Title: Rebel, Rebel
Author: Misty Flores
Email: mistiec_flores@yahoo.com
Rating: Hard R for violence, some sexual situations.
Teaser: When the Watcher's Council comes after Faith, Angel Investigations must pull from the chaos they've become embroiled in to save the renegade Slayer, and Wesley must face a past that has become more haunting than ever.
Archive: http://www.stoic-simplicity.net/imperfect
Spoilers: Sleep Tight
Genre: Action/Drama – General ensemble
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Notes – Now, I can finally read Syn's Running For Our Lives. I couldn't before, because, of well, obvious reasons. I swear, Syn: I started this before I knew of your story! :-D *runs off to read Syn's story*

Additional Notes: Done – but posting only a few chapters a day, again, so as not to overwhelm. No, it's not torture. I swear.

Special Thanks To – the readers of 'How to Date'. I doubt I've ever gotten such a great response out of anything I've written. It was gratifying and … heartwarming. Thank you.

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Chapter One
I finding my way back to sanity again, though I don't really know what I'm gonna do when I get there. – Lifehouse

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The incessant beeping tugged at his ears, slight pinpricks of pain that made his eyes flutter open. His pupils dilated, Wesley dared not move, as the bright lights of the fluorescent bulbs above him stabbed into his brain, forcing him to suck in his breath, shut his eyes tight against the unwanted light. With his eyes closed, he felt the weight of reality return, in the feeling of the cloth underneath his fingertips, the beeping that continued to grate his hearing, and the glaring pain that seared through his throat. Wesley attempted to swallow, but it was too painful, and it was the audible groan that ripped from his throat that made him realize he wasn't alone.

"Mr. Pryce. You're awake." He blinked his eyes open, this time making a point to do so slowly, and found a blurry version of a balding man in glasses, a clip board in his hands, staring down at him from the foot of the bed. Wesley stared, attempting to rise above the motion sickness that he seemed to be experiencing to figure out exactly what was going on.

The doctor - at least that was who Wesley assumed he was - picked up his wrist, placing pressure on his pulse point as he checked his watch, speaking crisply, "I wouldn't attempt to speak just yet, you've been through a rather painful experience. You're a lucky man, Mr. Pryce."

Somehow, Wesley didn't think that word correctly described the situation. He winced, trying to form words. "How-"

"You were found in a park, throat slashed, apparent victim of a robbery-"

The words were muted as the realization and memories flooded him at once. Justine - and Connor. Bloody hell, where the hell was CONNOR?!

"Woah - hold on there." Strong hands pushed him back onto the bed, holding him still. "Getting a little too frisky."

"He's awake." The familiar voice made Wesley pause, unable to see the face because of the doctor blocking his view.

"Yes, he is. And active." The doctor straightened, allowing Wesley a full view of a haggard version of his friend Charles Gunn, looking tired and wrinkled, holding a steaming coffee cup. Painted on his lips was a tired expression.

"How is he?" Charles locked eyes with Wesley once, before turning toward the doctor, his back to him now. The only thing Wesley could make out was that the cup of coffee seemed to be trembling.

The murmuring subsided, and both the doctor and Gunn turned back, before the man in the coat took up his clipboard, and nodded to the patient. "I'll have a nurse check his vitals. I see no problems, other than a few hours for observation."

Wesley was quiet when Charles was left with him alone. His beating heart continued to pound, thumping against his chest, and a thousand words were waiting to be said in answer to the accusing look in Gunn's face, but Wesley could not voice one.

Charles stayed a good ten feet away, moving to the other side of the room, settling into a chair, and placing the coffee cup on the dresser nearest him. "Angel doesn't know I'm here," he said finally. "And I think it'd be better if he doesn't smell you on me, now. He ain't too happy with you, and…" Gunn trailed off.

Wesley closed his eyes against the wave of pain. "Gunn…" he began in a ragged, throaty whisper.

"I want answers, Wes." The voice was harsh, angry, and Wesley found his throat closing. Blue eyes opened, encountered a hurt and angry expression. "I want to know why you - you could have TOLD us - Connor's GONE man, he's GONE. So give me some fucking answers."

Wesley closed his eyes again, suddenly no longer able to face him. He had no answers. He had nothing now. Gunn waited, minutes, months, years, Wesley wasn't sure. They stayed that way, in silence, until the sound of the empty coffee cup hit the trash bin and Wesley's eyes opened to find Gunn's form walking out. His eyes closed again, and suddenly nothing seemed to matter anymore.

--

"Connor is gone."

Cordelia wondered just how many times she would have to repeat it to herself in order to make it seem real. Even now, her heart pounding, body trembling and her head ringing, as she stared up at the steps of the Hyperion, she kept the words as a mantra, words that continued to haunt her broken heart.

Oh, God…

Cordelia took another step forward, and another, dreading each step that would bring her closer to reality, to the truth – in all its damning glory. It was all very simple, very black and white: Cordelia was off boffing the daylights out of her beautiful, sweet hero, and while she was gone, every single thing she cared about had gone to complete hell.

Nice, Cordy, REAL heroic. Not at all like typical you.

Hazel eyes flooded with tears, and she bit them back, swallowing down the moisture as she placed her hand on the doorknob, trying to gather her strength to face it all. Her mind whirled, as Cordelia thought of Angel, of Fred and Gunn and Wesley, and lastly of Connor. Her empty heart gave just a little, as she twisted the knob and pushed open the door, steps clicking into the Hyperion Lobby.

It was silent, and she was in no mood to announce herself, as she walked forward, chest constricting slightly with turmoil, the need to see Angel suddenly overwhelming every other impulse.

It was Fred, whom she saw first, the young physicist with blow dried strands of mahogany cascading over her shoulder, straightening from behind the counter, eyes drifting curiously, immediately locking with hers.

It took only a second for Fred to get over her shock, the hopeful face crumbling into something akin to despair as she twisted around the counter and launched herself into Cordelia's arms. The Seer's eyes closed involuntarily, clutching at the taller woman in a desperate hug, as Fred sobbed quietly; strong, resolved face breaking in the presence of the person she deemed stronger.

Cordelia's eyes stung, and her hollowed heart trembled, but she refused to be beaten by her fear or her sadness. If she broke down now, she had no idea how she could stop, so she took in a hiccup and a sob, and let Fred pour out her emotions. Fred deserved it, much more than she did.

Connor…

Cordelia gave a short whimper, catching it as Fred pulled back, watching her with marvelous, sparkling eyes.

"It's good to see you," she said softly.

Cordelia's soft smile froze, but she only delicately smoothed Fred's longer hair over her shoulder in a gentle caress, and asked simply, "Where is he?"

Fred nodded toward the stairs. It was all Cordelia needed. As she moved toward the stairs, she was met with Lorne, the green skinned demon staring at her with eyes burning with sorrow.

Suddenly afraid to look, terrified that she would see the blame in his eyes that was so justly deserved, Cordelia stared. But Lorne only managed a tired smile, a shake of his head that made her eyes water, and she pressed her hand into his shoulder, before moving past him, up the stairs.

At the foot of the staircase, her steps faltered once again, her courage, what little she had, once again shriveled.

Who the hell did she think she was, anyway?

Heartbreak sieved through her system, as worry and anxious fear gave her the strength she needed, curling a hand around the doorknob and pushing open. She knew better than most that Angel did not need human frivolities, and so instead of saying she was here, she let her eyes wander across the room, taking in its state through blurred tears.

It only took a second to understand exactly what had happened in this room. Charred wood cluttered it, a baby crib was torn in shreds, and broken toys and ripped toddler's clothes were strewn around the room, evidence of a violent outburst.

"Angel…" The breathless whisper came out before she could stop it, as she walked further into this room, pushing back the flashes that abounded now.

Connor sleeping soundly in his crib. Angel in his tuxedo. Lorne with a book of nursery rhymes.

"Get out."

The words startled her, pulling her from her thoughts, hazel eyes immediately zeroing in on the figure previously hidden in the shadows.

"Angel…" Her voice broke, head tilting as she ventured forward, and this time he turned, caught her form with a strong, predatory gaze. It made her stop, as his mouth parted slightly. Rising from his haunches, he gave her a thorough glance, an almost hungry quality to it. Cordelia let her arms fall to her sides, half hoping he would rush into her arms, allow her to hold him, and perhaps maybe then, she could sob, understand all the anger that was flowing through her now.

But, no… that would have been too easy, wouldn't it?

Angel blinked away her image, closed his eyes, and sank back down on the floor, shutting her out, making her achingly aware of everything that had changed.

"What are you doing here?"

That last thing she wanted was to give explanations, and so she merely shook her head slightly, eyes once again moving over the room, and little Connor flashed through her brain, white hot flashes that seemed more painful than any vision she had encountered.

She used to be able to say anything that came to her mind. Before, she could open her mouth and say even the worst possible thing, and she could have made him smile. But, everything was different now, and it was tangible, even in the way he stared at her with dead eyes, a man who had lost his son – his miracle, his hope.

Oh, Angel.

"Get out, Cordelia."

She stepped forward, heedless of his warning, and her tears began to trickle down her face, as she knelt before him, palm hesitating as it rested on his arm.

He jerked away from her touch as if burned.

"Angel."

"Get out." The words were forced, and angry. Cordelia froze as he looked up, yellow glazed eyes crazed with grief, anger, and … something else. It was the last emotion that made her stand, making her completely aware that she was the last person on earth that could help him now.

The look had been accusatory, and she didn't blame him for it at all. Another day, another world, she would have been furious, she would have pushed and prodded, and maybe she really was the selfish little rich girl from Sunnydale – maybe she had never changed at all.

Because Cordelia, too ashamed to face him, turned away from Angel, walked away from the room, and only when she closed the door behind her, did she allow the tears to fall.

--

Charles was tired as he walked into the lobby, hands shoved into the pockets of his old jeans jacket. It had been a long ass day, and when he caught Fred's half smile, he wondered if there was anything to really smile over.

Fred rounded the counter, slipped into his arms, a trembling waif of a girl that he cared for beyond life itself, and despite the hell that their lives had become, he found a small smile drifting on his face, as fingers caressed her soft brown strands, drifted down the spine of her back.

"Hey, baby girl."

She pulled back, hands clenching his forearms. Lorne came forward, both expressions intense as they studied him. "How is he?"

"He's getting checked out today," he said in a low voice, making sure to keep an eye on the stairs. "But he wouldn't tell me anything."

Fred swallowed, looking away, confliction clear on her face as she exchanged glances with Lorne. Gunn stared at the demon.

"You read him, didn't you? Couldn't you tell why the hell he did what he did?"

"I didn't have much time to really sift, sweetie," Lorne answered, eyes flashing slightly at the accusatory tone. "Before Wesley tackled me like a first line man."

"He had to have had a reason," Fred said almost desperately, reminiscent of a conversation they must have had in one form or another, at least twenty times. "He got his throat SLIT-"

"What?"

Charles swiveled his gaze to the foot of the stairs, and found an eerily calm Cordelia staring at them, hazel eyes wide and startled.

"Cordelia," Gunn said, suddenly relieved, and not sure why. "Where's Groo?"

"He's not here," she said flatly, coming forward, offering no other explanation. Instead, she crossed her arms, and said with an almost frighteningly even tone, "What the hell is going on?"

--

Her daily routine was almost bordering on monotonous, now.

It came without thinking, from the moment her eyes opened, until the moment her eyes closed, she went through her motions, avoiding the women who caused trouble, barely talking to the ones she deemed annoying. Sometimes, she read. At eleven, an hour before lunch, she was in the corner of the courtyard, hefting weights that were much bigger than should have been normal for a girl of her size, sweating profusely. On her face was a big 'don't fuck with me' expression, and with very good reason.

Faith wanted a distraction, but at this moment, her mind was so damned frazzled, that anything that was the WRONG kind of distraction would have made her resort to some very bad habits, and Faith's habits, the ones she was trying to kick anyway, tended to be the 'maim and murder' type.

So she sat on the bench press, muscles burning, breath moving in and out, teeth clenching. At the last set, she collapsed against the bench, running fingers through her hair, pulling the sweat soaked tendrils away from her sticky face. Sitting up, she reached for her towel, moving from the bench, letting Debra, the chick with the chest hair, sit down in her place.

Walking around the courtyard, her mind continued to whirl. Faith, in an effort to try to gain some sense of stability, checked out the action around her. It was all the same. Mamie and her group of borne-again prison folk sat at one corner, waving their Bibles and professing all about the need to repent. On the other end was Jackie, with scars on her hands, her small, lithe figure glaring over the yard, attempting to find out who was messing with who, who would disturb her little power circuit. It was amazing, what a person could get used to in here. In a way, it was worse than the outside, when everyone in here was used to breaking the law, and used whatever means necessary to gain the power to make it through each day alive.

Faith wondered why she didn't crack, and had to give Angel more credit than he maybe deserved. Those visits of his worked wonders. And why the hell hadn't he come lately? Faith hitched in her breath, wiping at her body with the towel.

"Faith, right?"

The Slayer turned, suddenly face to face with Mamie, the older black woman smiling at her kindly, uniformed sleeves rolled up to reveal muscular biceps.

"What the hell do you want, Mamie?" Faith asked, irritation flooding her voice as she turned away. That was the last thing she fucking needed. Mamie, with her Bible thumping ways, trying again to convert her damned ass.

Mamie hesitated, coming forward, voice lowering. "Look… at the risk of sounding like a completely deluded-"

"Too late."

"Faith. I got my religion, I've got my Lord. You've got nothing."

Faith rolled her eyes, moving away. "Right."

"You're gonna need something, girl," Mamie's voice came louder. "Cause that's some dark crap you've got coming after you."

Faith froze, heart suddenly skipping a very audible beat. She whirled, voice dropping into a low, dangerous whisper, "What?"

"Just a feelin'," Mamie said, shrugging. "That you're gonna be tested, like you've never been tested before." Faith swallowed hard. "Look, it ain't none of my business, or nothing. But… I wanna pray for you."

The nervous chuckle escaped her before she could stop it, as Faith scoffed. "Right, whatever. Stay the hell away from me," she snarled, leaning in close to make sure Mamie got her point, before moving away.

"You're not alone, Faith," Mamie called after her. "But you sure as hell will feel like it."

Faith clenched her fists, but kept walking.

"I'm praying for you, anyway," was the last sentence.

Faith closed her eyes, took in a shuddering breath, as her eyes opened, and she looked around the courtyard. Suddenly, it seemed as if every eye was upon her, and every gaze was searing into her very soul. Too hot, and trembling, Faith turned back to the only pair of warm eyes in the place.

"You do that," she told Mamie haltingly.

--

The sunlight that drifted down over the front of the open hospital doors seemed wrong somehow.

Wesley winced, hand rising to his neck, pressing his palm against the stitches, digging into his pocket for the pills with his free hand. All expenses paid, courtesy of the benefits of Angel Investigations. Benefits, he realized, he most likely no longer had.

Wesley paused on the concrete. Former Watcher, he emerged from this place with nothing, not a ride home, not even a set of keys, no job, most likely, and no family.

No Connor. To even swallow would have caused more pain that he thought he could bear.

Well, Mr. Pryce, Wesley stared down the street. What now?

Hands in his pockets, he didn't move, had no idea what to do, until the decision was made for him.

Inches away from him, a black car pulled up to the front of the curve. Wesley was still, as the door swung open, and from the dark, a figure emerged.

"Hello, Wesley."

It only took an instant to recognize the face, but Wesley's throat parched, and he took a full step back.

Bloody hell.

End chapter one

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