Chapter Seven

This is the way it’s going to be

I gave him away, and now I’m free

But he was the life I’m meant to lead

There’s nothing left for me

This is my melody

- Nina Gordon

--

The lights of the street drifted through the half closed blinds, painting curious patterns across the wall. Wesley moved away from the window, flipping the crack he had made through the plastic closed with a twist of his fingers, eyeing the pay phone across the street, barely visible in the drizzle.

”Okay.”

He turned, a queer awkwardness in the form of a knot in his stomach settling deeper as Faith gathered herself into a large, black robe. He glanced toward the tub, found their clothes side by side, stretched out on the now empty tub, sopping wet.

“Fills you out better than me,” she said, tugging the too large robe closer around her smaller form. He smoothed his hands over the cotton of his own – the one bloody thing this motel actually had, besides the complimentary condoms in the dresser.

“Yes, well.” He gave a slight shrug, expression on his face freezing when she closed her eyes, hitched in her breath slightly. Sinking into the chair, she gripped the arms, leaning forward, wet strands covering her face from view as she breathed in heavily.

Bloody hell. Coming forward, padding in bare feet, Wesley knelt, carefully tipping her chin up, until he was able to see her face, discern the pain. Without saying a word, he slipped the robe off her bare shoulder, carefully probing the wound.

She flinched, but said nothing. He frowned, forcing his eyes to stay on the shoulder, and only the shoulder, not venture… lower – where the robe covered nothing. Faith was being unnaturally modest, and it was something he pondered, if only briefly, as her hands, connected to arms that were still wounded, hastily bandaged with blood stained remnants of his own shirt, pulled the half fallen robe around her further, keeping her cleavage hidden. She seemed almost nervous, and Wesley, grimacing, stroking her shoulder, using a Kleenex to mop around the wound, didn’t blame her.

They were practically strangers: intimate strangers, true – if a half botched watcher/slayer job, and a night of torture counted – but strangers, nonetheless. Her breath hitched in, an erratic heartbeat in her that he attributed to her fever: brought down, but not by much.

At the very least, it made her sane – no longer blubbering about sex with girls with pierced nipples, or car sex – or … other… unpleasant things.

“Wes.”

“Yes?” he answered, a little too quickly, looking up and catching a gaze of startling brown, remarkably clear, flushed cheeks and swollen lips.

Her eyes lingered over his, her face almost like a lost child. “How’d you find me? Dumb luck?”

He managed a smile, gently skimming his fingers over goose-bumped skin to pull the robe back over her shoulder, his eyes on his task, and no place else. “Something like that,” he admitted. “But we were looking for you. Cordelia had a vision.”

Faith’s eyes fluttered, she visibly struggled to gain her hold on clarity, as she swallowed, braced herself, and opened them again, staring at him as if he held the very world in his hands. “This is gonna sound crazy, Wes, but I think she-“

”Talked to you? Through the vision?” He received a startled look of surprise, and he gave a gentle nod as he stood, slipped his arms around her tiny waist, and allowed her to use him as her crutch. “I rather believe she did,” he answered. “Let’s get you to the bed.”

Faith seemed bewildered, and he knew she wanted to press the issue, but had not the strength. She gave no fight when her forehead rested against his shoulder, dangerously close to his wound.

He said nothing, let her palms grip his forearms. “If they know I was in trouble, how come you’re here?” she asked bluntly, a rasp falling from her lips as he settled her on the bed. “Where’s Angel?”

A stab in his inner gut that was rather painful went through him, and finding himself unable to meet her eyes, he instead concentrated on sliding her legs under the covers, the robe big and cumbersome, tangling around them.

“At the Hyperion,” he managed in an indifferent tone.

She was quiet for only a second. Faith, fever-ridden and weak not withstanding, had not lost ALL of her thinking facilities. She collapsed against the pillows, shifting over to the center of the full sized bed. When he turned to move away, she caught his arm, a weak grip that both he and she noticed. Their eyes locked on the arm, on the way she struggled to keep her hand closed around it, and with a sob and a jerk of her hand, she pulled away. He swallowed, and sank down on the side of the bed.

“We’ll help you, Faith,” he promised gruffly. “I can’t promise I know what is happening, but I have an idea, and-“

”Then tell me what the fuck’s going on!” she said angrily. “Just… shit, Wesley! LOOK AT ME!”

He looked. Dark bruises shadowed the pronounced cheekbones. Wet hair framed a sad, panicked face. A remarkably full lower lip trembled with abandon, and tears of frustration seeped from her eyes. The robe had slid off one shoulder, leaving it bare. It was the intact one, there was nothing but smooth skin that seemed to glide over the muscle that was of no use to her.

Carefully, with shaking fingers, he smiled grimly, reached over and pulled it back up, pulling off his glasses to obscure her again, fully aware he was using it as a defense mechanism. His eyes moved toward the window – and thoughts flitted through his mind – the payphone – Cordelia – Angel –

“I believe you’ve been drugged, much in the way Buffy was. I believe the Council has sent assassins after you, in an effort to kill you. And I believe that Cordelia and the rest at the Hotel will find a way to save you.”

She was sullen, silent. “So how come we’re not there?” she asked pointedly. “Instead of stuck here in this hooker motel where the next door bitch is fucking her pimp?” she snapped, motioning at the wall that thump, thumped.

“Because it’s not safe,” he answered firmly.

“The guys after us don’t know where we are. How isn’t it safe?”

Wesley kept his eyes on the window, on the payphone, his mind someplace else entirely.

A child. A red-head. A father.

“It just isn’t.”

“Fuck.” Faith leaned back against the cheap pillow, kept her arms crossed, closed herself to him as she turned her face toward the thumping wall. Distracted, Wesley stared at the window. All was silent, until he felt fingers on his neck. Curious, he turned, found the blurry form of Faith staring up at him.

“Put the glasses on, Wes,” she demanded.

Wesley frowned, flickered his gaze down to the pair of spectacles she held out to him. She shook them at him, irritated. “Put them on,” she repeated. He did so, sliding them on, her face coming into focus.

Satisfied, she managed to pull herself up, and began to study his face. His breath caught when her fingers probed his cheeks, slid across his lips, stroked the wetness of his hair. Her expression was earnest, a line by line study of his face, bringing him toward her. Dark eyes were full of mystery as she sent delicate shivers through him, uncertainty fleeting as soft digits traced his eyes around the glasses, down his nose, once again darting against the feather touch of his lips.

Over his chin, her fingers stopped at his stitches. His eyes caught her lower lip as she bit down on it in concentration, and in his whirling thoughts, he wondered what on earth she was doing.

When her lips brushed his, gently, he was surprised. She leaned back, regarding him, as if searching for his next move. When he did nothing, she moved forward again, probing him, exploring his mouth, tilting her head, and sliding in with her tongue, along his teeth, and over the roof of his mouth. Pulling away, she suckled at his lower lip, and flabbergasted, Wesley was unaware he was returning the kiss, savoring it, until she pushed him gently away, separating their lips slowly.

Mouth pursed in open surprise, he stared at her wide-eyed.

Faith’s eyebrows knitted together, confusion on her face. “You saved me,” she whispered, fingers curled around the lapels of his robe. “You look like you’re dying inside, and every thing you say and do makes you look like you’re the most pathetic man in the world. It’s like you’re dead, Wesley – in those damned blue eyes. Like nothing matters. But you saved me. You pulled me back from whatever the fuck I was on and you saved me. ME. The last person in the world you should have cared about. Why?”

It was an angry demand – a confused and bewildered Slayer searching for a last desperate measure of control in a world that was quickly falling apart all around her. But he had no explanation – there was nothing he could say that could explain the way she just read him completely, no way he could understand why his heart was pounding, why suddenly the brown eyes both scared and pulled at him.

“I’m afraid I don’t know,” he whispered.

“Fuck.” Faith fell back, wiping at her eyes hastily. “If I could, I’d kick your ass, you know that?” she muttered angrily. He had to manage a smile at that, even as her furious, tired eyes glared at him. It was something so incredibly insane, and for some reason, in a deep, dark, chasm in his heart – in a place that wasn’t occupied with payphones and fathers, and babies – he laughed.

“Fuck you.”

The smile widened slightly. He pushed his way to a sitting position, suddenly fully aware he was exhausted when his knees gave out, medicine given to him at the hospital making him slightly woozy. A hand clamped on his arm, and Faith was now staring at him again.

“You look like shit.”

“You’ve said that more than once.”

She studied him, a hard glint in her eyes, and suddenly she shifted over again, lifted the covers. When he stared, she arched an eyebrow. “Just get in,” she said finally. “You’re no good to me if you’re half dead and bleeding.” He couldn’t fault her logic. With a heavy sigh, he moved toward the open space. “Take off your robe. That shit’s all cotton and scratchy as hell.”

This time, he paused, narrowing his eyes at her. “Faith, there must be some measure of decency-“

“Decency? You and I are practically swiss cheese thanks to your buddy’s knives and you’re talking about decency? Listen, you horny fuck – I’m not in the mood for anything like that, alright? I just want to sleep.”

He rolled his eyes, ignoring the wave of anger, in favor of using the energy to pull off the robe, leaving him in his boxers. She tried to move, found herself tangled again in her robe, and cursed.

Seconds later, her own robe was off, and dropped to the floor.

If Wesley weren’t so exhausted, he might have had a bloody heart attack. Instead, he only sighed in resignation, mentally made a note to ask God why on earth he was always in charge of the insane Slayers, and slipped under the covers.

There was absolute quiet, until she shivered, moved over, and invaded his personal space by pressing her naked body against his. When he stiffened, she shifted, muttered something about him being a pervert, slid her arm around his waist, and drifted to sleep.

Wesley closed his eyes, slipped off his glasses, and with the hand that wasn’t pinned under Faith’s body, kneaded at his temples.

Gently pushing Faith’s dark strands off her shoulders, he raised his weary head to the blinds, thought again of the pay phone, and tightened his hold.

It was odd – it was only when the bloody Slayer pressed herself against him, absently brushed her lips against his throat, and fell a dead weight against him – was Wesley finally overcome with the true exhaustion.

It would be all right to sleep for a minute, wouldn’t it? Just rest his head and sleep – regain some strength, and then call Cordelia, worry about assassins, get to payphones.

Heavy lids overcame his dogged resistance. Just for a minute – then he would worry. They were safe for now. Just for a minute.

--

Mr. Pryce was going to be pissed.

Murray craned his neck, massaged at the aching muscles of his back awkwardly, and threw a glance over his shoulder.

The older man held his hands behind his back, fingers clasped together, staring out the window with this dark gaze that had intimated many lesser men.

Glancing at Lee, Murray wondered if sometime the man took his job just a little too seriously. Sure, the Council was sacred stuff, and sure – the fate of the world was in their hands, and all that, but a man had to live a little. Otherwise, what was the point?

No one had really appreciated the very sarcastic and tacky comment he made about the girl’s penchant for blood – and Mr. Pryce REALLY hadn’t appreciated Murray’s comment about the possibly of his son getting a blow job – although that had been real.

Some people really needed to lighten up.

Casper Lee stood, eyes flickering over the video monitors that Murray had set up next to the magic mirror, and stepped over the incantation orbs.

“Forgive us, sir. We have failed you.”

We? Murray cocked an eyebrow. Bloody pissant. He hadn’t failed anyone – they were under orders not to hurt Wesley, from Pryce himself. If anything – it was Pryce’s fault.

Still, despite these reassurances in his head, Murray still waited with bated breath, until Mr. Pryce turned, his dark blue eyes searching them both.

It was a bloody tense moment, until Mr. Pryce flashed a quick, barely there smile. “Don’t concern yourself. Wesley was foolish for getting involved. I should have known better than to present myself to him. He has done us a favor, however.”

“Oh?” Casper looked genuinely intrigued.

Mr. Pryce turned to Murray, and the younger man arched an eyebrow curiously. “Yeah?”

“Keep an eye on the brunette that was with them before.”

“The Seer?” Casper asked. “Do you think he’ll contact her?”

“Most assuredly.” Mr. Pryce regarded them both, eyes dark with thought. “Or someone will. A Seer is a Mecca of communication, and when in doubt, you follow the one link. She is it.”

Murray stood, his orders well in hand, grabbing his gun and putting into his pockets, rubbing at the spot where the Slayer bitch hit him.

“Let’s go,” he drawled to Casper.

“Mr. Lee.” Casper stopped, turned immediately. Mr. Pryce was once again facing the windows, back toward them.

“Yes, sir.”

There was a moment of silence, and then, “Tell the men to begin the preparations. There will be no more delays, no more restrictions. We have lost too much time as it is, too many things gone wrong. No mercy.”

Murray frowned, saw Casper grin, and shook his head. No mercy. Of course, no mercy. They were saving the world, right? Who the hell cared about mercy when they were saving the world?

--

Fred Burkle had had to concentrate very hard to get her mind in working order. While Charles sat at the counter, glued to the small television set in hopes of finding some news on Wesley, she sat, looking over the books that had been taken from Wesley’s apartment. She frowned, removing her glasses to squint at the pages. Prophecies and incantations were riddles, tainted riddles at that. She often wondered their point was, if it was true that there wasn’t anything that could be done to circumvent them.

Her eyes flickered to the patio, where Cordelia waited, leaning under the canopy, watching as the rain drizzled over the bushes that Fred had found some time ago, had made excellent listeners. In her old, faded jersey, and her messily pulled back hair, Fred wondered if Cordelia could benefit from a talk to those bushes.

“What are you doing?”

Fred jumped, a near shriek coming from her lips as she jerked her body back, and found Angel’s hard form nearly a foot a way, glaring down at her.

“I … uh… bushes,” she found herself stammering, hands moving back to Wesley’s books, closing them protectively from Angel’s stare. She felt her heart pound, the heavy breathing, and she finally believed she knew what a vampire was, the power they had. He carried a duffel bag, slung over his shoulders, the black trenchcoat covered dark black pants and a black shirt. She found herself wishing for the beast he had become in Pylea. That one, at least, she felt she knew.

“What’d you find?” he demanded.

She glanced helplessly at the pile of volumes around her, felt herself inwardly groaning when she could offer nothing more than a shrug.

“I- Angel, I don’t even know where to start-“

His eyes narrowed, silencing her with a stare. “Keep looking,” he clipped, shifting the weight of the bag.

Gunn had moved from the counter to the open doorway. His glare to Angel was open hostility. Fred closed her eyes, tried to contain her nervous agitation. She glanced back toward the patio. Angel immediately followed her stare. Fred turned back, and saw the features harden at the sight of the women waiting in the rain. He shifted, turned, nearly pushed Gunn out of the way.

“Where are you going?” Fred asked, rising out of her chair, fingers sliding over the books as she moved around the desk.

He never answered, just kept going. Gunn turned, fists clenched. “Angel, we’re in the middle of a-“

The front door slammed, cutting off Gunn’s words. It was a helpless situation, one she had no control over, and it slipped further from her when Charles, HER Charles, strode to the weapons cabinet, and pulled out a broadsword. Angel’s favorite.

A tug in her heart twisted awfully, as a dawning realization came, and she cried out, “Charles, no!”

“Fred, someone’s got to,” he said. Her boyfriend never looked at her, as he strode through the hallway, matching Angel step for the step, the lobby door slamming behind him.

Crap. Fred swallowed down hard, her blood rushing through her veins at a furious pace, holding on to her glasses so steadily, they nearly cracked.

“What happened?” Cordelia asked, coming into the lobby, staring at her with clear bursts of hazel.

“They both just left. Angel left, and Gunn just followed…” Fred waved tired arms to the door, sank down on the orange couch, and considered crying.

When Cordelia stared at the door, she fully expected some sort of anger, but what she got was worse.

Cordelia didn’t say a word. The Seer only pursed her lips, shifted her glance away from the direction that Angel had disappeared to, and turned back to the patio. “Figures,” was the only thing Cordelia said.

The resignation, the lack of emotion at Angel and Gunn’s actions, affected Fred more than any outburst of anger. She felt furious, nervous hope in her heroes of Angel Investigations deflating into something worse: despair.

“Aren’t you going to do something about it?” she blurted out, making Cordelia’s retreating form pause, stare back at her uncertainly. Gaining Cordelia’s attention, Fred stepped forward again, body tall, back straight, face flushed and red. “You can’t just let things get this bad, and just leave it alone, Cordelia! You’re the heart-“

“I’m the heart?!” Cordelia hissed, turning back on her like a panther. Fred stepped back, her bravery shrinking. “The heart?” Cordelia looked beyond pissed, as she stared down the Pylean refugee. “Who’s heart, Fred?”

“Cordelia-“

“No! I want to know! WHO’S? Not Angel’s! Not Wesley’s, or Gunns! WHO’S heart, Fred?” Cordelia demanded, coming closer all the time.

Fred had never been one to back away from what she deemed correct, but Cordelia had never fought her logic before. The Seer’s eyes were flashing in a way she had never seen, as she continued to advance. The Princess of Pylea.

“You don’t believe it?” she asked, suddenly afraid. If Cordelia didn’t believe, if Cordelia lost hope in the group as a whole, it was all gone – Fred wasn’t anything but glue, and even then, she was weak glue – she wasn’t the heart- Cordelia was the heart-

“How can I believe in something so… stupid, Fred?” Cordelia demanded. “I’m Cordelia! I’m the nastiest bitch of Sunnydale High! I can’t be anyone’s HEART. I can’t be anything for anyone because-“

“You’ll let them down.” Fred’s eyes widened in realization, as the redness of Cordelia’s face, the tears in her eyes, suddenly gave it all away.

Cordelia was silent, hostile frame staring Fred down, until her mouth opened, and her eyes suddenly held a faraway, glassy look.

When the vision came, Fred was unprepared. Her heartbeat was still bumping erratically against her chest, when Cordelia froze. It was so quiet, Fred wouldn’t have even known it was happening if it wasn’t for Cordelia’s eyes snapping open, now wide and scared.

“Cordelia?”

At the sound of her name, the Seer jerked her gaze to meet Fred’s, dawning clarity now coupled with horror. “Oh, God, Fred. CALL GUNN.” Fred stood, bewildered, hands tangled together as Cordelia ran to the phone, pushed it to her ear and hastily began to dial. “FRED!” she said again, and the lanky girl stumbled into action, rushing behind the counter and picking up the other line, punching in Gunn’s cell number.

“Cordelia, what’s going on?” she almost cried.

“Wesley,” Cordelia snapped, cursing as she slammed down the phone, picked up and dialed again. Fred fumbled the receiver, and she whimpered as it clattered to the ground. She scrambled to retrieve it. “He has Faith – and they’re about to find them. They’re about to-“ her eyes closed, and she shook her head. “GOD. I can’t even talk – I was able to talk to them before…” she slammed the phone down, looking near panic.

A lump, large and painful, lodged itself into Fred’s throat, as she stood, frozen to the floor when Cordelia strode to the weapons cabinet, grabbed the tazer, and HER favorite sword.

“Cordelia…” she said hastily. Gunn’s phone kept ringing and ringing. He wasn’t picking up. Cordelia grabbed a post-it from the counter, scribbled down hastily. “Get a hold of some one. ANYONE. Tell them to get to THIS address. Hopefully, Groo will get here in time, but-”

“Cordelia, you can’t go alone!”

“I have to, Fred!” The two women locked glances, and Fred felt the truth sear into her heart when Cordelia whispered, “There’s no one else.”

Gunn’s phone was still ringing as Cordelia disappeared through the front door.

--

It was still drizzling when he stepped gingerly out of the motel. It didn’t matter, the clothes he had slipped into were still damp.

Wesley pulled the jacket closer around him, keeping his hands shoved into his pockets as he looked both ways, glanced back up at the motel, and jogged across the street. As if on cue, the rain pounded slightly harder now, soaking into his jacket, sliding down his cheeks, rendering the bandage at his throat almost useless.

Moving into a run, Wesley huddled close to the payphone, located at the corner of the liquor store, music blasting from inside. Shivering, he fished into his pockets for the coins he had found under the cushions and deposited them into the slot.

His fingers were shaking with the cold. It was true, this city spoiled you. Sunless skies were considered the end of the world. He grimaced. At least this time, they weren’t that far off.

Turning, he heard a car screech to a stop, but barely paid it attention, rubbing at his eyes before he could register the brunette emerging from it, turning away to keep his eyes on the window that had to be his and Faith’s.

The phone continued to ring, and finally, FINALLY, Cordelia’s voicemail picked up. Wesley cursed, waited in resignation until her cheery, happy, voicemail message went through, and he was able to say hastily, “Cordelia, it’s Wesley. I have Faith, but we’re in trouble. When you get this message – the Motel 8 on Sepulveda and Venice. I know it’s far, but they were following- I’ll tell you later. I’ll call back.”

He put the phone back, staring at it hard, almost as if it was this particular phone’s fault Cordelia wasn’t answering. He had before, considered calling the Hyperion, had decided against it when the fleeting thought that Angel might answer had come to him. Now, it seemed he had no choice. With trembling hands, he fished for another quarter and dime, and slipped them in, hearing them register their presence with two pronounced clanks.

This time, Fred’s breathless hello came after the first ring. Wesley blinked in surprise, shifted.

“Hello?”

“Fred?”

“Wesley! Oh, thank God!” Fred’s breathing was erratic, her tone was nearing a screech. “Where are you?”

“I’m at-“

“You have to get Faith, and get OUT! Cordelia had a vision – they’re coming, Wesley! They’re coming-“

A slow, deliberate sound made him stiffen. It was immediately recognizable, unmistakable.

Fred’s words fell on deaf ears as Wesley turned, and a very familiar man held the cocked gun directly to his chest.

“Hang up the phone like a nice chap, Wesley,” Lee said, eyes hard as steel. “Or we’ll kill you, too.”

Liar, Wesley silently chided. He willed himself not to look at the motel, and obeyed.

Fred’s voice was cut off with a click, when the phone found its cradle.

--

The truck screeched, burning rubber filling his nostrils as Charles clenched his hands around the steering wheel, made another hard right.

Angel was taking him into the middle of nowhere, and that was just fine with him. A nameless ghetto was as good as any place to kick Angel’s ass. Gunn was panting, a loss of control so apparent, that it scared even him, and angered him even more, as his soul twisted into his gut.

The car screeched to a stop, Charles grabbed his sword, kicked open the door, and strode out into the empty parking lot.

Angel was already walking the other way. If he noticed Gunn coming toward him, he didn’t give any indication. Charles was no man to stab another in the chest, but kicking he was okay with. Quickening his pace, Gunn felt a satisfying thump in his chest, when he launched his foot, caught Angel in the small of the back, and saw the vamp fly face first into the gravel.

“That’s right, man. How you like that?” Charles said, standing over him, all but spitting as Angel rolled himself over. The gameface emerged, and Charles was just fine with that, too. “Yeah, man. You remind me who you are. Cause I forgot. And I promised you I wouldn’t, didn’t I?”

“Charles…” A low growl that would have frightened anyone but him rumbled from the killer vamp’s throat. He stood, slowly, a predator, the duffel bag overflowing with weapons upon weapons.

“You gotta forgive me, Angel,” he said, kicking at Angel, feeling the boot connect with a chin, seeing his former boss and friend whip over. “’Cause I kinda forgot about some rules. Forgot about vampires, forgot about their tendency to obsess, revert to stuff – and I ain’t having that, Angel. I got myself a family. Thought you did, too. Wrong, wasn’t I?”

Angel’s fist came up fast, too fast. Charles reeled with the pain of it, practically back flipped with the force. Landed on his back, dazed.

“I don’t have time for you, Gunn,” Angel growled, yellow eyes flashing, seething. “Don’t get in my way.”

“You don’t got time for NOBODY, Angel! Not time for Fred, or Cordelia or Wes- well guess what? I ain’t them, man!” Charles pushed himself to his feet. “I don’t CARE if you’re feeling all sorry – cause you know what? It ain’t always ABOUT YOU, Angel. So, I don’t CARE if you got no time. You’re making the time. And if I gotta beat your sorry ass – then so be it.”

Angel snarled at him, turned his back and moved toward the building.

“You take one more step and that big ass head with the gel you like so much is gone, Angel,” Charles said, wielding his sword, holding it up.

Angel paused, narrowed his eyes, and turned. Charles gave a small jerk of his head.

“Fine, Charles. You wanna fight? Be a big boy? Come on, then.”

In two seconds, the vampire had swept up another sword, and the blades crossed with a bang. Charles felt the surge go through his arm, and it only fueled his anger, pushing it away, swinging his foot and catching Angel in the gut.

The vamp wanted to throw down? Cool. Vamp wanted his ass kicked? Even better.

It was anger that coursed through him, and Gunn never stopped to ponder why. He had forgotten what Angel was, and he shouldn’t have. He shouldn’t have, not for one second. Cause Angel was a vampire.

And vampires got staked. No mission, no vampire.

Simple as that.

--

Cordelia gave up all pretense as she banged on the door, quick, harsh raps.

“FAITH! WESLEY!” She was practically panting, soaked from the drive over, rain drops still dripping off her nose as she waited impatiently. Her hand, now sore from banging, kept right on at it, the visions stills dancing in her head.

When the door finally pulled open, Cordelia nearly fell in, and encountered a woman she hadn’t seen in years.

“Faith,” she blurted. “You look like crap.”

“Lot of that going around,” Faith replied easily, hand on the doorknob, giving Cordelia a critical onceover. “What’d you use to cut your hair, garden shears?”

Cordelia stared at her blankly. “Yes, Faith,” she said patronizingly. “I cut my hair with garden shears.”

Faith narrowed her eyes. “When the fuck did you go blonde? Who the hell do you think you are, Marilyn Monroe? The streaks-“

Oh, yeah. THIS was fun. “Great, so now that we’re all caught up,” Cordelia snapped, pushing Faith into the motel room, banging the door shut behind her. “Where the hell is Wesley?”

Faith, dressed in a robe that was way too big for her, crossed her arms, rubbed at her shoulder. “Said he had to make a phone call.”

Cordelia blew out her breath, striding to the open window, and proceeded to twist the blinds closed. Faith’s eyes narrowed, settling on the glistening blade in Cordelia’s hand. “What the fuck’s going on?” Cordelia came forward, hands immediately tipping Faith’s face, inspecting the damage.

The door pounded, nearly crashed forward with the force of the blow.

“Long story really, really, Martin Short short? We’re in trouble,” Cordelia answered, as both girls swiveled their gazes, and the frame rattled with another bang.

--

Desperation was a tricky thing.

Fred was not a ‘sit and wait’ type. She couldn’t wait, alone in this hotel, with no one, not even Lorne, who disappeared to who knew where, to assure a half-crazed ex-Pylean who lived in a cave for five years (and she never, ever forgot that), that everything was going to be okay.

Fred was fully aware of her new responsibility, she remembered her conversation about taking care of people and being taken care of, and Fred knew that at this moment – no one was going to take care of her.

And she no longer cared. Grabbing Cordelia’s note, Fred scribbled her own message, in a long, nearly illegible scrawl, dumped it on the counter, and ran to the weapons closet.

She chose HER favorite weapon – a crossbow, and ran for the lobby doors, leaving the Hyperion empty behind her.

--

It was easy to forget that this was Angel. Easy to forget all about Connor, and the itty bitty hockey sticks, and playing with them in the middle of the lobby.

It was way too easy, to forget about glass breaking, to forget about holding a crossbow to a vampire in the middle of a haven that had been decimated by his crew. Easy to forget glancing into the office and finding the vampire crouched in front of a crying Cordelia, hands covering hers soothingly. Just as easy to forget Angel coming down the stairs, arm in arm with a hot Seer, looking happy and human-

Angel’s fists crashed against his jaw, and Gunn stumbled back, managing to duck as Angel launched over him, barely holding on to his sword.

Easy to forget that Angel might someday become human, easy to forget going to a second hand thrift shop and finding the perfect cart for Angel’s kid.

His pager went off, it had been going off for a while, but Gunn didn’t hear it. His mind was on other problems, on other heartbreaks and other betrayals.

He was too busy trying to forget.

--

Faith sagged against her, a warm weight that made it almost easy to get her courage back, as she slipped an arm around the Slayer’s waist, helping her stay put.

“Get the fuck out – that was your plan?” Faith managed to snap, as they stepped back from the doorway. Cordelia took in a ragged breath. It would give any minute. “That was your fucking plan? Escape from jail and get myself killed?”

“Oh, shut up,” Cordelia responded, pulling her back, moving to the open window. “You’re alive, aren’t you?”

“NO fucking thanks to YOU- when the hell did you move?”

“When the hell did I- what? You know what, nevermind.” Cordelia shifted Faith, and dropped her sword for only a second, pushing up the window. “Get out onto here.”

“What, now we’re leaving?”

“We stay here, and we’re dead.” Cordelia rolled her eyes. “Figures when I get a Slayer, she’s damned near impotent.”

“Oh, Fuck you, Chase.” Faith at least had enough strength to flick her off.

“Nice, USE that anger, and get your ASS onto the fire escape. LET’S go,” Cordelia said, pushing Faith out onto the landing. The door continued to rattle, each thump pushing Cordelia’s heart further into her throat. Faith managed to land in a heap in the wet metal, and Cordelia quickly followed, slamming the window shut and shimmying down, her sword gripped into her hand.

It was cold. Her teeth chattered as she stumbled, helped Faith get to her feet. The visions hadn’t lied. Faith was slowly getting some strength back, but not enough, and Cordelia bore the brunt of the weight for both of them, gritting her teeth, almost slipping on the wet steps as the rain began to pound now.

She was quickly getting tired, but she managed to get them both onto the ground, landing them in an alley that was dark and shadowed, and just as scary.

It was okay, though, because they were on the ground, and only about twenty feet from the car, and it would be okay.

She wasn’t aware she was even saying that out loud until Faith said, “Geez, Cordelia. You sure ramble when you’re scared.” But Faith clung to her, dark eyes almost black with fear.

It was so… WEIRD, to be doing this. Hobbling through the alley, keeping her sword in her hand, and letting Faith – FAITH. KILLER FAITH – hold on to her like she was Auntie Em or something. What was it about Cordelia ALWAYS ending up with no strength Slayers? What was it about her? A big sign tattooed on her forehead? ‘Weak Slayers! Come to me now!’

But Cordelia had hope.

“We’re almost there,” she said. “We’ll just get you back to the Hyperion and…” she trailed off.

Faith froze, dug her fingers in Cordelia’s shoulder. “Get surrounded by lame-ass Brits carrying guns?” she asked helpfully.

Cordelia froze, holding Faith to her as her heart skipped a very deliberate, very scary, heartbeat. There were three on one side, walking through the rain, and when she turned her head, she spotted the two coming from the other side.

Not to mention the two who had just landed from the fire escape.

Faith sighed. “Well, this shit just keeps getting better and better.” Cordelia shoved Faith behind her, her sword in her hand. “Any idea how we’re going to get out of this one, ‘C?”

Cordelia swallowed hard. “Alive? Not really.”

--

end chapter

--

Chapter Eight

Why must the night crawl by like this

And why do we dwell on what we’ll miss

I’ve got to be careful what I miss

My happiness was his

This is my good bye kiss - Nina Gordon

--

Staring into the face, was almost as if he was looking into a glimpse into his own past.

Casper Lee once wore a too-tight tie. His hair used to be gelled down, so that not a strand was out of place. He wore three piece suits, and horn rimmed glasses. Like Wesley, he drank tea every morning at six, sorted and cataloged his books aphetically, and once, under controlled circumstances, had staked a vampire.

Wesley had congratulated him with a clap on the back, and a beer down at the pub.

Now, Casper Lee’s hair was longer, in tangled strands hanging down over his face, messy and wet with raindrops. His face was bare, a shadow of a beard covering his chin, but doing nothing to hide the hard line of his mouth. Wesley frowned.

“Casper.”

“Wesley.” Wesley kept his hands at his sides, staring down the pistol of the gun, shivering like a wet dog in the drizzle. Bloody hell.

“Would you really pull that trigger, Casper?”

“I would.” The hand was shivering, but the eyes glinted. Wesley’s eyes narrowed, hands forming into fists.

“I won’t let you kill the girl, Casper.”

A shadow of a smile creased across his old friend’s lips. “Really. And how exactly would you propose to stop us? You can’t fight destiny.”

“No,” Wesley remarked. “You can’t. The Powers had a vision, they chose to get involved…”

“Wouldn’t happen to have been that vision that brought that pretty little brunette over here- who we just happened to follow, would it?” Wesley’s overcome expression lay naked before him, and Casper nodded. “Follow the pretty seer, get the psycho Slayer – think that’s what the Powers had in mind, old chap?”

“I think the Powers work in their own ways – and should NOT be manipulated for one’s own purposes,” Wesley replied, his mind whirling as he kept his gaze on the gun. Cordelia was here? Please, Lord – let her have gotten to Faith in time. “These things have their ways of coming around, Casper.”

“You’re a stupid man, Wesley,” he answered. “Always were. Never bloody knew why they chose you over me.”

“You knew exactly why,” Wesley responded easily. “Because you never could control that temp-“ He immediately stopped the words, as the gun now touched his nose.

Casper’s gaze hardened. “You were saying?”

Wesley’s heart gave a loud, deliberate thump. He could care less about the gun, about Casper, about the Council and their ideals…

But dear God – Cordelia and Faith –

“You’re a foolish man, Casper. You never could think on your own,” Wesley began, edging away from the barrel of the gun. In his mind, he began to calculate ticks of his jaw. In two, he could sweep under and pull the gun. On a normal day, it would be that simple. But the rain was making it hard to see, and his own chilled fingers and weakened body were working against him – everything was so against him now.

“You know the rules, Wesley, just because you choose not to obey them, doesn’t mean you’ve forgotten them. A rogue Slayer must be terminated at all costs.”

“She’s no longer a rogue.”

“She is to us.”

“Casper, listen to me- “

“Hush, now, Wesley.” Casper’s voice was low, barely containing his rage, smug pride. “No mercy – only reason you still have your head is because of who your father is.”

Wesley stiffened, a ram rod going straight down his back at the words, often echoed in his past. “I don’t see him here,” Wesley said tersely. “Do what you will, then.”

“Sorry, Wes, ole’ boy, don’t got the time. I’ve got a job, see. And I’m here to see it through.” The gun swiveled, pushed forward, and Wesley’s throat flared, seared with pain as sight of the pistol tore through his stitches. He cried out, slumping back into the concrete, holding onto his throat as Casper disappeared.

All he could do was gasp, pray for the pain to stop – and pray Cordelia had gotten to Faith in time.

--

Today is the greatest day I’ve ever known – can’t live for tomorrow – tomorrow’s much too long-

Guitars, amps and drums suddenly pounded in her ears. She managed to keep standing, her palms scraping against the brick wall behind her.

On a normal day, she would have kicked these idiot’s asses. Would have pushed Miss Priss aside and opened a huge can of whoop-ass and – Faith blinked. She used ‘whoop-ass’. What the hell was wrong with her?

Sagging against the wall, Faith fought the splintering headache, grateful for Cordelia’s fingers threaded through her own as the men came closer. Cordelia pressed something cold, metal, into her palm. At this point, not curious enough to care what it was, Faith kept her gaze on the five plus men that now had them surrounded.

“We don’t want to harm you, Ms. Chase,” said one, big, old and ugly, and packing a penis shaped gun. Inadequate bastard. “Just give up the Slayer.”

“Right. Sure. I’ve seen what you’re going to do to her if you get her.” Cordelia’s voice wavered slightly, but her stance never faltered. The sword was up, unfailingly straight, swinging a wide arc, keeping the men at bay – even with the guns pointed directly at her. Faith tried to push Cordelia back – it wasn’t the chick’s fault – but Cordelia only kept her behind her. “Keep STILL, Faith.”

Her throat was way too dry to say anything at first. She had to cough, and so she just barely heard their response. “It’s our job, Lady. We take our job seriously.”

“So do I. You may work for the Council, but I work for the Powers – and my Boss is cooler than yours, okay? So get your asses back.” One stepped forward, apparently not ready to believe her, and Faith’s eyes widened when Cordelia’s blade flashed, leaving him with a bleeding hand, and sputtering curses. “I mean it.”

Three more guns came up, eyes hardened, and Faith swallowed. She found her voice, it came right with the hammering of her heart. “Cordelia,” she began. “Get the fuck out of here.”

“Faith, you’re delusional. Shut up.”

“Cordelia!”

“Better listen to her, miss. I know you’re a smart little thing, but them Visions ain’t going to save you from guns, and neither is that sword.” A shorter man stepped forward, limbs wiry and lanky, sounding truly apologetic. “We got orders, Miss. We’re gonna follow ‘em.”

“Follow them all you want, but you’re not taking her, anywhere.”

Faith nearly screamed from the frustration. “You’re stupid, you know that? Cordelia – you’re the stupidest, most idiotic, stupidest- “

“Shut up, Faith-“

“Just get OUT OF HERE!” Faith finally lost enough control to shriek, shoving at Cordelia, managing to knock Cordelia forward. Everyone was startled, including Faith, as she stared at her arms, a soft intake of breath coming into her when she realized it was coming back, slowly.

Not fast enough, Cordelia was back in an instant, pushing Faith and pinning her to the brick wall. “STAY. PUT,” she hissed. “You got a death wish or something?”

“Do you?” Faith shot back.

“Bloody hell, this is what’s taking so long? A girl with a sword?” Both girls looked back to see another man enter, with hard eyes, and a hard stance, arms in his pockets, watching them both lazily. Faith’s mouth parted, her words dying in her throat as sudden and complete fear enveloped her heart as she looked into those eyes.

Dark, black, expressionless orbs. Eyes of a killer- no conscience – and SHIT-

“You wanna deal with the Seer, Casper?” said the shorter one angrily, waving his gun. “Be my guest. I’m not taking out a Seer – right up there with shooting nuns, that is.”

“Cordelia,” she said, aching now, slumping back against the wall, and damned near crying as she kept her gaze on the one they called Casper. “Just please, leave. LEAVE.”

Her mind counted each beat, watched as the gun was pulled out, and she tried to shove Cordelia out of the way, but there was no strength, no strength at all -

“Murray – you were always too superstitious for your own good.”

Faith cried out as the shot was fired. Cordelia jerked with the force of it, hands flailing, form spinning away from her. The screams kept coming, as Faith fell to the ground, splashing in puddles as Cordelia’s rain-soaked face slipped into the water. There was red all over, and Faith fought, the metal object in her hand dropping to the ground as hands pulled her away from the body-

There was still screaming, as they pulled her away, let her stumble back, the robe flopping helplessly, falling open.

Even as the blow came down on her head, the screaming continued.

Just before she blanked out, Faith realized the screaming had been coming from her.

--

His phone began to ring incessantly, from deep into his pocket. It was annoying, almost throwing his concentration, and Gunn needed it. Angel was strong, he was a better fighter, he was quicker.

But it was his cell phone, and the only people that called his number were the people who had it – and really few people had it.

Gunn gritted his teeth, braced himself for the punch that was so powerful it almost went through his stomach, barely managing to stay conscious for the crack against his jaw. He almost got whiplash as he fell back, but he had been waiting for it – almost thankful he had been paying attention in those training lessons that this damned vampire gave-

He rolled back, let Angel stumble forward with his own weight, and with his brute strength, Gunn pushed up, swiveled, and slammed the sword into Angel’s side.

The phone kept ringing.

Gunn was breathing hard, panting now, blood speckled his face, rage colored his cheeks red with it, and he pulled the bloody blade away from the dead body, the living vampire, as Angel gave him a glare through yellow eyes. Angel had no time to react, Gunn already had the sword at his neck.

His heart was beating so loudly, loud enough and hard enough for both of them, and Gunn’s fingers twitched.

Neither moved.

“Don’t think I don’t know the rules, man,” Gunn whispered fiercely. “This ain’t no Highlander, but I sure as hell can cut this head off and leave one hell of a pile of dust.”

Angel could have moved, he could have done one of those quick flashy things he did with that super speed and slipped away from that sword in half a second flat. But he didn’t move.

Yellow eyes glowed, he panted open, filling air into those dead lungs. A low growl slid into his voice, and suddenly, it was there, two words.

“Do it.”

The cellphone was tinny, digging deep into his pockets, and it nagged at him. His sword hand was up, and Angel was still, completely still.

And suddenly, nothing mattered anymore.

“What the hell is your problem?” Charles demanded finally, slamming the sword the ground, stepping away in disgust. “You got issues, man! But you don’t care! You got a family, but you don’t care! All you care about is your son, don’t even care WHY or HOW…” Charles shook his head, stepping back, never taking his eyes off the vampire fallen at his feet. “You know what? I don’t care. You do what you gotta do, Angel. I ain’t playing this anymore. I got my family to take care of.”

Gunn turned away, digging into his pocket.

“Charles.” Gunn paused, shifting his gaze back to Angel. The vampire’s visage was human now, the cry was almost plaintive. Almost sorry. Gunn was breathing heavily, as he turned back to him, flipped open his phone.

“This is Gunn.”

“Gunn… I… “ The voice was tinny, faraway – vaguely familiar.

“Groo?”

“Yes!” came the voice excitedly. “You will forgive me, for not quite understanding which way to-“

“Groo, what is it?” Charles said, quickly, jerking away when Angel stepped forward gingerly.

“I have entered the Hyperion Lobby, and encountered a message in what appears to be Fred’s scrawl. I fear for Cordelia. I’m afraid the writing is illegible, but there is an address, and a word about a vision-“

“What?!”

“I have no transportation – perhaps-“

“What’s the address?” Gunn ordered. He listened, and nodded firmly. “I’m on my way.” Gunn clapped the phone shut. He was hampered in his attempt to move toward his truck, however, when Angel grabbed his shoulder. “Don’t touch me!” Gunn hissed.

“What’s going on?”

“Family stuff– nothing you’d care about,” Gunn said, shooting him a dirty look as he picked up his sword, walked quickly to the truck.

Angel was there in two seconds, eyes a blazing, dark brown. “Charles.” The voice was a snap, an unspoken order, as he kept the door from closing, looking up at Gunn. “What’s going on,” he repeated. This time, there was almost a plea in the voice, a soft lilt, a change, and Charles fought hard for that anger- almost wished he HAD used that sword.

“Cordelia had a vision – went off herself to take care of it or something. Groo can’t get there, and he thinks she might be in trouble.” Angel was quiet, too quiet, like he was sorting all these thoughts in his head, filing them away.

He straightened, and something in Gunn, almost against his will, sagged in relief, when Angel barked, “Where.”

--

Casper ignored Murry’s look of disgust, and instead concentrated on the damned lighter.

Shaking his head, he clicked it again, covering it gently as he puffed at the little flame, managing to light the tip of his cigarette. When he sucked in the smoke, he finally allowed himself to breathe.

“No mercy,” he repeated, when Murray once again looked at the woman in the rain.

Murray nudged her with his foot. “You shot a Seer, man. That’s… you’re going to hell for sure.”

Casper managed a grim smile. “We’re saving the world, Murray. I’m sure the Lord will allow for a few casualties.”

“Personally, I’d be more worried about saving my soul.” Murray crossed himself, stepping away from her. “So what? We just going to leave her here?”

“I’ll take care of it,” Casper said, sliding his free hand through his hair, mopping at the droplets that made standing there a tad uncomfortable. “Make it look like an attempted rape, mugging, that sorta thing.”

Murray visibly shuddered, and he straightened. “Or you could get her to a hospital. Set her up in that little dumpster and make an anonymous call to 9-1-1. Could do that, too.”

Casper arched an eyebrow, allowed a smirk to cross his face as he turned. The smile froze at the earnest anger in Murray’s face. They stared at each other for one long beat. “Or I could set her up in that little dumpster and make an anonymous call to 9-1-1.”

Murray gave a short nod, satisfied. “Gotta get that Slayer bitch back –“ he waved his gun toward the Seer. “You take care. Watch your soul, man. Geez.” He stepped away from the pretty body with the rim of red blood mingling with the puddles surrounding her, almost afraid to get near her. “Watchers,” he muttered, shaking his head and making his way to the end of the alley.

It was curious, the feeling is detachment that came over him as he knelt over the girl, pushed with his shoulders until she turned. She was breathing, barely, but the wound was bad. Very bad. Casper clamped his mouth, running the situation through in his head. This was a Seer, who had led them to the motel, who was the one responsible for the recapture of the Slayer. It was her responsibility, and she paid the price.

His palm stretched over the gunshot wound, high on her abdomen, pulled it away to find it stained red with blood. Pulling out a wet handkerchief, he wiped himself as well as he could, and methodically began to search her pockets, pulling out the wallet, scanning the contents.

“Cordelia Chase,” he whispered. “Shame. Pretty girl.”

Since he was a child, he was raised to believe in the importance of the mission – and in the solid approach to control. He had a job, he did it. That was partly the reason he still had one.

Wyndham-Price never fully understood the price for the mission, for the oath taken as a Watcher. And if there was one thing Casper truly never understood, even as he lectured at Oxford, and kept accurate accounts in his diaries, was why Watchers only watched.

They were capable of so much more. Pulling out the gun, he felt truly apologetic as he slipped on the silencer, rolling the barrel in his hands.

A warrior for good with misaligned intentions. A dangerous sort.

Placing the gun on her temple, he allowed her one more ragged, barely there breath, saying a soft prayer for her soul.

It was a prayer he never finished, because the soft whiz came so quickly, he couldn’t whip the gun in time, and the arrow caught him in his throat, pinning his voicebox, driving him back.

--

Fred lowered the crossbow.

Her eyes were glistening: bright, brown. Her body heaved with pants, and when he fell back she gave him only enough attention to kick away the gun, falling down next to Cordelia.

The man twitched once, twice, but Fred only had eyes for her friend. Her breath was ragged now, fear sliding through her as she trembled, cupping Cordelia’s face. With what little strength she had in her wiry frame, Fred pulled at her, chattering in the cold.

“Oh, God, Cordelia. Cordelia-“ her eyes widened as her hand pulled back, soaked with warm, red blood. Her palm stayed on Cordelia’s abdomen, even as her jeans soaked red. Removing her jacket as well as she could, Fred stayed alone in that alley, holding it against Cordelia’s jagged gunshot wound, trying to talk her friend into coming back.

The rain poured down, soaked her jersey shirt, and the alley made the blood wash off, keep going. Droplets pounded against her face, past her glasses, but Fred didn’t feel any of it.

If she killed the man, or not – she didn’t care.

But when Cordelia’s frail body stopped breathing, Fred sobbed, her body shuddering in the cold, keeping the Seer close against her.

In the dark alley, only the pelting rain muffled her cries.

--

“Mr. Daltson!”

Wesley blinked, suddenly brought to consciousness when rough, gloved hands pulled him to his feet, setting him right.

“Any ID?”

“Wesley Wyndham Price,” came the same voice. “He’s injured, sir.”

Wesley’s eyes opened, found himself staring into a pair of jade blue eyes, as the man tipped his chin. “Stitches were pulled. That’s going to require some work. Medic!”

Wesley grimaced, finally able to gain his bearings as he gripped the wooden bench. Police beams ran over the street, and what had been previously empty, was now bursting with uniforms and yellow tape.

“Sir?” Wesley turned, found a young officer, the one who had spoken earlier, holding a pad in his hand. “Can you speak?”

Wesley winced, placed his hand on his throat. “I… yes – a little.”

“Were you-“

“Wesley!” Wesley stood, stared hard across the street until he spotted a familiar female, covered in a brown blanket.

“Fred?” Pushing away the officer, Wesley moved through the crowd, fighting his way through the officers, holding a hand to his throat. “Fred!”

“Wesley!” Officers began to scream orders, but Wesley’s relief at finding Fred was short-lived when he saw what she was standing next to.

A body bag.

Oh, God.

“Sir! Sir, I need you to step, back! I’m warning you, sir!”

“I know her!” Wesley said, pushing at the officer.

“It’s okay, Officer, let him through.” The same detective who had inspected him before, now motioned him over, keeping his hand on Fred’s shoulder. “Are you a witness?” he demanded.

Wesley shook his head, trying vainly to understand, searching Fred’s red, swollen eyes for an answer. “Witness to what?”

The detective pursed his mouth, and knelt down, flipping open the body bag.

Casper’s lifeless eyes stared back at him. “I know him,” he found himself breathing.

“How?”

Wesley swallowed, shivering as he stared helplessly at Fred. “He attacked me.”

The detective gave him a long stare. “You and two others. You know her?” He thumbed to Fred. Fred, shivering in her big brown blanket, gave a slight nod.

“I do. This is Fred.”

“Well, this guy also attacked Fred, and nearly killed another woman-“

ANOTHER? “Who?” Wesley demanded. “WHO?”

“Cordelia,” Fred rasped, and turned her face back into the alley. “They won’t let me in-“

“CORDELIA!” Panic, raw and rampant, slid through him. “What happened to –“

The men in the alley, paramedics, rushed toward him. “Move, MOVE!” They rolled a white tablet with them, and it was a blur, really, he could barely see – but it appeared to be a slim, weak – almost lifeless version of –

“Cordy!”

Bodies were pushed, bodily through the crowd, Wesley felt his heart skip a beat when he saw two large men now physically throwing officials and spectators to get through the crowd.

“CORDY!”

“Angel,” Fred whispered.

“CORDY!” Angel managed to get to the side of the cart, and suddenly Wesley’s view was obstructed, unable to catch what the sheer panic on Angel’s face had turned to when every policeman in the district it seemed, tried to get Angel away from the trolley.

“Fred!” A low, strangled cry of relief tore through the woman at his side, as the large, black man finally spotted her, made a beeline in her direction. In two seconds, Fred was in his arms, pressing her lips against Gunn’s fiercely and holding tight for dear life.

Wesley’s own throat was closed tight. He found it impossible to breathe, as Fred whispered in broken sentences what happened. It was her emotional monologue he heard, as the man moved as he finally saw Angel’s expression.

“We couldn’t find anyone…” Angel’s wild eyes, blazing with fear, broken with despair, as his hands cradled Cordelia’s face, leaning over her, even as the medic’s tried to push him away. “so she just went to help Faith herself, and this guy, he just came in the alley and-“ Angel’s low, guttural cry of pain, a whimper that could have been made by an animal as he collapsed over her form, sniffed over her wound, tears shining in his eyes. “They say they don’t know if she’ll make it.”

“Cordelia.” The word came out aching, edged in need, a fear in the vampire’s eyes he hadn’t seen since… Connor. When Angel flung off another medic, Wesley was spurred into action, shoes that seemed filled with lead moving quickly.

“ANGEL- ANGEL!” Clutching at his shoulder, the Ex-Watcher barely gave the growling face another look. “You have to let them take care of her!”

“Don’t you touch her,” Angel hissed, hunched over the trolley. An officer pulled a gun.

“Angel- they’ll try and save her, but you have to let her go-“

“I can’t let her go, Wesley. I’m not going to let her go- Cordelia!” Angel slammed his hands down, clutching her own in between, making as if he were going to shake her. “Cordelia, come back! Come back!”

“SIR! If you do NOT leave the patient alone, I will be forced to arrest you-“

“That won’t be necessary,” Wesley assured him. “He’s upset, she’s very dear to him-“

“I don’t care if she fucking had his BABY, he’s going to KILL her if we don’t get her to the hospital NOW!” a medic snapped.

“Gunn! Fred!” Charles and Winnifred immediately ran forward, trying hard to pull Angel away. “Angel, the sun will rise soon, we have to get you somewhere safe-“

Angel was suddenly still, nuzzling the face of the blank Cordelia. He shuddered, fingers trailing the soft cheek. “Just talk to me,” he whispered. “Tell me it’s going to be all right. Cordelia? Please.”

Wesley felt a lilting tremor go through him. His glance to Fred and Gunn told him they felt it, too. The attempts stopped, and this time, only Fred came close, placed her palm over Angel’s, and whispered, “Angel, please. Let them take care of her. We’ll follow. She won’t leave you, Angel.”

“How can you be sure?”

The tear streaked eyes glistened behind Fred’s mangled frames. “Because you asked her not to.”

Angel gulped, a sob hiccupping in this throat, and she pulled him away, his eyes never leaving Cordelia’s as the medics were finally every to pull her away. A medic turned to Wesley. “You too, we have to take a look at that throat.”

Wesley nodded. As he passed Angel, a fist clenched around his elbow, making him wince. It was a terrible moment, when he looked into Angel’s hard eyes.

“Don’t let her out of your sight,” Angel said roughly.

Not even pretending to ignore the relief that coursed through him, Wesley gave an affirming nod.

The three members of Angel Investigations crowded together as the door to the ambulance shut, swept away in the drizzling chaos of blue uniforms and yellow jackets.

Wesley took in a ragged breath, finally allowed the dizzy pain to overwhelm him. His mind, not allowed to think, now took over, and he took an inventory, and found himself wanting one renegade Slayer.

Good, God.

Faith.

--

Mr. Pryce III had a slight headache. His chest was tight with tension, but even with the shortness of breath, he didn’t move his hand to his collar to loosen the tie. Since he was 16, he had never been seen with a sloppy tie, and there was no reason that would change now, no matter what the circumstances.

He wondered why now, after all this time, he was forced to be thinking of his son, when he should have been thinking about the mission. A bloody important mission, and they had sent him to take care of it, because Mr. Pryce was reliable. Mr. Pryce got the job done.

His fingers were trembling slightly as he grabbed the pills, let two spill into his palm. Gulping them down, he leaned back in the leather jacket, eyes roving over the suite that was messy, unkept.

This new way of doing things, discreet, involved, was new to him. It was aggravating, disquieting: the times were changing, the council was changing. All because of two Slayers who refused to listen, and refused to die.

Pursing his lips, Mr. Pryce picked up the Montblanc, took his paper, and stared at it. The report read as it should have, shoddy at best: a mission that should have been taken care of, mangled by a group stemmed from Sunnydale, a group that involved his son.

Mr. Pryce understood the importance of this mission: a last ditch effort to do things right. Start over, and circumvent disaster while he was at it. An opportunity to prove himself, show the Council his blood was still as noble.

And Wesley – damned boy – with his new ideals, and new loyalties. He had convinced the council his relationship would not be a problem. Wesley was his child. yes, but he had chosen his path. When push came to shove, he would listen to his father. Wesley always listened. Mr. Pryce had been heavy handed, true, but that was how one simply had to be, when they were fighting for good.

The mission was always more important. Infinitely more important. There was no room for shifting loyalties, and their stance was always more important than family. Blood.

He pursed his lips, distracted when the door opened and a crowd of men, wet, dreary, muddy, burst into the room. In their midst was a slim figure, a black cloth bag over her head.

At the sight of her, his gaze darkened, his heart thumped another beat. A rare opportunity.

Funny how the fate of the world rested on a woman so small. He guessed it must have gone to show something. He wasn’t sure what.

“Bring her,” he said crisply. With cold eyes, he watched as the men pushed her onto the floor, all the time, studying with his watcher eyes.

The bag was pulled off roughly, and there, face marred with bruises, cuts, weakened with pain, stood the girl who had tortured his son. Ruined his son’s life. Ruined his reputation.

Her dark hair hung in wild tresses, the robe was almost lewd, as she tossed her hair back over her shoulder, eyes glassy.

This was the Rogue Slayer, who was responsible for so much. Who would be responsible for so much.

“Faith,” he said crisply. “I gather you do not know who I am?”

She blinked, on her knees, staring up at him with confusion. “The fuck who ordered these bastards to kill Cordelia?” she hissed.

He gave a quirk of a smile. She was able to think. Good. “Yes,” he answered. “I am that. I am someone with whom you have quite a history.” He knelt down, until they were level, eye to eye. The piercing blue eyes flooded through her own, and when she frowned, gasped, leaned back, he knew she understood. “You tortured my boy, Faith. You’ve done some horrible things. But you’ve tortured MY boy. He may have been able to forgive you for that – but I certainly haven’t.”

“Just kill me,” she whispered, voice low, desperate.

“Those are the orders,” he admitted. “But the Council is always interested in research. A Slayer, we’ve never fully been able to test one before.” He smiled grimly. “It should be quite enlightening.” Rising from his haunches, he stood, and ordered crisply, “Get her ready. We’ll begin with the first test shortly.”

Faith was pulled up, and she flinched as a man dug his fingers into her shoulder, but she didn’t say a word. Pryce noted that, gave a nod of affirmation.

Strong. She would last for a while, before she was broken. Good.

He turned. He was looking forward to the challenge.

--

end chapter eight

--

Chapter Nine

Cause I am hanging on every word you say, and even if you don’t want to speak tonight, that’s all right, all right with me. Cause I want nothing more than to sit at heaven’s door, and listen to you breathing. That’s where I want to be. - Lifehouse

--

From his spot on the bed, opposite Cordelia, hands tangled together, Wesley had been able to see the sunrise. He hadn’t moved since. He frowned, reaching up to finger the new bandage on his throat, tape making it awkward for him to even move. The beeping was an irritating noise that was becoming disturbingly familiar. Wesley pulled his gaze from the window, and leaned forward, gently tangling Cordelia’s still fingers with his own.

He had seen her like this before. In a hospital bed, a white gown, tubes in her arms, face blank with pain. His eyes drifted closed, shutting the image away, a sob clawing its way from his throat. “Bloody hell, Cordelia,” he whispered, bringing the soft hand up to his face. “Why on earth do you have to try and be a bloody hero, all the time?” There was a pause, before he whispered, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Wesley, you dumb idiot. You say sorry to me one more time, I’ll kick your ass.” The words made him freeze. Jerking his head up, he caught sight of a pair of groggy hazel eyes, staring at him as if he had grown a second head. “You’re awake.”

“Duh,” she responded, voice lilting softly as she shifted, groaned. “Oh, God, that hurts. Why does it hurt, Wes?”

“You have internal bleeding, and the gun shot was in close range.”

“Oh.” Cordelia inhaled sharply, clutching at his hand desperately. “Faith?”

The smile of relief on his face froze. “Gone.” Cordelia sighed, closing her eyes.

“I tried.”

”Yes, you did. You did your best, Cordelia.”

“It wasn’t good enough.” He said nothing to that, but squeezed her fingers, heart beat racing as he saw the sun. He checked his watch. Ten o’clock.

“The others should be coming soon,” he whispered. “I…”

“What happened?” Cordelia demanded. Her voice was weak, wracked with pain. The demoral was giving her quite a kick, he could see it, in her eyes, the struggle to rise above the rocking of the boat. “Where’s Angel?”

Wesley’s throat was dry. “I don’t know.”

“Princess!” A large figure startled them both, as a man rushed in, one who looked like Angel at first glance, and then, was suddenly the Groosalug.

“Groo.” Cordelia’s face was passive, but she smiled, raising her hand as her boyfriend entered, on his face worry, love, and desperate fear.

“I’m so sorry, Princess. The bus – I still am not familiar with…”

Wesley stood, feeling suddenly out of place as Cordelia only placed her cheek against Groo’s hand, closed her eyes, and cried.

“I… Princess…”

Bloody hell. Wesley was openly panting as he walked out of the room. Once outside, he leaned against the hall walls, and fought for his breath. His eyes were stinging with tears, so involved in trying to battle the sobs that at first he didn’t hear the calls.

“Wesley!”

Raising his head, Wesley’s blurry vision revealed a slim girl and a larger, dark-skinned man, rushing down the hallway, tripping over irate nurses and nearly knocking over a bewildered man in a wheelchair.

“Fred!” Fred rushed into his arms, held him tight with a squeeze that was almost painful, and when she let go, Wesley was suddenly wrapped into an equally vicious hug by Gunn, making him choke.

“We tried to get here, as soon as we could, but, the police were questioning, and,” Fred began breathlessly, panting.

“She’s not in any trouble,” Gunn finished, clamping his hand on Fred’s shoulder. “Detective Dalston said it was self defense.” Wesley blinked, not quite sure what they were referring to, never getting the chance to ask when Gunn asked, “How is she?”

This time, he managed a relieved smile. “Awake. She’s a strong girl.”

“Oh, thank GOD.” Fred collapsed against Gunn in relief. The big man exhaled, wrapping his arm around Fred’s shoulders. “Can we see her?”

“I wouldn’t quite yet,” Wesley said, his hand on Gunn’s shoulder, making them pause, before they were able to turn into the room. “The Groosalug is there,” he explained.

“Oh.” Fred crossed her arms, in a nervous attempt, it seemed, to have something to do with them. “But she’s gonna be okay?”

Wesley grimly nodded. “Yes.” He searched the corridor, and uneasy worry settled into his stomach. “Angel?”

“Daylight – we had to answer all the cop’s questions, and then he was stuck. Trying to find a way here, but…”

“I understand.” Wesley glanced back at the room, and when he glanced back, the knot in the pit of his stomach sunk. The initial relief over, suddenly there was the silence, the awkwardness, the remembrance of what he had done. What had happened.

Charles looked openly uncomfortable. He stepped away from Wesley, hands in his pockets. “Fred, you want some coffee?” he asked softly. Fred turned, on her face a questioning glance, but Wesley understood, could see that she did also, because she gave a soft nod, and a smile.

“Please,” she said, squeezing Gunn’s hand. Charles nodded back, gave her a smile, shifted another glance at Wesley, and moved down the corridor.

Unsure now, Wesley crossed his arms, kept his gaze on the floor.

“Wesley,” she said finally, abruptly, as if she was trying to find the courage to say it, Fred pushed her glasses up onto the bridge of her nose, and rebalanced her feet.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted, face reddening, flushed with agony, embarrassment, sincere… guilt.

“I know,” she said. “But you still shouldn’t have done it.”

Unable to take not seeing her expression, Wesley glanced up. Surprisingly, he didn’t see judgment, like he expected, but naked honesty. She was frank, staring at him with no smile on her face.

But there was no anger. And for that, Wesley would have given her the very world. “You’re going to have to apologize eventually, Wesley. Cordelia told me why you did what you did, and I’ll say I understand to a point, but you hurt us. All of us, Angel-“

“I know,” he clipped. The pain wouldn’t stop, and his eyes brimmed with tears, a tear in his heart, and it wasn’t RIGHT to have this now. There was something so much more important, so daunting, and every second counted- “Faith,” he suddenly said.

Bloody hell, Faith. The world tilted, the self consuming fear, now twisted, wrapped around him, coupled with rage. Faith, young, tired, weak. A thin remnant of what she used to be. Gone.

“We must find her,” he said.

Fred looked startled, confused at his complete and utter change of subject, but she nodded. “You know who took her?”

Wesley’s face was grim, his mind swimming with thoughts, moving along rapidly, so rapidly. It was disconcerting, the assuredness, the clarity that his mind reasoned with, now. For so long, forever, it seemed, his mind had played tricks on him, paranoia his greatest failing.

There was no paranoia, now. There was anger, there was fury, there was worry, and there was fear. All hinged into a pair of brown eyes, into another side of a woman that for only a few hours, gave him her world, and entrusted him to save it.

It wasn’t the Faith that tortured him that gave him that. That one was jaded and angry, unable to find her place in this existence, taking out her anger, her desperation on a man who should have helped. It didn’t make it better, it didn’t make it right… but blasted… his own actions proved no man was perfect.

Another girl, a sweet, scared, child, had slept in his arms and begged forgiveness. She had trusted him with her broken heart. And blast it all, if he was going to let her down, too.

His features grew firm. “I have an idea.”

--

She remembered being in a position like this before. In a hospital bed, alone, a hole in her stomach. Lying there, sobbing after she had told Xander to stay away from her, she had SWORN, to never let it happen again.

Every time she moved, her body ached, screaming silently that she did NOT like getting shot. She bit her lip against it, kept her body absolutely still, eyes resting dully on the bland wall before her. Her eyes were dry now, the tears flowed and gone, there was nothing left in her. Her hands pressed against her mouth, and she only stared, her mind whirling, lost in thoughts.

Rich bitch of Sunnydale – Vision Girl – Little Miss Streaks. So many permutations of the same girl, the same woman, who had chosen a destiny, a destiny that she thought was unavoidable. God, she should have known. She should have KNOWN. He had done it before, he had left her before, hadn’t given a damn about his mission.

Angel never understood. Sucked into his own little world, his own little obsession – and she tried so hard. She thought she had succeeded, that he had finally let her in. God, what did it take?

Her arms ached for his child. Her heart ached for the father. It was family, it was friendship, knit so tight, she could fall asleep on his bed, trust him completely with her life, and become part demon to save him from a world of pain he couldn’t have imagined.

And it happened anyway. She wasn’t a Champion. She was a Seer, and they had failed. The mission had failed.

“Princess?” Turning, she encountered the worried, dark black eyes of her lover. His thumb, calloused, rubbed against her palm, and Groo looked so worried. She stared at him, for the moment too heavy hearted to do anything but look. This was Groo, a man who barely knew her, but loved her with everything inside of him. He believed in his fairy tale romance, in his princess, and his destiny, and his true love.

He didn’t understand this heartbreak, this sorrow, or the concept of family. Groo never had a family, not a real one. She was all he really had, that he could ever want to call his own.

But she wasn’t his, she couldn’t be his, because visions in her head pounded for a Champion with a very specific name: Angel.

“Are you alright?” he asked gently. She smiled humorously.

“You mean aside from the big gaping hole in my stomach?” he didn’t get the sarcastic note, and her lips quirked. “I’ll be fine,” she said finally, gripping his fingers. “I’ve just been in this situation before – ya know. Reminiscing.”

“Ah. I see.” He didn’t see, but that was okay. Poor Groo. Did he feel like he was in over his head, she wondered. Perfectly fine in a battle, but words, politics, games, always eluded him.

The door opened with a creak, and Cordelia felt a sense of dread, when suddenly a pale hand pushed through, followed by a pale face. Again, the déjà vu came. She had seen this face before, apologetic, sane. His eyes were glistening with unshed tears. His trenchcoat, dark, dirty, wet and muddy, hung about him, no longer fitting his form, but ragged, torn.

His eyes focused on her, an unconscious plead, as he gripped at the door frame, and finally saw Groo.

Cordelia felt the tension immediately, her eyes locked on Angel’s form, her hand stayed nestled in Groo’s, but she no longer saw the other man. She only saw her Champion.

She closed her eyes at the word. “Groo,” she finally managed quietly. “Can you give us a minute?”

The Groosalug was an honorable man, who did what he was told. He kissed her palm, and rose, big body moving out of the small chair, walking toward Angel, eyes darkening. Cordelia’s own heart stumbled in beats, leadened, her expression strangely passive as Angel let Groo pass, and closed the door behind him.

It was so weird. There he was, and her heart twisted, and her eyes stung, and Cordelia felt herself trembling with emotion, biting on her lip as she shook. Angel, with his beautiful angelic face, coming forward, seated in the chair the Groosalug vacated. There was something in his eyes that she had never seen before.

But the fury, the anger, the heartache, it all tumbled within her, and it was too much. There was too much, and she was sitting here with a hole in her stomach, and Faith was gone, and he hadn’t been there.

HE HADN’T BEEN THERE.

“God, Angel,” she managed, not daring to look at him for fear she would scream.

“Cordelia-“

“Don’t,” she clipped. It was so painful, to try and talk around the lump in her throat, and Cordelia knew that maybe it was an inherent defense mechanism, because when she was this angry, the words she said… “I… just don’t. I don’t want to hear ‘I’m sorry’, again, Angel. Not if you don’t mean it.”

“Cordelia-“

She couldn’t look at him. It was hard enough to hear the pain in his voice, the choked way he said her name, almost as if he was pleading with her. “Why are you here, Angel?” she said finally.

He was quiet. “I needed to see you.”

“Why?” she demanded, and this time, and it must have been complete reaction alone, she turned, caught his gaze. Her cold expression froze. His eyes were dark, almost black, and he was trembling. Oh, God, Angel. Her eyes fluttered closed, immediately looking away. No, she couldn’t- “Why?” she said again, softer, calmer.

God, Angel – the truth. Please. For Once.

“There is no why,” he answered. The vampire’s voice was tired. “I needed to see you. That’s it.”

“But WHY?” Cordelia’s eyes were moist as she gripped the sheets with her hands. “How- Angel, a few hours ago, you couldn’t stand to see me in your room! A few hours ago, you gave me a split lip-“

“I’m sorry-“

“NO. Don’t say you’re sorry,” Cordelia finally looked at him again, her eyes naked, her entire world tipped to one side, making no qualms about bearing her open, broken heart to him. “You can’t keep saying you’re sorry, Angel! You can’t make me believe in you, you can’t make me love you and trust you, if you can’t even trust yourself. All you see is you. All you want is what you need, at that moment. It doesn’t matter if it’s me, or if it’s Connor or Buffy – or even Darla. I can’t be that person, Angel. You only came because I almost died. You didn’t come when it counted. You didn’t come when we needed you, and GOD, Angel – I know Connor’s gone, and I KNOW that he was everything, but, that’s just it- we were here, too.” Her voice broke, her eyes closed, and her beeper thingy at the edge of her bed beeped louder. “God – Angel. Is this what Connor-“ And the little boy that she had held, had loved, and rocked, and kissed, his memory came flitting through her, and it was suddenly too much, it was all too much. How could she be this man’s seer? How could she? When Angel loved too much? When his love burned? When his love ached and seared, and consumed?

It was too much, it was all too much, and Faith was gone, and Angel was here, and he wasn’t there before-

“Cordelia, you have to-“

She shivered. “Angel, please leave.”

She had said ‘please’. She couldn’t demand he leave. Even if she couldn’t bear the sight of him, she couldn’t demand it, because she needed him, here. It was so pathetic. He had taken forever to get here, but he was HERE, and she wanted him here, even if he burned and broke. She needed him here. She needed the man who had loved his son, and been her companion, and she knew the obsession that came with it, and if he stayed one more moment, she’d stop caring about that line-

And she had to remember the line. She had to remember the mission. Sometimes, she was the only one that remembered the mission.

So she closed her eyes, and she held her breath, and she waited, praying he would go.

The metal chair squeaked, there was no sigh. It was Angel, and he didn’t need to breathe. Her eyes were shut tight, her fingers clenched around the sheets, and when the door closed, Cordelia, in all her bitter disappointment, finally began to sob.

--

//I’ve been a bad, bad girl…//

Everything was a foggy haze. Around her, she heard the words. She felt the weight of her body, of her head, as she sagged forward. The only thing keeping her from toppling over, were the ropes, bound around her wrists, tied behind the chair. Where the ropes hung, burns came. The thread had aggravated her wounds, and they had reopened, spilling blood over the floor.

//What I need is a good defense, ‘cause I’m feeling like a criminal.//

Dark leather pants, a dark, tight t-shirt. He had played dress up with her, put her in clothes she had once worn before, almost as if he needed to see her like this. Wesley’s father, with the same damned blue eyes.

Her eyes fluttered, and she leaned forward again, chin resting against her chest.

“Faith.” She blinked, couldn’t move, and found her chin tipped up, until she had no choice but stare into dark blue eyes. “I asked you a question.”

Her head was jerked back, the nape of her neck pulled painfully, and she hissed in, when the pinprick of a needle slid into her neck.

Fuuuuuuck.

//I don’t run, I wanna suffer for my sins.//

Her throat felt large, immensely large, too large to speak. She fumbled the words, her lips almost refusing to cooperate, as she tried to focus on Pryce. Both of him.

“The five basic torture groups. What are they, please?” He was so damned polite. She shook her head, trying to concentrate, as she glanced up at him. This seemed familiar. Really fucking familiar.

“Blunt,” she managed, suddenly nauseous when the floor refused to stop rocking. “Loud.”

“That’s two, good girl. The rest?”

She twisted to the side, was suddenly righted again by some bastard. “Uhh… Sharp. Cold.”

“And hot.” She almost smiled, and the smirk froze when a butane light was suddenly produced, inches from her face. “Tell me, Faith. Did you use this on my son?”

“Wesley,” she managed.

“That’s right, Wesley.” The aerosol can came within inches from her face. The light flared, and she whimpered, body instinctively jerking back from the flame, so close to her skin, almost making it bubble. Searing, hot- her eyes shut against the pain, and she was there again, straddling him.

//“Admit it, Wesley. Didn’t you always kind of have the hots for me?” // She swayed, suddenly thrust into another place. God, she didn’t know when, or where, maybe from Giles, she had read a book. A book about pain. And safe places. Find your safe place. Take your mind away. The same blue eyes, the same glasses, but she wasn’t straddling him anymore. She was sleeping next to him, in a motel room. Her head jerked, and she was lost in her safe place.

The darkness kept coming, through her blankets, through her robe. The wounds were raw and bleeding, and the pain seared, itched inside of her in a place she could never touch.

Hands held her down, and she thrashed wildly to get him off – she couldn’t get him the FUCK OFF.

“Faith!” It was a strained voice, full of sorrow and fear, and it was close – so close-

Her eyes shot open, bringing into focus a face that loomed out of the darkness, inches from hers. Her body panted, pinned beneath a hard, naked body, who’s hands tangled in hers, keeping her down.

“Wesley,” she said raggedly.

“A nightmare,” he said, like he had been saying it for ages. “That’s all it was, Faith. A night mare.” She panted heavily, chest rising and falling, breasts pressed against his lean torso, eyes locked on his own blue orbs. Her heart pounded inside of her, so hard it hurt.

“A nightmare,” she repeated.

Wesley’s hands squeezed reassuringly, nodding, voice calm. “A nightmare. It’s over.”

“It’s over?” she said.

“It’s over.”

Her eyes closed, head falling back against the pillows. His body weight, splayed on top of hers, was a reassurance that they were here, this was happening. The way he kept her under him, with superior strength, told her it was real.

“No,” she said achingly. “It’s not over. It’s not the FUCK OVER.” Her outburst came with a jerk of her arms, trying to buck him off, but with no strength, there was nothing she could do. Her writhing jerks tore at her shoulder, and the pain was so steep, so agonizing, that she gave up with a collapse.

When she began to sob, he finally lifted off. Faith felt him release her, the warm of his body leaving her own, and she shook uncontrollably, going by pure instinct now. She didn’t care if it was Wesley, hell maybe it was because it WAS Wesley, but she was blind to it now. Arms slid around his shoulders, and with what little strength she had, she pulled him back to her.

God, please – just let him hold me. One fucking minute. One fucking minute.

His body was stock still, as the terror swept over her, buried in the reality of her plight. She ached, body and soul, and her blood was smeared with her sins, her fear weighted with her past, with what she had done to him. But her panic must have done something, because his arms swept around her, and Wesley held her. His face buried into her shoulder, and he held her trembling body close.

“It’ll be over soon, Faith,” he whispered. “I promise.”

She pounded uselessly at his shoulder, sobbing, even as she breathed, practically panted against his cheek. “WHEN?” she asked desperately.

“I don’t know,” he answered quietly. She shuddered, closed her eyes, pressed her lips against him, and held on for dear life. She was scared. She was so fucking scared. “You’re safe for now,” he added, in that damned British tone.

Safe. She was Safe.

“Faith.”

Looking up, she found there was only one of Mr. Pryce. He knelt before her, glancing at her curiously. “Where were you just now?”

She smiled, a genuine smile, this time even able to ignore the rocking of the floor. “With your son.”

The slap across her face was hard enough to draw blood.

--

“My Princess, if he hurt you...”

Cordelia had a headache. She was angry, on the verge of snapping, and it wasn’t this man’s fault. The Groosalug looked confused, furious, hands balled into fists. Her eyes felt heavy, too heavy for this conversation. God, all she wanted was to sleep now. To not think about Angel, or Faith, or Wesley, or even Groo.

But, this guy wasn’t making it very easy.

“He didn’t HURT me,” she managed. “I got this gunshot all on my own. Big girl, Groo.”

“But Princess, he has upset you.”

“Cordelia, Groo,” she reminded him. “Not Princess.” God. She did NOT need this right now. She took in a soft breath, attempting to get leverage on her splintering mind, and tried again. “Groo,” she began softly. “I’m honored that you feel you have to protect my honor, or something. But Angel and I are friends. We have fights. And you can’t go and try to duel him to the death everytime we do!”

Her dark-haired lover narrowed his eyes, a warriors mentality that was almost impossible to break coming forth. “This ‘fight’ resulted in you almost losing your life. I shall not tolerate such a flagrant disregard for the woman I love.”

“Angel’s going through problems.” Great, she was defending the big vampire bastard. Why? She had no idea. “Groo, he’s-“

“Obsessive. A warrior should know better.”

Yes, a warrior should have known better. “Nobody’s perfect, Groo.”

At this, his face softened. He sank down in his chair, and offered her a beautiful, dimpled smile. “There is one exception.”

She stared in the dark black of his eyes, registering the words. Her. Perfect. Damn, but how she wished THAT were true. Suppressing the urge to sigh dramatically, Cordelia felt another wave of nausea slide over her. The damned medicine, doing what it was supposed to. This wasn’t what she needed now. God. Maybe she SHOULD let Groo go beat up Angel. She SHOULD.

“Fine,” she finally said, tone dropping an octave when a haze of pain swept over her. “Fine,” she repeated. “You do that. You go after him, and beat the crap out of him.”

He knelt, took her hand in hers gently, as if he were holding something infinitely precious. The action made her heart ache, and she wasn’t sure why. It was a bittersweet feeling, painful and agonizing, seeing this man’s worship of her. God, wasn’t that what she had always wanted? A man to be totally, and completely hers?

“As you wish,” he whispered, pressing his lips to her fingers, rising. “I shall find Angel, and I shall-“

“Beat the crap out of him, right.” Cordelia nodded mechanically. Groo almost snorted, moving toward the hospital. “Groo!” He paused, turning back.

“Yes?”

“I think he’s in Venice. Take the bus!”

The Groosalug’s staunch resolution visibly faltered, and despite the dire circumstances, Cordelia couldn’t help but smile as his fists clenched. “Yes, my princess.”

God, she really wished the guy would argue about something already. In two steps he was gone, and Cordelia finally allowed the tension out in one long breath, falling back against the pillows. There. One problem averted. Groosalug would be lost for hours on the buses.

A hand slid to her abdomen, and she hissed. God, getting shot hurt. Her body felt as if it weight a ton, not exactly heartening, coupled with her splintered heart. Her hazel eyes flickered toward the doorway, as her soul betrayed her, and she waited for Angel to appear.

He didn’t, of course. She had sent him away. Her Champion. Who had lost a child. The one thing he had believed in.

DAMMIT.

An unwelcome sob slid over her, and Cordelia clenched her fists, closing her eyes in an attempt to shut out the world.

And suddenly, the world flooded into her.

Cordelia’s eyes shot open, but she no longer saw the hospital. Instead, her hands were constrained, aching, and the wave about her, on the floor, in her head, was making her sick. She gulped, tasted the blood, and it made her gag.

Hazy vision blurred the figure before her. Drumming pounded in her ears, and the heaviness around her was permeating.

Fuuuuuuck.

“Faith?” she whispered.

Her brain jolted, a soft, lilting sigh. //Cordelia. You the one singing?//

The pain was searing, and Cordelia jerked, recoiled when a hand slapped her, so hard the chair tumbled over, head cracking against the hardwood floor.

Cordelia felt as if she was flung out of Faith’s body, through the wall, on the lawn of the house with the address that started with 3443.

Sucked back inside, she fell as Faith did, her body weighted with agony when this time, the old man in front of her, produced a knife.

She screamed.

--

end chapter

--