I loved "Five by Five" and most of "Sanctuary" so much that I've decided to make a little series of the events that've transpired therein, and beyond. Unfortunately, Faith's little confession fouled up my universe, so let's pretend, just for this series, that Faith never was incarcerated, kay? =)
This one takes place before my story, "Torture." It's set during "Sanctuary" when Wesley's at the bar playing darts.
~~Sharp~~
The metal sunk into the cork, easing its way through layers fluidly, like glass cutting through skin. People talked somewhere behind him, distracting and annoying, and he wished they would just shut the hell up. He wanted to turn around and take aim. He wanted to throw hard and see blood spurt out of arms like little geysers.
He took another sip of beer…a most horrible drink, and thought about what he would do if she was strung up on the wall, her limbs stretched out for easy mutilation. What kind of knife would he use? Or would darts be just fine?
He would pound her face first. Faith was a nihilist; a black hole who didn't believe in anyone or anything. A black hole, period. She wouldn't feel it, not even if he twisted the knife into her stomach, scoring old wounds.
"He may be a ruffian, but he's already got a soul, and therefore, somewhere deep down inside, an urge to do what's right."
Did Faith have a soul? Did Faith still have a part of her, dead center, that was soft; that could hurt?
He came to realize that that was what annoyed him most. He'd wanted to make her mad when he was sitting on that chair, because the whole time he'd been there, he'd felt like it didn't make a difference to her one way or another. This was some sort of medical procedure to her—even a game.
He was just a dartboard to Faith.
"I just wanted you to know…" It was so unlike him to lose his cool. He'd suffered before. He knew what it meant, but Faith had cut into something vital when she'd cut into him. He wanted to hurt someone else so badly that his vision was beginning to blur.
Maybe that's why he kept missing the board.
What had she said?
Ah, yes: "Wesley's just for the hell of it."
What better way to get to Angel's core than by killing off one of his earnest little helpers?
And now he was carrying this new dart, made of glass and some drugs. All he had to do was stick her once—anywhere would do. He wondered if it would hurt, and if she'd laugh when he, of all people, got the better of her.
He could prove he was a real threat, with all the power of Angel or Buffy, or any one of the goddamn council members.
"This is revenge," a voice suddenly jarred his brain. The words were tense; under control, weren't they?
"For what? I thought you were happy with the way you are."
That was where it was. Faith was angry, he'd known that much, but how had he missed it that a gaping part of anger was for him, and him alone?
"If you'd been a better watcher…"
Revenge. On him. She'd wanted revenge on him because he *had* hit her where it counted. She was bleeding from the inside, and when Faith's blood ran, it poured out like fire. He couldn't do this.
He would tell Angel that it wasn't for her. Wesley didn't want her to know how well she'd exacted her revenge. They could both bleed silently inside now, and he wouldn't say a word.
He put the needle in his pocket, took the last dart between his fingers, and threw a quick bull's eye before leaving the room.