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
--
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.
--
Chapter Five
What ravages of spirit conjured this tempestuous rage
Created you a monster broken by the rule of love
And fate has led you through it
You do what you have to do - Sarah McLachlan
--
In two flat seconds, everything he believed in, everything he had come close to admitting – every hope and belief, and every single nuance of trust, shattered. It emerged as an explosion, a single point of energy that burst, causing the vampire to come forth in demon form, forgetting anything and everything humanizing about himself.
Three seconds later, Wesley was flat against the wall, a strong, cool hand wrapped tightly around his throat, and the grip was tightening. Dimly, in a far away world, he could hear shouting, cries of warning, and somewhere behind him, something grabbed at his arm. He jerked back, and it wasn't a problem anymore.
Until he smelled blood. The demon caught it, curiously – and found Cordelia bleeding from her lip, sprawled on the floor. Angel froze, hand slipping from Wesley's throat as Fred, glaring at him with fear in her eyes, helped her up.
"God DAMN IT, Angel!" Gunn roared, coming forward.
"NO!" The red trickled down Cordelia's lips, vibrant, and his knuckles were streaked with it. He could only watch dumbly, staring down at himself, body shuddering at the act of violence.
He swallowed, closed his eyes. "Cordelia-"
"Wesley, get your ass over here," she whispered, eyes dark and angry, coming forward, arms outstretched, almost as if by standing in the center of the room, she could hold them all behind some invisible wall. The blood continued to slide down her lip. It rumbled a response from him, his expression frozen, stunned.
"Cordelia, I'm sorry-"
"It doesn't matter," she clipped, wiping at her face. But, it did. He took in a shuddering breath, tried to gain control, ignored the look of fear in Fred's face, and was almost relieved at the anger in Cordelia's. But she paid no attention to him. Again, she motioned to Wesley. "Get over here."
Wesley. Angel turned, eyes darkening. He had hit Cordy. Oh, God, he had hit Cordy – and it was her blood, and he could smell it, chilling him down to his bones. Oh, God, oh – God…. He had hit her, and it was because of him – because of HIM-
"What the hell are you doing, here?" he hissed, finding it so much easier to stare into the eyes of the man who had taken his son, than to look at Cordelia and the wound he himself had inflicted. "I warned you, Wes. I warned you."
"Angel, NO!"
"Stay out of this, Cordelia," Wesley said sharply, body straight and tall as he backed away, Angel coming forward.
At the mention of her name on his lips, Angel growled. "Don't say her name, and don't say his – don't say you're sorry – don't say one damned WORD, Wesley. Get out. GET OUT."
To his credit, Wesley stood his ground. His voice was low, almost soothing, and if Angel had been any less angry, he might have laughed at the way Wesley spoke to him, like he was a rabid animal he was attempting to calm.
"Angel, Angel, listen. I need for you to learn the truth-"
"I don't WANT to hear a word, Wesley. I want you out of here, before I-"
"What, Angel?" Frustrated, Cordelia broke into the conversation, and stepped in between them, keeping him from getting to Wesley. "You'll what? Kill him? Do it, then!"
"God, Cordelia- don't fucking tempt me. Get out of my way-"
"ANGEL-"
"He took my SON!" he roared, and the pain flared, deeper into his heart, forcing him to stumble, his knees to weaken, and the rumble to work it's way from his throat into his mouth, a whimper as Cordelia's eyes immediately softened. He saw it before his eyes closed. The pain, the pity, the sadness. He didn't want it from her – she didn't understand. She had brought HIM back – back when she KNEW what he had done. She had brought him back, and hadn't given a damn –
"Angel." An involuntary moan crept over him at the husky voice. Soft, and vibrating, drifting over him, seeping bitter warmth. In a second, she would touch him, a hand on his finger, digits slipping over his hand – and he would betray himself – he would betray Connor.
He whirled, Angelus' words sifting through his own. "Don't you have a boyfriend to screw? Or are you all done with him?" In that sentence, he knew he had gone too far, but he was past caring. Fred gasped audibly, Gunn froze.
Wesley whispered an intolerable, "Angel…" Cordelia was absolutely still, silent, face expressionless. His heart, already severed, broken, sunk lower, but he forced his expression passive. Her shoulders slumped, and she looked away.
That shut her up.
The tension swept through him, a coiled spring, and Angel, fully aware that he had hurt Cordelia more with his words than he had ever done with his hands, couldn't face her anymore.
He turned his attention on Fred long enough to snap, "Keep searching," and moved up the stairs, taking them two at a time.
When he reached his room, he slammed the door shut, locked it with fumbling fingers.
Oh, God, oh, God…. DAMMIT.
He knew what was happening. It splintered into his soul, whispered sinfully into his thoughts.
He was losing control.
--
"That bastard."
The words were Gunn's. In them was anger: pure, unfiltered disgust.
Cordelia was thankful for it. It distracted her, gave her a minute to block out the unbearable hurt at Angel's insinuation, and allowed her to instead focus on Gunn, note the way he held the crossbow, realizing with a sinking heart he had held it all this time. Her eyes locked with Fred's, and she pleaded silently. Fred looked visibly shaken, but she nodded, and when Gunn turned toward the staircase, Fred grabbed his wrist. "No, Gunn!"
"Fred-"
"Not right now," she said, pulling at the crossbow, handing it to Wesley and returning to rub soothingly at Gunn's arms, his chest, trying to alleviate his anger. "We have the vision, remember?"
Oh, thank God. At least Fred was getting it without Cordelia having to wave little white flags. She swallowed hard, tried to gather herself, and again stared at the staircase.
"Dammit…" she whispered. She turned to Wesley, and found him studying her face with something that was close to pity, and regret.
"Are you all right?" he asked gently.
Cordelia wasn't all right. As a matter of fact, she was quite willing to stake Angel for what he had done – had she not seen the agony in his eyes – but that didn't matter now. GOD – the Powers that Be really chose some SHITTY times to give them missions.
"I think it's fairly obvious to say, Angel's not going to help here," she said quietly, sinking down onto the orange couch, taking a moment to breathe, before looking up at her friends. "Well?"
Wesley stood still, the crossbow in his hand. Gunn and Fred suddenly caught up in the silence, didn't move, until Fred turned to Wesley.
"Wesley?" The thin girl came forward, and awkwardly, gave him a hug. "You're okay?"
Cordelia's emotions caught in her throat at Wesley's reaction: the step back, the quick look in Gunn's direction. "I'm fine… thank you. About Faith…"
It had been a hasty explanation Cordelia had given Fred and Gunn before Angel had come down and decided to play 'Ass hole of the Year', but it had been enough. Neither had known Faith personally, but she understood the inclination to cling to the mission, rather than face what was apparent to all of them.
It was almost too easy to push away Angel's face, to pretend the nursery didn't exist. And it was almost too hard.
"Cordelia, I'll assist you in finding Faith," Wesley said.
Fred glanced at Gunn. He blew his breath out, taking a moment to recover from his rage before answering raggedly, "Yeah, sure…"
Relieved, Cordelia took in a shaky breath. "I don't know how she's going to get here. She's hurt… Wesley, I need you to do something for me."
"Of course."
"I'm… going to be staying here for a few days. But I can't… I can't leave here, thanks to the, hello – Sir Assness, upstairs – can you and Gunn go to my house – get a few things?"
When he gave her a dubious expression, she offered him a smile, her face naked. She knew her request was silly, but it served a few purposes: getting Wesley out while Angel calmed down, it gave Gunn some time to cool off, and gave her some time to… sort things out. And take care of the split lip, while she was at it.
"Of course." Wesley was careful, almost humble as he turned to Charles, as the black man met his gaze head on, his face unreadable for a moment. "Gunn?" he asked hesitantly.
It was a terrible moment, until Gunn nodded. "Sure, dude. Let's go."
"We'll wait for Faith," Fred said. "She'll be here, right?"
Offering an uncertain smile, Cordelia inhaled shakily. "God, I hope so." Faith had to make it here. Los Angeles was damned big, and no place for a Slayer with no strength. She needed the sanctuary.
Right, Cor, 'cause that's what this place is. A sanctuary.
Cordelia's eyes flickered to the staircase, and bitterly, she wondered if wherever she was, maybe Faith was better off.
--
Charles knew the power that women had over men.
He understood, in the moment that Fred and Cordelia crossed glances, that when Fred's palm ran down his chest, she was just doing her job – a command taken from the queen herself: Get him under control. Don't let him go up there- cause he'd kill Angel if the vampire said the wrong shit – gave him any indication that he was going evil.
He grimaced, opening the door of the truck and slamming it behind him when he slid in. They were right. He would have. Gunn was no fool. He knew that when Fred pressed herself into his arms, when she pressed her lips against his in a soft good-bye, she was giving him more than an embrace. She was also telling him to behave himself. To not treat Wesley like he was a dude who had been a best friend, and hadn't even trusted him enough to tell him his world was bottoming out from under him.
Maybe, it should have made him angry. Maybe, he should have been pissed that Fred and Cordelia were protecting dudes that needed a serious kick in the ass. Maybe, he should have snapped at them both that they didn't know what a man was capable of, what a fool did, when he knew he could get away with it.
People proved they couldn't be trusted. People proved time and time again, that they didn't deserve to be believed in. No one was perfect. No one got put up on a pedestal, 'cause they got pulled down, and hard.
But, he wasn't pissed. When Fred kissed him, eyes shining imploringly, his heart ached, and he slid his knuckles softly over her pronounced cheekbone, and pressed his lips against hers gently, offering her a soft, reassuring smile.
When Cordelia closed her eyes, winced slightly to herself, he didn't say a word.
And when Wesley entered the truck, closed the door, Gunn turned on the ignition, turned to him, and said frankly, "You okay?" Wesley, startled, answered in more of a stammer than anything else, that he was fine. Gunn nodded, and drove.
He wasn't pissed at them. His mind drifted over things, and he wondered why he wasn't pissed, why all there was inside of him was this aching need, this foolish wish that just once, he could understand people. 'Cause he was pissed at Wesley – but that didn't mean he didn't try to understand. And, even then – he was still pissed at Wesley.
He pulled up to the curb, shut off the ignition, opened the door, and stepped down. When they got to the apartment, and Dennis let him in, he knew why he wasn't pissed at Fred or Cordy, for doing what they did.
Gunn wasn't perfect. He was pissed enough to grab a stake, take it up the stairs – and if Angel so much as looked at Fred wrong-
He blew out his breath.
He staked Angel – he'd never forgive himself. Fred knew it, Cordelia knew it. He knew it.
Maybe that was why he was so scared. 'Cause for the first time in forever, Gunn had no clue, no control. He was no leader here. No one was.
--
She had no clue why she was mentally screaming Alanis in her head.
On a normal day, Faith hated Alanis. Couldn't STAND the whiny loser. But now, as she concentrated on keeping one foot in front of the other, eyes darting back and forth, looking for unmarked cars and cop cars and blood trails, and people with black eyes, all she heard in her head was 'You Oughta Know'. Loud. Hard. Banging in her head.
//Well I'm here, to remind you, of the mess you left when you went away- //
She sucked in her breath, mouthing the words, when the world tipped slightly. She tripped, and found her balance by leaning against the mailbox. Shit. This was getting hard.
Groggily, she did a mental check of her wounds. One: the bloody bandage covering the stitches of the swipe that Stacey had taken at her on her right elbow. It had cut through some muscle, and so far, every time she moved, it ached in the annoying way. Two: the welt, high on her forehead from what HAD to be a baton. There was blood matted in her hair from it, and it gave her such a headache, she at times, wanted to crack her head open, thinking that might alleviate the pain. Three: The swipe at her shoulder blade from Black-Eyed Psycho Number Two. Right on her shoulder, dripping blood, because it cut deep. Four: The slash in her left arm from when she forgot that she was a fucking wimp now, not as deep, running from her elbow on the inside of her arm, to her wrist.
Not counting the exhaustion, the headache that came from when her head banged against the wall, and way she kept shivering from getting caught in the rainstorm.
FUCK – this was a bad day. And still, the song continued blaring in her head.
//It's not fair, to deny me, of the cross I bear that you gave to me – //
She closed her eyes, pushed away from the mailbox, and stumbled forward, lightheaded and dizzy as hell.
"Did you forget about me, Mr. Duplicity, I hate to bug you in the middle of dinner," Faith said in small sing-song, tripping on a crack in the sidewalk, turning the corner on the dark night. She was surprised she knew her way back, honestly. "Does she speak eloquently, and would she have your baby…"
Faith faltered to a stop, a jolt in her heart making her breath uneven. Towards the middle of the block, she saw it, the apartment building, damn near shining. The soundtrack in her head changed somehow, and now it blared Offspring, as she tried to pick up her pace, found she couldn't, but found, thankfully, she COULD still walk – CAREFULLY.
Like the latest fashion, like a spreading disease…
"Hey- man you talkin' back to me? Take him out – you gotta keep 'em separated…" she whispered breathlessly, steps faltering ten feet away from the house. Licking her dry, chapped lips, Faith looked around the dark streets. There wasn't one car that looked like the black convertible.
In Faith's panicked, tired mind, there were a dozen new paranoias. What if she moved? What if she died? Suddenly afraid, Faith swallowed hard, eyes on a tricked out ugly-as-hell truck that was parked on the curb.
There was no way that Dennis-ghost was letting her in… Lights flickered on and off from the place, and Faith stepped forward gingerly, heart hammering with hope all the way, trying to peer into the window for some trace that Miss Priss still lived there.
FUCKING BITCH had to still live here.
Oh, God – please. Faith sank down onto a bus bench, craning her neck, shivering hard, slumping against the seat, wondering how the hell she was going to get to the front door.
Her eyes, attempting valiantly to stay open, blinked closed, and she shook herself, the soundtrack in her head banging against her eardrums.
"Hey man, you disrespecting me…" she whispered. "Take him out – you gotta keep 'em separated. They don't pay no mind… under eighteen… won't be doing any time."
Her heart jolted as her fingers, stained red, clasped around her shoulder, trying to keep it from seeping any more blood, watching the lights from Cordy's house.
--
"You got any eights?"
Casper Lee shifted in his seat, turning his attention from the dial to stare at his companion. "I told you I'm not playing the bloody stupid game."
Dawson frowned, shaking the playing cards. "You got any better ideas?"
"It's a stupid game."
Dawson dug the cigar further into his mouth, looked back toward the truck, and leaned his head against the seat. "You got any eights?" he repeated.
Mr. Lee sighed, glancing down at the cards thrown carelessly in his lap. "No," he said finally.
"Now, come on- you gonna play, you bloody well have to do it right."
Casper closed his eyes – and he thought going this alone was torture. "Go fish," he managed through gritted teeth, fingering his gun.
Dawson grumbled good-naturedly, taking another card from the pile. He chuckled, showing him the card. "Ace!" he exclaimed happily. "Bloody wild!"
Rolling his eyes, Casper checked his watch. Bloody hell. Lost the Slayer, lost the mission – and idiot over here was happy about a bloody card?
Ponce.
Damned useless, following Pryce around. Lee never thought much of the Ex-Watcher – and if wanted to 'save' his souls in Los Angeles, let the man do so – what point was there in following him?
So, he had almost gotten himself killed – happened every year.
"Allright, mate. Your turn!"
Blowing out his breath, he glanced toward the house again, and suddenly froze.
"Blimey…" he whispered under his breath.
"Don't sound so put out, you've got a good hand-"
"Shut up." Lee straightened up, grabbing the binoculars from the back seat, fumbling with the controls, and leveling them almost clumsily at the front of the apartment. Through the constricted vision of the contraption, he spotted a dark haired girl, bobbing her head, eyes trained on the house.
"Bloody hell…"
"What?" Dawson straightened, peering. "Oh, hell! That's not who I-"
"Call Pryce," Casper clipped, reaching for his gun. "Now."
--
Charles took in Cordelia's apartment, wondering how someone who spent so little time in it could manage to make it so… lived in. Shifting his feet, he placed his hands in his pockets, let out a shuddering breath.
Wesley walked past him, shifting things around Cordelia's phone. "Wonder where he is?" he muttered absently.
Gunn turned toward him, confused. "Who?"
"The Groosalug," Wesley said, peering into Cordelia's bedroom. He turned, catching Gunn's clearly confused expression. "What?"
"I just – thought Cordelia and Groo, you know… broke up-"
Wesley's hand slipped from the doorknob, thanking Dennis as the ghost floated over a suitcase filled with clothes, most likely at Cordelia's request.
"Why would you think that?" he asked distractedly, placing the suitcase on the table and grabbing a notepad and pencil, scribbling down on it. "Cordelia didn't want Groo involved. She considers this a family matter."
Charles let that sink in. "Groo's not family?"
Wesley paused, turning soft blue eyes on him. "Apparently."
Charles pursed his lips, lost in thought. "That simple, huh?"
"I doubt it. Nothing is ever simple." Charles glanced at the bloody bandage on Wesley's throat, and said nothing. "Dennis, do you know where the Groosalug is?" Wesley asked, staring up at the air. Dennis gave a soft wind that rustled the house plants. "I take it that's a no," Wesley whispered. "Bloody hell… he would have been useful… Cordelia said he'd be here."
Charles crossed his arms, and took a step toward the kitchen, opening the refrigerator door. The miracle light turned on inside, and he looked over the tub of peanut butter, the two jars of blood, and the leftover Chinese food. Blithely, he wondered if Cordelia kept anything SHE liked to eat in this.
"Charles?"
"What's up?" Gunn asked, closing the door, watching the light as it blinked out. Wesley came forward, a card in his hand.
"I need you to check out the jail." Placing the card in Charles palm, Wesley continued to explain. "Ask for the name on the card – he's the warden. We need information about Faith – who's had access to her, and so forth."
Charles turned the card in his hand, looked up at Wesley with glinting eyes. His mouth twitched in open aggravation, as he shuddered, the wave of anger that had dissipated coming back with the hard glare. "I don't think Cordy put you in charge, man," he said matter-of-factly. "Sure you're supposed to be giving me orders?"
English looked stunned for only a moment, before he winced slightly, looking away, and then back again, offering Charles a hurt, conceding, sad smile. "Fair enough," he whispered. "I didn't mean it like – you have the car, Gunn. I wasn't attempting – it wasn't an order… it was me asking a favor…" He stepped back, tearing his eyes away from his former friend. "I – forgive me. I'll go-"
Gunn snatched the card back. "I'll do it," he said crisply. Wesley appeared startled, but drew his hand back, nodded. "You'll get back all right?"
There was a moment of silent, until Wesley gave a shaky nod. "I'll take a cab."
Charles shoved the card into his pocket, turned toward the door, and once there, wavered. Shit.
Turning back, he offered no pretense. "Wes." Wesley looked at him with misty eyes. "Wasn't trying to be mean or nothing. Just saying how it is, now. You know? It's not like we can just forget."
It was important that Wes got that. And he did – cause deep down, Wes was a good man.
English nodded, gave a short smile. "Of course."
Charles exhaled, and pushed open the door, leaving the apartment.
--
Fred had made a remarkable adjustment, everyone said so. To come so far after five years in a Pylean Hell dimension was evidence that there was a lot of strength in her somewhat fragile looking body. She was getting more proud every day, confident – finally able to say she found her niche in Angel Investigations.
Sure, she wouldn't quite be able to tell you what that niche WAS, but she had one.
Fred still had habits, however – Pylean habits that she never quite broke, and sometimes, it made her learn things.
Eavesdropping was one of those habits – the slinking around that caused Cordy to shriek on more than one occasion – usually when Fred appeared over her shoulder, innocently asking about an article in a magazine or a particular webpage.
Cordelia always reacted like it was the devil himself appearing – drawing back and pressing a hand to her chest, sucking in. She almost wished she could see the relieved laugh that Cordelia would issue, instead of the somber face that she saw now, as she leaned against the doorway.
Lorne was humming slightly, holding Cordelia's chin gently. Cordelia hissed when he pressed the cotton against her swollen lip.
"There, there, Nipper," Lorne said, grimacing in sympathy. "It'll be okay."
"I'm fine," Cordelia managed, from her position. Fred crossed her arms, but said nothing. Cordelia looked anything but fine. The Seer's hands were visibly trembling, and her eyes seemed kinda dull. Fred frowned.
"I can't believe he did this," Lorne muttered, turning away to throw away the bloody cotton ball, choosing another. "Mr. Vampire is quickly losing my patience."
"He didn't mean to hit ME, Lorne," Cordelia answered wearily. "Angel's lost his son… that's… gotta be painful…"
"He's hurting, yes," Lorne confirmed, mouth set firmly as he once again tenderly placed the cotton against her lip. "But he's losing his priorities."
"He's losing himself," Cordelia answered. She let out a hollow, angry laugh. "God, Lorne. Two weeks. I was gone for TWO weeks and this entire place went NUTS - oww."
Fred's frown deepened, her heart sinking.
"It should heal."
"Lorne, I'm Vision Girl, remember?" Cordelia reminded him irately. "I've been burned, slashed, maimed, hanged, shot, squashed – all through the wonderful pipeline provided through the Powers That Be. A split lip I can handle-"
"Sure," Lorne agreed. "What you can't handle is why you don't blame him for it – and sweetie, you should." Cordelia gave him an even stare. Lorne put down the gauze, and stared at her frankly. "Then, why don't we start with you not blaming yourself."
"We should keep looking for Faith," Cordelia said breathlessly.
"Stop avoiding, hon-"
"Lorne-"
Fred was silent, unable to hear anymore, and she turned, walking out of the office and back into the lonely lobby. Twisting her fingers into her hands, Fred made her decision. Gathering her gumption, she walked resolutely toward the stairs.
By the time she had reached the top, she had gathered her gumption, and before she could pause, and think, REALLY think about what she was doing (Fred WAS capable of psyching herself out, she knew that), she pushed open the door to Angel's room.
She wasn't sure what she wasn't expecting, but finding a fully dressed Angel stuffing weapons into a duffel bag wasn't it. Faltering in the doorway, Fred stared.
"What do you want, Fred?" Angel clipped, tossing in an axe. "Did you get the information?"
"I – uh… still looking," she lied, feeling a welt of guilt slide through her. Angel had lost Connor – they had all lost Connor, really – but Angel … it was all Angel believed he had. His love in Connor – it was beautiful and sweet and a miracle and Angel had lost it… She took in a shuddering breath. "I promise, I'll get right to it…"
"Hurry up," he clipped, almost glaring at her through dead eyes.
"Okay, but-" she swallowed. Fred – you're just going to have to say it. Cause, you're the only one who can… right? "Cordeliahadavision," she blurted out.
Angel whirled, gave her a narrowed look. "What?"
Blowing out her breath, she tried to still her nerves, speaking slower. "Cordelia had a vision – of Faith… she's in trouble."
That had to do it, right? Because Angel cared about Cordelia, and Cordelia said he had cared about Faith – even visited her in the prison, and he would care – cause it was a vision and it was Faith, and Cordelia-
For a moment, she thought it did. His eyes softened slightly, he shifted his balance, nervous, anxious – thinking.
"Tell Gunn to handle it," he clipped, widening the bag and grabbing another broadsword. "I'm going to find my son."
Fred's eyes widened in response. "I-uh…"
"Fred." Angel turned, gave her an even stare that held such pain, she had to step back. "Do the research. Now. And don't come up here again."
Tears stung in the back of her eyes, and ashamed, Fred stepped back, her butt hitting the door as Angel continued to finger his weapons.
It wasn't fear that paralyzed her, but realization.
She took in the wild eyes, the stance, the point of no return –
Up until this point, Fred had held a foolish hope that they could go back, find a way to the time when they sat at a ballet and stared in wonder and hope – drunk on the knowledge that they were in this together…
It wasn't ever going to be like that now. Not anymore. Fred felt so stupid for believing it.
Turning, she closed the door behind her, unable to do a thing while her hero image of Angel crumbled at her feet, along with the heartbreak. She had been so stupid to think things could go back.
Just… so… stupid.
--
La-la-la-la-la-laaaaah – la lah.
Offspring.
Faith blinked, the bench beneath her remarkably cold. That had to be the reason why she couldn't get warm. The bench was fucking cold, and when Cordelia came out of her apartment – or was she waiting for her to come in? Faith blinked- whatever. Whenever that bitch came out, Faith was going to do her damnest to kick her ass… She grinned. Hell – at this rate, it would be kinda fun to see Cordelia kick HER ass.
"The more you suffer, the more it shows you really care…" she whispered, palms wrapping around the moist, rotting wood.
When the door opened, Faith's mouth went dry with anticipation, her heart came alive with hope.
She stood shakily to her feet, teeth chattering, thankful that the blood had crusted and nothing was seeping THAT much anymore – she was dizzy as hell, though.
//She came over, I lost my nerve – took her back… made her desert. //
She smiled, walking forward – blinking down when it seemed harder than she remembered.
Shit – one foot, then one, ha. Not that hard.
She wobbled, winced at the stabbing pain in her head, and moved toward the black guy –
She froze. He didn't look like Cordelia – Cordelia wasn't a six foot tall black guy. Faith found herself sinking to her knees, suddenly out sight as he locked the door, walked away, got into the big tricked out truck, and drove off.
Oh, SHIT. FUCK. SHIT.
Faith closed her eyes, despair that had been hovering now entering her full force, hitting her body and making her crawl.
//I may be dumb – I'm not a dweeb – I'm just a sucker with no self-esteem. //
FUCK. FUCK. FUCK.
Tears were streaming down her cheeks, as she knelt on the wet grass, soaked and dizzy, exhausted and hurting – and FUCKING CORDELIA MOVED.
She choked down a sob, panting in heaving breaths, wet hair in stringy strands hanging all over her face.
Somehow, she managed to get to her knees, she wasn't sure how, and stumbled to the front of the apartment building.
Okay – not a problem… she'd just try to find some place to … hole up and maybe try to not die until she found Angel – even with no strength, and the fact that she had no money, maybe hypothermia, and had just escaped from jail.
No problem – she had been in a coma for six months – she'd kick this thing's ass too…
She tried to move, tried to gather her gumption to move from the front of the apartment, but there was one problem, besides the blinding fear.
She had no idea where to go.
La-la-la-la-la-laaaaah – la lah.
--
Wesley winced, massaging at his aching throat, craning his neck as carefully as he dared, maneuvering the phone to his other shoulder, trying to find an angle that would hurt less.
"Yes," he repeated. "Wyndham Price." He listened, a grim expression on his features. "Yes, yes… good. Yes, I'm family. Yes- bloody- hold, please." Walking toward the dresser, he grabbed a pen and paper. "All right." He scribbled. "Off of Wilshire? Thank you. I appreciate your help." Hanging up the phone, Wesley regarded the address.
Closing his eyes, he let out a breath of air. Wesley was a dweller, but in this moment, he was grateful for not having the time to think about the implications of his father being in town – of Faith.
He hadn't had a chance to think about that, and he wasn't going to allow himself the moment. Both brought back memories he would just as soon forget. He grimaced, taking the suitcase and waving a good-bye to Dennis, stepping out of the apartment.
Perhaps amnesia WAS spectacularly under-rated. It was tempting, the utter bliss in waking up not remembering what you were, who you came from, what you did – perhaps the nausea that made him keel would not be present, then. Perhaps the great weight on his chest that was making it difficult to breathe, would be lifted.
He heard the slip of metal as Dennis locked the door behind him, and Wesley turned, gripping the suitcase as he jogged down the stairs, fully prepared to walk to Melrose to catch a cab, when movement from a car on the other side of the street caught his attention.
It was parked the wrong way – as if someone had been driving on the wrong side of the road and slid in – facing completely the opposite direction of the other parked cars. It nagged him, and he paused, watching as two men emerged, walked quickly across the street, with quick paces, to something near him.
Curious, wary, Wesley craned his neck. All time stopped with a shuddering of his heart as he caught the profile of a very familiar looking girl.
His eyes darted back to the men in the tan jackets, a glint of metal in a hand that slipped out of the jacket.
Oh, Bloody Hell…
"FAITH."
End chapter five