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
--
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 Two
He said 'Forgive me for what I've done there, 'cause I never meant the things I did. And give me something to believe in.' – Warrant

--

The trees along the setting sun gave off a brilliant hue in their tops, a greenish glow that tinged with orange along their leaves.

It was a beautiful sight, if one actually took the time to look. Wesley's eyes skimmed the treetops, and perhaps even a month ago, he would have stopped to admire the view, bask in its beauty. Now, his stomach was twisted into uncomfortable knots, and his throat ached. Perhaps it would have been bearable, had it not been for the incredible, unendurable tension in his heart.

"Your bill has been covered, then."

The words were almost thrown at him, and Wesley allowed them to register, barely. He crossed his arms, kept his unseeing gaze facing the window, letting the silence speak for him.

"Bloody hell don't understand why you're mad at me, boy. Usually a man demands a certain amount of respect, or have these Americans finally succeeded in robbing you of what little common sense you actually had?"

The sting sunk in, but he marveled at what little the words did to his already sunken demeanor. Again, he refused to answer.

"I suppose it's that throat," the driver responded, making a turn. Wesley didn't bother to ask how he knew exactly where to go. This man was thorough, rarely could Wesley make a move in his past without him knowing about it.

Who, what, when – every step of his life in an effort to ensure he would not be what he had lately become: a complete failure.

The car drifted to a stop, Wesley let out a sigh as the engine was cut, and silence seeped over the car. He supposed he was more angry, than curious, as he turned, gazed into the glittering hard eyes. "Why are you here?"

The older man, graying streaks attractively edging over his temples, gave him a soft glare. "Hasn't a man the right to see if his son is all right?" Wesley stared at his father, a clog in his throat acutely painful. It prompted him into action, fumbling with the door handle and stepping out of the rental. "Besides, it isn't as if you had anyone to take you home, is it, son? This is 'doing well'?"

Wesley slammed the car door closed, resting his hand against the warmed metal, closing his eyes. Bloody hell, why here? Why now?

"You aren't here to see me, Father," he answered finally, in a low, painful rasp, vibrations that made his stitches itch moving against his throat. "Nothing at all quite interested you, unless it involved the Council."

His father regarded him. "You never did understand the importance of your position," he answered gravely, a tone that seemed hesitant, soft. "Or of the Council. It forced us to make sacrifices, Boy. Choices-"

"And I've made mine," Wesley clipped, stepping away from the car. "Good-bye, Father."

Dark eyes flashed at the insolence, Wesley acknowledged that this must have been quite a surprise to his father, who expected complete obedience, and a 'sir' at the end of his sentence. In his early days, he would have been slapped for such a show of disrespect. The voice was scratchy when Wesley Wyndham Price the Third snapped, "So you've forgotten your family, then?"

Wesley took in a breath, and answered in a low voice, "I have no family."

Mr. Pryce, Senior, with flint black eyes, and a crooked mouth, stared at his son, the glare of disapproval clouded by the look of speculation.

Without another word he shifted the gear in the car, and immediately moved from the sidewalk, jerking off into the distance.

Wesley's shoulders were curiously slumped as he crossed the street, moving to his apartment.

--

Lorne moved up the stairs slowly, the added weight of the conflicted auras making each step slow, hard.

The green demon understood the mission, but quite often he never felt he understood the Powers, or the role they played. If they cared so much for good, why were the good forced to suffer?

Oh sure, he got the whole 'get your reward in heaven while the bad guys spend eternity in hell' bit, but what was so wrong with a little taste, just a small morsel that reminded you, exactly what you needed this so badly for?

Hands slipped into pockets, and Lorne, eying his dark blue ensemble in distaste, acknowledged that even he didn't feel like going with the bright colors this morning. And the fact that Cordelia, normally a harpy about his fashion choices, had not mentioned it showed exactly how far gone the little sexpot was.

Lorne believed in kyerumption, even if he knew that if Angel, or anyone else heard the word one more time, they would most likely slap him upside the head, and maybe even twist a horn or two. Perhaps he was turning into a butler in a comic book, but since he was the only one who talked anymore, maybe that was what was needed.

Pushing open the door to Angel's room, Lorne paused, took in the disarray, and found the vampire standing next to the closet, rifling through his clothes.

"You're up," he said, surprise flitting on his features, relief in his tone. "That's … good." Angel didn't respond, merely continued to dig through his clothes, finding a black sweater and yanking it out. Lorne's smile faltered. Letting out a breath, he came forward, stepping gingerly through the mess. "So, the Cordster's back, little hottie's downstairs."

"I know," came the clipped answer.

"Ah." Lorne stood still, watching as Angel tied the belt, buckled, reached for his leather jacket. "As far as I can remember, she was a good ear to vent to," he supplied helpfully.

He got a dark glance in response, as the vampire slammed the closet door shut, reaching down to pick up a teddy bear that he threw into the vacant crib.

Lorne, deciding the subtle approach wasn't working, went for the direct approach instead. Carefully, he began. "Angel, you're hurting – there's a big aching hole in that chest, I get that. But she might understand. She's your Seer, Angel – your link to the world. Talking to her, letting her in – maybe it'll help you move on."

That, however eloquently put, was precisely the wrong thing to say, apparently, because suddenly Lorne had a face full of pissed off vampire exactly two inches away, eyes flashing dangerously.

"I don't want to move on. I want to find out where Wesley is."

Oh, crap. Throat immediately parched, Lorne felt his left butt cheek constrict quickly, forcing him to take a step back. Why on earth did he keep forgetting that he was talking to damned vampire?

Angel took the step with him, grabbed his left arm in a grip that was pretty darn painful, and growled, low, in his throat.

"OWwwww. Angelcakes! That kinda-"

"Where the hell is WESLEY."

Lorne swallowed, wincing when the grip tightened. There was no doubt, judging from the half crazy look in Angel's eyes and the ever increasing pressure on his fragile arm, that Angel would hurt him if he didn't tell.

"He was released from the hospital today," Lorne finally managed, immediately relieved when the grip was lightened considerably.

Angel pushed him out of his way and strode out the door.

Lorne didn't realize he was sweating until he mopped the moisture from his forehead. Closing his eyes, he took another look around the room, found his gaze lingering on Connor's burnt crib.

Lorne shuddered.

--

Cordelia wondered that if she had a big remote control, and pointed it at Fred and Gunn, and rewound and replayed in slow motion, pausing in several different areas – would she then be able to understand what the hell went wrong?

How the hell – when the hell – what the hell –

She swallowed, fingers curling around the coffee mug and holding on tight, nearly shaking in her rage, and yet somehow managing to appear nothing more than just a little disturbed that Connor was gone and Angel was psycho-guy and Wesley became amateur kidnapper.

Thoughts whirling, she resisted the urge to look toward the stairs and turned back to Gunn and Fred, irrational anger sifting through her. How could they have NOT KNOWN!? HOW?!

Fred's fingers were clenched tightly in Gunn's, the young girl's head was resting on his broad shoulder, buried into his side. Cordelia closed her eyes. That was why. Swallowing, she remembered a vacation that seemed ages ago and was just yesterday, and her anger slid into despair.

"Where's Wesley?" she finally managed.

Fred and Gunn, young lovers, exchanged glances, before Gunn answered, rubbing at his bald head nervously. "Wes was getting released at that hospital near his house this afternoon. I tried to talk to him, but the dude wasn't saying anything."

Immediately, Cordelia launched up, forgetting her resolve to keep her hands on the coffee cup and consequently, spilling the hot liquid all over her fingers. She hissed, placing two digits in her mouth for only a second, before she moved to the coat rack, grabbing the jacket that hung there.

"Cordelia? Where are you going?"

"Where do you think?" she snapped, pulling on her jacket. "I'm going to talk to Wesley, and he's going to tell me what the HELL he was ON when he took Connor."

Fred's voice was quiet. "Cordelia, we don't know the whole story. Wesley was looking kinda haggard when we saw him this week, maybe-"

"Well, we damned well better GET the whole story, don't you think?" Cordelia whirled, causing Fred to shrink back under the flashing hazel eyes. Cordelia didn't even stop to ponder on how she could STILL intimidate the hell out of a girl who had stood up even to Angel. Instead her mouth parted and words that had been pent up tumbled out in one hurried rant. "Don't you GET it? This shouldn't have happened! Connor should never have been taken. Wesley SHOULDN'T have been being Joe Stoic and I should have never-"

"Uh… sweetie." Lorne stepped forward, crossing into the room with a grim expression and a flustered jacket. "We may have a bigger issue at hand."

Gunn looked almost relieved at the interruption, but Cordelia noticed Fred glancing at her warily, gazing at her through peculiarly clear eyes.

Flushing, Cordelia ran tired hands through her hair, turning toward the demon. "What?" she asked tiredly, as if she couldn't take anymore.

"Angel's gone after Wesley himself," Lorne said. "Now."

Cordelia's eyes bore into Lorne's, and seeing the unspoken warning in his eyes, she winced, her heart tumbling lower into her chest.

Crap.

--

One of these days, Wesley was going to have to understand how Cordelia turned off her brain.

Sitting at his desk, Wesley hadn't bothered to turn on the lamp, hadn't bothered to move really, for the better part of an hour. Once again the indecision had come over him, and even now, mind flashing with images of Gunn's disappointed and angry face, of visions of Cordelia and Fred and Angel – and yes, Connor, beautiful little Connor with his beautiful smile in a heartbreakingly innocent face- , he still could not break his mind from pondering, thinking.

His father was in Los Angeles. Wesley sat, attempting to tear his mind away from his father's words, found it refocused on the Hyperion. His fingers slid across the cold plastic of the phone, and again he attempted to pick it up, take what little strength he had to dial, hear the ringing – listen for a voice – any voice-

He slammed down the phone and found himself trembling. Bloody Hell.

Burying his hands in his hair, Wesley closed his eyes, let them slide through the stubble of his four day old beard, and pushed away from the table. The claustrophobic tendencies of the apartment did not escape him, and suddenly desperate to get out of the house, he grabbed his keys, heading for the door.

He didn't look across the street to the park, he couldn't – but when he turned and walked down the pavement, he was forced to remember his car was stolen, and the reason for it. Wesley paused, heart heaving, and it seemed his mind seemed intent on pursuing the endless guilt trip, because now there was a flash that suddenly became not a flash at all.

Wesley paused, heart skipping a beat – No, he decided with a hitching of breath, resignation and of course, the obligatory guilt. That was Angel, leaning against the black convertible, watching with hooded eyes. Eyes of a dead man.

Wesley resisted the urge to look away, instead found himself frozen in place, unable to move, as Angel pushed away from his car, fists clenched and eyes dark – terrible. The vampire strode forward, until he was inches away from the Watcher, and this close, Wesley could see the trembling, the very thin thread Angel was hanging from.

He was almost afraid to speak. "Ange-"

"Shut up." It wasn't a snarl, but a snap that was almost a growl, coming from somewhere buried deeply within Angel's limits of self control. He took a step back, almost as if he didn't trust himself this close to Wesley. Ashamed, Wesley felt almost grateful for the space.

"I want the books – all of them. All the spells and all the portal books you took from Pylea. I want them NOW."

Wesley stared in the dark abyss, and again his mind flashed – Angel's son is gone – But Angel would have killed him – the prophecies – His thoughts scattered, and Wesley frowned, shaking his head. He had been a thinking man – with a rational mind –

Had he done the right thing? Had he played into the prophecy's hands? Had he saved Angel endless guilt in the son dying at his own hands – or caused him more pain than he could bear by inadvertently giving his son to the enemy Angel feared most?

Wesley had trusted his mind for so long – it was the one thing that had never failed him.

Until now. He held up his keys.

Angel jerked them out of his fingers, grabbing them and pushing past him. Wesley turned, the tightness in his stomach bordering on painful now, as Angel moved into his apartment.

He followed, standing in the doorway as he watched his former employer, his friend – his brother – ransack his library, pushing books into a duffel bag and turning toward the door. Dropping his keys on Wesley's mantle, Angel paused, not daring to look at him.

"Twenty-four hours, Wesley. You have twenty-four hours to get out of town." Wild eyes met his then, eyes of an animal, and it no longer mattered if Angel was cursed with a soul, he had lost what had most mattered. He had trusted him – Wesley had been trusted completely and implicitly. "Or I'll kill you, Wesley, God help me-"

Wesley could stand the silence no longer. "Angel, you must-"

"NO." Angel visibly shuddered, back to him as he paused in the doorway. "I don't want to hear it. I CAN'T hear it, Wesley. Whatever you have to say, you never said it before, and nothing matters now."

Wesley watched as Angel walked out of his apartment, got into his car with his books, and drove off. He found himself sinking into the couch, aware that his knees were dangerously close to giving out. Leaning back against the cushion, he closed his eyes.

//Check me out! I'm Mr. Dad!//

His eyes drifted open.

Perhaps Angel was right. Light, hesitant fingers ran over his throat, visions of red hair, and the wince of a knife slicing through his throat, suddenly mottled with a past experience with a shard of glass and a brunette.

Perhaps, nothing mattered now.

--

Christ.

Faith shifted, pulling the pillow roughly from under her head and smacking it together with her palms, attempting to give the cheap stuffing some semblance of shape.

Stuffing it back under her head, Faith blew out her breath, hands resting lightly on her abdomen as she stared up into the mattress above her.

"Keep shifting, Faith, and I'm gonna come down there and kick your ass."

Stacey's voice was mottled with sleep, and Faith smirked, brought down from her nervous agitation, to answer, "Fuck off, smart ass."

Stacey's arm waved down and Faith got a middle finger pointed to her in response. A smile crossed Faith's face, and she closed her eyes, only to have them reopen immediately when a flash of Mamie's soulful brown eyes stared at her.

Shit. What the hell was the matter with her? Faith had never been beaten by her nightmares, hell, she had truly LIVED during the darkness of the nights – and now she was a freakin' wimp because of some dreams and a rabid chick?

Whatever.

She closed her eyes, letting out a shaky breath, and felt her mind drift.

The crushing weight on her esophagus made her eyes snap open, and Faith choked, hands reaching up to grasp at the hands crushing her windpipe, hips arching to buck off the body straddling her own.

Faith tried to move, but the metal chain only tightened around her neck, and she gagged, mind reeling as she gasped, eyes locking onto those of her assailant. Stacey's eyes were dark midnight, mouth pulled into an unnatural frown as the chains wove tighter around Faith's windpipe.

FUCK.

"Stace-" she barely managed, trying to gather her rapidly fading strength, unable to cry out, body twisting, suddenly trapped under the sheets. Stacey didn't say a word. The older woman just wrapped her knees around Faith's thighs, and twisted again, causing Faith to gasp in pain.

FUCK.

Stacey was never this fucking strong. Faith closed her eyes, fighting to stay conscious, cold metal twisting and clanking, until she gave up on the chains and went for the wrists, wrenching the thumb up, feeling the crunch of bone give way, as Stacey grunted.

With a move that could have dislocated something, Faith wasn't sure, the Slayer arched up her legs, maneuvering between the bodies, and planting her foot on Stacey's chest, she pushed hard. The hands lost the chains, as Stacey flew back, and Faith gasped inward, deep breaths, heaving in, feeling her mind return to her with the unfiltered pain.

She just needed two seconds to regain herself, but she didn't have that, because Stacey was on her again, and Faith had to move, this time from a knife that slashed down at her.

"FUCK!" She twisted away, the knife catching her on the arm, a slice that made her wince, tumbling off the bed and to the other side of the cell. Blood began to drip, and Stacey carefully stepped out from under the bunk, nostrils flaring.

Being attacked in her bunk wasn't new. Faith had heard stories, had been privy to more than one chick who was taught their lesson as soon as the lights went down. But this was Stacey. Stacey was in here for fraud – she was no murderer.

"Stacey, what the hell are you doing?" she managed, holding her injured arm to her, eyes wide as she backed up against the wall. Stacey didn't say one word. Eyes as dark as black onyx regarded Faith, before the knife flashed in the barely there lights, and Faith once again twisted out of the way, rolling under and kicking up, sending Stacey sprawling against the toilet, a clash of metal and a splash of water coming back as a result.

And Stacey just kept coming.

For once, Faith was absolutely terrified, because Stacey had blue eyes – not the black dark orbs that were staring at her now. The blood dripping from her arm was slippery, and she fell in the pool at her feet. Stacey took advantage, jumping on top of her, forcing Faith to grit her teeth, grab the arm, and hold on for dear life.

Life over death, there was no way in hell Faith was dying now. Not like this. Instinct took over, and Faith did what she always thought what she did best. Grabbing the wrist, she pulled harshly, slamming the hand into the ground, twisting the blade, and pushing up. The knife went into Stacey's gut like it went through butter, and Faith kicked off, letting the body fall back.

Voices shouted, beams of lights began to circulate, but Faith paid no heed, eyes stinging as she sank to the floor, hands buried into her hair, as the dead body lay before her.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Breathing heavily, she didn't look as the metal gates swung open, and when the baton cracked on her head, she blanked out almost immediately.

End chapter two