Author notes: This chapter is dedicated to Illyria639. LOL!

And to I.B. Slackin' and psychotic chaos—love you guys, keep it coming

To LoganAlpha30—me, mushy, nah. I'm the queen of mush. It's so hard to resist. Not too mushy. You have one of the mushiest Faith's I have ever seen (it's a compliment). And I love it. I need to read your stuff now!

Chapter Four – Scars

The fifty times a day still wouldn't be enough. That was her goal. To make him sure of her. Why did she care? Probably because he was the one that she had done the most to. Buffy wasn't harmed anywhere near the amount that she had harmed Wesley. He had the scars to prove it.

The scars were nothing compared to the bruises that were starting to form across his chest. Man, he must have hit that steering wheel hard.

"Here, hold this," she told him as she started to wind the bandage in place.

Reaching around him, she pulled tight, but not so tight he wouldn't be able to breathe. Since she'd done this enough on herself, she knew the exact tension she had to create to do the job.

She had to touch him. She had been touching him. No reaction at all. His face was impassive as she pulled and tugged and tightened. By the time she ran out of bandage, her head was swimming. Being this close to him made her a little warmer. Now she had to spend the night with him.

"There's a small room across the hall from mine. Just a bed. I hope that's alright."

"Just need somewhere to lay my head."

"Thank you, for wrapping my ribs."

He wouldn't look her in the eyes. Glancing around the room, he looked at everything but her. Was he embarrassed? She hoped not because of the way he looked. Because other than the bruises, he looked mighty fine to her. Living the clean life had been good to him. She wanted to bang her head on the coffee table just for thinking like that.

She watched as he limped his way into his room and shut the door. The lock clicked right after that.

"So much for trusting me," she mumbled to herself.

Faith cleaned up the mess she had made in the living room and made sure the place was locked up tight. Turning off the lights, she brought a cup of hot cocoa with her to the room. The small light by the bed wasn't even bright enough to see by. As she shucked her jeans, she pulled the covers back and jumped into the bed.

"Cold, cold," she moaned, but the sheets heated fairly quickly.

Faith didn't think that she'd sleep after all the excitement, but she drifted off quickly.

Faith kept wondering why she dreamed the way she did. She certainly couldn't tell the prison counselors what happened in her dreams. They would have locked her up in the funny farm for sure. Vampires, demons, creatures of the night didn't compare to the hell that she put herself through in her dreams.

Faith watched as her life played on a screen, flying by at mach speed. It all bombarded her brain until she closed her eyes so as to not look at how fucked up it all was.

"Look, Faith. Look at the mess you've made," Wesley whispered in her ear.

She opened her eyes, to find him sitting beside her, like he was watching the movie right along with her.

"I never wanted any of this. I never wanted to be a slayer."

Could she convince him of this?

"You reveled in the fact that you had power over everyone. Power over Xander. You remember him? How you tried to kill him just because he cared?"

Faith didn't want to remember what she had done to him. "I didn't kill him. I didn't want to see him dead. I just wanted him to stop talking, stop acting like he cared."

Faith gripped her seat tightly as she turned to look at Wesley. He looked the way he had in Sunnydale, all suit, polished face and snooty attitude. But the voice, the voice was very different.

"If Angel hadn't stopped you, another dead person on your conscience."

"I didn't want to kill him," she shouted back.

"I guess you saved that for me instead."

The scene shifted to the nightmare that she had almost constantly. She watched her crazy self cut across Wesley's chest with a shard of glass. He grimaced, but didn't give her other self the satisfaction of screaming.

"Please don't make me watch this."

"Faith, you surprise me. I thought that this was your crowning achievement. I know it changed me," he told her as he came closer to her.

This time he was dressed the way he was when she first saw him in Los Angeles, button-down shirt and khakis. But the Wesley standing beside her wasn't cut up, wasn't beaten. She could see her reflection in his glasses as he stood directly over her. She leaned back to look at him and to inch away from his closeness.

"I was messed up. So messed up. I didn't want . . . ," she started.

"If you say you didn't want to kill me, so help me I will . . . ."

"Kill me? Do it. Just get it over with. It's what I wanted then. Just do it," she screamed in his face as he bent over to stare directly in her eyes.

He looked a little crazed to her, so she pushed him back until she could scramble out of the chair.

"Don't you think I wanted to do it? In that alley? Angel . . . ," Wesley continued.

"Stopped you," Faith answered back quietly. "I don't think you had it in you. You're not a murderer, like me."

"No, not like you, but just as guilty. You want to know what I've done? What I've let happen?"

Oh, great, she thought. This dream's not just about her. It's about what he did too.

"I let you escape from the Council."

"You helped me get away."

"I was fired for not being able to handle you."

"To be able to fight evil with Angel."

Wesley morphed into another look, this one haggard, much like he looked that very night, but hair longer, clothes unkempt, eyes worried, looking older than he ever did.

He grabbed her arms and shook her hard. "To end up losing Angel's . . . ."

Wesley wasn't able to finish his last sentence. From behind him came a knife to his throat, slashing across. Blood spurt everywhere, across Faith's face and front, down Wesley's neck, flowing out of him faster than his heart could pump it through his body.

The person behind him was a woman, tall, red hair. The knife that she held looked exactly like the one in her dream about the robed guys.

"Connor," Wesley croaked out before crumbling at her feet.

Faith rubbed at her face, seeing the blood, Wesley's blood all over her. The woman behind Wesley smiled, then morphed into one of the robed figures. Before she could take it down, something shiny flashed before her eyes in a downward motion. Looking down, she saw the same knife that had slashed Wesley's throat embedded in her own chest. Now her blood coated it, along with his. Pulling it out, she threw it at the figure, which melted into the air.

Faith fell to her knees on the ground right beside Wesley. He was clutching his throat, trying to tell her something. Crashing to her side, she faced him as his eyes glazed over, blood still pouring from his wound.

"Don't die," he managed to mouth to her.

The knife must have hit a lung, because now she couldn't breathe. "I'm sorry," she mouthed back to him.

He reached over to grab her hand in his. His was covered with blood, but at that point, they were both gonna die anyway.

"Don't leave me," he mouthed again.

She watched as his eyes started to close. His hand started to slip out of hers and his chest stopped moving.

"No," came out as a screech as his hand went limp. "No, you bastard. You weren't supposed to die."

"Faith, wake up. Faith, it's just a dream."

Faith gulped a huge breath of air and sat straight up in her bed. Her hair was tangled and damp from her nightmare, clothes all askew and sweaty. Wesley sat on the edge of the bed, holding her hand tightly.

"It was a dream. Right? Just a dream," she chanted, trying to convince herself of the reality before her.

She collapsed against his chest, earning a grunt. She could hear his heart beating, feel his chest rising and falling, feel the warmth of his body. She hadn't been too late. He only died in her dream.

On the first scream, Wesley bolted upright in his bed, grabbing his gun from underneath his pillow. Clicking the safety off, he unlocked his door quickly, running into Faith's room. Her body bowed off the bed as her arms reached out for nothing. Putting his weapon into the waistband at the back of his pajamas, he grabbed one of her flaying hands, thinking to bring her out of her nightmare.

"No. No, you bastard. You weren't supposed to die."

"Faith, wake up. Faith, it's just a dream."

Just a nightmare, he thought. She probably had them just as much as he did. Her hand clutched at his like he was her lifeline. She sat straight up in bed, squeezing down on his hand even more. Tears streamed out of her eyes as she took in deep breaths into her lungs.

"It was a dream. Right? Just a dream," she chanted to herself.

She collapsed against his bandaged chest, eliciting a groan of pain. Her hair was damp and wild around her face as he tried to brush it away, to make sure she had truly come out of her dream. He didn't relish her whaling away on him if she was still in some kind of dream state.

Although she felt as hot as a furnace, she still shivered as her sobs started to die down. He hadn't been able to put a shirt on before going to bed, so he could feel every tear that fell. Slowly, the sobs turned into snuffles. Then she did the unthinkable. She climbed into his lap and curled up. A groan of a different kind came out then.

"Faith, you're alright now," he quietly told her.

"I thought you were dead," came out haltingly. "I tried to stop it. I really did."

"You should get off now," he ground out.

Her hands came around him, to get closer to him. Her body went stiff when she felt the gun at his back.

"What the fuck," she growled at him.

She lifted his gun and threw it to the ground, pushing him down on the bed. She pinned his shoulders down hard. The look on her face was one of displeasure.

"You had a gun," she went on.

"Get off of me."

He knew he was saying it, his brain was saying it, but the rest of his body didn't want her to move. She'd figure out quickly that the rest of his body didn't listen to his brain. It had been so long since someone actually touched him, much less climbed into his lap and squirmed.

"Now, Faith," he growled back, hoping that she would take him seriously.

"I told you that I was sorry," came out almost as a whine.

"I know that. Now if you would please," he said, teeth gritted together.

The more she squirmed atop of him, the hotter the room became. He'd forgotten about his ribs, his ankle, his aching brain.

"You need to listen, for once. I never . . . ," she continued like she was having a light conversation with him.

He pushed on her arms, managing to move her back until he could maybe make her understand he meant right that instant. His ribs screamed in protest as he did it.

"Now," he finally shouted at her.

"I'm not done. You," Faith stopped short, looking down to where their bodies were intimately linked. "Shit."

She flung herself off and scooted until her back was against the headboard.

"I'm sorry to have to shout at you. I know your nightmare was traumatizing."

"Why didn't you just say something? You fucking bastard," she shouted back, scrambling off the bed.

"I tried," he countered.

"The gun?"

"I heard you screaming. I thought you were in danger."

Faith stood before him, thin tee shirt and underwear. And there wasn't much to the underwear. Wesley closed his eyes, just to get the image out of his head. He wasn't having much luck.

"I can take care of myself."

"Right. Forgot how well you can take care of yourself."

He gingerly got up and left the room before they could get into a real, full-blown argument. She followed right on his heels.

"What's that supposed to mean? Huh?"

He whirled to take her on again. "I've put up wards on the cabin. I thought that somehow they'd been broken. I thought that you were in danger."

She put her hands on her hips, turning her head to the side. He couldn't, wouldn't look at her like she was. Her hair was a wild tangle of curls, her shirt thin and way too revealing, her legs slender and muscled.

"So that's why you had the gun?"

"Precisely."

"Oh. Thanks, by the way. I just, you just. Oh, fuck it. Sit down, I'll make you tea or somethin'."

She turned to walk into the kitchen, which gave him an unobstructed view of her backside. He flopped down on the couch, holding his ribs a little as he bent over to catch his breath. Holding his aching head between his hands, he focused on one spot on the floor to gather his wits about him.

"Sorry. I was just so freaked because of the dream. And there you were."

"Faith, go put some clothes on," he commanded her to do, for her own good and his.

"What? Oh. Ohhhh. Gotcha. Right," she sighed and headed off to the back room.

He glanced up to see her enter her room and immediately dropped his eyes again. The rest of his body damn well better listen to his brain this time. Thank god she came back with trousers on. He tried to get up as the tea kettle started to whistle, but she waved him away.

"Sit. You need time anyway," she said as she made her way over to the stove.

What on earth did she mean by that, he thought? He knew the answer before he could even find a way out of it logically. Wanting to yell at her, he stopped short because he knew that would just start another argument. It was best to put that out of his mind to concentrate on her dream, not the way she looked without most of her clothes on.

"Here," she said as she brought the teapot over with tea leaves. "You do that. I'll like mess it up or something."

She wouldn't look him directly, her eyes bouncing around the room.

"I'm truly sorry for the way I acted in there. There's no excuse for my behavior."

"Other than you haven't gotten any in like forever."

He slammed the teapot down so hard, hot water sloshed out of it, scalding his hand a little. Gritting his teeth, he looked up at her, determined to explain to her that her actions entirely made the situation uncomfortable.

"I'll assure you, Faith. That was the last thing on my mind."

"Coulda fooled me. Wait, you couldn't. That's what's gotten you into this pissy mood. Ain't good enough for you."

"Not in the least. Can we just drop it?"

"Yeah, we better. Before one of us spontaneously combusts."

He looked at her then, watching as her face colored a little. Faith always says what she means, he thought. Could she have been just as affected by what happened as he was? She couldn't be, he concluded.

"Shut your mouth. You look like a fish."

Wesley clamped his mouth closed, moving to pour some tea. "Would you like some tea, Faith?" he asked, trying to be polite, but it came out angry.

"Sure. Not gonna go back to sleep now."

She tried to comb her fingers through her hair, but she wasn't successful. He handed her a cup and took his up to his face to blow on to distract himself from looking at her.

"I suppose I owe you an explanation."

"About what? How hot and horny you were?"

"Oh, good god woman. That was not to what I was referring. Get your mind out of the gutter."

"So, like you're any great shakes, considering you were the one with the raging hard on."

"If you didn't persist in squirming suggestively on my lap."

"Oh, so it's my fault."

Faith moved closer to him, to the point where they were arguing almost nose-to-nose.

"Yes, it is."

"Oh, no. You're not gonna blame me for your lack of getting laid."

"If you didn't parade yourself about scantily clad."

"You were in my room, buster. Remember that."

"Because you were screaming the house down."

"Fucking nightmare," Faith declared and pulled back to slump against the couch.

"Which we should analyze before you forget what you dreamed about."

"Damn it all to hell and back. Is it always about work with you?"

"Until you don't grace my doorstep anymore, it is."

Faith visibly swallowed and nodded his way. At least he had quieted her. But she didn't look pleased. As a matter of fact, she looked hurt.

"Yeah, right," she replied, placing her cup on the table before her.

"Your dream. What happened that you can remember?"

"I, um, we, um. Oh, fuck. You're gonna be angry."

"Angrier than I am now?" he told her.

"Quit archin' that fucking eyebrow my way. God, did you ever do that to me while you were in Sunnydale or is that some bad habit you developed in LA?"

Wesley relaxed his face a little, not wanting her to notice how tense he still was. But Faith had always been a perceptive girl.

"Faith? Your dream might give us some clues."

"Alright. There was this chick, red hair, slashed your throat while I watched."

If the tension that he was trying to eliminate had disappeared, it now came back with a vengeance. Wesley automatically reached for his throat.

"Justine."

"So that's her name?"

"Yes, it is. Go on."

"Well, after she slashed you, she morphed into one of those robed guys. Then the knife that gave you that wicked scar sailed through the air and caught me in the chest. We didn't have a fucking chance."

"That's all?"

"Yeah, mostly."

Faith wasn't sure that was all, Wesley could tell. But he didn't want to push her at the moment. He just wanted to uncoil the tension that had developed in his gut and was pushing its way out until he wanted to scream.

"You never met Justine before?"

"Nah. Never seen her. She must have been wicked pissed to do that to you."

Wesley closed his eyes, trying to remember why he just hadn't walked away from Justine.

"Who's Connor?"

TBC