This idea has been nagging ever since these two showed up in a previous fic, so I finally capitulated and here we are again!
As usual, all characters belong to Joss Whedon and the WB, no infringement intended.

WIP in the sense that I'm an obsessive editor.
Mature content to follow eventually, hence the lovely little M.
AU / post-AtS and BtVS endings.

Cheers!
Anna

It was the middle of South Dakota, Nebraska, Wyoming, whatever. The middle of nowhere looked the same everywhere. She finally pulled over to a truck stop past the highway, morning at nine o'clock, which wasn't too early for catcalls. Fuck off, thanks.

She downed the eggs and sausage though the guy she was sitting across smelled bad, looked worse. She listened to his story about a kid who drained the holy blood from a church congregation two towns over. Yeah that's pretty strange, she said without any tangible concern. It's always two towns over, since a year ago when it started. Almost caught up to he/she/it in June then got run out of town by a mob because she had lit the local church on fire. Thing still managed to get out and keep going; if nothing else it kept her mind off the past.

The gas station was dusty outside the truck stop, sun beating down like it was noon instead of nine. She put on her helmet against the wind that picked dirt up and messed it around in hair, eyes, clothes inside and out. Stood there for a minute, zipping up her jacket. Well, might as well visit the guy. She sure as hell wasn't getting any closer to the wild kid. Like you're not using the whole church thing as an excuse to haul your ass out there, she thought. She straddled the bike and gunned it west.


"He's not here?" Fuck, what a waste of stolen gas.

"I'm sorry, should he be?" The red-headed sleek receptionist fielded her in the steel lobby of the Stoddard & Lockner firm.

Question with a question, the bitch was already getting on her nerves. "So Wolfram and Hart, they move or what?"

The lady raised an eyebrow. "I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking about."

Oh yeah, that'll really work, she thought. Before she could shoot back a retort that would most likely involve a threat, a man spoke from behind her: "Relocated to New York, under new management."

Wesley, of all possible people, looking absurdly Oxford in a suit and tie. He was confused, frowning, and she felt like her eyes might've just popped out of their sockets.

"Wes?" Pause. "Okay, what the--"

They went to the chic bar across the street and the bartender frowned when she ordered a Miller. She couldn't stop staring at Wesley, like he dropped from the goddamn atmosphere or something. Basically did. They got a table in the back.

"Where's Angel. 'Cause last time I checked it was Wolfram and Hart over there, not asswipe the redhead."

He sighed like he had told the story before. "I don't know." Place fell to the ground, last he heard they were up against the senior partners and Angel managed to scrap out an escape to ... well, who knew. Senior partners sure didn't.

"Well, Jesus, what if he's dead or something?"

"No pun intended, right. Angel can handle himself. There's no use in looking for someone who doesn't want to be found, Faith."

She sighed, wishing Angel had at least agreed to give her a cell number. "Yeah, jackass is probably halfway to Tibet. So ... why are you still here?"

He smiled, a twist of the lips. "I died." Sipped his beer. "Funny thing about contracts with the devil, this walking dead situation. Rather takes the fun out of 'kill the lawyers'. Of course, now that they don't need me ... Well. It's shit."

She was weirded out for about a hour. After working in Sunnydale this wasn't the most surprising thing she'd ever heard. She gave him the number to her motel, hoped he wouldn't come over because the place is so cheap and hoped he would come over because it was good to see a familiar face.

He left Stoddard & Lockner early, going back to the nice high-rise condo they gave him. Thought about Faith, about Angel, Buffy. Fred. Someone else's life. Put the piece of paper with her number on fridge, under a plain magnet. Looked at it, made a cup of tea, looked at it again.

"I should have mentioned it earlier; I have a spare room, you're welcome to stay here."

He hit the alarm and rubbed his eyes, stretching his way into the kitchen. He stopped; someone's in the fridge. He's being robbed … of his ice cream? Faith, that's right. She glanced up as he opened the blinds on the panoramic windows.

"Morning sunshine. So who'd you have to kill to get this place?"

He didn't answer, flicking the television to CNN.

Faith began opening drawers in search of a spoon. "That was joke, you know."

"Very clever."

"Geez Wes, wake up on the wrong side of bed or what?" She reclined luxuriously onto the leather couch and changed the channel to Nickelodeon. Out of the corner of her eye she watched him pick a shirt and tie from his closet. "So, explain this dead lawyer thing to me one more time."

He winced as the bandages shifted over the wound that never healed. "Why don't you explain to me what exactly you're doing in Los Angeles? Aside from Angel, of course." He turned back to her, pulling the tie around to begin a knot.

Faith shrugged, licking the last melted drops of vanilla off her spoon. He pretended not to notice there's a woman stretched on his couch sucking a kitchen utensil. "Ok. Fine. Business, actually." She sat up. "I got a problem out in the Midwest; bitch of a vamp that keeps feeding off small-town churches. Figured I could use Angel's help on that sort of thing, right up his alley and all that."

"You asking for help. My God, the world really has changed," he muttered and checked his reflection, caught Faith's as well. She looked the same. "The Midwest. So you're not with Buffy anymore."

Faith scoffed. "No way, man. Sort of a loner. It's better that way."

Again the twist of a smile. "Yes, I suppose I can relate."

She leaned forward on the couch, studying him. "Wes? What the hell, are you going to work or something?"

He stopped midlift, portfolio case in hand. "Well yes, I was under that impression."

"I thought you said they didn't need you. You filing papers for the secretary?"

"Mergers and Acquisitions." She snorted and he set the case back down. "Oh I forgot, I meant to stay here and wait on you hand and foot."

Faith swore for a minute that he almost had that classic frustrated look meant for Giles, Buffy, Xander, or all three. She waved a hand around as if clearing the air. "All I'm sayin is, why waste your time hanging around here, Wes! Look. You and me. Roadtrip. Fight some vamp ass, it'll be just like, you know, old times and all that shit!" She flashed a smile at the rush of restless energy the thought gave her.

He quirked an eyebrow at that. "I don't seem to recall a version of Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid in our recent past. In fact, I believe the last time we met there was a murderous Angelus terrorizing the city. And the time before that, I had a lovely hour or so of torture. So forgive me for any lack of enthusiasm," he ground out, finding himself angry before he'd even had a coffee or breakfast. Damn.

She wasn't shut down that easily. "Yeah okay, I get it, I'm not your number one girl. But you really wanna stay here at this shitty job? I mean, you're … dead, or whatever, and this is what you want to do? Pretty goddamn lame, Wes." She gave it another minute or two of stony silence, then mumbled something at the floor.

He frowned. "What?"

"I said … And I could really use some help with this vamp. The body count is getting high. It's nothing I can't handle, but you know, backup."

She was asking him for help. Not Angel. A few years ago this would've been hysterically funny, he thought. He sighed, knowing he was about to make a terrible mistake for the umpteenth time. In fact, it'd make quite a nice theme for his entire life at this point. "Alright. I'll come. But just for a couple days."