A/N I know, I know, it has been a loooooong time since I posted, but I have been pretty sick. Please forgive me. And I know that this is a short part, for now, but I have been really inspired, and the rest should come out nice and quick. (I hope!) Again, thanks for the feedback. I really enjoy it!

From the Darkness

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The world seemed to spin on its axis, then slam to a stop. The universe narrowed and became just the two of them, in the darkness.

Rogue Slayer. Terminated Watcher.

The silence echoed for endless moments, as the pair simply stood and stared at one another.

Faith's posture relaxed, her slayer senses accepting that Wesley was not a danger. She stood uncomfortably, shifting from foot to foot, no longer having the defensive position dictating her body's movements.

It was awkward. There was too much to say. So much to explain. Why couldn't it be simple? But it wasn't. The weight of the past, of the present, was pushing on them, making it hard.

The dark slayer really had no idea of what to say. Of where to start. Of how to explain the hows and whys. How she was out of jail, why she was in his apartment. There was just too much too wrap her tongue, her mind, around.

But instinct made up her mind for her, pushed the words past her lips before she could stop them.

She nodded her head to the spilled box while walking towards Wesley.

"Smooth, Wes. Graceful, as always. Do they teach you that at watcher school? Those skills must come in handy for slayer training."

She was standing in front of him now, saw the almost imperceptible flinch at her words.

She hung her head, hiding behind the dark waves of her hair, ashamed. Seeing the mess at her feet, she knelt, moving to pick up the contents of the box, sorting through the pieces. Trying to clean up the mess.

"Shit," she swore.

Wes stared down at the dark hair of the slayer, his slayer, and tried to adjust to the new tilt in his universe.

"Sorry. Reverting to old ways.  I guess I just don't know what to say, or where to start."

He contemplated bending to help her, but thought better of it as she continued to talk. She seemed to be having an easier time of it, not looking at him. Having something else to focus on. Almost as if she was talking to herself, with him as simply a silent observer.

"Sarcastic bitchiness. Guess it comes to me easier that the truth." She righted the box, started to pick up the loose papers back in it. "I mean, how do I explain it to you when I barely get it myself, and I lived it? One minute, I'm thinking 'Wow, 'bout time I get a visit from my MIA watcher', the next, I'm sitting there looking at that slick lawyer, listening to him babble about springing me from the joint. I still don't know how, or why. Some shit about legalities. All I know is, I'm sprung."

She stilled, sat back on her knees. Sighed. "But I'm still waiting for the other shoe to drop, you know? I mean, he had to have done it for a reason, right? Lawyers just don't do things out of the goodness of their hearts. They don't even have them. I mean, he said that he didn't work for the big bad W+H anymore. But he could be lying, right?" At that, she glanced briefly up at her watcher, then back down into her own lap. "I mean, lawyers kind of live to lie."

The slayer went back to picking up the remnants of her watcher's spilled box, talking the whole time. "And even if he doesn't work for Wolfram and Heart anymore, he's still a lawyer. And lawyers just don't do things without a reason, do they?" She stopped, took a breath, and started to pick up the shattered pieces of the broken tea set. 'Shit! I'm babbling like the redhead." Another deep breath. "Point is, I don't know how, or why I'm free. But I am. And I'm here. Not to sure on the why of that one, either."

She glanced up at her watcher, hands stilling for a moment, as she tried to judge his reactions. He still looked a little shell shocked. The look in her eyes was wary, worried. They said that she was waiting for yet another rejection.

At that look, Wes searched for the voice the doctor said would be slow in coming. He wanted to wipe that look out of the girl's eyes. To tell her he would never reject her, even though the emotion was somewhat new and something that he couldn't explain. Why did he feel the need to protect this girl? The girl who has tortured him, had left him with the scars to bear? Was it simply because he was her watcher once more, and accepted the responsibility for her well being as part of the job? Wesley was pretty sure that that wasn't the reason. But he had no idea what the reason was.

What he did know was how it felt to be turned on. To be cast away without a chance to prove yourself, to explain your side. He knew how it ripped you apart to be condemned for doing what your gut told you to do to survive. For doing what you needed to do.

She was a slayer. It was in her gut to come to her watcher. It was an instinct. He wouldn't cast her away. Couldn't cast her away.

He was still trying to speak, trying to tell her that they would figure out what was going on. That they would do it together. But the words refused to come.

She has gone back to picking up the shattered china, was no longer looking at his face. She couldn't see him struggling to talk.

"Shit!"

Her exclamation snapped Wesley out of his attempts to speak. Her hand had caught a sharp edge of the china, and a line of red had welled up in her palm. Blood leaked slowly out of the cut.

Wesley was on his knees, her hand in his, him inspecting the small injury, before she even knew he had moved.

"Dumbass huh? Figures. Goes with the rest of the lame ass shit I'm pulling right now. So not me." She snatched her hand away from Wesley, more surprised at the touch then the cut. It had been a long time since someone had touched her for a reason other than to force her into something. Casual touching wasn't something that you did in prison.

It had been even longer since someone had touched her gently, with eyes full of caring. Could she even remember when that had been? Had that ever been?

And why was she so warm? Why did it matter? Why was she being all girly about it?

That wasn't her.

She was tough. He didn't need anyone. She wasn't the girly type. She was the slayer. The dark slayer. Tough. Loner. Even if she wanted to make amends, she didn't have to get soft. She would never be soft. Not like Buffy. She wasn't soft, Or feminine. Girly. She didn't care about clothes, boys, the simple act of holding hands. Holding hands didn't turn her on. She had sex. She got laid. She fucked. She didn't hold hands, make love. She was tougher than that. So why did the touch of Wes's hand make something inside of her warm, as if it would melt the ice she'd encased her heart with?

She finished yanking her hand away, impressed at the strength Wes had gained. Impressive, but no match for a slayer. She stood up suddenly, catching Wes off guard. He stood slowly, watching her sudden agitation. How long had it been since someone had cared about this girl for more than what she could do for them? How long had it been since someone had cared simply because she was Faith? Not because she was another soul to save or because she was a slayer, but because she was her? Because she was who she was? Wes wasn't sure that he wanted to know the answer to that question. He wasn't even sure he wanted to know what it was that made him wonder.

"No big Wes. Just a little scratch. Super slaying abilities, remember?" She used the thumb of her other hand to clear some of the blood away. "See? Already healing. Rapid healing is part of the super slayer package."

She made a move towards the door.

"Sorry to bother you, man. I just thought I should let you know what's what, that I was sprung. I'll talk to you when I find a place to settle. Maybe we can do some slayer/watcher thing, if you still want. But whatever." She shrugged. "I'm five by five either way. No skin off my back. I'll slay, and you can watch, if you want. I mean, can you see me giving up killing cold turkey?" She laughed, a bitter and jagged sound, full of images of the harsh, real world that she existed in.

He still hadn't said a word, so she spun around and pulled the door open. It was then that she felt a hand on her arm, and she turned back around, looking up at the watcher.

His chin tilted up proudly, revealing the jagged, healing slash along his throat.

It slammed into Faith suddenly, the realization that he hadn't been talking. Not because he didn't have anything to say, as she thought, but because he couldn't talk. Fred has told her that. How could she have forgotten?

"Jeez, Wes, you just got out of the hospital. You probably want to sleep. And here I am, in your face, acting ridiculous and not at all like me. I'll just go. See ya around."

She tried to turn, but his hand that had gained more strength since she had last been trained by him was still on her arm, and this time it wasn't as easy to struggle out of. Fighting demons had changed him, she saw. Not just in mind, but in body. She could have gotten away if she really fought him, but she found that she didn't want to get away.

"Faith," he finally managed in a voice that was more of a sandpapered hiss then words. "Stay."

The door closed again, propelled by her other hand. It punctuated his words, and gave him her answer.