A/N: bjchit, you make me smeck (smeck is laugh. i'm really into nadsat this week, which is a change from Latin.). The Buffy/Faith plot is the only one I actually haven't touched, yet. Besides, I think I'm working off canon, the Mayor/First called it too in s7. Everybody loves Buffy at some point. Except Tara and Anya, who are super-cool to not be peer-pressured, hehehehehe.
Besides, I'm just seeing if I can make this real somehow. It's nice when Buffy and Faith random into each other in a graveyard, break down and apologize for doubting the other, kiss and then run off to have sex but I like my woman a little more sadistic than that.
I feel the need for Anya. I know where I want Tara to be but nobody 'onscreen' is anywhere near her yet (and should she be with Willow?). If you want a canon character in this that I haven't mentioned yet send me a message with their name and either good/neutral/naughty or bad next to it because I can't remember everyone :p Oh, and I think I'm going to have Doyle in this too, because I love the Irish.
Should I go through and delete all these A/Ns? I hate seeing myself talk. That's what the OCs are for.
Onward to the GIANT BLENDER OF APOCALYPTIC DOOM! (thanks MsTree!)
Previously: The friendship between the Council and the Army hit tremulous waters during a poorly executed rescue attempt. Was there really a grave miscalculation in the planning of the mission, or does Buffy's paranoia bare solid ground? And did anyone survive the ambush to care?
In Sunnydale and the surrounding areas lessons were learned that sometimes silence is worth more than gold. It can be worth the flesh on your bones and the eyes in your sockets too, depending on the company you keep.
Chapter Five: "Jostling the Minor Pieces."
"Loneliness is about the scariest thing there is." – Angel
Someone had turned the oven on and then left the house. They had taken the dough out of the freezer, preheated the range and then cut raw mix into haphazard pieces with a blunt knife. But still, even after that insult and damage, she had trustingly let herself be placed inside the stove and waited patiently to bake. To become cookies. But as she sat alone inside the heated metal box she couldn't help but feel as if he had left her there to burn. Forgotten her, or perhaps he had been the "witch" of their tale and tricked her into the whole affair just so that he could satisfy his sweet fang. Or worse still, he had abandoned her completely by getting himself killed.
As Buffy Summers stretched her small frame out on the tiny military-issue cot she stared at the shadows on the ceiling, wondering, for what seemed like the millionth time, the fate of her knight in leather dusters. Angel. It was times like this, in the middle of a quiet night, that she missed him the most. Even though he was cold like a stone when he held her in his arms she wouldn't feel so small and vulnerable. And if she held onto him long enough, tight enough, he would begin to warm because of her. Heating him, like the sun on a river stone, to make him feel real. More real than life.
Her tent was dark, and lonely, with only the quiet snores of her bunkmate Percy to break the stillness. Willow had given her a weird smile, saying that it was probably best she not sleep alone with all the ornery soldiers surrounding her, before retiring to her tent. Buffy caught sight of Oz watching the redhead leave and they shared a look before the werewolf turned back to silently witness a discussion between the Lieutenant and his XO. The Lieutenant's jaw had been clenched, and he didn't look all too pleased with the older man. Something about almost being blown to smithereens brings out the Doberman in people.
A snuffling to the left of her, followed by a whimper about broccoli, made the Slayer's mind up. She kicked off the rough, grey blanket and slipped on her sneakers before exiting the tent, and leaving Percy to dream about marauding vegetables in peace. The temperature dropped noticeably once she was fully outside and Buffy shivered in her t-shirt. Movement was always the best way to keep warm and the Slayer instinctively began patrolling the outer edge of the campsite, avoiding the stalwart sentries in US military apparel.
The desert was dead quiet. Even their little camping grounds were silent. The tents were dark and filled with sleeping occupants, and Buffy felt envious. She wished that she could join them in their unconscious ignorance, but sleep was something she was having trouble finding lately. The same could be said for the Osborne tent, glowing like a lantern on the far side of camp. Buffy sighed and moved toward the light like a moth to the flame.
She knew she shouldn't be intruding. They were fighting again, silently, strained and hushed, so they wouldn't be overheard. Buffy could tell. Back in Los Angeles her parents were much the same. The loud ripping sound of a zipper alerted the Slayer and she ducked into the shadows of a LUV. The tent door was thrown open and Willow stormed out, leaving Oz standing in the doorway with a defeated look on his face. Taking a breath and then counting to ten, to make sure Willow wasn't going to return, Buffy thought about all the things she could say to the man to make it sting a little less.
Like a glacier she remained hidden in the night's shadows, cold, silent, unmoving, and blank.
The Citroen was cruising up route one at a leisurely pace. Wesley grunted, and pushed his foot down onto the clutch, shifting the gear awkwardly with his left hand across his body. The right lay tangled in a torn sheet and braced with a tire iron. He had… fallen down some stairs once, as a young lad, and broken the same arm, but it seemed to hurt more the second time around. Maybe it was because Faith had insisted on twisting the limb so unnaturally crooked, before realising she had perhaps overdone it and snapping the mangled bones back into a semblance of their former position.
He didn't remember screaming, or hitting the concrete, but he remembered the spots that danced before his eyes and his liquid diet churning in the pit of his bowels. The Watcher felt himself slipping from conscious reality, but forced himself awake. He could have the luxury of dropping down dead away from the boots of Faith, where she couldn't kick him into a new shape. And so Wesley had hauled his shaky body back to a vaguely upright position and told the girl to get her shit and get in the fucking car before he changed his God damned mind about the whole affair.
The Slayer's eyes had glinted dangerously in the dim light of a sickle-shaped moon but she had acquiesced and retrieved her things before climbing into the back seat of the car, making herself comfortable while Wesley staggered over. She barely raised an eyebrow as he rummaged under the passenger side seat looking for something to steady the broken limb. And now to all pretences the Slayer had gone to sleep in the back.
Wesley knew better. She was awake. She wouldn't sleep, not until the Slayer in her was satisfied she was secure. Faith was merely ignoring him, and feigning sleep was the most convenient way of doing so. His gaze drifted up toward the rear-view mirror. Faith's head rested against the headrest, her booted feet propped up on the backseat. In her lap sat the bag that Wesley had retrieved from what was once the Slayer's apartment. One of the girl's hands was tucked into the bag, and Wesley had a sneaking suspicion that her new friend, mister kitchen knife, was securely in the Slayer's grasp.
Except, if that was the case, then why could he see the faintest hint of pink fur tangled in the zipper?
In that moment the pale orb before him was his everything. The glowing, pearly luminesce was his world, he was drawn to it, consumed by it. He craved it with every inch of his being. More importantly, so did the wolf.
It felt like every nerve ending was alive, awake and alert. A moment of clarity occurred, where his senses where attuned to the very dirt in the earth itself and Oz savored the seconds because he knew what was to follow. What Willow had inflicted upon him.
A howl ripped through his throat, a pained and mournful cry that drew the attention of all those not engaged in combat. His skin was stretched and pulled taunt in a million and one different places as his body transformed into a new Oz. Bones elongated, muscles contorted into caricatures of their former selves. He could hear the cartilage inside his ears shifting. He could see six different soldiers aiming three different kinds of weapon at him. He could taste the blood of his mate on the summer night's air.
That was all it took. The wolf went wild.
Oz bolted upright in his bunk, drenched in a thin layer of sweat. His body trembled slightly as he shook off the after-effects of the nightmare. It was only a replaying of the day's events but it felt like no amount of scrubbing could wash the blood off his hands. The wolf had been brutally savage, tearing through the chaos demons as if they were tissue paper. The rampage had ended only after Willow's spell had worn off, and had left Oz a stunned heap strewn atop what appeared to have been the remains of a dinosaur. Thankfully the LUVs carried blankets in their standard kits, so not all of Oz's pride was stripped from him in a single day.
His hands grasped at the grey blankets, searching for his wife, but the redhead was nowhere to be found. Their meager possessions inside the tent had not been disturbed, nor had the small gap he always left open in the zipper been altered. Oz always liked to leave a gap for the breeze so he could smell the night air. Willow complained of the cold.
It felt like a violation on her part. A violation of his fundamental right to choose. The curse of Lycanthropy meant that for three nights every month he underwent a physical and mental change and he became something more powerful than the human Oz. He became a werewolf. He was at peace with that fact now, and so, on the three nights of the natural transformation the wolf was at peace with him. It was just what he was.
But when Willow had first used the spell on him, had first forced the wolf into physical being that harmony was lost. He had killed people. Humans. Innocents. He was out of control as the wolf. It had gone insane under the false moon. That didn't mean those deaths weren't on his hands.
That was the only time in their entire marriage that Oz had found the need to forbid his wife from anything. That spell was to never be used again. Never be touched, looked upon, thought of. Nothing. But she had done it again, and she wouldn't even acknowledge that she was wrong.
How were they supposed to have a stable partnership if Willow wasn't even going to discuss his concerns with him? When he had proposed to her four months ago it was with the intention of promising to her that they would be together beyond this. When she had not only agreed, but insist they be married only a few months later Oz had thought at the time her reaction had been in support of that wish. Now he wasn't so sure.
"So, like, I don't get it?" Harmony tilted her head and regarded Spike with her bright blue eyes. If he didn't know better he would swear that the stupid girl was flirting with him. Hell, he knew better and the girl was flirting with him. She was half draped over the centre glove compartment from the back seat of Spike's Camaro, fiddling with the radio controls, effectively dividing the car into two. Dru hissed and Harmony shied further away from the older vampire and closer to Spike.
Spike picked another fleck of dried black paint off the windscreen and let the rubbery strip flutter free out the window of the moving vehicle, ignoring the interaction between the two women. He knew Dru didn't get along with Harmony. Drusilla was rarely friendly to anyone beside her vampiric "family" and Miss Edith. And it wasn't like he particularly liked Harmony very much either. "Was that a question?" Spike asked the blond girl in the back drearily.
"I don't know. You wanna answer it anyway?"
The bleached vampire growled and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel in annoyance. He wasn't sure how much more blond he could take. Harmony had asked to tag along for the ride and Spike had thought it would be a good idea if she joined them. After all, he could just throw Harmony at the Slayer to buy him some time before he kicked the supernatural warrior's ass. "We're going to get the Slayer from the wanker."
The girl looked perplexed for a moment. "Wesley has Buffy?" she asked, actually catching on to half of the sentence. The bubbly blond twisted the radio dial again and listened for a moment. The sounds of the Sex Pistols echoed throughout the car before Harmony flicked the station yet again. Spike recognised the song. "Anarchy in the UK." The first time he had heard it had been a live performance. He smiled at the memory of Sid calling out abuse to Nancy Spungen from the stage. They had made such a lovely couple.
"Hey, that was alright!"
"I don't get why he'd want her," she continued, ignoring Spike. Or perhaps, oblivious to Spike. Sometimes it was so hard to tell. "I mean, hello? Leopard prints with a mauve cardigan? What good is a woman who can't fashionably colour-ordinate?" Drusilla, whose attention had been previously occupied by her doll, turned her gaze toward Harmony. The girl gulped, and then finally sat back down in her seat. She smiled sweetly, stupidly, and waved her fingers at the brunette vampire. "Oh, my God, Dru. I totally didn't mean you. That black-widow look you've got going is so… so… In! So totally in right now!"
Dru's head lolled to one side and she stared at Harmony with her wide-eyed gaze. "I don't like you," the crazed vampire began. A smile slowly curled the edges of her lips. Her voice held a coquettish note. "You say bad things about me." Spike's gaze wandered from the road to his sire for a brief moment. Dru's welfare had always been his primary concern, beyond topping Angelus, so he had thought it best to keep her ears and eyes closed to the things that went about behind her back. He had hoped to keep Dru ignorant to all the nasty little rumors Harmony and her like spread about the old breed. There were too many fresh vampires running about and not enough of the older ones to wrangle them all in. Parker was evidence to the case.
"Drusilla," Harmony whined, sounding oddly indignant. "I would never-"
"Miss Edith said bad things about me," Dru continued without pause. "I took her eyes as punishment," she whispered, holding up the doll for all to see. Fresh burns swathed Miss Edith's rubber flesh. The distinctive spirals the car-lighter soldered into the synthetic skin were still smoking. Spike grinned. Always with the eyes. They were the windows to the soul after all. Still, Miss Edith was looking rather haggard lately.
Harmony cringed at the sight of the mutilated child's toy. "That's nice."
A click sounded, breaking the staring contest between Harmony and the sightless doll. Dru purred and pulled the heated lighter free from the console before continuing her ministrations. Once more the acrid smell of melting plastic filled the car. Spike wondered why he hadn't noticed it before. Probably because, as a vampire, he no longer needed to breath and so had stopped doing so all together. Vampirism had its perks. Never growing old, never dying young. Never ever disappearing into the darkness of history. Provided you didn't get yourself staked first.
"So, how did Wesley get Buffy?" Harmony asked, having found her voice once more.
"The wanker doesn't have Buffy, you twit." Spike said, not bothering to soften his words. They just seemed to flow off her like she was scotch-guarded or something anyway. "He's got the other one."
"Oh." He watched her in the rear-view mirror as she processed that. Spike thought that if he squinted just right he could actually see the rusty wheels turning in Harmony's mind. "Oh," she repeated, with a little more emotion this time. So the stupid bint could actually put two and two together.
Beside him Drusilla giggled like a young girl, her slender fingers buried in the empty sockets that once held Miss Edith's eyes. "A fox hunt!" she exclaimed. "Chase her down with our sticks and stones." She took Spike's hand in her own and gave it a firm squeeze. "Can you smell her, dear heart? Can you smell the puppy? Like cinnamon and ginger and fear." Dru inhaled deeply, taking exquisite pleasure in something only she could smell. "We know just what to do with puppies, don't we Spike?"
"That we do, pet," Spike agreed amicably. He licked his pale, cold lips squeezed her hand back. "We most certainly do." The Judge had claimed that the pair stunk of humanity. He let that affection shine in his eyes as he gazed upon the dead woman, hoping to convey to how strongly he felt for his sire. And how strong his desire for her was. Drusilla preened under his scrutiny.
Harmony stared at Dru, her pretty eyes wide. "You don't hurt puppies. Tell me you don't hurt puppies."
Drusilla seemed shocked. "Only if they've been very, very naughty. I'm not a complete monster."
She found him sitting alone in the darkness of the predawn. The room was constructed of a series of formless shadows, so it wasn't until Oz spoke that Willow had realised he was awake in his corner. "Hey." She could here the betrayal in his voice. She had heard it so many times before.
"Hey."
"See, I like that you're predictable with the response greeting. That way I have time to think of a perfect reply before I even talk to you."
Willow wasn't blind to the underlying hostility in her husband's tones. "You think that was the perfect reply?"
"Perfect is overrated." Oz sighed. He rose stiffly and moved toward the bed, sitting as far from his wife as possible. He hung his head in his hands and his shoulders drooped. "I just don't know what to say anymore, Wills."
"I-" She paused and stopped the words tumbling from her tongue. "I thought I was justified." How could he not understand? At the time they needed the wolf more than they needed Oz. Lives would have been lost had Willow not cast the lunar spell. The wicca felt her actions completely reasonable, but from her husbands downcast position on the edge of the bunk she doubted that was what Oz needed to hear. "I'm sorry, okay?"
"It's not that easy."
It felt like the millionth time they'd had the same argument. The same fight about the same thing. The same words came out of his mouth, and in her frustration Willow followed her own steps in their verbal dance. "Well, what do you want me to do?" she snapped. "Reverse time and take it back?" A small, self-deprecating laugh escaped her cherry lips. "Cause I could probably-" Oz's head whipped around with a speed she thought he only had in his more primal form. His eyes narrowed at his wife and his jaw was set in a grim expression. She had to force her feet from taking a step back away from the man's challenging gaze. Now was probably the wrong time to bring that up. "Joke. I don't think I could really-"
Angrily the werewolf spat out his words. "You know what? Can we not do this now? I'm tired." He climbed into his bunk and pulled the blankets up to his shoulders, rolling away from the redhead to face the tent wall in a final act of rejection for the evening.
Willow took a deep breath, trying to alleviate the constriction in her chest and the stinging in her eyes her lover's dismissal had stirred up. "Okay," she began shakily, before coming to a decision in her mind. If Oz wouldn't let it go, she'd just have to dispose of it for him. Her hand slipped into the pocket of her jeans and she removed a sprig of Lethe's bramble. The wicca caressed the soft purple petals of the flowers, focusing her energies on the gift of nature and focusing her mind on the Latin chant that accompanied the enchantment. "Let's just forget it ever happened." Oz didn't respond, his silence and stoicism an obvious disagreement.
Her eyes seemed to fill with shadows for a moment as she whispered the verbal requirement of the spell. "Forget." The palm of Willow's hand warmed suddenly, as if she had grabbed a lit candle, but the heat quickly transferred to the bramble. White light moved from Willow skin to completely engulf the cutting for a moment. When it passed the once fresh and healthy herb was dead and wilted.
The blankets rustled as she climbed into bed with Oz. He rolled over, automatically pulling her into his arms and Willow smiled contentedly, burying her head into his chest. "I wanna ask you where you've been, but I'm worried about the answer," he began, a twinkle in his eyes. His face straightened to a solemn look, but Willow could hear the humor in his voice. "It's not that I don't trust you, but there are all these manly army men around…"
Willow's heart warmed to the gentle teasing of her husband and she snuggled deeper into his embrace until they were both squished into the same stretcher. Oz shifted a little to accommodate her. "If it helps any I'm gonna say I was just checking up on Buffy," she answered, forcing as much sincerity into her words as she could muster.
She felt Oz nod and then kiss the top of her head lightly. "That does help. It creates a comfort zone." His smile returned. "Where've you been?"
"Just checking up on Buffy."
"That's nice." Oz yawned sleepily. "She okay?"
"Yeah," Willow replied, her own eyes closing slowly. But before she drifted off she found herself questioning Oz once more that evening. "So, uh… you're not mad?"
"'Bout what?" her husband mumbled. He was practically asleep.
Willow smiled to herself and closed her eyes.
It was like sitting on a beanbag of candyfloss, cushioned from all sides gently, bouncing lightly with the breeze that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. The sky was white and all around him, with faint purple storm clouds raging in the distance. But those where behind him, and therefore felt out of his concern. And the woman in front of him demanded more of his immediate attention because the last time he had seen her she had been dead for a good two hours. All together it could only mean one thing. He was dreaming again.
Dreaming of her face. Dreaming of her deep hazel eyes. Dreaming of the dark brown hair that gently brushed her shoulders, the flawless skin that always seemed so gently sun-kissed. Dreaming of the aura of calmness, and happiness that she had spread to all those around her. Dreaming of the way she had loved, and been loved in return.
Dreaming again of the way it had felt when he had snapped her neck.
Angel blanched in his sleep as Jenny Calender took her turn. This avatar of his victim unleashed blame and guilt that seared his soul, and he took the punishment from the ghost that resided in his mind. It was all he could do, to endure the cycle of abuse over and over again until he would awaken from his slumber. Finally having felt her fury fully unleashed Janna of the Kalderash people returned to her shadowy alcove in the recesses of Angel's mind and the next in a long line of vengeful specters took her place. Sometimes he recognized them, maybe knew their name, or where he had murdered them, but most of the time Angel found that the ghosts were anonymous, faceless and formless, and infinite.
Some nagging, almost childlike voice would occasionally whine that it wasn't his fault, the demon Angelus had been the one who had slaughtered thousands of humans like no less than cattle, but the whimper was growing quieter with each passing day. How could he not believe it, when it was screamed at him by a million voices inside his own mind?
And how could he not believe it when at the bottom of his soul he felt it to be true? The demon did little but act upon the urges and desires of the body it lived within. Without the ambition, the raw want of power that gave Angelus purpose could the Scourge really come to be? Would he create the most monstrous offspring he could imagine? Would he have spent so many hours of so many days and nights thinking of the perfect way to tell Buffy exactly how he had killed everyone in her self-constructed family?
Angel shook himself awake, blinking dimly in the darkness. For long moments he was blinded, and patiently the vampire listened to the steady creaking of the chains that held up his suspended cage. After so long in such dim light even the vampire's night vision had been stripped from him. They had taken that, his strength, his dignity, and at times his sanity, them left him humiliated and beaten in a swinging cage like a fragile and wingless bird. They had stolen so much from him, even the time he could have spent dreaming about his lost love, but there was one thing Angel still lay claim to and would not surrender easily. His eternal soul. Through one slitted eye the vampire examined his familiar habitat.
Surrounding him was the chrome bars of his cage, the metallic construct that had been his home for so long now. The tiny pinprick of light that was centered in the middle of Angel's box was on, as usual, illuminating the steel floor and the vampire's own withered body but doing little to keep the shadows that surrounded his cage at bay. The scraps of clothing that served only his modesty rustled stiffly with dried blood as he pushed himself into a sitting position, careful not to smack his head against the ceiling of the small cage. There was barely enough room to fit the vampire's emaciated form as it was. How they had fit a struggling, cursing, wounded Angel into this rat-hole in the first place was a mystery to him, but the door of the cage had been welded shut after that day, and no one had bothered to open it since.
He had wondered if he were alone in his imprisonment, or if the others had been captured as time went by as well, but those thoughts had faded along with his hopes of escaping and the feeling in his feet.
Time had no meaning in his perpetual stillness. Angel's eyelids felt heavy again and he pinched himself solidly in the arm in a futile attempt to stay awake. Without fresh blood running through his system, without that precious hemoglobin that carried the life-giving oxygen through his muscles and organs, the vampire's centuries old body was slowly shutting down. His limbs felt as though they were coated in lead and even small movement was a labor. It was becoming increasingly difficult to stay awake as time passed, and each time he regained consciousness his lucidity decreased by dear minutes. Angel could feel the day approaching where his body would finally give in and his mind would remain with the ghosts inside of his head until his bones were like ashes.
To his left the outline of a door appeared, a rectangle of white in the ebon black. The door creaked open, and for the first time in so long Angel caught a glimpse of life beyond his cage, and beyond his dark hole in the earth. A slow shock ran through his system, building until he had found the energy to react. His throat was shredded after nights of screaming, and his broken will gave the normally deep voice a pathetic edge. But still, the gorgeous blond smiled as he recognized her, and moved closer to embrace her captive "son."
"Darla…"
They had crossed the Golden Gate Bridge during the predawn in San Francisco. Faith had actually been to the city before, on her way to Sunnydale. Not by choice, the Frisco stopover had been part of the route the bus she hopped had taken. Her first time had left her head reeling in the sights and sounds and scents the bay side city had to offer. But she never remembered it feeling so grey. Even in the darkness of the night the Slayer could feel that the city had changed. It had lost the sparkle that had enticed her to stop her mad-dash to Sunnydale and just take a breather. It had been the only city she had willingly taken pause in between Kakistos and Buffy's side.
Wesley pulled up in front of an old restaurant and shut off the engine. "You're waiting here for the day." That didn't sound like a suggestion. It sounded like an order. Faith ground her teeth together, and flexed her fingers loose from the white-knuckle grip they had on her bag.
"Say that again?" she growled out. "C'mon. I dare ya."
He shook his head defiantly, though still refused to turn his attention from the road to face her. "I'm not playing your stupid little games, Faith," he responded sharply. She couldn't remember ever hearing a tone like that in his voice before. Never, not even when she had publicly humiliated the little wuss. "I need to check up on the target, and make sure that it will be where it needs to be tonight. I'll pick you up at dusk." He reached across the central compartment to the passenger seat, exposing his back and neck vulnerably in a rather ballsy way, but the Slayer's mind was elsewhere.
"Tonight…?" she whispered, but thankfully the creaking mechanism drowned out the hushed word as the seat flipped forward. Quickly she opened the car door and was outside the vehicle before Wesley could straighten his position. Tonight? Faith repeated the question in her mind, not quite having a grip on it.
Wesley narrowed his eyes at the conflicted girl, obviously sensing some kind of distress. "Yes, Faith. Tonight," he stated snidely. She flinched slightly, and immediately chastised herself for even acknowledging the man. How he had heard her comment she didn't for the life of her know. Slayer hearing would have had trouble picking up the softly spoken word. "What did you think we would do? Stalk him for a little bit first? This isn't some movie or TV serial."
The Slayer blinked, and the sneered right back at the man, slipping back into automatic. "Nah, it's cool. Better get it over and done before your balls drop off and you decide to call it quits."
Wesley nodded and turned the key back on. She wondered why he had even bothered to shut the motor off anyway. Probably to get her attention. She hadn't spoken a word since Santa Maria, and her silent withdrawal seemed to have gotten under the wooden Brit's skin. He moved to shift the Citroen into gear and she found herself running to the front of the car and slamming both hands down onto the bonnet hard enough to dent the metal in an attempt to get him to stop. He slammed his foot on the brakes more out of shock than anything. "What do you think you are doing?"
Faith stared at him, verbally helpless for a moment, before her mind came up with a valid reason to get him to stay for just a few moments longer. "At least tell me who it is, Wes."
"Faith, I have to-"
The soft hands of a teenage girl crunched into the hood and Faith gave him a look that could almost have been "please."
"You know him." Her whiskey eyes silently demanded the answer. Who? "Rupert Giles."
Continued in the next chapter: "Zugzwang."