Help me if you can
It's just that this is not the way I'm wired
So could you please?
Help me understand why
You've given in to all these
Reckless, dark desires

You're lying to yourself again
Suicidal imbecile
Think about it
Put it on a fault line
What will take to get it through to you precious?
Over this
Why'd you throw it away like this?
Such a mess
I don't wanna watch you

Disconnect and self-destruct one bullet at a time
What's your rush now?
Everyone will have his day to die

-The Outsider by A Perfect Circle.

She shrank back into the dark corner under the bed with her hands clasped in prayer around one of the small silver crucifixes the Reverend had gifted to all the children. As a Catholic she was taught that if you confessed your sins to God you would be forgiven, the Lord would save you. Past transgressions were whispered out loud and she waited for deliverance from Evil.

A looming shadow blocked out what little moonlight was allowed through the small square window opposite the bed.

"What're you doing under there? Fuckin' praying? Useless little shit."

His arm, a slab of meat coated in the green ink of tattoos, snaked under the half-collapsed bed and yanked her out. Her own arm caught on one of the slats as he wrenched her loose and a noise like the snapping of twigs echoed in her mind before she screamed.

"I told you not to fuck around with me, girl."

He dropped her on the floor and she cradled the limb against her chest, small fingers flexing delicately around the bone that jutted out through her skin.

"You're only making this worse for yourself."

The belt-buckle made an ironically pretty tinkling sound when he unhooked the steel bar from one of the final loops in the leather.

"But then I didn't expect much from a whore like you..."

Cordelia busied herself with paperwork in a futile attempt to calm her nerves. "This is not helping," she scowled, dumping the meagre stack of cases she had been sorting through into a haphazard pile next to the coffee machine. She couldn't figure out how the Watchers did it. Giles, even Wesley, had a certain flair for the ability to sit and stare at ancient scrawl for hours at a time, jotting down notes and deciphering text into some kind of legible format. As it were, Cordy could barely even translate her own squiggles. And the work wasn't taking her mind off the current situation.

The sound of a door slamming brought her quickly out of her thoughts. Scrambling footsteps rushed up the front stairs and Cordelia snuck a hand into the top drawer of her desk, fingers shakily gripping the cool metal handle. The front door burst open.

"Freeze, suckah!"

Wesley paused and raised his hands up in the air. "Cordelia put that gun down now, please."

The brunette sighed and lowered the sidearm reluctantly. "Sorry, I thought you might've been Faith."

"I don't think Faith is in a position to attack anyone," Wesley responded cryptically.

"Did you find her?" The Watcher nodded as he searched through the boxes in the closet for various items. "Did you hand her over to the cops?" A headshake. "No? Then are you going to hand her over the Council?" This earned her an incredulous look. "I'll take that as a no then. So what did you and Angel do with her?"

Wesley's lips tightened into a thin line. "Have you seen the antiseptic?"

"Yeah, it's behind the butterfly bandages. And don't change the subject, what did you do with her?" He didn't reply. "Oh God, you still have her, don't you? She's here, isn't she?"

The door slammed open again, effectively ending all conversation for the time being. "Wes! Wesley," Angel dashed into the main office, almost ramming into Cordy. A sharp gasp escaped her lips. Cradle in the vampire's arms was Faith, her body limp and the only sign of life she exhibited was the shuddering breaths she inhaled intermittently. Blood blemished Angel's skin and clothing.

"Angel... Did she hurt you?"

He looked at her sharply. "Wes, get the elevator."

"Right. I'll join you shortly; I just need to find the sutures."

The elevator dinged softly when the doors closed behind them.

"What happened? Wes? Wesley? Tell me!"

"Cordelia, Faith... is injured. I need to find the sutures and you aren't helping." The aggravated tone in his normally docile voice shut Cordelia up quickly. Without another word she reached to a box sitting on the shelf above Wesley's head and shoved it into the man's hands. "Thank you."

"I want to help."

"...Alright." The pair moved to the stair access quickly, their arms laden with various medical goods. A few feet from the top of the staircase Wesley stopped suddenly and Cordelia collided with his back.

She smacked his shoulder with her free hand. "What are you doing?"

He turned to face the woman. "'Freeze, suckah'?"

"Used to work for Foxy Brown."

"Ah. Who?"

"Wesley…"

"Right, later then."

"Good idea."

He finished up, a self-satisfied smirk plastered on his visage. The girl was still sobbing quietly, though she had lost feeling in her fractured arm long moments ago. Standing slowly, with all the grace of a bull elephant, the hulking man slapped her thigh with a resounding thwack just for good measure. A red welt quickly began to form.

"I wouldn't have done this to anyone else. You're the only one who deserved this."

The floor groaned as he shifted his weight and reached down toward her throat. She instinctively curled into a ball, whimpering softly. His fingers brushed the bared flesh of her shoulders before clutching the thin chain that hung around her neck. With a snap the crucifix was removed.

"God can't save the wicked."

There is no God.

The sheets on Angel's bed served as a temporary tourniquet. They quickly soaked through, but the pressure of the silken fabric around her arms was enough to staunch the flow of blood, at least for the moment. Angel sighed and sat back, wrapping an old quilt around the girl's shoulders. She whimpered in her sleep. "Stupid girl," the vampire muttered tiredly. He shook his head.

"What could drive a person...?" Cordelia trailed off, coming to stand behind Angel. She hugged her arms around herself and Wesley touched her shoulder in a comforting gesture before moving to the other side of the bed.

"Many things," the Watcher responded vaguely. He handed Angel a large white bandage absently, a fleeting look of anguish crossing his face. Before she could question it he blinked the emotion away.

Angel, oblivious to their interaction, finished strapping Faith's arms. The bandages quickly soaked through and Cordelia hissed in sympathetic pain. "Is she gonna be okay?"

"Physically? Yeah. She's a Slayer, they heal quick" Angel commented, his mind drifting back to days passed. Buffy had healed quickly; even after the severe blood-loss a vampire bite victim suffers she had managed to bounce back within a matter of hours. "Mentally? Emotionally?" He exhaled an unnecessary breath. "I don't know..."

Wesley had fallen into a deep sleep on Angel's couch, while the vampire himself had left to tend to some "errands." Cordelia wasn't entirely sure what that meant but she had worked with the vampire enough, she thought she knew him well enough, to be aware of the fact that the term "errands" wasn't a healthy one. Especially when Angel was the one doing the air-quotes.

Of course with Wesley off in Slumber Land and Angel off to decapitate God knew what, Cordelia found herself alone in the task of baby-sitting the psycho. It wasn't as difficult a job as Cordy made it out to be; for one thing the rogue Slayer was still unconscious, and for another... well, the first one summed up the situation the best.

Cordelia prowled silently around the vampire's dwelling, being nosey and looking through his possessions. It wasn't that she enjoyed being a snoop (okay, so maybe she did a little) but Angel's underground apartment was so boring. "You would think that a two-hundred plus vampire would know the secrets of cable," she muttered to herself as she removed yet another leather-bound book from an overstuffed shelf. The cracked brown cover held neither image nor text: it was as plain and impassive as the rest of the tome's outer appearance. However when she opened the musty book all earlier thoughts of its lack of worth dissipated quickly from her mind. "My God..."

Of course she had heard that Angel could draw: back in Sunnydale when had mentioned Angelus giving her a major case of the Wiggins by sneaking into her room at night and sketching her while she slept. Even Giles had begrudgingly described the repentant vampire as talented. But it was one thing to here that your undead boss was a graphite-and-lead genius and an entirely different continent to hold in your hands a charcoal image of said boss's ex-girlfriend that was so realistic Cordy could almost smell Buffy's Wal-Mart perfume. Okay, so maybe not Wal-Mart, but you'd think that girl would take a little more pride in her appearance.

Cordelia flipped through a few pages of the book, leafing through images of the Scooby gang, people dressed in out of style –out of century- clothing and even a few images of herself that she was tempted to steal. She paused at a cross-hatched drawing of Doyle and her fingers itched to relieve the leaf of paper from it's bindings but instead she quickly closed the book and returned it to its spot on the shelf.

Cordelia closed her eyes briefly, her hand still on the leather spine, and thought about what she had seen. Although the sketchbook contained images of many people Angel, or Angelus, had obviously known over the years the dominant figure in the book was that of Buffy Summers. Her face adorned nearly every third page, each image drawn in exquisite detail with obvious love. The vampire's candle that he held for the Slayer was obviously burning as bright as ever and Cordy couldn't help feeling envious. Even though the pair of champions could never be together for obvious reasons they had nevertheless experienced something incredibly powerful between them that would obviously have an effect on everything they do from that moment until the rest of their lives and Cordelia felt bad because she knew that for Angel the rest of his life could well be for a very long time.

From behind her a floorboard creaked ominously. "Good book?"

Cordelia let out a small yelp –one which she would abstain from mentioning when she reiterated this story later because it was girly even for her- and almost fell into the oak bookshelf turning too fast. Her hand landed on the waist-level ledge to steady herself.

"Faith."

The blankets were tangled tightly around her body and she woke up gasping and thrashing. For a horrible moment Faith thought that the past ten years had been all some kind of weird dream -that she was still trapped in the horrid state-house with those dirty excuses for parents- and she felt immediately sick. But no, that house had smelled of alcohol, urine and dried blood. She could only pick out one of the three here and so shoved the disconcerting thoughts back down deep into her subconscious.

Shaking herself and blinking spots out of her eyes Faith shoved the coverlet off her body and onto the floor, not bothering to notice -or more than likely ignoring the fact- that the patchwork blanket was far older and more loved than she probably would ever be. She kicked the cloth construction after it had landed on the concreted floor so it was probably the latter. Faith closed her eyes and stretched her limbs, still feeling lightened from the blood-loss. Her arms itched; both limbs had been covered from wrist to halfway up her biceps in bloodied bandages. Feeling lethargic but unwilling to stay put Faith clambered out of the bed and panicked when she finally focused on the room she was in. It was unfamiliar and felt... wrong. Wrong, like a vampire wrong.

Smell triggers memory more than any other sense, and the lingering scent of necrotized tissue that assaulted Faith's nose brought back images of the past twenty-four hours. Wesley. Cordelia. Angel. Shit. She hung her head in shame and disappointment.

The basement apartment was quiet and Faith strained her sensitive hearing to detect any signs of life, or un-life. Soft snoring was heard from the main room that adjoined the door to Faith's left, and every now and then a quiet mutter of British could be heard. She snuck out of the sliding door on the right thinking that Wesley needed all the rest he could get.

She stealthily entered the new room, keeping watchful of her steps in the foreign territory and paused when the sound of paper rustling registered in her mind. Cordelia stood with her back to the Slayer flicking through a book of some kind near the base of a staircase. Faith wanted to get to the stairs. She wanted out, and Cordelia was in the way.

The Slayer thought about bolting past the taller woman, but she was unsteady on her feet as it was and any attempt to run would result in a freak-show in motion. Could she fight? Fighting solved everything if you were strong, and running stalled for time for the weak. Muscles in her hands responded to the thought by flexing into a perfect street-fighter's fist: thumb wrapped over fingers, the index and middle finger's knuckles raised for shattering damage. But she couldn't hold it, her arms felt weak and weighty, like they were coated in lead. She was sure that they should hurt as well, but they were both disturbingly numb.

Her third option wasn't the most reliable plan, but it would suffice. The older woman had been virtually terrified of the Slayer last night and Faith figured that she could use that fear to her advantage. She snuck up behind Cordelia, preparing to childishly yell "boo!" in the hopes that Queen C would faint, but an image in the book caught her eye and made her halt her attempt for freedom for a moment. Buffy Summers. Cordelia turned the page. Some random dark-haired woman with a crazy glint in her eyes, and on the opposite page: Buffy Summers. Cordelia flipped another page. Buffy Summers. Buffy Summers. Buffy Summers. Buffy Summers. Buffy Summers... Cordy replaced the book in the shelf and stood very still for a moment, as if pondering something deep and meaningful. Faith didn't bother to think what; she merely stared at the beloved book, her face awash with a downcast expression.

The Slayer shivered, suddenly finding herself cold and feeling very much alone. She took a step back, thinking, I gotta get out of here, but having no idea where she would go. The floorboard creaked with her footsteps, betraying her location. Cordelia spun around in shock and when her mind finally clicked on to who was lurking behind her. Her face became a mask of fear and Faith internally winced at the raw emotion of the look, even though she knew it was her fault the expression was scrawled on Cordy's face in the first place. She shifted uncomfortably for a moment, not knowing what to do, before asking timidly, "Good book?"

Cordelia stared open-mouthed at the Slayer and breathed her name in such a way that Faith wanted to run, even if she wouldn't get very far. Running was always better than dealing with the aftermath of her own fuck-ups. Her mother had taught her that much.