Chapter Ten

Share my life, take me for what I am.

‘Cause I’ll never change all my colors for you

Take my love, I’ll never ask for too much

Just all that are, and everything that do. - Whitney Houston

--

The coffee was hot. Really hot. Way too hot.

Charles grimaced, carefully walking with the two Styrofoam cups, balancing the little cup of cream, and the two packets of sugar, just how Fred liked them, and kept his gaze on the floor in front of him, noting absently that his shoes were dirty.

At the end of the corridor, Fred slept, body twisted in a way that had to be uncomfortable, splayed across three different chairs. Charles’ lips twisted up, and despite the uncomfortable anxiety, the never ending tension that made his shoulders ache, he couldn’t help the sense of pride at the fact that Fred was HIS girl.

The pride was short lived, when suddenly a cry came from Cordelia’s room. Fred jerked up, and Charles began to move, only to remember that the coffee was damned HOT, and he hissed, jerking to a stop as Wesley also slid into the room. Walking as quickly as he could, he hobbled to the counter, placed his coffee on it, and darted forward, steps faltering in the doorway.

“Cordelia!” Wesley was bent over her, holding her hands. Fred was at the foot. Gunn watched helplessly as Cordelia jerked, writhed in the bed. Her eyes were open, glassy. “Cordelia!”

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh, God. Guys, guys!” Cordelia sat up in her bed, winced in pain, and buckled from the wound, falling back. “Shit,” she gulped heavily. “Shit. Shit.” Taking in long, gasping breaths, Cordelia’s eyes were wild, a hand pressed against her forehead. “Faith. I know where she is.”

Wesley froze, a reaction Gunn didn’t miss, as he came into the room, moved to the other side of the bed. Cordelia’s eyes connected with Wes’s, she nodded quickly. “Wesley, she’s with your father.”

His father!? Charles’ own surprise was unchecked, but when his mouth parted to question, he found Fred had beaten him to it.

“His father?”

“Yes.” Wesley clipped his answer. “My father.”

There was a whole lot here, that people weren’t telling him. And Gunn was DAMNED tired of not being told things. His hands balled into fists, the bruises on his face discoloring even more when the red flushed into his system. “What the hell is going on with Wes’s pops?”

“Gunn, there’s no time,” Cordelia said, shooting him a look. “He’s going to kill her.”

“When?” Wesley was already on his feet.

“Soon.”

“Fred, take care of her,” Wesley said, grabbing his jacket from the hook.

“You don’t even know where she is!”

“I do,” Wesley said, pulling out a worn, ragged piece of paper from his jeans. “I know where my father is.”

Fred shifted from next to Gunn, and her uncomfortable gaze told them all, she was hesitant to even give the question. “Shouldn’t we, you know… find Angel?”

“There’s no time,” Cordelia said, rubbing at her forehead, trembling slightly. “Please, Wes, just go.” Wesley headed to the door, and Gunn’s eyes narrowed, the anger almost threatening to swallow him up inside.

“You can’t go alone!” Fred said. “God, Wesley- haven’t you learned a thing?!”

Wesley froze, faltering at the doorway, as the words sunk into the air. He turned, the bandage stark white against his pale skin, and his frown sunker further, shoulders visibly sinking. “I…”

“He ain’t going alone.” Charles shook his head, tone rough and angry. Moving around Fred, he reached for his coat, and pulled it on in short, rough jerks. “Don’t know why everyone here likes SO much to forget about ME! I’m the freaking GO-TO guy! You guys should KNOW to ask me.”

Cordelia and Fred both smiled at him, eyes shining with damned near hero-worship, like he had just run a marathon or something, and Gunn didn’t dwell on it. They would have made him smile, and he didn’t want to smile right now.

He strode to Wesley, looked him in the eyes, and said evenly, “Let’s go, dog.”

Wesley’s dark blue eyes regarded him silently, but there was a hint of a grin, all that Wesley felt was allowed or something, and then English turned. “Come on.”

Walking away, side by side, long strides down the corridor, Gunn sneaked a glance to the tall man next to him.

“Your father, man?” Gunn asked in bewilderment.

Wesley’s adam’s apple bobbed, indication of a heavy gulp, but there was no answer.

Charles closed his eyes, took in a shuddering breath, and kept walking. Someone was going to explain this shit to him, and soon. He was taking way too much on faith.

“Charles.”

Gunn glanced over. Wesley’s face was staring straight ahead, all he saw was a passive profile.

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry.”

Silence, as the words did something, churned into his stomach, cause Gunn knew exactly what he was apologizing for.

“Yeah man,” he answered easily. “Me too.”

And he was. Cause when it came down to it, Wes was a good man, who had made a shit load of bad choices. And just like every person he had ever known, including himself, it seemed Wes was about to come face to face with a past he had avoided for years.

Charles didn’t envy him. Not one bit.

--

There were endless rows of them, it seemed.

Angel paused, touched his fingers to the glass, the vampire’s face pressing close, haunted eyes watching every movement. The nursery baskets were colored: pink or blue, corresponding to each child’s sex. In each one, there was a baby. His eyes were riveted to one, a child with a little wrinkled face. Just borne.

The tiny face contorted, the baby yawned, a soundless cry as he shifted, surprisingly strong for a newborn. Angel was frozen, his feet glued to the floor, even as the chasm in his heart opened wider, when the proud Father laughed, ten feet away, pointing out his son to everyone that passed.

Angel’s eyes turned back, regarded the child. The lump in his throat, the pain, it was all myriad of emotions, trickling down, lower, lower, settling into his stomach.

The soul ached for the pain, the demon fed on it. Angel’s fingers scratched against the glass, kept his eyes on the child.

His child.

He blinked. It would be so easy, to break the glass, sweep in, take the child that looked so much like Connor- but it wasn’t Connor.

It wasn’t Connor. His eyes closed, and he exhaled, a long sigh he didn’t need, that fogged the glass, disrupted the vision of the child.

With a frustrated shout, Angel banged against the glass, ignoring the sudden silence as he flung himself away from the wall. He walked quickly, soul searing as he continued to move.

His mind continued to whirl, ignoring the deadened heart that told him there was nothing to care for at all. Hazel eyes burned through him, choked tears mottling a voice stained with anger and hurt sifted through his ears, and his hands clenched into fists.

He hadn’t been there. Faith was gone, because he hadn’t been there. Cordelia was gone, if not in body, in mind, from him, because he hadn’t been there.

Faith. The renegade Slayer who had believed in him. Needed him. Needed to believe that redemption was possible. A new life, she had to believe she was capable of that. Had he been fooling her this whole time?

Again, the pressing need to see Cordelia was overwhelming. Even if his mind refused to believe it, his heart, full and pressing and urging for more, wanted to thump at the sight of her, reassure himself that he hadn’t lost her. Not like he lost Connor.

Cordelia was living, and breathing, and hurting.

But she was alive.

He paused, steps faltering when he heard the voices in Cordelia’s room, vampire senses coming through, Fred’s voice soft and lilting and worried.

“Do you want some Tylenol?”

“Fred, I’m fine. They’re giving me stuff that’s much stronger.”

“Right, cause you’re used to much stronger- erm… I’ll just get you some water. I know the visions don’t hurt anymore, but…”

“Fred, I’m fine. I just… they have to get to her.”

Angel blinked. Get to who? Vision? Jerked into motion, Angel turned into the room, ignoring Fred’s startled burst of surprise to demand, “Where.”

Cordelia regarded him, mouth parted. “I… Angel-“

“If Faith’s in trouble, they’re going to need my help,” he clipped. There was clarity in this moment, in how Cordelia’s hazel eyes regarded him. The hostility was there, but it didn’t matter. He was the Champion. She was the Seer. That was how this worked.

“3443 W. Halldale,” she said. He gave a short nod, turned toward the door. “Angel.”

He whipped his head back, staring down at his Seer, who’s face was curiously guarded. “The guy who’s torturing her is Wesley’s father.”

The sentence hung in the air like a bad smell. His growl rumbled loud, coming from his stomach, up to his throat, but he squelched the curses, and only gave a short nod.

He understood. Whether or not he would have the self control to not kill the bastard if he had hurt Faith, was a different story.

Turning, he left his Seer, reeled out of the room, and began to run down the corridor.

--

Blunt was next.

She kept count. How, or why, she had no idea. It seemed the only thing running freely in the vagueness of her mind, were the five methods. Forced to count alongside him, he continued to speak, slowly, softly, always unfailingly polite, even as the blade etched across her skin.

He had asked her, point by point, what she had done to Wesley. She had been forced to remember every wrong, every single account of what she had done.

“Was this of your own free will?” he asked.

One side of Faith’s face was swollen. Her right eye had puffed so badly she no longer could see out of it, and her left eye stung, as blood from a wound in her forehead crept into it. There was no clarity in her vision, but a blurry version of a man who looked like an older, harder, stiffer version of Wesley.

Strangely impassive, Faith stared.

“Faith,” he said again. “I asked you a question.”

If she didn’t answer, he would bring out the needle. Fuck, she didn’t want the needle. She had gagged, dry heaves that felt as if her entire stomach wanted to erupt the last time the thing had been pushed into her skin.

“My own free will,” she managed, slumping against the ropes, wincing when they bit into her skin. The pain was minimal, compared to the gashes on her face, her shoulders, her chest.

“Your own free will.” She blinked, eyes closing. A cloth wiped at her face. “No, no. Open those eyes. It’s rude to close them when one is speaking.”

Refocusing, he was there again, in the dark room.

“What are you waiting for?” she bit. “You want to kill me, just kill me.”

“Not just yet.” He slipped into the chair opposite hers. “You see it’s so rare, to have one like you.”

“Like me.”

“Homicidal maniac. A being of pure evil.”

Evil. She was evil.

“I’m evil. Just kill me! I’m evil…”

Her body jerked back. “The Watchers Council was never quite sure what to do with you, Faith. Some were convinced you could be rehabilitated.” He chuckled humorously. “You see what that logic did to my son.”

Wesley.

She was dizzy, fingernails digging alongside his skin as the embarrassment followed the return to sanity.

Faith kept her face hidden, buried into his shoulder, suddenly very aware of the fact that she had been naked. Consciously naked, against a man who was most likely repulsed by her. Her mouth was pressed against a white line, a small jagged scar, that could have been placed there by her.

What the fuck was she doing?

But he kept her there, and Faith couldn’t move, not yet. The strength just wasn’t there, and neither was the gumption, even if her face flushed, and the shame at her own neediness crept over her.

A choked whimper escaped, mottled words formed on her bruised lips. “Wesley.”

“Yes,” came the quiet response.

She couldn’t quite get the words out. They were choked and angry, and scared, and when she finally stuttered them out, through the hazy state of her mind, they were so quiet he probably had to strain to hear them.

“I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. I’m-“

“Faith.” His fingers rubbed against her shoulders. Her eyes drifted closed at the caress of a pair of soft lips on her forehead. “Shhh.”

“I wanted to kill you.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

She was trembling now, immersed in his scent, cheek flat against smooth skin. She was still tight in his embrace, even as her mind flashed with a recount of that night.

“You should hate me. But you’re helping me. You’re fucking helping-“

“Faith.”

“Help me,” she whispered. The words were trembling, soft, full of meaning, and she had never felt so naked than at that moment, whispering against his skin, feeling his heart skip under her, his fingers pause against her skin. “Help me, Wesley,” she whispered again. “Please.”

There was silence, and it was so terrible, seeping into her bleeding heart, on edge until she felt him sigh underneath her.

“You trust me.” It was a flat response.

She found herself giggling almost hysterically. “Don’t have a choice here, Wes.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“I don’t care. You shouldn’t be helping me.”

They both fell silent. Her eyes finally found the courage to open, and found his profile staring straight up, blue eyes lost in thought.

When he moved, she instinctively clutched at him. He paused, and the shame came just as quickly, as she pushed herself off, curled into the other side of the bed, heart hammering in fear.

“Faith.” She bit her lip, looking at the thump, thump, thumping. “I’m going to the payphone. I’m going to call Cordelia, and we’re going to save you.”

Her eyes closed, she shivered at the words. “Don’t leave me.” God. She was a fucking mental case. She had never begged anything, from anyone. He was the last person, who she should have begged-

And he was there, kneeling against the bed, looking into her eyes. “You said you trust me,” he reminded her. “Then believe me, when I say you’re safe here. And I’ll be back.”

Haunted by his eyes, Faith wondered if there could really be so much pain, as there was in his eyes at that moment. What the hell was going on with him?

Her palm drifted to his cheek, cradled it carefully. “Safe,” she repeated.

“You’re safe, Faith.” His palm covered her own, squeezing gently. “I promise.”

--

The physical torture had paused for now, and it left behind a crumpled mess of a girl. Robbed of her strength, of her healing, Faith was still remarkably strong, managing to stay seated in her chair, as she looked upon him with dead eyes, glassy with pain.

She regarded him, trying desperately to remain focused.

“Do you believe in free will?” he asked quietly.

“What?”

“Free will.”

She swallowed, closed her eyes. “Doesn’t fucking matter.”

“Refrain from using those words, please. Answer the question.”

Her eyelids, heavy with exhaustion and pain, fluttered. She glared at him from under them. “Why do you care?”

Hmmm. She was getting some clarity back. When the man behind moved again with the needle, Pryce held up his hand. No, it was better this way. Let her understand.

“Free will,” he said again. “Do you believe in it?”

“Do you?” she shot back.

He smiled. “I asked you first.”

She gave a heavy breath, sagging underneath her bonds. “I have to.”

“I see. I do not. I believe things are destined. Lovers. Actions. Personalities. Predetermined, because everyone has a role in life, Faith. You understand that, don’t you? Some of us, are meant to be heroes. Others are meant to be cowards. Some are meant to be leaders. Others, murderers. Free will, you understand, implies a choice. But you never had one, did you Faith?”

She blinked, bruised face expressionless. She gave stony silence.

“Because if you had a choice, would you have become what you are? Rotten? Evil? It’s in your bones, Faith. The call for violence, for bloodshed. Look at your friend Angel, the vampire.”

“Shut up,” she whispered.

“He isn’t here, is he? Because of his nature. He is inherently evil.”

“Shut up!”

“Prove me wrong, Faith.” She closed her eyes, apparently now fully concentrating on breathing. He noticed a lone tear trailing down her cheek. He noted it down.

“I’m not evil,” she muttered. “I’m not.”

“Yes, dear,” he said pleasantly. “You are.” He motioned with a jerk of his finger, and Murray came forward. “Start the preparations, the incantations.” Murray nodded. “It doesn’t matter, Faith. It’s your nature. You have no choice. Does that help at all?”

“What the hell do you want from me?” she burst, openly trembling, eyes flashing. “What?”

He cocked his head, his own heart twisting at the sight of the young girl, hating so openly. “I suppose I would like to understand fate. What makes you a monster, Faith. When you could have been just another girl. It’s a question I’m sure you have asked yourself countless times. What if you hadn’t been chosen? Another girl, living in a poor tenement with a dead father, and a mother who loved her colorful use of language and her soap operas even more. You were chosen, and you thought, finally, you were special. Chosen, Faith, it was your destiny. There was no choice. Your future was decided, then and there.”

She shuddered, eyes obstructed as her head bent down, a soft whimpering coming from her.

He paused. “Faith?”

She gave another sob, and suddenly jerked her head up. “Just kill me now, Pryce,” she whispered. “You’re not going to break me. You’re not going to get into my head, and you’re not gonna make me believe that there’s no fucking choices.”

“Oh?” he was openly curious. “And you say this, because?”

“Because your son could have chosen to be a little dickwad, pissant, mindless drone like you. That was his fucking destiny as a Watcher, and he didn’t take it.” Pryce burned, his eyes flickered to the man behind her. It was all he needed.

The needle sank into her neck, and she hissed, eyes closing, slumping in the chair.

--

Wesley was silent as he looked from the paper, to the large house, secluded in the hills of North Pasadena.

Gunn placed the gear in park, and gave a low whistle at the sight of it. “Looks big.” Wesley could feel his friend’s gaze on him. “So… how we going to get in? What’s the big plan?”

The role of leadership had been passed to him, not because he wanted it, but because they had no choice.

He made no comment. There was nothing in his heart but resolve, fury, commitment. “Walk right in,” he answered calmly.

When he glanced at Charles, the big man was staring openly in surprise. “Uh… Wes. That don’t sound very… ”

From his lapel, Wesley produced a pistol, a familiar looking pistol that might have belonged to Casper Lee.

“Oh.” Charles let out a shaky breath. “Walk right in with a gun. Right. Okay.” Wesley opened the door, hopping out. “This shit’s getting crazy,” he heard muttered behind him, and although Wesley had no time to remark on it, he had to agree.

Crazy, indeed.

--

The waiting was always the hardest part.

Fred continued to pace, hands wringing together nervously as she walked to and from, back and forth, front and back, eyes drifting over the setting sun.

She shivered, wrapping her nervous arms around her body, feeling her heart thump hard within her, a testament to her obvious agitation.

“Fred, sweetie.” Fred turned, regarded Cordelia. The Seer was staring at her with a drawn expression. “If you’re going to keep walking in circles like a merry-go-round, do it outside. You’re giving me motion sickness.”

Fred let out an apologetic giggle, coming forward. “I’m sorry,” she said nervously, settling down on the side side of the bed that Cordelia left open for. “I’m just…”

“Scared? Nervous? Worried?”

“And in a little frustrated, sorry, frightened and claustrophobic, and you’ve got it right.” When Cordelia stared at her blankly, Fred added, “I don’t like hospitals.”

“Hmm. Not a huge fan of them myself.”

Fred smiled light, an expression she was not able to keep very long. “Where’s Groo?”

Cordelia’s eyes reopened, her voice was soft, and weak. “I sent him to Venice to kick Angel’s ass. On the bus.”

There were a lot of things about that sentence that didn’t make sense, but Fred, at that moment, wasn’t really willing to get into it. She blew out her breath, gave a shrug, and then said as an afterthought, “But Angel went after Wesley and Gunn.”

Cordelia shuddered visibly, a reaction that made Fred frown, and she quickly stood, pulling a chair and coming forward. “Are you okay? Do you want some ice chips, or something?”

“Fred,” Cordelia shook her head slowly, forcing the Pylean ex-slave to still her nervous fussing, sink back down into the uncomfortable plastic of the chair. Cordelia raised her right hand wearily. “I’m fine, damned near high, actually,” she remarked, a silly smile on her face, indicating the IV pushing the pain medication through her.

“Oh.” Fred swallowed, licked her lips. “You didn’t have any problems, did you? Because of you know…” she leaned forward, whispered almost as if speaking louder was a sin, “Demon thing?”

Cordelia’s eyes fluttered open again, suddenly lost in thought. “Never thought of that.” Her eyes drifted closed again, and Fred noticed this time, thumping her head as her aching heart shuddered in realization.

“Oh, God. I’m sorry. I completely forgot that you’re probably all tripping out and you want to sleep, I’ll just leave-“

“Fred.” A delicate hand closed over her wrist, keeping her close. Pulling slightly, Cordelia’s eyes open, suddenly clear, free of pain or groggy medicine induced highs. “I just…” There was a moment of silence, in which Fred waited intensely, unsure what to do as Cordelia’s grip on her hand was infallible. Hazel orbs tinged with moisture accompanied a cracked voice, as the Seer said in a tone completely devoid of sarcasm. “You saved my life, Fred. So… thank you.”

The words were so simple, but it took Fred a full second to absorb the meaning, to understand the look of complete admiration, grateful adoration coming from a woman she revered, almost worshiped. Her eyes suddenly stung, and a smile drifted to her lips as she couldn’t help but say humbly, “Well, Cordelia… you would have done the same for me.”

They shared a smile, a soft smile, and Fred felt something shift in, as their hands tangled, fingers held. Equals.

The moment past when an orderly came in to check Cordelia’s vitals, and Fred flushed, leaning back, crossing her arms, waiting silently until he finished. As she waited, her mind, thinking, always thinking, was pulled back to the circumstances that brought them here, and she couldn’t help but shudder.

“What?” Cordelia asked. The orderly stepped out, and Fred gave her apologetic glance, rubbing at her shoulders, trying to soothe out the unconscious shivers.

“I was just… wondering,” she admitted. “If this was how those people felt. You know, in the wars. The women. Waiting for their husbands.” Cordelia simply stared, and Fred, face flushed, added, “Because I feel so tight inside, so nervous, and I keep looking at the door, afraid that they won’t come back. That he won’t come back. There’s this knot in my stomach that won’t go away until they all come back, but my heart, it’s thumping, so hard, and so fast… and it won’t stop until Gunn walks in.” Fred’s brown eyes searched Cordelia. The Seer was silent, her fists was tangled around a white hospital sheet, and her luminous orbs seemed mysterious, lost in thought. “I was just… thinking, maybe this is what they felt like,” she finished.

Cordelia was silent, and Fred wondered if she was thinking of Angel, as she closed her eyes, and said in a statement that was half wonder, half resignation, “Yeah. That’s exactly what they felt like.”

--

She fought the drug. If she concentrated, she could feel the blood rushing through her veins, carrying whatever it was to her muscles, robbing her of her strength, to her brain, robbing her of her clarity.

She sobbed, shaking now, shivering with cold as her hands twisted at the ropes, ears pounding, paranoia coming forth. It came along with the anger, and the fear. The fear that he would break her, the fear that she would believe him.

The fear that he was right, had been right all along. This, hands behind her back, body aching, split open, was all there ever was for her. All there ever had been.

No point to any of it. There was no hotel room, there was no safe spot. There was no Wesley, except the Wesley she had tortured, the Wesley she had straddled, licked, burned.

“Faith.” The voice broke through her consciousness. Calloused digits leaned forward, tipped her chin up, careful to not muddy himself with her bleeding nose. “What are you thinking of?”

There was still something in her, even as her stomach rebelled against the drug, and she choked, fought the urge to vomit. When she had regained control, she smiled. “There is no spoon.”

“Faith.”

“There are four lights!”

A large sigh floated her way, and she grinned, tossing her head up with as much strength as she could muster. “I can do the gingerbread man from Shrek, too. Got some milk?”

She winced when she saw the slap coming. He had a large gold ring on his third finger, and it pounded against her wounded flesh, tearing more of her lip with it.

Fuck. Could she bleed ANY MORE?

“Okay,” she managed. “I get it, okay? You have a NICE ass ring. Stop flaunting it.” Stiffening, she almost smiled at his loss of control, as he jerked her head between his hands, pulled her up until her neck almost snapped, his dark eyes boring into hers.

“You’ll be dead soon. You will not beat us, child. In a few minutes, nothing will matter.”

Shit. She knew that. “Maybe,” she whispered. “But it’s damned worth it.”

“Are you so callous, you have forgotten what you’ve done to my son?” His hands jerked away, as if she was too filthy to be bothered with his touch. Her expression sombered at the mention of Wesley, a twist coming from inside her she hadn’t had before.

“I remember ever day,” she whispered. “Every. Fucking. Day. And you know what ? You got your fucking revenge, okay? I’m dying. I can see the light at the end of the fucking tunnel – there is no damned spoon, and I’m getting disconnected any minute, now. Your son is AVENGED.”

He stared at her, breathing hard, panting as he pulled at his tie, loosened it roughly. He stared at her, sweaty and tired, and suddenly, he broke, letting out a peal of laughter that sent chills through her.

As she glared, he continued to laugh. Sweat and blood dripped into her good eye, and it stung, but she kept watching, as the dude who refused to shoot Cordy came in, carrying some old dagger, some candles. A mirror.

“You, poor, silly girl. This has never been about revenge. Not completely.”

“Oh really?”

The tone was unfailingly polite, even if it’s clipped, terse emotion. Every nerve in her jolted, and relief and dismay floated through her like a river at full current as she slumped back in the chair, and let the tears finally fall, blurring the figures.

She still saw him though, as she tried to shake the tears away. A blue-eyed man with a patch on his neck, leveling a gun directly at his father, face hard, angry.

“Then pray tell, Father,” Wesley asked. “What is it?”

--

end chapter

--

Chapter Eleven

I don’t know how to leave you, and I’ll never let you fall And I don’t know how you do it, making love out of nothing at all. – Air Supply

--

It seemed that ever second, every mistake, every failing, every insecurity, every piece of filth in his life had been boiled down, seared, branded upon his soul. And it had all led up to this.

Wesley held the gun, just feet away from his father’s chest, in an attempt to save the life of a woman who had tortured him, who had killed in cold blood, who had made a game out of his life, his pain, his agony.

His mouth was set in a grim, determined frown, as he openly shook, voice deceptively steady as he kept his palm firm on his pistol.

“Let her go, Father,” he clipped.

His father studied him, eyes floating over his body, and Wesley felt as if he was back in gradeschool when his father’s mouth twitched. “That’s a familiar weapon. Saved it for a special occasion, did you?”

Wesley’s fear had almost beat him, had it not been for the anger, as he glanced behind him, and saw Faith. Her face was almost unrecognizable, staring at him through an eye smeared with blood.

He almost closed his eyes against it, physical pain sliding through him as his hands shook with fury. “How dare you?” he whispered. “How dare you treat another human like this?”

“She is not human. She is a Slayer. A tool.”

“She’s a girl!” Wesley said roughly, throat coated with tears. “When did you become a killer?”

“Wesley…” the words were barely given breath, proof of Faith’s weakness.

Wesley’s hard expression softened, and never taking his eyes off his father, he spoke. “It’s all right, Faith. I’m here.”

Mr. Pryce was still, staring at his son with an unrecognizable expression on his face. Murray twitched in the corner, still holding his incantation books, his spells.

“When did you become a disappointment?” he returned finally.

“That was probably around the same time his dad became a smart ass,” Gunn cracked from behind, dragging in two men, throwing them to the ground. “Sorry about being late, ya’ll. These dudes thought they were gonna be all smart and sneak in, but they ended up being all stupid, instead.” Gunn straightened, shouldering the baseball bat he carried, and giving the room a curious onceover. He whistled. “Man. Is this place, stuffy.” He turned, found Wesley’s father, and nodded. “’Sup.” His eyes found Faith, and he froze. “Oh, shit. You bastards.”

Wesley’s father gave his son a hard glare, a silent request for an explanation.

“Father, meet Charles Gunn. He’s our Go-To Guy.”

“And the muscle!” Gunn piped up, tapping his bat. “And Mr. Common Sense, so you, Mr. British Short Dude, you just get your hand OFF those spells, or I club this bat straight to your face. And don’t think I won’t miss.”

Wesley finally managed to take his eyes off his father, afraid to look at Faith, for fear he would erupt in fear, and saw the candles, the books, the pentagrams. He hissed inwards. This was more than a simple extermination.

“Are you fully aware of what you’re doing, boy?” Pryce demanded.

It was a simple question, but Lord, how it was loaded. Every second, of every moment, in his life, he had been taught to respect this man. At this moment, he was pointing a pistol directly at the heart of his FATHER.

HIS. FATHER.

His hands trembled, but he managed to keep the gun up. Again, the blue eyes drifted to Faith, and her eyes closed, ragged breathing coming from her body, and the gun miraculous straightened.

“Perhaps for the first time in my life,” he clipped. His eyes drifted over the pentogram, and a very fear enveloped his heart.

“Wesley, now I need you to understand,” his father spoke easily, brusquely. “There are things you don’t understand, things about prophecies-“

Good GOD, PROPHECIES.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, swiveling the gun back in his direction.

“Wesley, you will stop swinging that silly gun in my hand, or I shall be very angry,” Pryce snapped, coming forward, steps faltering when Wesley cocked the trigger. His eyes flashed, anger visible in his features. Wesley’s heart pounded.

Faith whimpered from across the room. “God, Wes…”

“You wouldn’t kill me.”

There was a long, tense moment, until Wesley sighed, his shoulders aching. “Commit patricide?” he asked. “Perhaps not. But I’m not above shooting you, Father. You would have KILLED her,” he whispered roughly, brokenly.

“And I shall. I have a mission, and I assure you, Wesley. She is a dead woman.”

But Faith was very much alive, and Wesley fully intended on it remaining that way. “You will NOT. You will LET her GO.” He was demanding now, eyes stinging with tears as he shook the gun at his father. HIS. FATHER.

“I mean it, dude! Don’t touch those books!” Charles looked ready to cleave the bat to Murray, who hastily put the books away. “You were saying?”

Mr. Pryce ignored him, eyes on his son, edging toward the desk, Wesley’s gun following him every step.

“There is a prophecy, Wesley. One concerning her. Concerning this woman. Her involvement in the latter days. If she LIVES, Wesley, she will be one of the key figures to sway the apocalypse.” Wesley’s gun wavered.

“Father,” he whispered…’

“LISTEN to me, boy!” His father reached for the papers strewn about the desk. “I taught you myself about translations. Study them yourself.”

Faith was silent, eyes hollow as she listened, sinking against the chair.

“If you allow her to live, you make it that much harder to save the world.”

“Wes, man, don’t listen to him,” Gunn said quickly. “The Powers brought us here to save her, man.”

“Did they?” Mr. Pryce quirked his lips. “Wasn’t it your Cordelia’s visions that brought us to her in the first place? That allowed her to escape so we could find her? She would have been safe in the prison. Sooner or later, a prison warden would have kept watch on her, but no, she left.”

“She lost her strength in there,” Wesley said quietly. “Don’t tell me the Council hadn’t already made their connections.”

“She is EVIL, Wesley. It is her destiny.” His father waved the papers, threw them on the floor, and sank into the chair. “Bloody hell, boy! Listen to me! A nature of evil is always that: evil. Her future is foretold – should she be allowed to live, she may become instrumental in bringing down the good – as long as she lives, there IS no new Slayer. It’s a chain reaction, and it’s documented-“

“So, instead of killing her, you do this. Tie her to a chair, torture her, bit by bit, break her spirit?”

“The incantation called for it,” Mr. Pryce said methodically. “Faith needed to recount every sin, sacrifice herself willingly, give herself to the Powers-“

“You USED her, the same way you’ve used me, Father,” Wesley whispered, eyes darkening in rage. “You treated her like an animal-“

“Wesley…” Faith’s voice broke through, soft, lilting. Wesley paused, eyes shifted to her, and she gave him a pleading look, her expression so horrified by the words.

And she believed them.

“Father, you yourself have never believed in a lack of free will.”

“I’ve had time to change my mind. You yourself have a destiny, boy. You know that.”

“I refuse to live my life based on prophecies, Father!” Wesley spat, eyes moist, angry. “I will NOT. I will NOT ruin another life-“

“Your job lies inherently IN them. You’re immersed in them, always have been.”

Charles shifted, agitation obvious. “Wes…”

“Like me, you know your role, your duty. You may have chosen a new ‘family’, but the work stays the same, and how is that work, Wesley? Where has it gotten you? Where was your ‘family’ when you were lying motionless in a park, dying?”

Bloody, hell.

“Wesley, don’t listen to him, man. We got other things to worry about.”

Wesley’s eyes closed, an open sob catching him in his throat as the tears slid down, every nerve in his body suddenly shutting down, and then coming alive in flagrant pain.

“Wesley!” His eyes opened, and his eyes closed again when he saw the five men who entered, each brandishing weapons. “Crap,” was Gunn’s response.

“Put down the gun, Wesley, and you will not get hurt.”

Wesley didn’t put down the gun. He kept it up, and he held it still. “You will NOT harm her. I failed my family, Father. But I will NOT fail her.”

“Yeah, you did.”

Wesley blinked, and everyone swerved when one of the men pulled off the baseball cap, and emerged in vamp face.

With a speed that left Wesley breathless, Angel grabbed the gun from the man nearest him, swiveled, pivoted, and kicked his foot into the second’s face. A back hand got the third before he had a chance to blink, and the fourth shot into the vampire.

Of course, all that did was piss him off.

Gunn finally made good on his threat to club with his bat, and he caught the fifth in the chest, the gun rapidly shooting into the ceiling, but giving no harm.

“Angel?” Wesley breathed. Faith’s eyes were closing now, her lips were moving silently.

“Bloody hell, Wesley! Did you have you bring your vampire, here?” Mr. Pryce sniffled angrily. Angel strode around the pentagram, kicking over the candles as he jerked the gun from Wesley’s hands.

“YOU!” He said, pointing a finger into the Watcher’s face. “I’ve got BIG problem with you, pal. You did everything wrong. You should have TOLD us. You took my trust, you toppled it and you-“

“Fuck…” Faith was still, good eye suddenly wide open. “He’s really pissed.”

“You are SO going to get it later, Wesley.” Turning back to Wesley’s father, Angel grabbed the older man roughly by his throat, and slammed him against the wall, banging the gun against the old man’s chin. “Listen, Mr. Pryce. We’re walking away with Faith, now, and the ONLY reason, I haven’t ripped off your skin, soaked you in acid, and left you for the dogs, is because you’ve got Wesley’s blood in you, blood I’d rather not see.”

Mr. Pryce struggled for breath, hands wrapping around Angel’s. “Vampires. You, Angel – you who yourself have a dark role in the prophecy-“

Angel’s hands clenched tighter around his throat, cutting him off with a squeak. “What is it with Pryce’s and their damned prophecies?! Let me tell you something, pal, I’ve lived through three of these damned things – and gotta tell ya – NOT THAT SCARY.” His eyes flashed yellow, and he whispered, inches from Pryce’s face, fangs grazing his skin. “Not compared to me.”

“Angel…” Wesley was quiet, ashamed. “I’m sorry.”

“Not one WORD, Wesley,” Angel hissed, never looking back. “I’m here for Faith, I’m here for Gunn, and I’m attempting to be here for you, because you’re family. But DON’T push me.”

“Damn, Angel.” Faith looked confused and bewildered. “Whatever the fuck it is, get over it.”

“Faith, he stole my son, got him kidnapped, and let him get sucked into an alternate hell dimension.”

“Oh.” Faith blinked. “I’m sorry. That’s gotta suck.” Wesley sucked in his breath, closed his eyes against the guilt, and moved forward, around Angel, who still held his father by his throat.

Tenderness clouded his features as he knelt in front of Faith, carefully tracing her skin with his fingers. She regarded him, eyes locked with his. “Hey, Wes?” she managed, words mangled with blood, pain.

“Yes?”

“You wanna untie me, or you going to go all dom on me, again?” The smile she offered was a painful one, but it managed something, a smile from his own tear-streaked face, as he moved around her, carefully cutting the rope with the dagger lying on the ground, laced with her blood.

The bonds fell away, and Faith tipped with them, no longer able to hold herself up. Gunn moved forward to help, but Wesley was already there, gathering her carefully into his arms.

“I’ve got it,” he said quickly, waving Charles away, gently shrugging off his jacket to wrap her shivering form in it.

When Faith shuddered, buried her face into Wesley’s neck, Angel watched. He noted Wesley’s lips as they brushed Faith’s forehead, the way Wesley lifted her, as if he carried something infinitely precious.

The hope in a man’s eyes, that a woman could believe in him, despite all the wrong he had committed, the fatal mistakes – the absolution that came from it.

There came a sudden clarity that made the demon fall from his face. He pulled away from Wesley’s father, and grabbed the scrolls, throwing them into the fire.

“So, we leaving?” Gunn asked, heading toward the door.

Wesley, Faith cuddled in his arms, moved past his father, fully prepared to pass, until he heard his father speak.

“You may have damned us all, Boy.”

Wesley froze. “Your tie, Father,” he said finally. “It’s loose.” Without another word, he stepped over the fallen men, and exited.

Mr. Pryce’s eyes were flint, cold, angry, but the expression was quickly replaced with fear when the vampire came forward again.

“You ever come near Wesley, or Faith, or anyone in my family again? I’ll kill you,” Angel hissed. “You don’t deserve to be a Father. And coming from me? That’s saying something.” Mr. Pryce straightened, fully prepared to retort, until Angel cracked a punch against his jaw, knocking him to the floor.

Stepping over him, Angel left the suite.

--

Gunn remembered once, when his sister had the cold. She had been sick, and although Gunn knew there was no way in hell they could afford it, he had brought her into a stark, white hospital like this one.

All his homeboys had come with them, and Gunn had remembered the nurses face as she checked her face, took her pulse. It was all methodical, and it just pissed him off. There was no heart in that place. It was cold. Sterile.

Gunn had hated hospitals, there was no warmth, and even now, Charles Gunn was tired, his shoulder ached, and the bruise that Angel had given him was going to turn purple.

The coldness even came from Angel, who winced as they walked.

Gunn pursed his lips, knowing that that came from the wound he had inflicted. “That hurt?” he asked bluntly, keeping his stride straight.

“Like hell,” Angel said.

“Good.” Angel gave him a surprised glance, and Gunn shrugged. “Don’t tell me you don’t think you deserved that.”

Angel was silent only a moment. “No, I did.”

The silence that followed was an awkward one, as both men walked side by side, moving toward the room that held the two most important women in the world to them.

“Hey, Angel?”

“Yeah,” the vampire answered gruffly.

“We’re gonna find Connor, man.” Angel froze, and Charles tilted his head, absolute sincerity in his voice. “We’re gonna find him, and we’re gonna get him back. He ain’t gonna lose out on none of that stuff, all right?” Angel was dumbstruck, staring at Gunn with an overcome expression, as if he didn’t quite believe what Charles was saying. Charles grinned, and slapped his shoulder. “We ain’t a family if we don’t got Connor, right?”

“You really are the Go-To guy, Gunn,” Angel managed behind a splintered throat.

“Pffft. What’re friends for, if it ain’t for beating the shit out of you?”

“Gunn!”

Charles turned, and a tiny, waif girl buried herself in his arms. He wrapped her into him, smiling widely, as Angel watched. Fred’s eyes were misty with tears, relief clear on her face as she pressed herself against him.

“I love you, Fred,” Gunn said simply, tracing her face with a tip of his index finger. Angel couldn’t help the soft tilt in his heart as Fred stared up at Gunn, transfixed, such awe in her gaze.

“I love you, too,” she whispered. When he grinned, and squeezed him, pecking him once, blushing as Angel looked on. “Where’s Faith?” she asked hurriedly.

“Wesley’s checking her in.”

Angel left as Gunn explained, his eyes locked on the room from which Fred emerged.

Cordelia’s attention was on the television screen, as a reporter in a big wig stood freezing in front of a hospital that looked suspiciously like this one, spoke hurriedly into her microphone.

“- has been found, brought in barely alive, by a Mr. Wesley Pryce. Police officials are standing by, but there has been no indication, that she will stand trial-“

A flip of the switch, and Cordelia shut it off, finally turning her head. Hazel eyes captured his dark ones.

“She’s okay.”

He swallowed, nodding hesitantly as he came forward, one foot in front of the other. “She’s going to live, if that’s what you mean.”

“Wes with her?”

“Yeah.”

Silence descended, in which Angel was able to study the tile on the floor, note the mildew hidden in the cracks, breathe in Cordelia’s scent.

“And you?” Looking up, he found her staring at him. “How are you?”

It was a different kind of question, she was asking. One not without anger, not with out pain, but pure unfiltered emotion, as his Seer gazed at him through moistened orbs, testing him, trying him, attempting to fix something that was broken.

Something that would take so much TIME to fix…

“Not good,” he finally responded. Her eyes watered slightly, but she remained quiet, never speaking, staring at him as if he was her very world. It undid him, uneasiness and pain that drew a painful knob in his throat, that he couldn’t get rid off, even with a ragged breath and a hard swallow. “There’s an aching hole, Cordelia, in my heart. Every second, my body aches for my son. Every minute, my soul screams that a piece of it is missing. I’m ready to go crazy, Cordelia, not knowing where he is. Not knowing if he’s safe, not having him here with me. I was alone, Cordelia, and suddenly I wasn’t. And this little life, this little Connor, he was MY boy. MY boy. Who looked at me, and loved me, trusted me unconditionally… and it aches where it used to love. It’s broken, Cordy…” his voice broke, tainted with tears. Every word dripped with anger, anguish. “I’m going to go crazy, and inside me is the urge to kill, and maim, and destroy everything that drove me from Connor. And I can’t do anything, Cordelia. I can’t do anything.” His fists clenched, and he hiccupped, shoulders shaking as his eyes closed. “I’ve never been so helpless, Cordelia. I’ve never felt so lost. And it’s never going to get better. I’ve lost Connor, and I’ve lost you.”

“Angel…” The word was edged in need, and it haunted him, forced him to look and found a woman with tears sliding down her face, in her expression acceptance, love – and understanding, heartbreaking understanding. Her arms were outstretched, and the need for the warmth was undeniable. Angel fell, into her embrace, wrapping his hands around her waist, sobbing into her shoulder.

Desperation coupled with loss held them together, broke them from their earlier restraints, severed them from the anger that had kept them at bay before. Now, two companions clutched each other, sobbing, taking comfort in the only thing they had left.

“Oh, God, Angel…” Cordelia’s hands were gentle as she kept his trembling body close to hers, fingers running along the nape of his neck, eyes shut tight against him. “It’s okay to have these feelings, Angel. It’s okay to feel. He was your son. And you loved him. And he was taken from you.” She pulled back, cupped her friend’s face and regarded him with absolute love and heartbreak. “We are NEVER going to stop looking for Connor, Angel. Never. We’re going to find him, and in the meantime, we have to live. Now, more than ever, we need to live for HIM. Because when we get him back, he’ll need you. The way you are. The way we need you, now.”

He pushed down the lump with a swallow, absolutely still as she tenderly wiped the tears from his eyes with her fingers, completely disregarding the salty droplets that were slipping down her own.

Overcome, Angel suddenly understood. His world tilted, slipped, and he encountered a reality he had only suspected, one he never dared voice because it had given him too much hope. Trembling fingers reached forward, touched the salty wetness on Cordelia’s skin.

“You loved Connor,” he said gruffly. “Like a mother loves a son.”

It wasn’t a question. There was no answer that was needed. There was only truth. There was only Cordelia. Her eyes closed, and together, they leaned foreheads on shoulders, slipped arms around waists, a tangled embrace of desperation and love.

Breathing her in, Angel heard her whisper even as he gave it.

“I’m sorry.”

Neither knew what they were apologizing for.

Perhaps, it was for everything. Perhaps it was for a future, perhaps for a past, but it didn’t matter.

All that mattered was now.

--

Wesley rather felt like the little pig Wilbur in that children’s book his mother had read to him so long ago.

Charlotte’s web. A pig, whose stomach was empty, and mind was full, watching over a spider. He remembered a passage in the book, where the pig discovered that the spider killed. The loss of innocence in Wilbur, as he cried, begged for Charlotte to release the flies.

She did so, even as she gave her last hours to save his own life.

Wesley managed a choked laugh, as he leaned forward, fingers carefully caressing Faith’s bruised hands.

The Slayer slept peacefully, for the first time in forever, he imagined. Too exhausted to have the dreams that had woken her up before, thrashing in his arms. Her eyes were closed, and she was breathing evenly. Her face was discolored, a gash on her lip and on her forehead was equally matched with the stitches that were carefully etched on her cheek.

Wesley was still, gentle as he reached up, brushed her hair away from her forehead. He was exhausted, but like Wilbur, his stomach was empty, and his mind was full.

He was still holding on to Faith’s hand when Angel stepped into the room. Wesley didn’t move, as the tense form lowered himself into the chair opposite his. Dark eyes glared into his blue, and Wesley found he could not look into Angel’s face.

The shame permeated him, weighed on him. He kept his gaze on Faith’s hands.

Angel was quiet, openly breathing, trying desperately to keep his control. Wesley breathed raggedly. It was obvious, in the way Angel’s hands shook as he folded Faith’s other palm in his own.

There was a moment of complete silence, before Angel slid his thumb against Faith’s skin, and glaring over her sleeping body, said low, angry, desperate. “Talk to me, Wesley. Tell me what happened. Make me understand.”

Wesley ached. “I don’t now if I can.”

“Try.”

Hooded eyes from a vampire stung him, and Wesley had no choice. Removing his glasses, clutching tightly to Faith’s hand, he did.

--

It was so weird, to wake up without a jerk, without a half sobbed cry caught in her throat.

There was no music. Instead, as her body became weighted with reality, and her body was stuck in some medicated limbo, there was complete silence. For a moment, fear pounding through her, as the past events flood through, and her heart skipped in her chest, fully expecting to find herself lashed to chair.

Bracing herself for whatever violence was necessary, Faith opened her eyes, hissed, and closed them immediately, as the bright glare of the hospital lights bit into her brain.

Shit. Trying again, she peered, and found herself in a bed. A curiously cold pair of fingers was stroking her left hand, and another, warmer, calloused pair, stroking her right.

It took her a full minute to convince herself she hadn’t gotten herself in the middle of a threesome again. The white door ten feet away was closed, and she noticed Angel (cold hands) , and Wesley (warm hands) sitting on either side of her, staring at each other.

Damn. If it wasn’t for the headache, and acute nausea, she would have made a smart ass comment by now. She closed her eyes, took a ragged breath, and tried anyway.

“You guys look like you belong in some stupid stand off at the O.K. Coral.”

Okay, lame. But worth a shot. It at least got their attention, eased the tension someone, when both men turned their heads, discovering her.

“Faith.” Wesley squeezed, his voice rough and emotional. “How are you feeling?”

She flinched, pain searing up her arms, and on her face, on her torso. Pretty much everywhere.

“Scared,” she said softly. “But…” she shifted, felt the pain flare, but… not as bad. Not torturing, at least. “Getting better.”

Her hand instinctively tightened around his, fingers soft against him, squeezing with a force that was… stronger, some how.

“The doctors got that stuff they injected out of you. You’re healing faster, you’ll get your strength back,” Angel said, his voice tight. Faith turned, regarded the vampire, and then the Watcher, both holding her hands as if she was some barrier between them.

Fuck. Maybe she was. Breathing out raggedly, Faith turned to Angel, and gave him a smile. “Hey, Angel.”

He managed a tight smile, genuine warmth in his eyes as he regarded her, thumbing along her cheek tenderly before drawing back. The haunted sadness of his eyes wasn’t lost on Faith, and neither was the trembling in Wesley’s palm.

Paranoia gave way to her weakness, and she found herself swallowing hard, thickly asking a question that she almost didn’t want to know the answer to. “Cordelia-“

“She’s fine,” Wesley said, and relief like she had never known it, flooded through her, so deep and consuming, she damn near cried.

“Good to know,” she managed.

The silence that followed was an awkward one. Faith’s vision was impaired, as her left eye was still semi swollen, heavy lidded. She regarded him as well as she could. There was an uncertainty now, and it filled her with an uneasy nausea.

Angel sat in silence, and suddenly, after another glance at Wesley, he stood abruptly. “I’m going to check on Cordelia,” he announced.

Faith watched him go, caught sight of a blue uniform in the hallway, as he closed the door behind him. Bewildered, Faith closed her eyes, trying hard to understand, to recollect. She had a headache, and her mind felt splintered, but her body remembered, in her aches and pains, in her gashes, now covered up by bandages and compresses.

She still felt naked. The pressure on her hand increased, and Faith was made aware of Wesley again, as the young man stared blankly at the white sheet.

“Wesley.”

He glanced up at her, and it struck her, the sorrow, full of unbridled intensity in his blue, blue eyes. It was guilt, of the magnitude she had seen reflected in her own, in Angel’s dark orbs.

It was odd, standing on this side of the fence, to stare, to understand.

Her voice was soft, weak, as she asked, “Did you really do that, Wes? Take Angel’s son?” He froze, continued to stare at her as if he hadn’t heard the question. Faith stared at him frankly, and when he looked away, uncomfortable, her stomach dropped.

Fuck, was it over? All the trust, and all the sharing, and the holding – was it over? Just because she wasn’t gonna die anymore? Her eyes flickered toward the doorway, heart hammering in sudden fear. Was it over?

Her eyes closed, no longer curious about Wesley’s misfortunes, chest panting as her mind began to whirl with possibilities.

“It’s true.” The world stopped turned, slowly tilted, came back. She opened her eyes. Wesley was silent only for a minute, dark blue eyes moistened with tears. “It’s all true.”

She glanced at the door. It was as if Angel could barely look at Wes. “Why?” His hands shook, and when his mouth opened feebly to explain, she suddenly didn’t need the explanation anymore, not it if hurt him that bad.

“Forget it,” she said hastily. “You must have had a reason.”

He stared, startled, and his mouth closed for one quick swallow. “Thank you,” he said gruffly. Leaning back in his chair, Faith was completely still as his fingers opened her palm, traced the lines found there. “It’s a long story,” he said. “But we’ve reached an understanding.”

It was hard to speak. She was healing quickly, but her lower lip was still a mess, but her sarcastic nature won over the pain, and she blurted, “He’s not going to kill you?”

Shit, Faith. Cause THAT wasn’t callous and idiotic. But Wesley surprised her, he had been doing that a lot lately. He only gave her a dark, searching gaze, and smiled wanly. “Something like that. A thing like I did, it can not be forgotten.”

Didn’t she know it. She remembered every day. Again, the quiet descended, as her eyes fell on his hands. Forgotten, human nature… Mr. Pryce continued to swirl in her head, and her heart shuddered within her, painfully, as a dark, low feeling settled into her stomach.

Oh, God.

She began to breathe harder now, fighting for control, as her fingers tightened around his, and she licked her lips, eyes wide. “Wesley.” She tried so hard to sound like she didn’t care, but her words edged in aching need, in fear. “Do you believe what your …” she tripped on the word, flushed over it. It was Wesley’s FATHER. “Father said… about the prophecy… and me… That I’ll be evil?”

Everything that had ever meant anything in her world hinged on what he would say to her. She kept her gaze on those blue eyes, drowned herself in them, hanging on a precipice that wasn’t healthy, wasn’t safe.

Safe. A safe place. In her world of torture, her safe place had been him. And fuck, if that wasn’t Freudian, she had no idea what was. She wasn’t safe anymore, as her hand clutched his, in a grip that was rapidly becoming painful. Her chest rose and fell, as Wesley stared at her, and she found herself trembling.

Cause Wesley knew about these things. Wesley knew her. And if Wesley believed… there wasn’t anything. There wasn’t anything at all –

“Faith.” His voice was heavy, laden with guilt and anger, and so many things she couldn’t possibly understand. He was in a whole new world, from a place that she had never known. The glasses glinted, and this time, when he tried to remove them, her hand moved, held them into place. She knew why he did that, and she wanted him to see her when he said it.

“Prophecies,” he mumbled, a heavy sigh drifting over his body, as he ran a rough hand over an unkept face. “Prophecies.” His eyes closed, and he was still, before he looked up, and said gravely, but firmly, “Fuck prophecies, Faith. Believe in choices. In free will.”

The words seemed unbelievable at first, but they worked their way through her, and the dam that had been building in side of her, a torrent of emotions hinging on this man, suddenly flooded, breaking through. A sob, mingled with a hysterical laugh of relief, and overwhelmed with emotion, Faith leaned forward impulsively, ignoring painful swollen wounds to press her lips once, hard, against Wesley’s.

Her eyes drifted closed when his head tilted, frozen in shock, and then softening, opening his mouth to welcome the caress. His calloused thumb stroked her cheek, and a gentle slip of his tongue against hers made her gasp, fall weak against his caress.

When his lips drifted away, her eyes opened, shock filtering her system as he stared at her.

“Do me a favor,” she whispered.

He blinked, wonder in his blue eyes, and she couldn’t blame him. This wasn’t exactly… hell, what the hell was going on? Were they like… gonna date or fuck or –

Oh hell, who the fuck cared.

“Yes?” he asked.

“Scratch my nose.” He blinked, and she managed a smile, husky voice tinged with laughter. “You won’t let me move my hand, Wes. And I’m itching like crazy.”

A moment of blank shock was ended when Wesley did as she asked, scratching at her nose delicately, and never letting her hand go. Faith gazed at him, and then at the door, her heart tremoring once more. “When are they gonna take me back?”

His hesistant smile gave way to uneasiness, and his answer was heavy. “When you can move freely. Couple days or so.”

Jail. Again. Figured she’d get carted back to jail, the moment she finally felt just a little bit free.

“Okay,” she said thickly, swallowing hard. Her eyes opened, and she couldn’t help but ask, and nervous as hell as she did it, “How long will you stay?”

“I bloody live in this hospital, Faith.”

The blue eyes had never been more mesmerizing, and Faith wondered how she had never noticed it before, as her eyes closed, exhaustion taking over.

He never did let go of her hand, and Faith was just fine with that. Cause Wesley believed in choices, not prophecies, and he was choosing to stay right here.

It was the choosing that made all the difference.

It was the choosing that gave her hope.

--

end chapter

--

Chapter Twelve – Epilogue

I still don't know what I was waiting for, And my time was running wild

A million dead-end streets

Every time I thought I'd got it made, it seemed the taste was not so sweet

So I turned myself to face me, but I've never caught a glimpse

Of how the others must see the faker, I'm much too fast to take that test

- David Bowie

--

Faith walked into her room wearing a really ugly, blue jumpsuit.

Cordelia clucked her tongue, overwhelmed by so many faux paus on one person. And on FAITH. The girl had potential. Sure, she dressed like the dominatrix from hell, and a slut-o-rama, half the time, but Faith wore leather pants. And got away with it.

That was a HELL of a BIG DEAL.

And here she was in, this… ugly. Blue. Jumpsuit.

“I don’t even know where to begin,” Cordelia remarked flippantly, sitting up with a wince, hand over her abdomen. “Love the handcuffs.”

“If I could, I’d flick you off,” Faith said, leaning in the doorway.

“Right. Cause you haven’t done THAT before.”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“Again, the déjà vu is just so overwhelming,” Cordelia muttered.

“Why are you always such a bitch?” Faith asked, pushing off the doorway, and into her room.

“Must be the company.” And God help her, Cordelia couldn’t help but suppress the huge grin on her face as Faith, hand cuffs and all, settled on the side of her bed. The two women regarded each other, silence falling as the bullshit was moved aside for a moment. Just one. “You look good, Faith,” Cordelia said finally, indicating the fading bruises, the healed lip.

“And you look like shit,” Faith remarked, ignoring Cordelia’s rolling eyes to add, “But, healthy.”

“So you’re out,” Cordelia said. Faith looked down at her handcuffs, and shrugged, smirk fading.

“Yeah.” There was a pause. “You?”

“Observation. They think I’ve got some blood disease. And I insist I’m fine, but I can’t really, you know TELL them, that the reason my blood’s weird is because I’m all demon-y. Morons.”

Faith’s lips pulled into a smirk, before she shifted uneasily, the clanking of the handcuffs audible and loud. Cordelia grinned. “Wesley give you his pair?”

“No,” Faith said defensively, red coloring her cheeks as she turned, hiding the absurd grin with a scowl. “I hear your boyfriend’s dumb as a post.”

“You had a reason for coming? Or was it just to annoy the crap out of me with the oh-so-funky blue jumpsuit?”

“I wanted to thank you,” Faith finally said, breathing raggedly. “You know, for the whole saving-my-life-taking-a-bullet-for-me thing. Just… never really expected ANYONE to do that for me…” she let out a trembling sigh. “Thanks.”

Cordelia arched an eyebrow, but her eyes were twinkling as she responded. “That was hard as hell for you to say.” Before Faith could respond, she said, “If it helps, I tried to duck.”

“Whatever,” Faith said, shaking her head as she stood.

“Faith.” The Slayer paused, turned around, and found the Seer smiling at her sincerely. “You’re welcome. I’m glad you’re okay. And that you’re not evil.”

Faith grabbed a pillow from the nearby bed and chucked it at her, laughing as Angel opened the door, staring between them as if both had grown second heads.

“Faith was just leaving,” Cordelia said, stuffing the pillow under her back, smiling innocently. The vampire still looked suspicious, but Faith turned, and he allowed a smile as Faith gave him an awkward hug.

“Take care, retard,” she said warmly. “Good luck…” she flushed, “You know… with the Connor thing. I’ll… you know, even pray and shit. If it helps.”

The sincerity in her voice was heartwarming, and Cordelia had to smile in spite of herself as Angel hugged her back. “It does,” he said gruffly. “We’ll see you soon.”

“Okay.” Taking a ragged step back, Faith turned to the doorway, where her two female butch officers were waiting, and found instead, Wesley.

Cordelia was silent, Angel sinking down beside her as Faith turned to him, caught in a gaze that was hungry, intense, longing.

For a moment, Cordelia’s heart ached for them.

She didn’t know what she was expecting, but not the bittersweet challenge in Faith’s voice, as she asked Wesley simply, “You still believe in prophecies, Wes?”

There was absolute quiet in the room, before Wesley slowly shook his head, and took another step in the room. “No. I believe in people.”

For two seconds, he kissed her, a gentle caress, before he pulled back, brushed a lock of wild hair from Faith’s face, and stepped back. “I’ll see you in a week.”

Faith managed a smile, even as the officers stepped into the room, and placed their hands on her elbows.

“Bring cigarettes,” she said. “Like fucking gold in there.”

And just like that, Faith left the hospital room.

--

“You know, I’m wondering if this is starting to become some sort of conspiracy to keep me out of the loop.”

Charles glanced up, leaning on his broomstick, glancing at the kneeling Fred as Lorne, a big apron tied around his middle, frowned at the charred pieces of wood, throwing them glumly into a bag.

“What do you mean?” Fred asked curiously.

“I’m always knocked out or out when things happen.”

“Yeah, dog, where WERE you?” Charles asked, resuming the sweep across Angel’s room, using broad strokes. Fred gave him a stare, and he stared right back. He still did not subscribe to the theory the softer the stroke the cleaner the floor. A broom sweep, was a broom sweep. “Cause you know, we could have used your help.”

When Lorne didn’t answer, Fred sat up, suddenly distracted by the way the green demon slumped down into a chair, shrugging. “Doesn’t matter, anyway.” Fred and Gunn continued to stare blankly. “I was trying to get a connection to the Powers,” he admitted finally. “Figured it was worth a shot.”

Oh, Lorne. Sweet, wonderful, green Lorne. Fred felt her heart skip in hopeful anticipation, but Lorne’s face didn’t change, and the hope died as soon as it came. “Nothing?” she asked softly.

He shook his head. “Not even a peep.”

Her heart sank, and Fred felt her insides tremor, catching Gunn’s dark eyes for a moment, before looking away. In the silence, she began to paw through the ashes, and froze.

“Oh, God,” she whispered. Lorne and Gunn paused, as Fred lifted up a small, grey and green charred jersey with trembling fingertips. Her breath hitched, and she laid it on a nearby chair, smoothing it out delicately, fingering the letters. “It’s over, isn’t it?” she smoke with a tremoring voice, despair in her tone. “Nothing will ever be the same again.”

Oh, God. With the realization came an outpouring of emotion, and Fred smothered her face with her hands, suddenly overwhelmed with the reality of their situation. In a second, large hands were pulling hers away, and she was forced to see a gentle face staring down at her, carefully gathering her into him.

“Hey,” Gunn said softly. “Listen girl, I ain’t going anywhere, okay? That’s one thing that will never change.”

There was such conviction in his voice, such a need to make things better in his eyes, in a way that only Gunn could, that Fred couldn’t help but love him for it. Her fingers gently pressed against his cheek, and she smiled, slightly. “I know,” she answered softly.

When they turned to Lorne, he was staring at them with an odd expression on his face. It was unreadable, and Fred had no idea what he was thinking, until he carefully stood.

“Are you prepared to become rocks?” he asked finally. “Because, it’s not over. Not by a long shot.”

It was a question that she knew the answer to immediately.

“No,” she said, her tone wavering. “I’m not.” Lorne swallowed, and she took a breath, continuing, “But I can be one of those bridge things that sway a lot, but never actually fall.” The answer made Lorne smile, and Gunn’s arms wrapped around her, and Fred knew the promise that she made was binding.

Letting Gunn go, she knelt down again, grabbing the shirt and carefully folding it.

“We’re going to be okay,” she said raggedly. “’Cause we’ve got the mission, and we’ve got each other.”

Her fingers smoothed over the charred material, heart shuddering.

That was all they had, now.

--

The lights over the city seemed different somehow. Darker, colder. Angel smoothed his hand over the railing of his balcony, and felt the wind drift over him, ruffle his hair. Cars honked, in the distance, someone yelled. Dogs barked.

People lived, down there. People, fodder for evil, and despair, human, who found their souls constantly in peril, who had children and lost them.

Humans.

He shuddered, clutching at the railing.

“Angel.”

The vampire’s demon gave a growl at the voice, and he swallowed, eyes on the world outside, as he clipped, “What.”

Wesley was silent behind him. “I don’t… Angel, I don’t know how I will ever-“

His eyes closed involuntarily, and he trembled, the aching in his heart splitting open. “Wesley,” he managed. “Stop. STOP. You were trying to save my son. It comes down to that. I understand that.”

There was a pause, genuine need in Wesley’s tone. “I know you can’t forgive me, Angel, not yet.”

Angel kept his eyes shut, and began to breathe, a human characteristic, one that came back with remarkable ease. “I’m good with grudges.”

That was all, there was nothing more to be said. Smell, sound, taste, told him Wesley had turned, was leaving.

“How’s Faith?”

An uncertain pause, a change in scent. Wonder, wary guilt mixed with the sorrow in Wesley.

“Doing well,” he answered politely. “Her strength is back, almost full strength. Her sentence won’t be increased by much, even after the escape.”

Angel stiffened, finally turning to gaze at the Watcher in the eyes. “How?”

“Her defense lawyers seem to care for once.”

Angel stared, and Wesley offered a grim smile, before nodding, and moving toward the door.

The darkness of the city called to him. Angel’s eyes closed, and he leaned against the balcony, breathing raggedly.

Breathing, in and out. He didn’t need it. But the oxygen in his lungs calmed him, filtering through a dead body, and again, the loneliness consumed him.

“Wes said you were up here.”

Angel’s eyes opened. A simple voice, flat and almost cheery.

Cordelia stood in his doorway, arms crossed. Slender arms leaned against the wood, and for once second, she dissolved into the woman she was the night of the ballet. Beautiful, warm, his.

His throat clogged, and turning away, Angel sighed, eyes fluttering closed. “I was looking for you,” she said, coming forward.

When she reached him, she leaned with him, forearm brushing forearm. He felt her heat even through the cloth of his shirt, her leather jacket. His hands tangled together, as he gazed upon his friend.

“Groo?”

“Downstairs,” she said dismissively. “I kinda wanted…” her words drifted off, and then picked up again, coming out in a rush. “I found this.” Angel felt something small and flat pressed into his palm, as she leaned against him, folding his fingers over it, stepping away.

Casting her a curious look, Angel then glanced down, unwrapping his hand to find a worn picture. It was a small photograph, taken recently. His aching heart suddenly remembered it, taken the morning after they had found the money. Fred had snuck in, taking it while they slept.

All three of them. Angel, Cordelia… and Connor.

His heart seared deeply within him, his hands trembled, but Cordelia anchored him, taking the photo and smoothing it out carefully, showing him a frame. “I wanted you to have it,” she said softly. Unsure, Angel watched as she slipped the photo into the frame, set it delicately on the balcony railing.

Angel’s eyes roved over the portrait. Warmth pressed into his side as she leaned her cheek on his shoulder, voice soft, gentle. “We should remember, you know? Keep the memories alive, and all that. That way, when we find Connor, we can tell him. I’m sure he’ll … you know, want to see that.”

God. Bittersweet anticipation swept over him. Cordelia’s voice was so sure of itself. She KNEW they were getting Connor back. There was no need to despair. He would be back.

She knew.

He leaned heavily against the railing, carefully fingered the faces in the photograph. It was a moment of silence, absolute trust, until Cordelia spoke.

“Right now, though, we should probably worry about the demon that’s going to be crashing the UCLA spirit rally.”

The words sunk in, slowly. Angel licked his lips, something in him, certainly not his dead heart, thumping as Cordelia stared at him. In her hazel orbs was absolute trust, love. Her half smile on her face held something that fascinated him, warmed him.

The trembling in his soul continued, as he glanced back at the humans in his city, and then at the picture of he, Cordelia, and Connor in bedtime bliss.

He looked up, and found Cordelia still there, leaning against the railing, much like she did three years ago.

And suddenly, something shifted into place. It wasn’t an epiphany, but it was close, as he spoke quietly, for the first time.

“Feel like taking in a little college atmosphere?”

Cordelia’s eyes sparkled, her mouth parted and her beautiful face was filtered with disbelief, and then overwhelming relief as the words registered. On her face was such a mesmerizing smile, as she laughed, an aching, wonderful laugh of love and acceptance. She flew into his arms, and her embrace was intoxicating, the joy in her face enough to make him smile in return, hold on to his anchor. HIS anchor.

Cordelia’s own heart was beating so fast, as she clutched onto her big, undead hero. Her embrace was desperate, and she had never felt more complete, more relieved, than the moment he had accepted his mission. THIS was her Angel, the Angel she had been so afraid to lose, and her eyes closed, breathing his scent, impulsively turning her cheek against his and pressing her lips on that spot.

Her lips lingered, as her heart shuddered, her body stilled, heart hammering against his still chest. Eyes closed as her lips skimmed over his cheekbone, and when his head tilted, her mouth welcomed his, buried into his embrace for a long, lazy, caress.

Shuddering, Cordelia’s lips sought entrance into his, in a move that seemed so easy, too easy, as if she had done it for years, fingers sliding up to bury into the nape of his neck, pulling him closer.

Her friend. Her lover. Her companion.

The break for reality came with her need to breathe, as Cordelia’s mouth moved from his, pulling back, and found her hands spread across his chest, his arms wrapped around her waist. Her lips stung, swollen from a long, consuming kiss. Confused, shocked at what had happened, Cordelia stared into his face, hoping to find an explanation.

What she found, was love. Her heart skipped with it, her soul sang with it, and her mind screamed with complete fear from it.

It was a long silence, until a confused, “Princess?” broke her from the spell. Slowly, Cordelia tore her eyes from Angel’s, and found the Groosalug standing uncertainly in the doorway.

Licking her lips, her hands clenched at her best friend, as she stared back at him, mouth dropping, and then back at Groo, and then, at the picture.

Clarity came with a single glance.

“Oh, crap.”

--

“He says the appeals are going okay. At this rate, I’ll be out in a year.”

The husky voice was cheapened by the phone, but the news made him smile. Across the glass, the beautiful face, with yellowed and fading bruises on her face, smiled back.

“You look like you could be okay with that,” she said, leaning her chin on her hand, gazing at him.

Wesley hated the glass. His gaze was full of warmth, staring at a past that had been horrific, a future that was even more uncertain, and a present that was at this moment, a bright spot.

”I could be okay with that,” he admitted. Her face flushed, and Faith, who looked uncharacteristically nervous, shuffled in her chair, pushing her wild strands back behind her ear with her free hand.

“Just don’t make me stay with Cordelia, okay? We’ll kill each other in an hour.”

“You like each other more than you care to admit.”

“Well, yeah. She’s a bitch. I like bitches. I am a bitch. We go good together.” He couldn’t help but smile at the shrug that accompanied the statement.

Opening his satchel, he pulled out a carton of Marlboroughs, and a small book. “I thought we’d take things slowly.”

“Hold that up.” He did, patient as Faith studied it. “Charlotte’s Web? It’s that for, like, bratty kids?”

“Yes.”

When his eyes twinkled, she slumped back, shaking her head. “Fuck you, Wes.”

“You don’t want it?”

“Hell yeah, I want it. I must have read everything in that library. And seriously – you can only read freaking Monica Lewinsky’s bio so many times before you start to go a little nuts.”

“I see.”

“So how’re things, Wes?” Faith asked, gnawing on her lower lip as her brown eyes darkened in concern.

He swallowed. “I’m not sure,” he answered honestly. “Quiet.”

“Oh.”

The silence descended, and Wesley tilted his head. “Perhaps the worst is over?”

Faith, who until then had been inspecting her fingernails, gazed at him. A sudden, tight smile slid over her face, and she shrugged.

“Maybe. Maybe, we’re getting lucky for once.”

--

Lilah Morgan was having a very bad day. Her day planner was filled with appointments, and all of them involved some sort of sacrifice, or signature in blood. Her fingertips were sore enough. Rubbing at them, she considered making her assistant take over with the pinpricks.

Glancing up, she waited as he finished his report. Eloquent, familiar looking man. Her eyes scanned over the documents, silently reading. Papers upon papers of conclusive material. Impressive. She had heard of the group, had never really taken them seriously. Relics, she considered them – it wasn’t as if the Slayers around paid them much attention.

Apparently, they were trying to rectify that.

Sighing, she tossed the pile onto the desk, leaned back carelessly in her leather chair, and gave him an even stare.

“Why should I care?”

“Someone needs to exterminate that woman. Wolfram and Hart have the resources.”

She managed a smile. “But you said she’ll be a catalyst for evil, didn’t you? Shouldn’t that make her an asset to us? We are evil, you do know that?” she remarked coolly, leaning forward, hands together on her desk.

He arched an eyebrow, pulling off his glasses and giving them a meticulous wipe. “The prophecies indicate only that she will be a major catalyst. Who’s to say she will not sway toward the side of the good?”

Lilah shook her head. He had her there. “May I ask, Mr. Pryce, why you are so intent on taking out a Slayer, who, from the last few reports, I’ve gotten, is pretty close to boning your son?”

That got a reaction. He stiffened, got a little red-faced, but recovered. A man with class. “I have a job. I swore to take this woman out. And I will follow it through.”

She pursed her lips. “So… the fact you can’t stand the sight of her, or the vampire who your son happens to work for doesn’t have a thing to do with this?”

He managed a tight smile. “Perhaps a little something.”

“And the fact that you’ve just been relieved of your position thanks to this girl SERIOUSLY not getting dead, nothing to do with it, either?” His smile faltered, and she grinned. “I told you. My company rocks.”

He breathed out slowly. “I don’t want my son harmed.”

She pushed the manila folder toward him. “We know all about your prophecy, Mr. Pryce. We’ve been following it for years. We’ve had our own dealings with Faith. And you’re right – who’s to say it won’t go either way with her? What you’re neglecting to understand, is that the role of the vampire, the Slayer, and your son are all intertwined. There can’t be one without the other. Angel Investigations has been a thorn in our side, for years. But there’s a balance, see. Angel has his own anchor, just like your son is quickly emerging as one for the Slayer. What YOUR manuscript is missing, is that these Champions,” Lilah produced a photo of Faith, and dropped it next to an 8 x 10 glossy of Angel, “Will be on opposite sides. And their anchors, will be decimated.” His eyes remained cold, impassive. “Ah,” she said. “So you DO know that?”

“I don’t want my son harmed,” he clipped.

She smiled. “What if it’s not Faith? What if Angel’s the evil one? It could happen. It’s a fifty/fifty chance.”

“If Faith dies, my son is no longer an anchor.”

Lilah shook her head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Pryce. I feel for you, I really do. Okay, I don’t, but the plan is already in motion. Prophecies are tricky things to manipulate. We’ve been at the business for years. We don’t need your help.”

The doors opened, and guards came forward. “Good-bye, Mr. Pryce, have a nice trip back to London. Say hello to your son for me.”

Mr. Pryce’s eyes blazed, but Lilah had already forgotten him, as the phone rang, and she picked it up with a crisp, “Hello?”

“Got the appeal hearing – keeps going this way, we’ll have her out in six months. Provided you can pony up the money and turn in that serial killer you represent.”

Lilah smiled. “Not a problem. He was becoming more a liability than anything. Bye.”

Hanging up the phone, Lilah Morgan gave herself to breathe, let her mind rest from the complicated worlds of what-if’s, and manipulation.

Sighing, she rubbed at her head, made a mental appointment to schedule sometime with her masseuse.

Prophecies really were a bitch.

--

You've torn your dress, your face is a mess

You can't get enough, but enough ain't the test

You've got your transmission and your live wire

You got your cue line and a handful of ludes

You wanna be there when they count up the dudes

And I love your dress

You're a juvenile success

Because your face is a mess

So how could they know?

I said, how could they know?

So what you wanna know

Calamity's child, where'd you wanna go?

What can I do for you? Looks like you've been there too

'Cause you've torn your dress

And your face is a mess

Oh, your face is a mess

Oh, oh, so how could they know?

Rebel Rebel, you've torn your dress

Rebel Rebel, your face is a mess

Rebel Rebel, how could they know?

Hot tramp, I love you so - David Bowie

FIN

--

"The end is not coming. Someone is always uncovering some ancient scroll, and they're always saying the same thing: that something terrible is coming. Do you know how many of these things I've seen in my very long life?"

"Four?"

“Three. But there's nothing to worry about."

Angel and Cordelia – Offspring

--