Yeah. It’s Groo.”

Cordelia clamped her jaw, and continued her descent. “Where’s Wesley?”

“We can’t find him,” Fred said breathlessly.

Cordelia appeared lost in thought, and finally, she took the phone from Gunn, turning away from them. “Groo? Hey. No, listen… I need you to come here. We kinda need you.”

Charles felt that panic flare up again, and it was an ugly feeling, as he swallowed down hard, crossing his arms. Taking in the positions of everyone around him, from Fred’s nervous stance, to the look of bitter despair in Lorne’s, he wondered if he had missed something important.

When Cordelia clicked off the phone, he asked flatly, “What about Angel?”

Cordelia froze, and then she turned her back on him, her voice remarkably unaffected when she answered, “He’s not working for the mission anymore.”

--

Fred’s heart sank, the hope that had been burgeoning despite all that had become apparent bursting.

It was what they had all be unconsciously waiting for, the final nail in the coffin that told them, this wasn’t going to be okay – and if Cordelia said it – if Cordelia MEANT it-

Gunn’s hand clamped over hers, and she numbly let him lead, away from Cordelia and Lorne, into the patio, just before the open courtyard, where the rain splattered out in big raindrops. She turned to Gunn, and found her boyfriend’s face dark, intense, worried.

“Angel’s losing it,” he said fiercely. “You saw what happened today.” His voice was almost squeaking in emotion, and Fred, slightly dazed, felt her eyes tear up. “We gotta do something soon, Fred, ‘cause hell – we all loved Connor – but Angel’s gotta get a grip!”

“Charles-“

“I ain’t having Angelus making an encore appearance, Fred!” he said finally, voice breaking. “I can’t handle the thought of him going after you or …”

“It won’t happen.”

“How do you know?” He demanded, and it struck her that he was pleading, asking for reassurance. And the fear hit when she realized she had no reassurance to give.

Gaping at him like a gutted fish, Fred trembled, and suddenly just buried herself into his arms, holding him tightly, breathing in his slightly wet, manly scent, anything but get away from what she was beginning to realize.

Things were quickly going to a very dark place.

--

end chapter six

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