CHAPTER 14: QUIET

Be ashamed
Of the mess you've made
My eyes never forget, you see
Behind me

Behind me
The grace of falling snow
Cover up everything you know
Come save me from the awful sound
Of nothing

            ~Quiet, Smashing Pumpkins
______________________________________________

Angel glanced left, then right, looked down at himself, and then looked up at Faith. It seemed like an eternity that he stared at her, and she couldn't bring herself to speak, couldn't find any glib words to smooth over the moment, and to her grim amusement, she found herself noticing again how handsome he was in the warm glow of the firelight.

"Why am I naked?"

He doesn't remember, she thought with a surge of relief. She'd been worried she'd have to suffer through some litany about how they'd made a terrible mistake. Their intimacy had been just a little too intimate, despite the fact that it had been some of the hottest—wait—he didn't remember? Her eyes narrowed. "You don't remember?"

"No. I—Oh!" he interrupted himself suddenly, putting his hands to his head, his eyes wide. His expression, so uncertain and grave a moment ago, turned almost comically surprised. He blinked and looked away from her in embarrassment.

"Oh."

His look of surprise deepened into a look of shock, then shifted into horror. As if unable to help himself, he looked back at her in mortified disbelief.

"Oh God."

"He remembers," she said with a nod, voice low.

"I…" he leapt to his feet, belatedly snatching up his pants. She couldn't help but chuckle as she watched him struggle into them, grateful to her morbid sense of humor for allowing her to get some enjoyment out of this awkward situation.

"We…" he went on, seeming unable to complete a sentence, or even a thought, hands hovering as if forgotten at the button of his pants.

"Yeah," she said shortly. "We did." She rose and began pulling on her own clothes. "Five times." The small façade of comfort she'd managed to erect was crumbling rapidly, and suddenly the room itself seemed close in, pressing against her, making her feel claustrophobic. Everything was too close and too tangled for her to deal with it right now. She wanted to get out of there, put some distance between them. Think.

He watched her move, seeming entranced by her actions. "You were… you look…"

She turned and looked at him, frowning, not certain if he was about to compliment her or insult her.

"You're… beautiful," he said, moving toward her.

Instinctively, she stiffened and stepped backward. She had no idea what the hell had happened—or rather, the reasons why it had happened. She hadn't ever felt like that, hadn't even thought that she could feel like that. They had made the desperate, passionate kind of love she'd used to read about in her mom's trashy romance novels, shared in the kind of sex and love that didn't really exist. They had been far beyond driven, far beyond emotional barriers. Angel had never been so passionate, and she had definitely never let her emotions run loose during such passion, or at all, for that matter. They had whispered such sweet and naughty words in each other's ears, the kind of words most people never dared to utter, as comfortable and as completely united as two lovers who had been together for years.

He… he had said that he loved her, she remembered suddenly, in shock. How much of it had been real? How much of it had simply been the heat of the moment?

He stepped up to her, smiling tenderly, reaching up to brush an errant strand of hair from her face, letting his fingertips rest against the smooth skin of her cheek.

She stood, mesmerized, staring back into his eyes, stumped by what she saw there. Did he love her? Maybe it all had been real. Maybe they'd just been overwhelmed by their feelings in the aftermath of their narrow escape from death… and maybe those feelings had been blown a little out of proportion because of the reminder of their mortality. But that didn't mean they weren't real feelings, did it? There was nothing between them now, nothing to hold them back except constraints of their own mental making.

Maybe she'd been too quick to judge him. Maybe he'd just been as overwhelmed by everything that had happened as she was. She knew was always too quick to judge people, especially men. She couldn't seem to help it. Too many lousy, worthless boyfriends that she'd picked for their emulation of her Father—not the world's greatest role model for Dad of the Year—and predictably, they'd always disappointed her as bitterly as he had, as bitterly as she'd expected to be disappointed, on some level. Angel though… Angel had always been different. Maybe he was—

Fear rose up suddenly, like a great black wall in front of her, sealing her off from the emotion, breaking off her train of thought. Had she lost her mind? What was she thinking? It was a comforting feeling of distance, of numbness, a familiar feeling, and unfortunately, a feeling that was all too weak.

Every argument she could make against men wouldn't hold up when she tried to overlay it on Angel. Every method she had of measuring people fell short when it came to him. It wasn't that he was perfect, or saintly or any of those things. It was that he wasn't. He wasn't, and he knew it, and he suffered with it every day, and yet he still tried to do his best. It was something she understood intimately, something that she wanted to understand so much better. It drew her to him, linked her to him, and she respected and admired him immensely for it even though she would never admit it in a million years. When and how that had turned to love, she wasn't sure, but she suspected it had begun long ago. If she lived forever, though, she would never understand why he was looking at her the way he was right now. She could see the love reflected in his eyes, and though it confused and confounded her, she could no longer doubt it.

The way he looked at her, the way he could make her feel… the way he had made her feel… the way she wanted him to make her feel… could she really let that go? Would she ever forgive herself if she did? There was enough left of the union they had shared to carry over into this moment, enough to make her believe that it might be possible…

Throwing caution to the wind, she reached up and touched his face, searching his eyes, her own frightened but resolute. The tenderness she saw in him surpassed the depth of feeling she'd ever seen in another human being. This was a man of loyal love and devotion; she'd always known that. She'd seen it with Buffy, had yearned for it for herself. And now he was offering it to her. Something tickled the back of her mind, flickering like a shadow, something about… a soul…? But it was far away and indistinct, and it slipped from her grasp almost before she had a chance to register it.

No more fear.

She leaned up toward him, her eyes fluttering half-closed, and he tilted his head, their lips meeting gently, softly, almost timidly; nothing like their frantic, passionate kisses of before. His hands caressed her face, fingertips touching her lightly, even more lightly than his lips, which trembled against hers like butterfly wings. Gentle… so gentle and warm. Like nothing she'd ever known.

She drew away and looked up into his eyes. Taking a deep breath, she steeled herself, preparing to jump in with both feet. Might as well do this as boldly and brashly as she did everything else. Her hands trembled and her voice shook, stomach tying itself in sickening knots and her knees going suddenly warm, feeling as if they might not support her. So that's what it feels like, she thought distantly.

"Angel, I lov—"

He blinked, his eyes filling with sudden confusion, and he looked around as if he wasn't certain of who or where he was.

No.

Her heart seemed to freeze as he shook his head and closed his eyes, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Oh, no.

His eyes snapped open and he stepped away from her, looking at her guardedly. As if he wasn't sure of her. As if he didn't trust her. "What the hell is going on here?"

Not real.

She spun away from him and ran.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

He didn't run after her. He wanted to. In fact, he wanted to far more than he probably should have. In the end, that was exactly why he didn't do it.

He slammed his hand into the wall in frustration, lodging his knuckles painfully in the stone. He yanked his hand free, holding it up before his eyes and closing it in a fist, watching the blood trickle from shallow cuts, running down to his wrist. Even his blood still smelled like her.

He threw his hand away from himself as if he were offended by it, gritting his teeth and growling. Is that why it had happened? Had her blood somehow linked them? Or had he been weakened by feeding on a human after so long and been overwhelmed by his baser desires?

The last time he'd fed on a human, it had been Buffy, and she'd done it to save his life, too. If he hadn't been so pissed off, he might have found it ironic that Faith was the very person who'd almost killed him that time. Afterward, he hadn't felt too much different; healed, a little more aggressive, stronger, definitely, but nothing like the surge of emotion he'd been seized by tonight. Of course, they'd been pretty busy with trying to save the world…

No. This hadn't felt like his demonic side urging him on. His demon side never indulged in emotion, and though he'd wanted her incredibly badly, the lustful union between them had been tempered with a sort of gentle sweetness, a sensuality that he had felt with only one other person.

What then? A spell?

He wasn't positive, but he was fairly certain that this mansion was protected by some pretty powerful magic. He'd done a bit of testing and research with spells, and most of what he suspected had been confirmed when Spike hadn't been able to enter the other day. That, and the fact that the bad guys hadn't beaten down his door demanding their books back—and surely they'd had a clue for a while now—led him to believe that the particular magic cast on the mansion was constructed to keep out anything hostile. It made sense, considering that the energy signatures of Giles and Willow lingered on the edges of the spell. He could easily imagine Buffy asking Willow to seal up Angel's mansion against "evilness" after he'd left, to keep her from ever having to go there again. He could understand all too well that the memories this place stirred for her would have been too painful.

Of course, she'd had them leave a back door in the spell just for him.

He gave a faint, bitter smile for his former lover and wondered what she would think of him right now. Then he sighed and shook his head, pacing the room. It wouldn't do him any good to dwell on that. Besides, he already knew exactly what she'd think. His ass would have been completely kicked by now.

So… the back door… was there any way anything else could have snuck in? He didn't think so. Something already inside, then? Or, he thought, not sure whether to be worried or relieved by the idea, something they had carried inside? It wouldn't be easy, but it was possible to cast a spell on an item, put a few conditions on when to make it trigger so that it didn't set off any alarms on the way in, and plant it on an unsuspecting victim. In fact, in a place this well ensorcelled, it would be one of the only ways to get a spell inside.

"It's… pretty. Thanks for leaving it."

The brooch. That had to be it.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

Zhaad hesitated in the doorway to his mistress' throne room, debating on how to present the decidedly odd news he'd just been given.

"Enter," she commanded with a flick of her wrist.

Head bowed, he approached the throne and cleared his throat, deciding where to begin. "Mistress, I've just been informed that the Slayer—"

"Ran from Angelus' dwelling half dressed as if all the demons of hell were at her heels?" she asked, one part confidence, two parts hope.

Forgetting himself, Zhaad looked at her, astonished. "Yes, mistress."

"It worked," she whispered with a grin.

She seemed happy, generously so, and he knew her moods well enough by now to know when he could press her with questions. "Forgive me, mistress, but may I ask why the Slayer ran away?"

She turned her eyes on him, so clear, so blue, so deceptively human. He never failed to marvel at how tiny her form was, how frail looking her mortal shell appeared. She was pretty, the kind of pretty that you could dress up to make unbelievably gorgeous, or leave plain and forgettable. She could be completely feminine and delicate in her movements, yet she could also be aggressive and intimidating, or even demure and shy, should a situation call for it. She had the ability to be completely innocuous, or propel herself to the forefront of whatever situation she desired. He had rarely seen her outside of her own domain, but the few times he had, he had been amazed. She was like two different people. Like several different people, actually. Only one who knew what to look for would notice the power that flowed just beneath the grace of her movements, or the cold, calculating gaze of the predator that lurked just at the edges of her vision. He could see a glint of that predator in her cool blue eyes now.

"Yes, why indeed?" she asked, sounding very satisfied even as she mocked the question. The flickering orange light of torches played over the fine bones of her features, and he thought he could see the touch of a smirk upon her lips. "After all, what could possibly frighten the Slayer?"

He had a few thoughts on that matter, but he said nothing, knowing she would answer when she was ready.

"Do you love me, Zhaad?" she asked instead, her voice oddly curious.

"Of course, mistress," he replied, hesitating only and instant, and then only because she had caught him off guard with the question. It was true. He had not felt the touch of her charms in nigh on one hundred and fifty years, but his feelings for her had never been in question. She had made him that way, after all.

"Does it frighten you to love me?" she asked, tilting her head as if to see him more clearly.

"Of course not," he fairly scoffed, hardly understanding why she would ask him such a thing.

She leaned forward and smiled at him, the vicious, knowing smile of a hyena. "That, my darling, is what makes you different from Faith and Angel."

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

She berated herself as she ran, mind and heart aching with the brutal kicking she was giving them both. Less felt were the pains in her legs, thigh muscles tightening and protesting the unnecessary exertion she was putting on them, her ankles aching with stress, calves pinching with strain. Her breath hitched, hot and sharp in her chest, and she had time to register the pain just before her legs gave out and she fell to the ground in a graceless, tumbling heap.

She lay there on her stomach, brown eyes wide and nearly lifeless as they stared off into the distance, her cheek pressed against the cool, damp grass. She didn't attempt to rise, and her legs would probably not have supported her if she had tried. She felt cleansed somehow by her run, a vessel emptied of thought and thus purified, blissfully ceasing to exist for a few minutes. She lay there, simply breathing, letting the cool of the ground seep into her body, listening to her heartbeat slow. Gradually, she cooled, her breathing becoming regular, the heat of her exertion drained from her. The night was exceptionally chilly for summer, and at last, the only heat she had left to warm herself was the burning fire of hatred in her heart.

Oh, not hatred of others, no. This was the slow, self-destructive burn of self-hatred. Sometimes she felt she'd been born into those flames. Sometimes, she danced gleefully on the coals, others, she drifted above them on waves of rippling heat that didn't burn quite so badly. But she never escaped them.

Awareness returned slowly, and with it, the unwelcome pain of regret.

How could she have believed that Angel loved her? He was a killer, yes, but he'd spent a hundred years trying to redeem himself. He'd fallen in love with Buffy, the golden girl, the noble hero, and he'd loved her for those very reasons. Faith was nothing like her, nothing of those things. She should have known that it was all some colossal cosmic joke on her to pretend, even for one night, that it could be any other way.

She dug her fingers into the damp earth, soil pushing deep beneath her fingernails.

So what had it been? A momentary lapse of reason? A spell? It almost had to be a spell, to get her heart going like this, to open all these unlocked doors in her head, to bring out the soft parts of herself that she'd hidden away long ago. It was still working its magic on her even now, she knew, but somehow, that realization didn't comfort her in the face of her emotions. The outcome was the same. In jail it had been simple to pretend she could mend her ways and change her life, but she would always be who she was. She could never escape it. This ache in her heart was a sharp reminder of what she could never be, what she could never have.

She closed her eyes and pretended they weren't filled with tears, feeling the hurt wash over her.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

She wasn't as alone as she believed.

Spike crouched at the wooded edge of the clearing, deep in the shadows of a massive elm, elbow resting on his knee, chin resting in his hand, his eyes far away as he gazed on the crumpled form of the Slayer.

He might have gone to her, but he knew that this was a private moment. His presence would have been an intrusion, no matter if she wanted it or not. He didn't know exactly what had happened, but he could imagine; the disarray of her clothing, the way she had run from Angel's home, the way she had run forever without direction and finally collapsed.

He supposed she'd gotten what she wanted, after all. He was surprised the glowering hero boy had given in to his desires—took his opinion of the midnight avenger up by a few points, truth be told—but he could see that it hadn't ended well. Had Angel decided to have regrets afterward? Would be just like him. "I love you! Oh, wait. Sorry, I'm supposed to be tragic. I don't love you." Within the darkness, he shook his head, a bitter smile forming on his lips.

You're better off, luv.

He watched her, wary of any predators that might fall on her unsuspecting, oblivious form, until the sky began to lighten.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

I n t e r l u d e

Earlier the same night, sometime after 1:00 am, on an unidentified highway in the mid-west:

The car pulled over to the side of the road and tousling her rain-drenched hair, Cherry ran through the downpour to catch up with it. As she reached the passenger side door it opened, revealing a middle-aged man who squinted up and out at her, scrutinizing, as if gauging the level of danger she presented. Probably he didn't pick up hitchhikers very often, she thought.

Putting on her biggest, brightest smile, she flung her purse back over her hip and put her hand on her upper thigh, very conscious of how high the mini-skirt she was wearing had hiked up on her. But instead of smoothing it back down into place, she merely patted the tanned skin of her upper leg, drawing his attention to the short hemline without seeming to.

"Thanks for stopping, sugar," she said cheerfully. "Wet enough to drown a swamp-rat out here."

That did it. The stern look on his face dissolved. "Get in," he said, gesturing.

"Where are you heading?" he asked after they'd pulled away from the shoulder and started picking up speed on the highway.

"Sunnydale. California. You know it?"

"No. I'm only going as far as Nevada, myself. Maybe you can hitch another ride from there." He glanced over to see her response to that and she nodded, watching as his eyes traveled from her face down her body, his gaze seeming to covet her curves.

"See something you like?"

"You're uh… I mean… are you one of those… you know…" he flushed bright red, his hands tight on the steering wheel, eyes deliberately fixed on the road.

"Ladies of the evening?" she asked with a giggle. "Yeah sugar, sure am."

"Oh." He seemed even more uncomfortable now, squirming around in his seat like a rat caught in a trap. "Do you… I mean, would you be interested…" he cleared his throat, managing to regain some of his composure. "I have money."

"Sure thing, honey," she said, lowering her voice, giving it a little breathy whisper. "Why don't we just pull over here?"

He pulled on to the access road, drove back until they lost sight of the roadway, and cut the engine.

"How do we…I mean—" he seemed at a loss, the poor guy, and she took pity on him, leaning over and cupping his face in her hands.

"Give us a kiss," she whispered, and he leaned forward, dry lips meeting hers tentatively.

She wrapped her arms around him and drew him tight against her body, and he returned the kiss with fervor now, becoming excited by her soft curves pressing against him. She smiled through the kiss, thinking how this was always the best part, when they were hard with need and ruled by want of her. The act itself was never as exciting as the prelude, the anticipation of what was to come. She wanted to take her time, draw things out, but it had been too long since she'd last been with a man.

She twined her fingers behind his neck and opened her mouth wide, tongue flicking over the inside of his mouth, and then she drew in a deep breath.

He barely had an instant to register what was happening. He was too lost in the moment, too distracted by his need. By the time he realized he should be struggling, it was almost over. The slight wrinkles in his skin deepened into trenches, diverging and converging in a sudden burst of growth, the skin crackling as it dried like parchment. His graying hair turned white and receded, disintegrating until nothing but faint wisps remained, and within seconds his eyes rolled up and sunk back in their sockets.

Warm and shivering with the stolen soul-energy, the succubus nevertheless sighed with regret as she shoved him out the door. "Sorry, sugar," she said with a little wave, wishing she could have held her appetite long enough for both of them to have some fun. Maybe next time, she thought, trying to console herself.

Climbing into the driver's seat she started the car, then paused, tilting the rearview mirror down to reapply her lipstick. She hummed along with the radio as she did so, and at last she capped the lipstick and pursed her lips at her reflection.

"Don't come round tonight, well it's bound to take your life, there's a bad moon on the rise…" she sang along to the music.

"Lookin' good, honey," she told herself with a wink, and then she pushed the mirror back into place, and put the car in reverse.

____________________________________________________________________


A/N: This song was so perfect for the Faith and Angel scenes in this chapter that I could hear it playing in my head as I wrote/read them, so I had to include it. It begins just before Faith kisses Angel, plays through her running away and falling to the ground, and fades out as the camera pulls back to reveal Spike watching.

"Self-Deception" by DiVision

I'm unclean
Undress me
So unreal
The frame I see
I stand stripped to the waist
Before myself
Is it really me
Or what I'm trying to be

I won't drown
In my tears
And go down
In my fears
I am stripped to the skin
I feel ashamed
Is it really me
What I pretend to be

This life is just an illusion
A dream that never ends
I'm always trapped in confusion
On lies it all depends
If this is just an illusion
Made up in somebody's mind
I have to draw the conclusion
It must be someone unkind

I won't lose
My trust again
So untrue
It's still the same
So I strip off my skin
To ease the pain
Is it really me
What I believe to see