JEWEL TONES – RUBY
(Five Faiths That Never Were, Part 2)


The blood still tastes sweet.

There's a fire in her eyes that I cannot touch; a living thing that strains and scratches just beneath the skin, fighting like an animal to rage free. Ruby red nails dig into flesh, drawing deep lines and hissing pleasure. Lips swollen with desperate kisses, she pleads with desire and fear, for a moment entirely mine. She is an aching expanse of skin, smooth and unmarked, begging to be tasted and touched and bruised, and God I want her so bad I feel like I'm about to slide right out of my skin. Has it ever been like this? Fevered kisses against hip and throat and breast. She tastes of salt, a wild ocean that threatens to devour me, and I am lost in her. Lost…

I still remember the first night I saw her, dancing like temptation, wreathed in club smoke and sheathed in vinyl. Two-hundred and forty years and I'd never seen anything like her. She was extraordinary; a twisting flame in the darkness of my sad, pitiful world. Dark hair, dark eyes, no dulcet tones to her voice—she was nothing like the pale, blond pearls strung through my haunted past. And yet I wanted her. Wanted her like the desert wants the rain. I reached for her like the trees reach for the sky.

I felt like a younger man then.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

September 2001, Los Angeles

It was Friday night, and the Harlton was open for business.

In its heyday, this had been one of the top notch clubs in town, its doors always open, rooms always full. Angel could remember the days when this place had practically overflowed with men in gray suits and bowler hats flashing greenbacks and smiles like there was no tomorrow. But time had crept in like a cancer since the 1930's and all the Harlton's color and prestige had bled away with it. There was still a trace of its former glory in the high sweeping arches of the room, and in the sheer size of the stage with its thick, velvet curtains, but the rest was buried so far beneath the years of dirt and abuse that a faint echo was all that remained. Time's accomplice in this theft of stature had been poverty, and it was poverty that was also responsible for the lack of patrons to frequent the club in recent years. Still, those who had come tonight were drinking with wild abandon, talking loudly and smoking cigarettes, conversations occasionally punctuated by raucous laughter.

Centuries passed, and the faces and locations changed, but places like this never did. They were always the same on the inside, and Angel supposed they always would be. And he might have found reassurance in that thought if he'd been at all comfortable in public places filled with people.

Too many bodies, too much blood. It was too distracting, and occasionally, though he would never admit it to anyone else, tempting. Better to stay away. Safer that way.

But not tonight.

Angel sighed and took a seat at one of the many empty tables. At length, the overhead lights dimmed and the jukebox shut off. Conversations dulled to a whisper, then died as the crowd hushed in anticipation. This was what they had come for, after all. In the near darkness, smoke curled around shadowy forms in pale blue wreaths, weaving in and out between them like the faint strains of the music that were beginning to rise.

On the stage, deep red velvet curtains were parted by a three inch stiletto heel. It hesitated there, as if teasing, then slid slowly through to reveal a shapely leg encased in black vinyl, and ended with a breathtaking expanse of tanned thigh. Dark eyes ringed in smudged black kohl peered out from between the part, and then an arm glided through the curtain, the music rose, and the dancer spun out onto the stage with a graceful whisper of velvet over skin.

Her body was like a panther's, predatory grace and deadly beauty showcased in every lithe muscle. Lights shone down on her in rainbow hues of scarlet, cobalt, emerald, and violet, each of their sources reflected in the shiny black vinyl she had poured her body into; tiny pinpricks of light that glimmered like the fire inside her. Her skin looked soft, smooth despite the hard edges of her smile, and she was slick with sweat and glitter that set off showers of kaleidoscope color every time she moved. She glittered and gleamed, flared and flashed; the feathered shimmer of a dark peacock's plumage. And yet for all that she shone, nothing burned as bright as the fire in her eyes. It was a living thing, an inferno seconds from raging out of control and taking the whole world with it. In each movement of her arms there was a savage beauty, in every sway of her hips there was an aura of power. No matter that these men who smelled of sweat and cigarettes and violence stared at her as if she was prey; she was in control, and she knew it.

The sultry voice of a woman began to sing from the speakers and the dancer weaved like a cobra to the pole at the forefront of the stage. Wrapping vinyl clad fingers around it, she swung out in a slow arc and threw back her head, dark hair trailing behind her in a cascade of violet light.

Hanging by threads of palest silver,
I could have stayed that way forever.
Bad blood and ghosts wrapped tight around me,
Nothing could ever seem to touch me.

From his table at the back of the room, Angel watched her move with trademark stoicism, his face betraying nothing of what he felt. His glass of scotch perhaps spoke better for him, sitting as it was, untouched and forgotten, ice slowly melting. The people that moved and whispered around him had ceased to matter—indeed, had ceased to exist for the moment—and it might well have been the two of them alone in that smoky, light-streaked room for all the attention he paid.

Whatever he'd been expecting, it hadn't been this.

Guitar with a slow fire to match the show she was putting on kicked in, carrying her in a spin across the stage, and remotely, he registered that she was as gone as he was, so lost in her dance, so lost in the song that everyone else in the room had ceased to exist.

A stroke of luck or a gift from God?
The hand of fate or devil's claws?
From below or saints above?
You came to me.

The words faded out for Angel; heard, felt, but no longer making sense in his brain. He was suddenly glad that he wasn't a younger man, because if it weren't for the years of practice he'd had at keeping his face carefully emotionless, his jaw would have dropped at the sight of what she was doing onstage. The floor, the pole, the air—there was nothing she didn't have smoldering chemistry with and there was nothing that she didn't use it like a weapon against, nothing that she didn't tease and caress with every inch of her skin.

He'd never seen anything like her. And after two-hundred and forty some odd years, that was saying something.

By the time she finished the dance every inch of her lovely skin stood bare, and streaked with sweat and glitter like stardust, her body was a temple that Angel would have gladly lain at her feet to worship.

This was not good.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

The cool, California night breeze caressed Angel's face and he took a deep, unnecessary breath, holding it for an instant and closing his eyes before letting go. Such a human thing to do, but it never failed to bring him focus. He felt far more like his usual self than he had cooped up inside the smoky confusion of the club. The lights, the heat, the noise, it all wore on him. Secluded in the safety of the shadows again, the memory of the club and the girl beneath the lights grew hazy, distant, returning to its proper place in his perspective. Of course he'd been overwhelmed; so had every other man in the room. But it was part of the routine, part of the act, all in a days work. She'd better be good at it. It was how she made her living, after all.

The back door to the club banged open and she stepped out into the alley way, pausing to light a cigarette.

She was dressed in jeans and a tank top now, but she was, Angel discovered, no less spectacular than she'd been on stage. The slow, heavy grace of a jungle cat still flowed through her limbs, just as evident in denim as it had been in vinyl.

Oh shit, was he ever in trouble.

As she turned and began to move down the alley away from him, he spurred himself from the shadows, stepping out and calling after her.

"Faith."

She spun on him like lightning, almost before the word was finished leaving his mouth. No fear in her at all now, that was good. But for a second, when she'd first turned, he thought he'd seen something…

"Maybe," she answered with a belligerent shrug. "Depends on who's asking."

"I'm Angel," he said, suddenly feeling stupid, not quite knowing how to begin. Of course before he'd gotten here he'd had a whole speech prepared, but—

"Well, Angel," she repeated with mocking emphasis. "Now that we've got the 'me Tarzan you Jane' portion of this little exchange out of the way, how about you tell me what the hell you want?"

Without waiting for an answer, she tilted her head at him, her expression moving mercurially from suspicious to appraising in a way that immediately put him on his guard. She smiled just a little, and it was like looking into the mouth of a shark. Prepared? Had he thought he'd been prepared?

"No, wait," she said, taking a step or two toward him, hips swaying provocatively. "Let me guess. You caught the show inside and thought maybe you'd score a little encore action?"

"What?" He was genuinely perplexed. "Oh, no."

She took another step toward him and smiled. Her lips were painted like dark plums and looked like they'd taste just as sweet though they'd be sticky with sin.

"Good. Because the only way I do vamps--" the smile faded as she turned and spun at him "—is with wood."

He reached out, and with the ease of plucking fruit from a vine he grabbed her wrist, stopping the stake a bare centimeter from his chest. "You know, you telegraphed that one about thirty seconds back. You might want to work on your moves a little more, Slayer." And yes, good. He was talking tough, talking the talk, pretending that her nearness wasn't affecting him and he wasn't overwhelmed by the scent of sweat and musk that emanated from her, oh no, not at all.

The heady rush of her scent faded as her eyes widened, panic entering them like an animal who finds itself caught in a trap. She yanked her arm desperately, trying to get away from him, breath coming in short pants now as her heartbeat sped up to match her expression of fear.

"Who sent you?" she demanded, still pulling defiantly at his grip. Dark hair spilled into her face and hung in thick, sweaty strands, and all he could do was marvel at how much the savage look on her face enhanced her beauty. "Was it Kakistos?" Her voice trembled on the name and seemed to lend her violent strength as she struck out at him with her other fist.

He caught that one, too, and held her there, not pushing forward, not forcing her, eyes steady as he measured her. Had he thought she was merely powerful inside the club? If so, he had underestimated her. She was more than powerful; she was dangerous.

"Saw that one coming a mile away, too. You know, you really ought to think about--"

His sentence cut off abruptly as her knee came up and met with his crotch in realms of exquisite pain.

"Okay," he wheezed, letting her go and sinking back. "Didn't see that one coming."

But she was already gone, booted feet pounding against the asphalt as she raced off into the night.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

It took him a few minutes to recover, and in the time that he spent hunched over holding himself, he got a good look at the smoldering butt of the cigarette she'd dropped. Marlboro, of course, he thought, smirk snaking onto his face even through the pain. What else?

He followed at a leisurely pace, trusting his senses to lead him. He couldn't have wiped her scent from his mind if he'd tried, and its trail was sweet, thick as honey on the air.

The building it led him to was ramshackle, decrepit. It, like the Harlton, had seen better days in the 1930's. Inside, bums and junkies were scattered all over the hallway like bowling pins in a hastily abandoned lane, their skin as gray and shabby as the walls they leaned against. He stepped carefully through the obstacle course of splayed limbs, doing his best to ignore their melodic murmurs, and made his way up the stairs.

At the end of the uppermost hall, the number six hung on its side at a crazy angle that was more like a nine, and he paused before the door, hesitating in a brief moment of sanity. A girl like this, a place like this… she was definitely the Slayer, her moves had more than proven that, despite his jibes. But why was she here? And what would she do to him if she found out he knew where she lived?

Only one way to find out.

He raised his hand and knocked.

The door swung away from Angel in a rush of movement—there was a hand, a stake, and a moment that might have been a heartbeat where he ducked and threw himself backward.

She stood in the doorway, outlined by dirty yellow light, stake raised, chest heaving with rage and indignation.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

He leaned against the far wall of the hallway and raised his hands—not high enough that he'd be caught unprepared if she decided to press her luck and come at him, but high enough that he figured she'd get the message.

"I'm not here to hurt you. I—I didn't mean to scare you," he added, half-apologizing.

"What makes you think you did?" she challenged, stake rising higher.

"Well, I did have to chase you."

"Yeah? Well being a vampire who leaps out of the shadows at a Slayer? Not your best choice for making bosom buddies." The sarcasm in her voice could have cut through stone. "Who the fuck are you, and who sent you here, Angel?"

"No one sent me." He hesitated, considered. "Well, a friend of mine had a vision, actually, but she didn't really send me."

"Really?" She arched disbelieving brows at him as she leaned an elbow against the doorway, not quite crossing the boundary. "So this friend. She had a vision of me killing you? Is that it? 'Cause we could get it done real quick." Her voice practically caressed him with bloodlust.

"Actually, she had a vision of you getting killed. I came to help."

Her brows rose another incredulous centimeter. "Really? Last I checked? Vampires: not much on the knight in shining armor bit."

"I'm not a knight."

"No, you're an Angel," she quipped, rolling her eyes.

He grimaced, then nodded his head side to side, as if relenting to the idea. "In a manner of speaking."

"Oh, please! Spare me the Anne Rice shit. Three years I've been doing this Slayer bit, and I've yet to meet a vamp who was good for more than dusting."

"Have you ever met anyone who was good for more than that?" he challenged. "Because I'm starting to get the idea that my being a vampire is only half the problem." She was playing tough all right. Too tough. Anyone who had a shell that hard was overcompensating for some serious vulnerability. It wasn't just that he was a vampire—she didn't trust anyone. She reminded him a lot of Kate, suddenly, and he grimaced internally at the comparison.

Her posture changed, folding in on itself a little, and she seemed to edge uncomfortably against the doorway.

"Look, you're in there, I'm out here. We both know I can't touch you unless you invite me in, so why don't you just hear me out?"

For a moment he thought she might turn away and slam the door in his face. Then she folded her arms across her chest, stake still visible in the crook of her arm—for his benefit, he was sure—and leaned back as if settling in.

"Okay, vampire. What's your story?"

"First of all, I'm not just a vampire. I have a soul."

"Oh." She nodded mockingly, as if she'd been celestially enlightened. Then she turned her head to the side, unable to hold back her derisive chuckle. "You really are peddling the Anne Rice crap, aren't you?"

"Are you going to listen to me, or not?" he asked harshly.

Her face worked beneath the ugly fluorescents of the hallway, and at last she nodded. "Okay. Sure. Why not?" She shrugged and spread her arms at him in invitation.  "Hit me with your best shot, Louis."

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

An hour later, she was crouched down in her doorway, elbows resting on her knees as she puzzled through what he had told her.

"So you're cursed?"

"Yeah, that's the short version." He sighed and sagged back against the far wall of the hallway, not able to remember the last time he had talked so much.

"And your friend—the one who got these visions from the half-demon guy that died—she saw something bad happen to me?"

He nodded and swallowed against the rusty taste in his throat. "She did." He paused, gathering his thoughts, and shifted against the wall. "She saw you battling against a vampire with one eye. The other eye was blind. Had an ugly scar cutting through it."

"Kakistos," she whispered, her voice trembling again, and he saw a shadow of fear flutter across her face. And God, even then she was so beautiful. Did she have any idea how beautiful she was?

Her dark eyes were distant, almost vacant except for utter incomprehension. "I cut him with some kind of magic blade. Blinded him in one eye." She smirked bitterly. "I left my mark on him, at least. Before I ran."

"You did what you had to," Angel assured.

"How do you know?" she shot back at him, rising from her crouch with eyes like burning embers. "You weren't there. You didn't see what happened. What he… did to her." Her eyes flickered away from him on this last, as if in shame.

"Who?"

"My Watcher," she grated. "And when he was done with her, he came for me, and all I could do was… run." She finished up with a bewildered laugh and a shrug, and he felt his something in his chest tighten with sympathy.

"You know…" she said slowly, thoughtfully, eyes still not reaching to meet his, much as he willed it. "They tell you how to fight, how to kill and thrust and parry and spin, but they don't tell you how to deal with something like that. They don't tell you how to handle a situation where your Watcher is cut into itty-bitty pieces while you watch." Her eyes hardened, and tears of anger sprang to life within them. "I guess the Slayer's handbook never had to cover a situation like that."

He stared at her, lost in the wake of her admission, and cursed himself for not being better at this. He searched his heart for comfort and for all the intensity that fueled them, the words he found seemed the most stupid and simple. "I'm sorry."

Her eyes surged up at him, liquid with belligerent sorrow. "You know what else they don't tell you in the Slayer's handbook? How to make a living with a stake."

He took a moment to process that, and tilted his head away from her, suddenly uncomfortable with the emotion between them. "So that's why you… dance?"

She uttered a harsh and bitter laugh. "Dance, yeah. Why don't you call it what it really is, Angel? Stripping. Taking my clothes off for hungry eyes and getting money for it. You got a problem with that?"

"Do you?" he asked.

"No. I don't," she answered defiantly. "Never have. I knew Kakistos would chase me after what I did to him, so I faded into the background, disappeared. I've changed clubs a lot in the last few years, but I'm still alive, and I'm still scraping by." She raised her brows at him in challenge. "And that's what it's all about, isn't it?"

"It doesn't have to be," he said gently. "You can walk away from this, Faith. You can come back with me and be a Slayer again. God knows we could use your help. Not to mention that you'd be fulfilling your destiny."

She laughed once, hollowly. "Is that what it's about for you? Because it's not for me. For me it's about forgetting. About getting away from all the death and the blood."

"About losing yourself?"

"Maybe."

And now he shook his head. "I know all about trying to do that, Faith. It doesn't work. Sooner or later you're going to have to face up to your destiny. And from the looks of things, it's going to be pretty soon."

"Yeah, well it's easy for you," she snarled and stood on her feet, turning away. "You're not alone. You've never had to know what it's like to constantly look over your shoulder and worry about who's coming for you next. Maybe the guy who stuck a twenty in your garter belt tonight? Or the bouncer by the door on your way out?" She turned on him, furious. "Who's it going to be next? The guy in the hallway stalking and sweet-talking you into morning?"

"Faith, I know—"

She slammed her fist into the doorframe, all glorious rage and simmering anger. "Fuck you! You don't know the first thing about who I am, or where I've been."

He looked at her for a long moment, thought about arguing with her, and finally he nodded.

"You're right. I don't."

She raised her chin at him in defiance, proud to have proven her point.

"But I could. If you'd let me."

"You wanna get in my pants? Is that it?" She boiled over furiously.

He considered that, his mind a shifting, slithering place where the footing was treacherous and unknown. "That's not the reason I'm here."

She stared at him for a several long seconds, chewing on her lower lip in nervous deliberation. At last she rolled her eyes and cursed beneath her breath. "Fuck!" She slammed the palm of her hand against the doorjamb. "Why do I believe you?" She was still furious, frustrated with her feelings.

He gave her a slow, faint smile. "Because it's the truth."

She stood there, frowning and staring contemplatively at the dent she'd put in the doorframe, arms folded across her chest. Angel sat and stared at her for several long minutes in silence, and then glanced toward the window in the hall.

"The sun will be up soon. I should go." He waited for her to respond, and when she didn't, he pushed off the wall, slipped his hands into the pockets of his trench coat and looked at her intently. "Listen. Be careful, okay?"

She stared at the wall and said nothing.

He hesitated an instant longer, wishing she would say something, anything. And when at last he had stretched the silence out so long that it screamed in protest, he lowered his head and turned to go. "Good night."

"Angel." Her voice was quiet as it cut through the hall and stopped him in his tracks. Her tone was like steel but somehow uncertain, implying that the conversation they were having now was dodgy at best, and very, very private. "I don't know if I'm ready to just jump back in."

He turned toward her, one corner of his mouth crinkling. "It's okay. We've got time."

She fidgeted a moment more, and then she nodded and tucked a lock of hair behind one ear. "Right."

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

She didn't believe me then, but that was all right, because I believed enough for both of us. I was still filled with belief in the right and wrong of the world—still believed that good always triumphed over evil. I was naïve with hope and drunk with pride, and some part of me honestly believed that if I could do this, if I could just help this girl, it would put a few coins in the coffer towards buying my cosmic forgiveness. Some part of me honestly believed that I could give back to the world, and blinded by my arrogant nobility, I convinced myself that that was all I wanted.

I'll always remember her like that, standing in that dingy hallway still glittering; a tarnished setting for a rough but beautiful gemstone. I know now that I loved her even then. I think some part of me knew it then, much as I tried to deny it.

I wish I had known then how it was all going to end. But no one ever can.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

"It's been a week, Angel. Aren't you getting tired of hanging around here yet?" Faith asked, leaning toward him over her cup of coffee. Her eyes were still smudged with the heavy black of the make-up from her show as they teased him, but it was her mouth that held him. Her lips were the shimmering red of frosted rose petals, and Angel was mesmerized by the way they moved, the faint scent of coffee that lingered on them, painfully aware of every breath they drew. He'd gone from denial to infatuation to full-blown imagined love in the course of that one week, and all the armies of hell couldn't have pulled him from her now. He was wrapped in the web of her mystery, tied up tight in gossamer strands of wanting, spellbound by the whiskey and cigarettes caress of her voice.

"There's no where else I'd rather be," he answered. So honest, so earnest. Did he sound like a fool? He didn't care.

She averted her eyes, seeming uncomfortable with his intensity, and tucked a lock of hair behind one ear as she dodged his look.

"Your real life must be pretty boring, huh?" she countered, and he smiled slightly. She hesitated a moment then shook her head. "You know, I just don't get you. You've been here a week, you still haven't tried to get in my pants, and you still think I'm cut out for this whole Slayer thing?"

"It's your calling," he said simply, and shrugged.

"And that's good enough for you, huh?" she snorted. "What about me? You ever stop for a second and think maybe this is where I belong?" she asked with a glance around the tiny, grungy diner. "This city, these people. The dirty streets and starving kids, the crime and the hatred. This is the kind of place I've always belonged. The one time I ever had a chance at anything different the person who changed my life got killed right in front of me. And you know, I'm thinking; this life? A whole lot safer, crackheads and crazy homeless people included."

He swallowed and shook his head once. "No one ever believes they're destined for greatness, Faith. I'm sorry you had to go through what you went through with your Watcher, but that's not the way it always has to be. You can do great things—you can save the world."

"And what if I think the world's not worth saving, huh?" she countered, dark eyes sharpening on him. "What if I think that even at its best the world still looks like this underneath? A cancer covered in pink candy shell coating to make it look all pretty?"

"That's not what you think," he said quietly.

"How do you know what I think?" she demanded, voice rising like an alarm.

He tilted his head at her, tried to focus beyond the beauty of her. "I don't. But I know you're better than this, Faith. I believe in you."

She snorted again and turned her head away, dark hair falling forward to cover her face. "You really believe that?" The way she asked it made it sound as if she thought he might be mentally deficient.

"I do."

She didn't look back up at him, just stared into whatever private world she lived in, and for a long moment there was only silence.

"Wanna know something funny?" she asked, and her voice cracked, barely above a whisper. And then she did glance up at him, eyes skirting over his.

"Sometimes you make me believe it, too."

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

When I look back, I wish more than anything I had that one night to do over again. I don't know what I would have done differently, what I would have said, but I know there was something. Maybe I could have told her to ditch the whole Slayer thing. Could have thrown away my dream of redemption and run off with her to somewhere where the world could never touch us. Maybe we could have built something together that I'd only ever dreamed of. But I was younger then, too focused, too caught up in redeeming myself for my past offenses. I could have no sooner divested myself of my moral code than she could have told me she loved me.

And she did love me. I know that now, too. I know a lot of things now that I didn't then.

I wish I didn't.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

The alley by the coffee shop was as ugly and tired and worn as the rest of this part of the city. The smell of garbage was nearly enough to gag on, and the furtive, maddened cries of the street people came from nearby, but all of it was lost on Angel. He was here, and he was with her, and they could defeat anything that happened to cross their path.

"So this Slayer you knew," Faith asked as they ambled down the alley toward her apartment. "Whatever happened to her?"

Reality came rushing back in an unwelcome flood, filling his mind with memories better left forgotten. He swallowed against the bitter taste in the back of his throat and it seemed to crack with the strain of words that didn't want to come.

"She… died," he answered slowly.

"How?"

"Fighting."

She stopped walking and stared at him, eyes luminous with the light of nearby street lamps. "Monsters?"

"Yeah," he answered with some difficulty.

"You… cared about her?"

"I did," he admitted reluctantly. "But I never got the chance to really know her."

"Because she died," Faith said harshly. "Like I'm going to die if I do this."

"We all die, Faith."

"You don't!" she accused angrily. "You get to be young and beautiful and live forever. And what do I get? Some hand-me-down destiny I don't even want that's going to get me killed no matter how good I fight. And you want me to do this?"

He turned to her, eyes earnest and sincere. "I don't want you to die, Faith. If you died, I…" he broke off, not ready to even consider such a thing. "I would never let that happen," he said instead.

"Yeah? You're gonna be my protector, huh?" Her laugh was empty and bitter.

"You don't need me to protect you," he said, eyes intense upon hers. "But if you did… if you did, I would."

She stared at him for a long moment, eyes filled with a strange mixture of trepidation, disbelief, and hope. Oh God, the hope he saw beneath that guarded glare. It brought his heart to life, made him believe it could beat again someday.

What could he say to convince her?

He was still trying to figure that out when something slammed into him hard from behind.

There was a disorienting moment during which up and down became concepts that were interchangeable, and then there was a piercing pain through his left lung that missed his heart by scarcely an inch. He opened his mouth to voice his opinion on that—and thick blood rose up from his lung, filling his mouth.

"Angel!" Faith screamed. She'd been just as distracted as he was, but she'd had a second or two more of awareness and the advantage of an outside angle. She froze for an instant as the wooden stake penetrated his back, and for a moment, Angel thought he heard genuine terror in her voice. Then she was in motion and as the world ran out like his blood onto the pavement, and she threw a hard right cross at the vampire who'd attacked him, spinning and following through with a boot to the head. The creature went down hard, and the last thing he saw before the world dissolved into nothingness was her lovely face above his, eyes round and horrified.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

He woke in a strange bed that smelled of musky perfume and sweet sweat. It took him a few seconds to get his bearings, and as he realized the strange pulling against his skin was only bandage tape, he recognized the scent.

"You all right?" Faith asked, standing in the doorway of her bedroom, arms folded across her chest, the question itself sounding like a challenge. Such beautiful armor. If he hadn't known her so well, he might have thought she didn't care.

"I think so." He reached down and fumbled for the bandage on his chest. The exit wound was small; a tiny, black round hole that had already begun to heal.

She walked over slowly and took a look at the damage, arms still folded over her chest. Her full lips compressed to a line thinner than he would have guessed she could form, and she turned away.

"I thought you were gonna die."

"I'm still here," he said gently.

She spun on him, eyes angry and desperate. "Nice talk. Telling me how you're gonna be my big, bad defender, and look at you. You almost died!"

He couldn't refute that, and so he said nothing.

"I can't take this Angel." Her hand trembled as she lifted it to her face. "I just can't--" She closed her eyes and hitched a breath, trying to regain control of herself. She turned away again, pressed her hands to her cheeks and ran them through her hair.

"He was one of Kakistos' goons. I recognized him."

Angel sat up, wincing slightly at the pain in his back. "You're sure?"

She only nodded, her whole form sagging with despair. "He found me." Her voice cracked with sadness and years spent running from a nightmare that had caught her at last. She turned to him, her face a poem of desperation, vibrating with life and vitality; a passion that belonged to her alone. "What am I gonna do?"

"You're going to have to face him," Angel said with finality.

"No."

"It's the only way you're going to get past this Faith. You've got to face him."

She stood for a long moment in silence, painting a gorgeous, forlorn picture against the shabby backdrop of her room.

"You'll come with me?" she asked, so quietly that he wasn't sure at first that she had spoken.

"I will."

She came to him then, put her hands upon his chest and eased him back on to the bed. Fingertips slid over the bare skin of his shoulders, trailing down to his belly with strokes that sent tingles spreading through his body. Slowly, ever so slowly, she crept on to the bed, straddling him as she ran her hands over his skin.

"Faith--"

"Shh," she cut him off, pressing a finger to his lips. "No talking now." She bent low, long hair brushing against his face, and he closed his eyes, arms reaching up to encircle her waist. Gentle lips met his, and he tasted coffee and fire and life itself as she breathed into him, warm body moving slowly against his in a tattoo of desire.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

I remember it like yesterday. Moment blending into moment, mouth burning, tongues teasing, tasting. God, she was so beautiful, so tender behind the roughness of her kisses. She was a jeweled chalice and her taste was sweet and spicy like thick honeyed mead, intoxicating me with every drop. She peeled off her clothes and put my hands against heaven, took me into her world and left me drowning, gasping for air and begging for release. Every moment, every kiss, every taste, burned into my mind forever.

Such sweet desire, such innocence behind the knowing of her kisses. She knew what she was doing, every second, every touch, but she might as well have been a virgin for all that she had made love to someone like that.  I had told her how special she was, how divine and chosen and beautiful, but it was in that moment that she made me special. That moment when I finally believed. That moment when I knew true love at last.

I should have known such things weren't meant for the likes of me.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

He blinked and opened his eyes to the distant slant of afternoon sunlight. Everything was marvelous, incredible. The world was revealed to him as if with new eyes, and he blinked again in amazement. Faded room, gray, all gray, peeling paint that revealed a sickening green beneath, and an ancient orange-red beneath that. The room was musty, sparsely furnished and bereft of all but the faintest traces of personality. The entire place smelled of the musk of sex, more faintly of perfume and the taint of unwashed bodies that littered the hallway just outside. And to him, it couldn't have looked or smelled more delicious. Had life ever been so good? Had he ever felt so free?

Faith sat curled on the bed like a cat, ashtray perched on one knee, cigarette burning a long trail of ash down to the filter. Deep brown eyes, full pouty lips, a face that could have belonged to an angel or a junkie. Salvation or destruction wrapped in one tiny, beautiful package.

"You okay?" she asked, cutting him a sidelong look. "You were thrashing around and moaning so much in your sleep last night I thought you might tear your wound open again."

He lifted his hands and looked at them, marveling, then ran them down over his stomach, feeling the rough cotton of bandages scratch against his skin. He gave a surprised laugh and shook his head in wonder. "I feel… great," he said, practically beaming as he smiled at her.

"Yeah?" A faint smile, the ghost of hope. He wondered how many men she had gone to bed with and woken up without.

"Yeah."

"So, I was thinking," she said without looking at him. "About this Slayer thing."

"Yeah?" he asked, sitting up slowly.

"Yeah." She glanced up at him uncertainly, trying as hard as she could to cover with her street smart toughness. But she was like the painted walls to him now; sheltered and trying vainly to be dull and safe on the outside, her layers pulled back to reveal the colors beneath. She tried to close her mind to him, but he knew her well enough by now to know how to squint and see it. The rest of her, however, was uncovered, naked and gorgeous and easily visible in the waning light.

"I was thinking," she said slowly, carefully. "If I came back with you, we'd be like a team, right?"

"Is that what you want?"

She averted her eyes, hair falling forward and curtaining her face. "Does it matter what I want? I'm figuring, either way you'll turn out to be my partner in crime or the crazy stalker guy I thought you were when you first showed up. What I wanted never mattered much. Why should it now?"

"Because it matters to me," he said solemnly.

She glanced at him, perched on the edge of the moment with a half-drawn breath. And God, even disheveled and with bed hair, eyeliner smeared and lipstick faded, she was beautiful. The Goddess's of old would have envied her her full, sexy features, and yet she seemed so unaware of them.

"Does it?" she asked, voice hesitant and huskily low despite the belligerent ring to it.

"Faith… what happened last night, how I feel about you." He shook his head, gave a short, almost rueful laugh. "I can't tell you how grateful and happy I am."

She stared at him for a long moment, mistrustful and frightened, then stubbed out her cigarette and set the ashtray aside, moving as if she were about to leave the bed.

"Hey." He laid a hand on her arm, aware of her warmth, her heartbeat. "After all that, after last night, you're still going to shut me out?"

She gave him a furtive backward glance and turned away again.

"Hey," he whispered, sliding closer to her, taking her in his arms. "It's all right Faith. It's gonna be all right. We'll be together and everything will be okay."

She shook in his arms like a tiny earthquake, body shivering against him. He could smell her blood, hear her heartbeat, feel her trepidation. He leaned forward, kissed the back of her neck, trailing upward with his tongue, smiling when she shuddered against him with a different emotion this time. He kissed the back of her ear and slowly made his way down her neck, placing small, perfect kisses over every inch along the way.

"You really think so?" Her voice was soft, whispering as she leaned backward into him.

He kissed the soft place where her shoulder joined her neck, nuzzled her there. "Oh, baby," he whispered and smiled, parting his lips. "I know so."

He turned his head and plunged his fangs deep into her vein.

Thrilling with rapture at the taste of her blood, Angelus drained her dry.

*          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

The blood still tastes sweet, but not as sweet as when she was alive. Angelus' memories mock me, beckoning me down corridors of thought I will not travel. But still I stay here with her, cold hand in cold hand, pale flesh to pale flesh, each of us trying desperately to find a spark of life in the other. She was mine. I've never been anyone's.

Cordelia and the others made sure I got my soul back, but it was way too late by then. All that time worrying about Kakistos, all the promises I made and the swearing that I would protect her… and she was cut from my life, from this mortal coil by my own hateful hand.

She was lost to me, gone. I was sick with guilt, thick and dirty with it, and I groveled in the darkness of my heart, unfit to dream, deserving only death. And even then, her memory still haunted me, kept me alive. My heart still longed for her. I couldn't stay with the people who told me it wasn't my fault, who favored me with pitying stares and useless advice. I had to leave. Had to find her.

Why? I think part of me wanted to kill her, to put everything to rest. But it will never rest, not so long as I live. One look at her, one look in those depthless brown eyes, and I knew I could never kill her, soulless monster or not. And so we spend our nights wrapped in fake passion like barbed wire links through our flesh, binding us together. Each word hurts, every move draws blood. And yet here I remain. It's my torture. My penance. My shameful desire. She hunts. She kills. She torments me with words like knife blades, flaying my soul with tales of what I did to her, slicing open my skin with lacquered fingernails and gleaming metal. There's never enough pain at the bottom to satisfy her, no matter how much I hurt.

I am broken, and she is a dark and beautiful butterfly. Where once she burned with lust for life she now smolders with hatred. The songs she danced to have all gone, leaving her an empty vessel who is only truly alive when she's killing or fucking. She has a taste for torture and a love for young girls.

Angelus would have loved her.

I still love her.

Whatever my life was, whatever my life could have been, it's hers now. I made her, and she owns me.

Outside the window it's raining, and the world moves on while I stay trapped here in the confines of this tiny room, this secret place that is the home of my pain, surrounded by ghosts and the stale scent of hope. It's hardly large enough to hold my guilt, and it will never be large enough to hold my heart. But it's all I've got. I killed her, and when I killed her, I killed the passion that made her who she was. I killed what made her special. I reached inside that magnificent cage and squeezed the life from the bird that was its heart. The cage is still beautiful, but cold and empty now, echoing with only memories of what once was.

The lights outside catch my attention, and I think of better days. Days when I was on fire with vision and hope for the future. Days when the city below was still the City of Angels and dreams could actually come true. Days when true love seemed possible. I touch the glass with shaking fingers and the water outside paints reflected trails down my face as I close my eyes.

In my mind I see myself as a tree, branches grasping for the sky and sun with desperate, twisted lengths. An earthbound creature that can only stare at the horizon and pray, framed by clouds strewn across the sky, fleecy white entwined with blue, only a beautiful backdrop in this picture. The sun is ruby red, like the fire that burned in her heart, and I wish more than anything that I could touch it.

But even if I never touched it, even if it burned me to a cinder with its unearthly crimson light, I would give anything for it to remain.

Anything to have that vibrant girl back in my life, laughing, alive and breathing.

There are some wounds that never heal.

                                   
            ~From the diary of the vampire known as Angel, Los Angeles, February 19th 2002