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More of this impromptu Wes/Faith fic.
Previous parts here
Watching, Waiting, Anticipating Part Four
Nearly dying shocks the world from soft, rough-edged fluffiness into the clarity of a lungful of winter air, crisp and piercing. She spins down in a scarlet spiral of blood and screams and all she can see as she lies bleeding is Wesley's shadow, giant-sized on the walls as he revenges each pained gasp, each throb of a pulse that sends her blood out of her body to scent the air.
He doesn't get them all, but he dusts enough that they back off, fade into shadows, let them pass into the faint sparkle of sunlight that's filtering into the vast empty spaces of the dark factories.
He gets her home somehow, a stagger and a cab and another stagger, and every time her eyes manage to flutter open he's staring down at her and there's never a moment when his hand isn't holding hers.
As he eases her down onto her bed she drifts off thinking drowsily that she'd been doing it all wrong. The only way to get to him was to be hurt worse than he was.
But she's a Slayer and when she wakes up, she's already covered in healing scabs and his eyes are distant as he spoons slop into her mouth with forceful, abrupt stabs at her reluctantly open mouth.
"You left yourself open. Again and again." Spoon, jab, swallow. "Repeated moves until they were practically yawning in your face." Spoon, jab, swallow. "Showed off. Really, Faith. The spin-kick off the wall? Did you want marks out of ten?" Spoon, jab, spit.
She glares at him as he picks up the paper towel and cleans himself up with furious fastidiousness, like a cat with wet paws.
"Shut the fuck up, Wes," she says with a certain awful distinctness. "Shut up and get the hell out of here, right now."
"Why?"
"Stress management," she says with difficulty. Won't cry, can't cry, that's cheating.
An eyebrow quirks. "You class nearly dying as merely stressful? Interesting."
"You're still here," she says flatly. "Warning you, Wes –"
"I need to check your wounds."
She bites down hard on her lip, lets the pain anchor her. "Make it fast."
This, she's used to. Giles and Wes both, they're like doctors; they can touch her this way and it's... not impersonal, no, but professional, yeah. It's part of their job to patch up Slayers, quick and dirty. Hospitals – never a good idea. Too many questions, too much paperwork. Give a Watcher a girl with Slayer healing and a band aid and they'll have her good to go in an hour, tops.
His hands peel off bandages, dip soft cloth in warm water, sponge and disinfect. Bruises pattern her skin, red lines bisect muscle and there's one wicked deep puncture on her shoulder, but really, when you think she went down under three of them, fangs snapping, she's lucky.
"Guess I never thanked you for the rescue."
"Not required," he murmurs, rinsing the cloth and rubbing his hands dry briskly.
"'Get the fuck off her, you filthy bastards'," she muses. "Followed by some heavy-duty mayhem. You got your dander up, Wes. What is dander, anyway?"
He flushes and it's worth every twinge to see it. She reaches out and pats his hand consolingly. "Our secret, Wes. Promise. Won't tell anyone you're chivalrous enough to think laying a hand on me means a slow, painful death. Kinda loved the way you offed the vamp with the –"
"I did no more than was required," he says stiffly. "I've no wish to see you die, Faith. Any Watcher -"
"No." He frowns and she carries on. "Robin told me – take that fucking sneer off your face, Wes; you know damn well I only said it to piss you off, the other night. Sweet guy, but – well, anyway, he told me about Watchers. You – and, yeah, Giles too, you're not normal. Way more involved than you should be."
He relaxes a little. "Perhaps," he admits. "It's difficult not to be. Especially for me. I'm too used to being on the front-line."
"But you're not a Slayer," she says gently. "You're good, Wes, but I've got the edge. Does that bother you?"
He gives her a look of pure surprise, as open as she's seen him, yeah, even more than when he came in her mouth and his face twisted into new shapes. "Of course not. It's – it's what you are. Who you are."
"Ever think knowing you were there slowed me down last night – this morning – whenever the fuck is was?"
His face closes up again. "There is simply no question of you undertaking a mission like that without me."
"Why?"
His hand slides out to grip her wrist. "You could die any night," he says. "I know that. But when the odds are unfavourable – do you think I could sit and wait for sunrise to tell me you weren't coming back? Spend the day looking for your body to –"
She cuts him off because listening to him hurts worse than any wound, wrapping her arms around him in a clumsy lunge that startles him, so she's got time to snuggle her face against his shoulder, bony and warm-hollowed, and start to cry.
He's transfixed by her tears, just as she'd known he would be. His hands come up and grip her arms and he nearly manages to push her away, but she adds in sound, a shuddering in-suck of breath, and his hands are smoothing her back, patting it and cuddling her close and she's melted and gone, crawling into his lap and crying until it stops being fun.
"I think that's enough now," he whispers, stroking the wet hair back off her wet cheek. "Good Lord, you look – "
"Yeah, I can guess," she snuffles. "Repulsive, right?"
"Moderately so, but I have a strong stomach," he says gravely.
He eases her back and picks up the cloth, mopping up the snot and glop in a swift scrub that leaves her face clean and tingling.
"You're being nice to me," she says.
"I am?" He glances down at his shoulder, where there's a wet spot the size of a plate, and winces. "May I stop now?"
"No." She tries a pout but she's probably still too white-faced and swollen-eyed to really put it off, because his lips lift in a disbelieving smile.
"Even so, I think I'll go and change. You should sleep now you've eaten."
And she's tired enough to agree but the nightmares come so fast when she's feeling like this and she really doesn't want to be left alone.
And she knows once he leaves, he won't be back until patrol time; it'll be business as usual. She doesn't use her Slayer strength for getting tops off jars and such; it's a weapon, not a tool, but she never liked that dark grey shirt of his and it was wicked scratchy...
She lifts up her hand, hooks her fingers in the vee of his open shirt and jerks down. The fabric splits and tears and she's left holding a handful of cotton and buttons.
"Not going anywhere," she mumbles, because she's falling asleep. "You're my Watcher. Watch me. Watch over me. Like my guardian..."
"Shush..." he whispers giving a resigned sigh as he shrugs out of the ruined shirt. "I'll stay."
He curls up on top of the bed beside her, the covers separating them, and his hand finds hers. He's tense against her and then as she snuggles and squirms until she's settled, her back to him, he relaxes and falls asleep before she does.
And when they wake, it's because of his whimpered cries, not hers and she recognises them, and wonders how many times they've disturbed her in the night and wound themselves into her dreams.
Previous parts here
Watching, Waiting, Anticipating Part Four
Nearly dying shocks the world from soft, rough-edged fluffiness into the clarity of a lungful of winter air, crisp and piercing. She spins down in a scarlet spiral of blood and screams and all she can see as she lies bleeding is Wesley's shadow, giant-sized on the walls as he revenges each pained gasp, each throb of a pulse that sends her blood out of her body to scent the air.
He doesn't get them all, but he dusts enough that they back off, fade into shadows, let them pass into the faint sparkle of sunlight that's filtering into the vast empty spaces of the dark factories.
He gets her home somehow, a stagger and a cab and another stagger, and every time her eyes manage to flutter open he's staring down at her and there's never a moment when his hand isn't holding hers.
As he eases her down onto her bed she drifts off thinking drowsily that she'd been doing it all wrong. The only way to get to him was to be hurt worse than he was.
But she's a Slayer and when she wakes up, she's already covered in healing scabs and his eyes are distant as he spoons slop into her mouth with forceful, abrupt stabs at her reluctantly open mouth.
"You left yourself open. Again and again." Spoon, jab, swallow. "Repeated moves until they were practically yawning in your face." Spoon, jab, swallow. "Showed off. Really, Faith. The spin-kick off the wall? Did you want marks out of ten?" Spoon, jab, spit.
She glares at him as he picks up the paper towel and cleans himself up with furious fastidiousness, like a cat with wet paws.
"Shut the fuck up, Wes," she says with a certain awful distinctness. "Shut up and get the hell out of here, right now."
"Why?"
"Stress management," she says with difficulty. Won't cry, can't cry, that's cheating.
An eyebrow quirks. "You class nearly dying as merely stressful? Interesting."
"You're still here," she says flatly. "Warning you, Wes –"
"I need to check your wounds."
She bites down hard on her lip, lets the pain anchor her. "Make it fast."
This, she's used to. Giles and Wes both, they're like doctors; they can touch her this way and it's... not impersonal, no, but professional, yeah. It's part of their job to patch up Slayers, quick and dirty. Hospitals – never a good idea. Too many questions, too much paperwork. Give a Watcher a girl with Slayer healing and a band aid and they'll have her good to go in an hour, tops.
His hands peel off bandages, dip soft cloth in warm water, sponge and disinfect. Bruises pattern her skin, red lines bisect muscle and there's one wicked deep puncture on her shoulder, but really, when you think she went down under three of them, fangs snapping, she's lucky.
"Guess I never thanked you for the rescue."
"Not required," he murmurs, rinsing the cloth and rubbing his hands dry briskly.
"'Get the fuck off her, you filthy bastards'," she muses. "Followed by some heavy-duty mayhem. You got your dander up, Wes. What is dander, anyway?"
He flushes and it's worth every twinge to see it. She reaches out and pats his hand consolingly. "Our secret, Wes. Promise. Won't tell anyone you're chivalrous enough to think laying a hand on me means a slow, painful death. Kinda loved the way you offed the vamp with the –"
"I did no more than was required," he says stiffly. "I've no wish to see you die, Faith. Any Watcher -"
"No." He frowns and she carries on. "Robin told me – take that fucking sneer off your face, Wes; you know damn well I only said it to piss you off, the other night. Sweet guy, but – well, anyway, he told me about Watchers. You – and, yeah, Giles too, you're not normal. Way more involved than you should be."
He relaxes a little. "Perhaps," he admits. "It's difficult not to be. Especially for me. I'm too used to being on the front-line."
"But you're not a Slayer," she says gently. "You're good, Wes, but I've got the edge. Does that bother you?"
He gives her a look of pure surprise, as open as she's seen him, yeah, even more than when he came in her mouth and his face twisted into new shapes. "Of course not. It's – it's what you are. Who you are."
"Ever think knowing you were there slowed me down last night – this morning – whenever the fuck is was?"
His face closes up again. "There is simply no question of you undertaking a mission like that without me."
"Why?"
His hand slides out to grip her wrist. "You could die any night," he says. "I know that. But when the odds are unfavourable – do you think I could sit and wait for sunrise to tell me you weren't coming back? Spend the day looking for your body to –"
She cuts him off because listening to him hurts worse than any wound, wrapping her arms around him in a clumsy lunge that startles him, so she's got time to snuggle her face against his shoulder, bony and warm-hollowed, and start to cry.
He's transfixed by her tears, just as she'd known he would be. His hands come up and grip her arms and he nearly manages to push her away, but she adds in sound, a shuddering in-suck of breath, and his hands are smoothing her back, patting it and cuddling her close and she's melted and gone, crawling into his lap and crying until it stops being fun.
"I think that's enough now," he whispers, stroking the wet hair back off her wet cheek. "Good Lord, you look – "
"Yeah, I can guess," she snuffles. "Repulsive, right?"
"Moderately so, but I have a strong stomach," he says gravely.
He eases her back and picks up the cloth, mopping up the snot and glop in a swift scrub that leaves her face clean and tingling.
"You're being nice to me," she says.
"I am?" He glances down at his shoulder, where there's a wet spot the size of a plate, and winces. "May I stop now?"
"No." She tries a pout but she's probably still too white-faced and swollen-eyed to really put it off, because his lips lift in a disbelieving smile.
"Even so, I think I'll go and change. You should sleep now you've eaten."
And she's tired enough to agree but the nightmares come so fast when she's feeling like this and she really doesn't want to be left alone.
And she knows once he leaves, he won't be back until patrol time; it'll be business as usual. She doesn't use her Slayer strength for getting tops off jars and such; it's a weapon, not a tool, but she never liked that dark grey shirt of his and it was wicked scratchy...
She lifts up her hand, hooks her fingers in the vee of his open shirt and jerks down. The fabric splits and tears and she's left holding a handful of cotton and buttons.
"Not going anywhere," she mumbles, because she's falling asleep. "You're my Watcher. Watch me. Watch over me. Like my guardian..."
"Shush..." he whispers giving a resigned sigh as he shrugs out of the ruined shirt. "I'll stay."
He curls up on top of the bed beside her, the covers separating them, and his hand finds hers. He's tense against her and then as she snuggles and squirms until she's settled, her back to him, he relaxes and falls asleep before she does.
And when they wake, it's because of his whimpered cries, not hers and she recognises them, and wonders how many times they've disturbed her in the night and wound themselves into her dreams.