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Thanks, as ever, to all who are reading and commenting!
Previous parts are here
Hollow Heart
by Jane Davitt and Bit
Chapter Five
It doesn't go down well.
"What the fuck? Are you insane? He'll trace the call and --"
"You've escaped. I'm your Watcher. It's natural that I call him," he points out.
"Yeah, and you dropped off the face of the planet and you're not at home; think he might know you lied to him by now, Wes!"
That -- well, it hadn't occurred to him. He frowns and she pounces. "What? That bother you, or something?"
He gazes out of the kitchen window, watching a grouse explode fussily from a patch of heather and take off, flying low. "To a certain extent, yes."
He doesn't elaborate and she sighs and comes over to stand by him. "Need more than that, Wes," she says, half-gentle, half-regretful.
He turns to look at her. Sharing isn't easy, even with someone you've just bathed with. Not when your whole life's been spent hiding your feelings out of fear that -- out of fear.
"Let's go outside," he says, leading her into the clear, fresh air and a garden that's overgrown to the point where the moorland beyond looks more cultivated. There's a garden seat, sturdy still, next to the remnants of some roses, faded petals still clinging to one stalk, the vivid scarlet muted by wind and rain.
She perches on the arm which creaks, but holds her weight, and plants her booted feet on the seat beside him. "Spill."
"You remember how I was when I arrived in Sunnydale," he begins.
She nods, a reminiscent grin curling her lips.
"Giles was --"
"A complete bastard?"
It's his turn to smile, a little painfully. "Yes, he was rather, wasn't he? But it was what I needed and I'm -- grateful. And there were times when he and I got on rather better than it might have seemed."
She leans forward and taps his knee. "Something you want to tell me about that, Wes? Sex in the stacks?"
Wes struggles to keep his face smooth and indifferent. "Nothing that exciting," he says, his voice light, more by luck than design. "Just there were times when we reached an understanding; a sort of conviviality that was very important to me. As was Giles' approval."
He expects her to scoff, but Faith pats him gingerly on the shoulder and nods. "I don't know what convi -- whatever that word was but I get the whole approval thing. When we were in SunnyD, just once I wanted him to look at me like he looked at B. Like I was something other than the fricking bad seed." She examines the scuffed toe of her boot. "Whatever, y'know. It's ancient history now."
He's still getting used to these parallel lines running between him and Faith, linking them in a thousand ways he never anticipated. And not for the first time, he wonders how things would have been different if they'd both been different in Sunnydale. If the pair of them hadn't been blinded by bravado and self-doubt, who's to say where they'd be now. Probably not sitting on a bench in the Scottish Highlands. "I think one of the reasons why I decided to come back to the Council's fold, yourself notwithstanding, was that I felt there was unfinished business between Giles and myself. That is, I wanted to -- but he -- he's so blinkered at times, just like my -- " He pauses, then stops completely, barely able to meet her unwavering, surprisingly unjudgemental stare. "God, it's so ridiculously Freudian when I say it out loud."
"Say what out loud?" Faith asks him, but he shakes his head.
"I think we've had quite enough introspection for one day, don't you?" He gives in to the temptation to stroke a hand through her hair and she lets him, although he can feel the slight tension in her as she suffers the casual caress. "The sooner you train, the sooner we can move on to other things." Carrot, stick, Slayer. Faith gives him an almost prim look to let him know she's on to him but stands up and stretches.
"So you gonna call him or what?" she calls over her shoulder as she starts to walk back into the cottage.
"Maybe later," Wesley murmurs. She's right; his silence and lack of availability has most likely already confirmed Giles' suspicions and a phone call is easy enough to trace.
He has to wonder though, as he stands and follows her back in, what her reaction would have been if he'd told her that there'd been a time when Giles could have had him for the asking.
That time had passed, he was sure of that, and of course Giles never had, but even so --
Or perhaps he was taking a few looks that lingered too long, the brush of a hand against his shoulder as he sat reading, and building a castle from a handful of straw. The only time it had ever trembled on the verge of being something they couldn't ignore, with Wesley turning around in the confined space of Giles' office and being forced to grab onto Giles' arm to keep his balance, and Giles' eyes suddenly warm and his breath quickening as the moment stretched out -- well, that one had been interrupted by Faith herself, storming in, worked up over something or other and oblivious to his flushed face and Giles' glare.
"We good to go, then, Wes?" Faith asks as he walks into the kitchen, her foot up on the table as she begins her stretches.
And the taut lines of her arse and the sweep of her hair as she bends low stir him, but he was already half-hard when he walked in and that's not down to her for once.
No; he's definitely not going to call Giles.
"Well, you are, certainly, Faith. I think you can begin with a run. To the top of the hill to the south and back again, I think. I'll wait here in the garden and time you. That way we'll be able to chart your progress."
She gives him a perky look, all teeth and tits, because she really does love to train and she's out of the door and vaulting over the garden gate before he's even pressed start on his stopwatch.
He finds a dilapidated, though serviceable, lawnmower in one of the potting sheds and by the time she comes back into view, scrambling down the hill, he's wrestling with the bloody thing as he tries to tame the grass into submission. He fancies he'd actually have a better chance with Faith even when she slaps his arse by way of greeting.
"Don't do that, Faith," he snaps, trying to yank the lawnmower out of the hedge.
She shoulders him out of the way and grabs hold of the mower with an irritating lack of effort. "Why?" she asks him imperturbably. "Let you do it to me, if you like."
And the image of Faith over his lap, getting a slap on her impudent arse for every obnoxious thing she's ever done well, maybe they should skip --
"C'mon, Wes," she says impatiently, jogging on the spot. "What now?
Don't suppose you bought the crossbow 'cause I could do target practice on those bigass birds I keep seeing."
"Birds?" he asks a little faintly. She can't mean -- "Faith, they're golden eagles! Protected and rare. Kindly confine your target practice to the inanimate or the enemy." He shrugs, taking a calming breath. "Besides, I didn't pack it. You'll have to manage with what was in the boot of the car; the emergency weapons."
She pulls a face and then brightens. "Saw some swords up on the wall, Wes. Think your aunt would mind if we used them?"
It takes him a second to work out what she means. The fencing foils in the living room, wall-mounted and thick with dust, are so much part of the decor that it takes a little mental adjustment to view them as training aids, let alone weapons.
And he's transported back to the long-gone library in Sunnydale, his heart pounding as Giles casually parried his increasingly frantic thrusts, the complacent bastard --
"I think that might be a possibility," he allows cautiously.
"Cool!"
She's heading in to most likely rip them down with a total lack of consideration for the wallpaper when he catches up with her and gives her an admonishing look.
"Allow me," he says pointedly, reaching up -- he's taller than her at least -- and unhooking them.
One hour later, after Faith has lunged and parried him almost to oblivion, he's bent double and gasping as he tries to get his breath back. Unfortunately it's nowhere to be found.
She perches on the edge of the sideboard, swinging her legs and looking at him without a shred of sympathy.
"I'm hungry," she states baldly, then wrinkles her brow. "Could still stand to go a bit more though."
"I'm sorry, Faith. Is my imminent cardiac arrest cramping your style?"
It loses some of its edge when he's panting the words out, so he straightens up and wonders what the hell he's going to do with her minus the benefits of the Council's admittedly state of the art training facility and the junior Watchers he usually uses as Slayer fodder..
"Said something about a lake, could have a swim," she suddenly says, jumping down. "You could make me do fifty lengths with my legs tied together while you catch the rays. It'll be fun. Kind of."
And though his later plans don't involve anything of hers being tied together, well, certainly not her legs, he finds himself being hustled into the kitchen so Faith can supervise the making of several cheese and pickle doorstep sandwiches for their picnic lunch.
The sun is high in the sky as he walks her through the lush woods that he remembers from simpler days when he'd climb up trees with a good book and hide there for hours until he was sure that his parents had driven off and he was free for two whole weeks at least.
He's aware of Faith's keen gaze as his lips tighten but she doesn't say anything, just slows her pace from a frantic march so their arms brush together with every step they take.
"Do you like it here?" he asks her, his voice low, although they're alone apart from some twittering birds and an unseen something rustling in the bracken that's probably a rabbit. There's something about the woods that brings his voice down, as if he was in church.
She looks around and gives the all-purpose shrug she uses when she's indifferent or uncertain. "It's okay. Kinda weirding me out with all the quiet though. I want to scream, just to see what happens, you know?"
"Save that for the lake," he advises. "It's going to be cold, you know."
"Used to that," she replies. "Or at least I was. Didn't grow up with a heated pool, y'know?"
"Nor did I," he tells her, although he knows enough about her childhood to be aware that when it came to material considerations it was worlds apart from his. "And if we had possessed a swimming pool -- although I'm sure my father would've considered it vaguely vulgar -- it would have been kept icy. Father believed in cold water as an invaluable aid to character-building."
"Yeah? Guess it didn't work with me," she said lightly.
"I don't think it had the desired effect on me, either," he confesses. In fact, he gets a small thrill of satisfaction even now when he steps under a scalding-hot shower or slides into a steaming bath, an emotion so familiar that he's almost forgotten the rebellion that prompts it.
And then he feels a pressure against his fingers and looks down to see her hand clasped loosely in his.
"Come on," she says. "Last one in is a total loser."
He's not going to race through the woods like a madman but Faith has other ideas; yanking him along until he has no choice if he wants to keep his arm intact but to start running with her.
She lets him go as they come to a gap in the trees and see the blue shimmer of water in front of them.
"Wow," she breathes. "That's pretty awesome, y'know."
He's already down to his shorts, only pausing to give her a good hard slap on the arse which makes her yelp as he runs past her, onto the little jetty, and dives headfirst.
It's bloody freezing. He can feel his skin tighten as he submerges and rises to the surface, shivering and spluttering, only to be attacked by a small, ballistic, Faith-shaped missile coming right at him.
"You're so fucking dead," she growls, snapping her mouth shut in preparation for pushing him under. He can read her like a Sumerian dictionary. Which is why he manages to make her yelp like a girl as he disappears under the water and grabs her legs out from under her.
She appears in front of him, silenced by the water, her hair floating around her, naiad-like and her mouth still clamped together. The kiss he gives her is unsatisfactory from one perspective since, chilled as they are, his lips barely register the slight pressure from hers that signals her relenting, but it's still a kiss. He moves through the water with a kick and as they rise to the surface, his arms are around her.
"Holy shit, that's cold!" she screams, the sound snapping back in an instant echo from the green screen of trees around them, piercing his ears.
"I did tell you," he says, through the chattering of his teeth. "Spring-fed so it never really warms up."
Her arms wind around his neck and she hooks her legs around his waist, grinding against him, naked and no warmer than the water. "Bet I could warm you up, Wes."
He's all too aware that his balls have gone north and settles for an enigmatic smile. "You're here to train, Faith. Few laps from you, I think and then we'll call it a day and eat those delightful butties you made."
"Delightful what?" she demands. "You make this shit up, don't you?"
He raises a hand in an all-but-forgotten salute, noting absently that his nails are blue already. "Scout's honour."
She gives him a dubious look, flicks a few pints at him with her thrashing feet and sets off, swimming with splashy, strong strokes that he doesn't even try to match.
He's never been so glad to haul himself onto dry land, wrapping one of the towels they've brought around him. The midday sun soon penetrates his chilled bones and he stretches out on his stomach on the rug, so that he can read the rather dull reference book he's spent the last week wading through.
That's the plan. In reality, he props himself up on his elbows so he can watch Faith swim in never-ending circles around the lake. Clockwise, anti-clockwise, her sleek head bobbing, arms going like pistons. He stops counting after 50 but she carries on for a little while longer, before her inevitable boredom threshold reaches critical mass.
She turns somersaults in the water, staying under so all that he can see is her skinny legs kicking in the air and it's not training, not really, but he can't remember the last time he saw her doing something so carefree that when she finally climbs out, he just gives her a lazy smile.
"You'd give Esther Williams a run for her money."
She pauses as she wrings the water out of her hair, nipples so hard with cold that they look painful. "Who the fuck's Esther Williams?"
He hands her a sandwich and a gusty sigh. "Your education has been sorely lacking."
"Ain't that a fact." She throws herself down on the rug next to him and takes an enthusiastic bite of her sandwich, forearms pressed against her breasts, which are obviously still aching from their icy immersion. "Hey! That's my sandwich!"
He's already snatched it out of her hand so he can hold it out of her reach and she reacts just like he knew she would; launching herself at him, face intent and serious. "I don't see your name on it anywhere, Faith," he chuckles in a way that he knows because she's told him a million times, 'works her last fucking nerve.'
"Give it back, asshole," she snaps, tits bobbing in his face as she straddles him and tries to reclaim her lunch.
"All right," he says agreeably, craning his neck just a little and swiping his tongue across a nipple before sucking it into his mouth to warm it.
She makes a soft, breathy sound and he has to wonder how it feels as he thaws it out; good? Painful? Both? The sandwich falls forgotten from his hand and he reaches up to cup her other breast, feeling the chilled, goose bumped skin shiver as he touches it.
She doesn't move and he spares a second to glance up at her, seeing curiosity flicker over her face. For once she doesn't question him, just leans into his touch as he wakens and warms the smooth, soft curves of her breasts with his mouth and hands, until they're flushed and heavy against his face, nipples still hard but from arousal now. She's sighing and he's making appreciative sounds himself because she tastes good, fresh and clean and alive. He's never met anyone who lives as much in the moment as her and it's starting to rub off on him, so that when she finally leans back and eases a cool finger inside the towel wrapped around his waist, he's thinking of nothing but this and what they're about to do.
"Still kinda chilly," she says softly moving down a little and tugging the towel apart to expose him. He spares a moment to be glad that he peeled off his soaked shorts and that he's recovered sufficiently from the dip in the icy water to be able to give her something worth looking at in the way of an erection. "You going to warm my insides too, Wes?"
It's corny enough to have them exchanging grins but he's getting used to trading banter with her at times when most people would be quiet.
"I don't know," he says, gasping as her hand closes around his shaft and begins to slide up and down. "Sounds risky. Might get frostbite in an awkward place."
"Know a good cure for that," she says huskily, slipping down between his thighs and taking the tip of his cock between her lips for a moment. "Think you should be safe."
And there's nothing safe about the way she throws her leg over his prone body and slides down on him, slower than hot tar on a country road, sweeter than sin.
It seems like it takes her the whole afternoon to take him deep inside her, hands on his shoulders, the beatific look on her face blocking out the sun. Her cunt's wet and warm, like it's been bathed in sunlight too and he has to stop composing sonnets about it and concentrate on how it feels like another mouth sucking on his cock.
As it is, he can't help the tiny 'ah', that escapes from his lips when she shakes the hair out of her eyes and leans back so he won't miss a thing, his hand already creeping out to lightly touch the place where they're joined, pressing his thumb against her clit as she raises herself up just a fraction. "Beautiful."
"Knew you'd like me on top, Wes," she says demurely and he laughs because she's impossible and the sky is blue and the sun's hot on his skin as he lies back and she's barely moving, just clenching around him and arching forward so he can continue rubbing her clit with the calloused pad of his thumb.
"I think that should be amended to I love you on top," he corrects her, eyes closing to slits as she does something with her muscles which might just be the single best second of his existence. "Slow, please. All the time in the world, remember?"
Which isn't strictly true, he finds, as the light dapples against the gently bouncing curves of her breasts and heightens his arousal unbearably. "Think that can be arranged, Wes," she purrs like the most pampered of housecats and swivels her hips so very slowly that he thinks he might just cry.
He can't help resting his hands lightly on the rounded lushness of her hips and arse, stroking the smooth skin appreciatively, but he lets her do as she wants to until his body is trembling with the need to move; with her, in her, hard.
She's strong, and he knows that better than most, but he's never considered just how that translates into something like this, when she can rise and take endless moments to fall back, the slick walls of her cunt caressing his cock the whole time. Or pause, half-way down, or up, until he's quivering with tension not knowing if this is the point at which she'll end the game and slam down on him, greedy and needy.
And it never is.
Without anything as obvious as pinning his wrists or getting his promise, she's made it so that he can't do anything but lie still, unspoken rules in a game that has none.
Rise and fall, wriggle and shimmy, with the sun overhead, pouring gold onto her skin until it's like being fucked by a flame.
He comes unexpectedly, barely moving, never taking his eyes off her, waves of languorous pleasure lapping over him, his lips parting on a long exhalation of delight.
She smiles down at him, relaxed and easy and goes to lie beside him.
"You didn't --" He can barely speak, his heart pounding suddenly as if his body expects to be in that state and can't understand why it isn't.
She turns her head and grabs his hand, pulling it down between her legs and convulsing around his fingers as his thumb rubs at her clit and his fingers thrust inside her, once, twice and then she's falling.
"Fuck!' She shatters the velvet silence as she comes, body arching like a bow under the onslaught of his fingers, then lies still, legs pushed together so he can't take his hand away but feels her still pulsing around his fingers.
"That was the acoustic version," she says quietly after a few long moments and he doesn't quite get the joke but can't help but smile when she starts to snicker softly. He even dares to reach out the hand that isn't still nestled into the damp heat of her pussy and stroke her damp hair.
"Is this all right, Faith?"
She turns her head and gives him a knowing grin. "Kinda getting the urge to snuggle but I think it'll pass. 'Sides, got other urges."
She sits up and like Pavlov's dog his eyes automatically go to her breasts as she bats his hand away from its hidey place so she can replace it with her own fingers. "I could help with that," he offers and hopes she won't take him up on it because he wants to see her come again, wants to see her fuck herself on her own hand.
"Nah, I'm good," she demurs, settling back down on the rug. "Maybe in a minute. Can watch if you like though."
He does like, shifting to the side as she obligingly spreads her legs, hair fanned out on the rug, bringing herself off with brisk, economical strokes. Two fingers thrusting quickly in her cunt, as the heel of her hand presses into her clit, much harder than he would do it because he's scared of hurting her. His cock is just starting to get interested, a tell-tale ache making it begin to swell but he ignores it in favour of savouring the sight of his Slayer with her hand buried in her cunt.
Faith tilts her hips, heels digging into the ground as she comes again with an emphatic little grunt and pulls her hand free, staring at the glistening sheen on her fingers as it catches the light.
And as she sucks them into the mouth, he's crawling nearer so he can follow the sticky trail up her inner thigh with his tongue.
"Think I'm good here," she murmurs around her fingers before pulling them free and, as he sees with one swift, upward glance, licking around her lips, neat as a cat.
"Who said this was for you?" he says, tasting her on his tongue, in his mouth, soaking in, until it's in every breath he takes, every swallow he makes.
She chuckles and leans up on her elbows so that her flat belly pooches out a little, staring down at him as he addresses himself to the Herculean task of cleaning up the mess she's in, when every lap of his tongue coaxes more out of her slippery, perfect cunt.
Daylight streams down, illuminating her, making the complex folds and lines simple. He presses them aside, capturing the muted rose-brown lips under fingers that seem unwieldy against the delicate whorls. Exposed, the inner skin is deep, clear pink, twitching as he blows against it, swallowing his finger as his rests it against her opening. He fucks her gently, slowly, feeling her clutch and clench at the slim intrusion, not enough by itself, but there's more he can do to that succulent flesh and he does it all, sucking and licking and biting and kissing until she lies back, her knees falling apart, her hips tilting inviting, pleading.
When she comes, it's with a sigh and a shudder and a smile.
They brave the icy water one more time for a quick rinse before they shrug their shivering bodies back into their clothes and start ambling through the woods.
If she was another girl and it was another time; he'd pull her down to the ground again so he could pick wild flowers and scatter them in her hair. But she's Faith, she's his Slayer and he takes what he can get, which is her hand tucked into the back pocket of his jeans as she squints up at the sun through the canopy of trees.
"No one's ever bothered to get me off like you do," she says softly and before he can even respond, she's changing the subject. "Hey, I learnt to cook this wicked pasta thing in prison, maybe I'll make it tonight."
His attention, just as she intended, is piqued. "You cook?" He echoes incredulously.
"Yeah, I cook. Have to; they don't sell Hot Pockets over here." And she laughs at the vaguely repulsed expression on his face, reaching up to pinch his cheek.
But it's not until she's happily ensconced in the kitchen, utilising every cooking utensil that they have that he indulges himself in five minutes of delicious, full-blown panic. That there are hordes of Watchers all crossing over the Scottish border. And that if Faith continues to eat at the pace she has, they'll be forced out of their rustic idyll to the shop in the nearest village with the manageress who's made gossip an art form. And what if Giles placed a tracer on her while she was drugged because he's a devious bastard and always has been and what if he can't continue to keep getting her off in a style to which she's rapidly become accustomed, then what? And what --
"You're freaking out, Wes." It's a bald statement and he blinks and then focuses on her standing in the sitting room doorway in one of his shirts, staring at him with an unreadable expression on her face.
"I'm just -- this is --" He can't get the words out without hurting her and making her think that he wishes he hadn't rescued her. Which is something that he can never regret, not really.
"Scares you?" she asks and nods as he gives her a quick, resentful look for saying it, his good intentions forgotten.
"A little, yes." He walks over to her, his hand drifting up to rest on her shoulder for a second, until he sees how uncomfortable she is with what he's revealing and he lets it drop away. Trying to keep his voice light he continues, "Once again, though a quixotic, impulsive action I've lost my place in the world, lost all my friends -- " He shakes his head. "When Spike forced Angel into undoing that memory cloaking spell -- I was stunned by what I'd done, how much I'd lost through it. And now I've done it again." He sighs, because her face has closed down. "Faith, I don't mean --"
"No, it's cool." She turns away, her shoulders stiff and tense and he's going after her the instant that she does, his hands on her arms, turning her and pulling her to him hard.
"I can regret what I've lost without wanting to change what I did," he tells her, the words filtering through the tightness in his throat. "You're my Slayer remember, and I'd like to think that I was wrong about one thing."
"What?" she asks, her voice dull, her eyes fixed on the second button down of his shirt.
"That I've lost all my friends."
She absorbs that and then jabs him hard in the ribs with her finger. "You're such a fucking sap, Wes."
Relief wipes away his nerves and he nods. "I'm beginning to think that I am. Does it really bother you?"
She pulls a face and makes a sound as if to suggest that she's the longest suffering person in the world. "Guess I can deal," she decides with just trace amounts of a smile. "As long as you don't start crying and shit."
He dabs a finger under his eye, amazed at her ability to shift the mood. "See? Dry as a bone."
Faith nods approvingly, standing on tip toe to give him a kiss so fleeting, he's not even sure if she realises what she's done. "Cool. Anyway, question. Do you like your pasta sauce extra spicy or, like, extra, extra, extra spicy?"
Wesley follows her down the hall, transfixed by the hem of his shirt shifting against her legs. "Just extra spicy, please. I do rather value having some sensation left in my mouth after eating."
That gets him her slyest smile, tongue poking out to swipe lasciviously across her lips. "That a fact, is it?"
"There was absolutely nothing salacious about my remark, Faith," he says opening one of the bottles of wine. "Get your mind out of the gutter."
She's throwing handfuls of pasta shapes into bubbling saucepan so she doesn't look up. "Man, Wes, it's never out of the gutter. Jesus, I'm antsy tonight. Been a while, y'know?"
And delightful and rapturous and ecstatic as fucking her is, he blanches at the thought of just how much administering to she needs when the girl herself gives a pointed cough and throws a piece of dried pasta at him.
"Hey! Gutter boy! Been a while since I slayed. Nine days, in case you're interested."
"I -- that wasn't what -- " He's spluttering like one of his earlier incarnations though he has a sneaking suspicion that she finds it rather endearing.
"Yeah it was. but I'll let you off," she says equably, throwing a piece of carrot in the air and catching it in her mouth. Show off, Wesley thinks to himself. "So cut to the chase. Is there anything around here I can kill?"
It's an excellent question, one to gladden the heart of any Watcher.
"Aren't we supposed to be on a holiday?" he says and wonders if it sounds as much like a whine to her ears as it does to his.
She crunches on the carrot and swallows, the line of her throat rippling with it. "One, we're more in flee for our lives mode and two -- Wes, it's not a fucking job, okay? Might be to her because she never did get that she didn't have a choice, but it's what I am. Can't stop, any more than you can stop being man who reads, you know?"
And he hasn't opened a book since they left -- oh, wait. Down by the lake. She might have a point.
"I really doubt that any vampire would be stupid enough to hang around here; far too remote," he says.
"Then let's get in the car, head to a city and watch the moon rise over a graveyard." She smirks. "Pretty romantic, y'know, Wes?"
And, after eating her pasta with a sauce every bit as incendiary as he feared, that's more or less what they do. The city's a fairly large town, an hour's drive away, and as this isn't Sunnydale they settle for prowling the back alleys instead, with not one, but two, rather awkward incidents where the couples locked and writhing, panting and moaning, weren't in need of rescuing.
Then, behind a club even Faith turns her nose up at, with vomit and worse splattered up the walls, they find what they're looking for. At first Wesley thinks they've stumbled on yet another couple getting off, two men this time, one standing against a wall, his head back, mouth open like his jeans, eyes wide; the other kneeling in God knows what filth, his hands pinning the man in place, a wetly succulent sound making it clear what he's doing. Wesley averts his eyes, more than ready to hurry away, when Faith, face grim, eyes blazing, seeing more clearly than him, launches herself forward.
Wesley turns back and sees the horror in the wide eyes of the man and smells the blood. The thing, the awful, terrible, gut-sucking thing is changing as he watches, insubstantial as filthy gossamer and Faith snatches at it again and again, arms windmilling, legs kicking out, her face a rictus mask of fury.
Eventually she manages to find purchase and start tearing into it; grey shreds of whatever it is falling at her feet like smoking confetti and Wes realises that he's standing there like one o'clock half struck. He squats in front of the man and listens to his faint shallow attempts to breathe.
"Are you all right?"
It's a stupid question and he gets nothing more than a gurgle for his trouble. A prelude to the death rattle but he's still pulling out his mobile phone and dialling 999.
"What the fuck are you doing?" comes Faith's angry voice behind him as the man against the wall slides down it, close to a death that's not so little, blood spurting strongly from his femoral artery, skin torn and grey with dust from the thing that fed from him moments before.
Faith's hands are hard as she bats him away and falls to her knees in front of the dying man. Doing everything she can, clearing his airways, trying to give him mouth to mouth, pressing down on his chest and doing nothing for him but breaking a couple of ribs if the sudden crisp, snapping sound is anything to go by.
There's the distant wail of a siren and Wesley takes a step forward. "He's dead, Faith," he says a lot more harshly than he intended, but time is running out. "Or he will be soon. We need to go. Now!"
"Fuck off," she spits over her shoulder, bending her head again to listen for a heartbeat that isn't there as the siren's wail gets louder and louder until he's forced to seize a handful of brown hair and a taut arm and tug at her resisting body.
When the ambulance comes and Faith, blood-splattered and shaking, steps back, her hands like a Lady Macbeth who cut out the middleman, he's there to hold her, even when she struggles and spits and fights and cries.
They drive home in silence. Utter, complete silence that begins the moment he straps her in and feels her tremble with the need to run away. He's not sure that he could stop her if she tried. Knows he can't take her in a fight.
But she stays and when he walks around the car to his door she doesn't take advantage of that moment to disappear.
It's then that he realises that she's got nowhere to go; that, come what may, they're in this together, and he feels panic and fear because he's let down so many people and she shouldn't trust him as much as she does.
When they get back to the cottage and the engine noise dies he looks at her and sees that she's crying. tears rolling, sliding, dripping down her face, in a silence so absolute that he can hear the small smack each one makes as it freefalls from her jaw to her jacket.
"We're home, Faith," he says gently.
Without looking at him, she gets out, stiffly, graceless and takes three steps before he's there to hold her.
"Not your fault," he whispers, unsure why she's so devastated. "We tried. And he didn't get away."
"He never does get away from me," she says, her eyes cold and hard. "Never. When I dream about him, he tries, every time he tries, and I always get him. Always kill him." Her mouth twists, bitter-lemon sour. "Because he didn't stand a chance, did he? Human. I'm the Slayer. There's not a human alive I can't take." Her breath's hot on his face as she leans in close. "You should know that, Wes."
Her hands slips around his wrists and pull them behind his back, cross them over. Oh, he remembers that night. With her face this close and the smell of blood.
"We're past that now, Faith" he says. "Long past that."
"You are. He isn't."
"Who?" And then he knows. "Oh, God. Faith -- he wasn't -- it was an accident. We all knew that. It happens; the heat of the moment --"
"Not what you thought then." She's not arguing as she lets his hands slip free; her voice is calm, thoughtful.
"Giles did," he says. "He told Buffy that it's happened more times than the Council would like to admit."
"I'm never special, am I?" she says and starts to laugh, hysteria helping her hit the high notes effortlessly.
"Stop it," he whispers fiercely, even though only the night can hear them. "You are special. To me you're -- "
"I'm a good fuck," she supplies bitterly, throwing her hands out to showcase the shadowy lines of her body. "It's all about how I fuck, how I kill -- face it, Wes, can't actually keep up with the big brain of yours can I? All I am, all I ever can be is tits and ass and these hands -- "
And he can see the dark patches of dried blood, even through the red mist of his sudden and glorious fury.
"Have you ever thought that maybe that's all you want to be?" The words are out of his mouth before he can rein them back, hanging heavy in the air between them because sometimes he wants to shake her, knock some sense into her, march her into the house, up the stairs and force her to look at her reflection in the cheval mirror in the bedroom so that she can see what he sees. There are more tactful ways to put it though, she obviously thinks as her eyes flash and her top lip curls back on a murderous sneer.
"You're a fucking lousy bastard," she spits and all he can do is nod dumbly in agreement. "Glad you're on message."
He opens the door and not a second later, she's shouldering him brusquely out of the way so she can run up the stairs. He hears the water start to run and pours himself a glass of whisky. Then another and he discards the third halfway finished so he can cautiously mount the stairs.
She's lying on the bed, wrapped in a towel and huddled in a small ball. Her tightly curled limbs spell out misery and despair quite succinctly and the last residual flashes of his anger melt away.
"Faith -- "
Her head whips around far too quickly for him to think that she was asleep. And there are damp smudges under her eyes, a trembling cast to her mouth.
"Get the fuck out! Not fucking sleeping with me after what you said."
Fred was easier to comfort. Lilah was easier to read. But Faith is like walking across a patch of ground littered with landmines. "I'm sorry if I -- "
She moves so fast that it's a blur, snatching something off the nightstand and he just has time to close the door behind him before he hears the smash of glass and, if he strains his ears, the faint cadence of someone sobbing.
Part Six
Previous parts are here
Hollow Heart
by Jane Davitt and Bit
Chapter Five
It doesn't go down well.
"What the fuck? Are you insane? He'll trace the call and --"
"You've escaped. I'm your Watcher. It's natural that I call him," he points out.
"Yeah, and you dropped off the face of the planet and you're not at home; think he might know you lied to him by now, Wes!"
That -- well, it hadn't occurred to him. He frowns and she pounces. "What? That bother you, or something?"
He gazes out of the kitchen window, watching a grouse explode fussily from a patch of heather and take off, flying low. "To a certain extent, yes."
He doesn't elaborate and she sighs and comes over to stand by him. "Need more than that, Wes," she says, half-gentle, half-regretful.
He turns to look at her. Sharing isn't easy, even with someone you've just bathed with. Not when your whole life's been spent hiding your feelings out of fear that -- out of fear.
"Let's go outside," he says, leading her into the clear, fresh air and a garden that's overgrown to the point where the moorland beyond looks more cultivated. There's a garden seat, sturdy still, next to the remnants of some roses, faded petals still clinging to one stalk, the vivid scarlet muted by wind and rain.
She perches on the arm which creaks, but holds her weight, and plants her booted feet on the seat beside him. "Spill."
"You remember how I was when I arrived in Sunnydale," he begins.
She nods, a reminiscent grin curling her lips.
"Giles was --"
"A complete bastard?"
It's his turn to smile, a little painfully. "Yes, he was rather, wasn't he? But it was what I needed and I'm -- grateful. And there were times when he and I got on rather better than it might have seemed."
She leans forward and taps his knee. "Something you want to tell me about that, Wes? Sex in the stacks?"
Wes struggles to keep his face smooth and indifferent. "Nothing that exciting," he says, his voice light, more by luck than design. "Just there were times when we reached an understanding; a sort of conviviality that was very important to me. As was Giles' approval."
He expects her to scoff, but Faith pats him gingerly on the shoulder and nods. "I don't know what convi -- whatever that word was but I get the whole approval thing. When we were in SunnyD, just once I wanted him to look at me like he looked at B. Like I was something other than the fricking bad seed." She examines the scuffed toe of her boot. "Whatever, y'know. It's ancient history now."
He's still getting used to these parallel lines running between him and Faith, linking them in a thousand ways he never anticipated. And not for the first time, he wonders how things would have been different if they'd both been different in Sunnydale. If the pair of them hadn't been blinded by bravado and self-doubt, who's to say where they'd be now. Probably not sitting on a bench in the Scottish Highlands. "I think one of the reasons why I decided to come back to the Council's fold, yourself notwithstanding, was that I felt there was unfinished business between Giles and myself. That is, I wanted to -- but he -- he's so blinkered at times, just like my -- " He pauses, then stops completely, barely able to meet her unwavering, surprisingly unjudgemental stare. "God, it's so ridiculously Freudian when I say it out loud."
"Say what out loud?" Faith asks him, but he shakes his head.
"I think we've had quite enough introspection for one day, don't you?" He gives in to the temptation to stroke a hand through her hair and she lets him, although he can feel the slight tension in her as she suffers the casual caress. "The sooner you train, the sooner we can move on to other things." Carrot, stick, Slayer. Faith gives him an almost prim look to let him know she's on to him but stands up and stretches.
"So you gonna call him or what?" she calls over her shoulder as she starts to walk back into the cottage.
"Maybe later," Wesley murmurs. She's right; his silence and lack of availability has most likely already confirmed Giles' suspicions and a phone call is easy enough to trace.
He has to wonder though, as he stands and follows her back in, what her reaction would have been if he'd told her that there'd been a time when Giles could have had him for the asking.
That time had passed, he was sure of that, and of course Giles never had, but even so --
Or perhaps he was taking a few looks that lingered too long, the brush of a hand against his shoulder as he sat reading, and building a castle from a handful of straw. The only time it had ever trembled on the verge of being something they couldn't ignore, with Wesley turning around in the confined space of Giles' office and being forced to grab onto Giles' arm to keep his balance, and Giles' eyes suddenly warm and his breath quickening as the moment stretched out -- well, that one had been interrupted by Faith herself, storming in, worked up over something or other and oblivious to his flushed face and Giles' glare.
"We good to go, then, Wes?" Faith asks as he walks into the kitchen, her foot up on the table as she begins her stretches.
And the taut lines of her arse and the sweep of her hair as she bends low stir him, but he was already half-hard when he walked in and that's not down to her for once.
No; he's definitely not going to call Giles.
"Well, you are, certainly, Faith. I think you can begin with a run. To the top of the hill to the south and back again, I think. I'll wait here in the garden and time you. That way we'll be able to chart your progress."
She gives him a perky look, all teeth and tits, because she really does love to train and she's out of the door and vaulting over the garden gate before he's even pressed start on his stopwatch.
He finds a dilapidated, though serviceable, lawnmower in one of the potting sheds and by the time she comes back into view, scrambling down the hill, he's wrestling with the bloody thing as he tries to tame the grass into submission. He fancies he'd actually have a better chance with Faith even when she slaps his arse by way of greeting.
"Don't do that, Faith," he snaps, trying to yank the lawnmower out of the hedge.
She shoulders him out of the way and grabs hold of the mower with an irritating lack of effort. "Why?" she asks him imperturbably. "Let you do it to me, if you like."
And the image of Faith over his lap, getting a slap on her impudent arse for every obnoxious thing she's ever done well, maybe they should skip --
"C'mon, Wes," she says impatiently, jogging on the spot. "What now?
Don't suppose you bought the crossbow 'cause I could do target practice on those bigass birds I keep seeing."
"Birds?" he asks a little faintly. She can't mean -- "Faith, they're golden eagles! Protected and rare. Kindly confine your target practice to the inanimate or the enemy." He shrugs, taking a calming breath. "Besides, I didn't pack it. You'll have to manage with what was in the boot of the car; the emergency weapons."
She pulls a face and then brightens. "Saw some swords up on the wall, Wes. Think your aunt would mind if we used them?"
It takes him a second to work out what she means. The fencing foils in the living room, wall-mounted and thick with dust, are so much part of the decor that it takes a little mental adjustment to view them as training aids, let alone weapons.
And he's transported back to the long-gone library in Sunnydale, his heart pounding as Giles casually parried his increasingly frantic thrusts, the complacent bastard --
"I think that might be a possibility," he allows cautiously.
"Cool!"
She's heading in to most likely rip them down with a total lack of consideration for the wallpaper when he catches up with her and gives her an admonishing look.
"Allow me," he says pointedly, reaching up -- he's taller than her at least -- and unhooking them.
One hour later, after Faith has lunged and parried him almost to oblivion, he's bent double and gasping as he tries to get his breath back. Unfortunately it's nowhere to be found.
She perches on the edge of the sideboard, swinging her legs and looking at him without a shred of sympathy.
"I'm hungry," she states baldly, then wrinkles her brow. "Could still stand to go a bit more though."
"I'm sorry, Faith. Is my imminent cardiac arrest cramping your style?"
It loses some of its edge when he's panting the words out, so he straightens up and wonders what the hell he's going to do with her minus the benefits of the Council's admittedly state of the art training facility and the junior Watchers he usually uses as Slayer fodder..
"Said something about a lake, could have a swim," she suddenly says, jumping down. "You could make me do fifty lengths with my legs tied together while you catch the rays. It'll be fun. Kind of."
And though his later plans don't involve anything of hers being tied together, well, certainly not her legs, he finds himself being hustled into the kitchen so Faith can supervise the making of several cheese and pickle doorstep sandwiches for their picnic lunch.
The sun is high in the sky as he walks her through the lush woods that he remembers from simpler days when he'd climb up trees with a good book and hide there for hours until he was sure that his parents had driven off and he was free for two whole weeks at least.
He's aware of Faith's keen gaze as his lips tighten but she doesn't say anything, just slows her pace from a frantic march so their arms brush together with every step they take.
"Do you like it here?" he asks her, his voice low, although they're alone apart from some twittering birds and an unseen something rustling in the bracken that's probably a rabbit. There's something about the woods that brings his voice down, as if he was in church.
She looks around and gives the all-purpose shrug she uses when she's indifferent or uncertain. "It's okay. Kinda weirding me out with all the quiet though. I want to scream, just to see what happens, you know?"
"Save that for the lake," he advises. "It's going to be cold, you know."
"Used to that," she replies. "Or at least I was. Didn't grow up with a heated pool, y'know?"
"Nor did I," he tells her, although he knows enough about her childhood to be aware that when it came to material considerations it was worlds apart from his. "And if we had possessed a swimming pool -- although I'm sure my father would've considered it vaguely vulgar -- it would have been kept icy. Father believed in cold water as an invaluable aid to character-building."
"Yeah? Guess it didn't work with me," she said lightly.
"I don't think it had the desired effect on me, either," he confesses. In fact, he gets a small thrill of satisfaction even now when he steps under a scalding-hot shower or slides into a steaming bath, an emotion so familiar that he's almost forgotten the rebellion that prompts it.
And then he feels a pressure against his fingers and looks down to see her hand clasped loosely in his.
"Come on," she says. "Last one in is a total loser."
He's not going to race through the woods like a madman but Faith has other ideas; yanking him along until he has no choice if he wants to keep his arm intact but to start running with her.
She lets him go as they come to a gap in the trees and see the blue shimmer of water in front of them.
"Wow," she breathes. "That's pretty awesome, y'know."
He's already down to his shorts, only pausing to give her a good hard slap on the arse which makes her yelp as he runs past her, onto the little jetty, and dives headfirst.
It's bloody freezing. He can feel his skin tighten as he submerges and rises to the surface, shivering and spluttering, only to be attacked by a small, ballistic, Faith-shaped missile coming right at him.
"You're so fucking dead," she growls, snapping her mouth shut in preparation for pushing him under. He can read her like a Sumerian dictionary. Which is why he manages to make her yelp like a girl as he disappears under the water and grabs her legs out from under her.
She appears in front of him, silenced by the water, her hair floating around her, naiad-like and her mouth still clamped together. The kiss he gives her is unsatisfactory from one perspective since, chilled as they are, his lips barely register the slight pressure from hers that signals her relenting, but it's still a kiss. He moves through the water with a kick and as they rise to the surface, his arms are around her.
"Holy shit, that's cold!" she screams, the sound snapping back in an instant echo from the green screen of trees around them, piercing his ears.
"I did tell you," he says, through the chattering of his teeth. "Spring-fed so it never really warms up."
Her arms wind around his neck and she hooks her legs around his waist, grinding against him, naked and no warmer than the water. "Bet I could warm you up, Wes."
He's all too aware that his balls have gone north and settles for an enigmatic smile. "You're here to train, Faith. Few laps from you, I think and then we'll call it a day and eat those delightful butties you made."
"Delightful what?" she demands. "You make this shit up, don't you?"
He raises a hand in an all-but-forgotten salute, noting absently that his nails are blue already. "Scout's honour."
She gives him a dubious look, flicks a few pints at him with her thrashing feet and sets off, swimming with splashy, strong strokes that he doesn't even try to match.
He's never been so glad to haul himself onto dry land, wrapping one of the towels they've brought around him. The midday sun soon penetrates his chilled bones and he stretches out on his stomach on the rug, so that he can read the rather dull reference book he's spent the last week wading through.
That's the plan. In reality, he props himself up on his elbows so he can watch Faith swim in never-ending circles around the lake. Clockwise, anti-clockwise, her sleek head bobbing, arms going like pistons. He stops counting after 50 but she carries on for a little while longer, before her inevitable boredom threshold reaches critical mass.
She turns somersaults in the water, staying under so all that he can see is her skinny legs kicking in the air and it's not training, not really, but he can't remember the last time he saw her doing something so carefree that when she finally climbs out, he just gives her a lazy smile.
"You'd give Esther Williams a run for her money."
She pauses as she wrings the water out of her hair, nipples so hard with cold that they look painful. "Who the fuck's Esther Williams?"
He hands her a sandwich and a gusty sigh. "Your education has been sorely lacking."
"Ain't that a fact." She throws herself down on the rug next to him and takes an enthusiastic bite of her sandwich, forearms pressed against her breasts, which are obviously still aching from their icy immersion. "Hey! That's my sandwich!"
He's already snatched it out of her hand so he can hold it out of her reach and she reacts just like he knew she would; launching herself at him, face intent and serious. "I don't see your name on it anywhere, Faith," he chuckles in a way that he knows because she's told him a million times, 'works her last fucking nerve.'
"Give it back, asshole," she snaps, tits bobbing in his face as she straddles him and tries to reclaim her lunch.
"All right," he says agreeably, craning his neck just a little and swiping his tongue across a nipple before sucking it into his mouth to warm it.
She makes a soft, breathy sound and he has to wonder how it feels as he thaws it out; good? Painful? Both? The sandwich falls forgotten from his hand and he reaches up to cup her other breast, feeling the chilled, goose bumped skin shiver as he touches it.
She doesn't move and he spares a second to glance up at her, seeing curiosity flicker over her face. For once she doesn't question him, just leans into his touch as he wakens and warms the smooth, soft curves of her breasts with his mouth and hands, until they're flushed and heavy against his face, nipples still hard but from arousal now. She's sighing and he's making appreciative sounds himself because she tastes good, fresh and clean and alive. He's never met anyone who lives as much in the moment as her and it's starting to rub off on him, so that when she finally leans back and eases a cool finger inside the towel wrapped around his waist, he's thinking of nothing but this and what they're about to do.
"Still kinda chilly," she says softly moving down a little and tugging the towel apart to expose him. He spares a moment to be glad that he peeled off his soaked shorts and that he's recovered sufficiently from the dip in the icy water to be able to give her something worth looking at in the way of an erection. "You going to warm my insides too, Wes?"
It's corny enough to have them exchanging grins but he's getting used to trading banter with her at times when most people would be quiet.
"I don't know," he says, gasping as her hand closes around his shaft and begins to slide up and down. "Sounds risky. Might get frostbite in an awkward place."
"Know a good cure for that," she says huskily, slipping down between his thighs and taking the tip of his cock between her lips for a moment. "Think you should be safe."
And there's nothing safe about the way she throws her leg over his prone body and slides down on him, slower than hot tar on a country road, sweeter than sin.
It seems like it takes her the whole afternoon to take him deep inside her, hands on his shoulders, the beatific look on her face blocking out the sun. Her cunt's wet and warm, like it's been bathed in sunlight too and he has to stop composing sonnets about it and concentrate on how it feels like another mouth sucking on his cock.
As it is, he can't help the tiny 'ah', that escapes from his lips when she shakes the hair out of her eyes and leans back so he won't miss a thing, his hand already creeping out to lightly touch the place where they're joined, pressing his thumb against her clit as she raises herself up just a fraction. "Beautiful."
"Knew you'd like me on top, Wes," she says demurely and he laughs because she's impossible and the sky is blue and the sun's hot on his skin as he lies back and she's barely moving, just clenching around him and arching forward so he can continue rubbing her clit with the calloused pad of his thumb.
"I think that should be amended to I love you on top," he corrects her, eyes closing to slits as she does something with her muscles which might just be the single best second of his existence. "Slow, please. All the time in the world, remember?"
Which isn't strictly true, he finds, as the light dapples against the gently bouncing curves of her breasts and heightens his arousal unbearably. "Think that can be arranged, Wes," she purrs like the most pampered of housecats and swivels her hips so very slowly that he thinks he might just cry.
He can't help resting his hands lightly on the rounded lushness of her hips and arse, stroking the smooth skin appreciatively, but he lets her do as she wants to until his body is trembling with the need to move; with her, in her, hard.
She's strong, and he knows that better than most, but he's never considered just how that translates into something like this, when she can rise and take endless moments to fall back, the slick walls of her cunt caressing his cock the whole time. Or pause, half-way down, or up, until he's quivering with tension not knowing if this is the point at which she'll end the game and slam down on him, greedy and needy.
And it never is.
Without anything as obvious as pinning his wrists or getting his promise, she's made it so that he can't do anything but lie still, unspoken rules in a game that has none.
Rise and fall, wriggle and shimmy, with the sun overhead, pouring gold onto her skin until it's like being fucked by a flame.
He comes unexpectedly, barely moving, never taking his eyes off her, waves of languorous pleasure lapping over him, his lips parting on a long exhalation of delight.
She smiles down at him, relaxed and easy and goes to lie beside him.
"You didn't --" He can barely speak, his heart pounding suddenly as if his body expects to be in that state and can't understand why it isn't.
She turns her head and grabs his hand, pulling it down between her legs and convulsing around his fingers as his thumb rubs at her clit and his fingers thrust inside her, once, twice and then she's falling.
"Fuck!' She shatters the velvet silence as she comes, body arching like a bow under the onslaught of his fingers, then lies still, legs pushed together so he can't take his hand away but feels her still pulsing around his fingers.
"That was the acoustic version," she says quietly after a few long moments and he doesn't quite get the joke but can't help but smile when she starts to snicker softly. He even dares to reach out the hand that isn't still nestled into the damp heat of her pussy and stroke her damp hair.
"Is this all right, Faith?"
She turns her head and gives him a knowing grin. "Kinda getting the urge to snuggle but I think it'll pass. 'Sides, got other urges."
She sits up and like Pavlov's dog his eyes automatically go to her breasts as she bats his hand away from its hidey place so she can replace it with her own fingers. "I could help with that," he offers and hopes she won't take him up on it because he wants to see her come again, wants to see her fuck herself on her own hand.
"Nah, I'm good," she demurs, settling back down on the rug. "Maybe in a minute. Can watch if you like though."
He does like, shifting to the side as she obligingly spreads her legs, hair fanned out on the rug, bringing herself off with brisk, economical strokes. Two fingers thrusting quickly in her cunt, as the heel of her hand presses into her clit, much harder than he would do it because he's scared of hurting her. His cock is just starting to get interested, a tell-tale ache making it begin to swell but he ignores it in favour of savouring the sight of his Slayer with her hand buried in her cunt.
Faith tilts her hips, heels digging into the ground as she comes again with an emphatic little grunt and pulls her hand free, staring at the glistening sheen on her fingers as it catches the light.
And as she sucks them into the mouth, he's crawling nearer so he can follow the sticky trail up her inner thigh with his tongue.
"Think I'm good here," she murmurs around her fingers before pulling them free and, as he sees with one swift, upward glance, licking around her lips, neat as a cat.
"Who said this was for you?" he says, tasting her on his tongue, in his mouth, soaking in, until it's in every breath he takes, every swallow he makes.
She chuckles and leans up on her elbows so that her flat belly pooches out a little, staring down at him as he addresses himself to the Herculean task of cleaning up the mess she's in, when every lap of his tongue coaxes more out of her slippery, perfect cunt.
Daylight streams down, illuminating her, making the complex folds and lines simple. He presses them aside, capturing the muted rose-brown lips under fingers that seem unwieldy against the delicate whorls. Exposed, the inner skin is deep, clear pink, twitching as he blows against it, swallowing his finger as his rests it against her opening. He fucks her gently, slowly, feeling her clutch and clench at the slim intrusion, not enough by itself, but there's more he can do to that succulent flesh and he does it all, sucking and licking and biting and kissing until she lies back, her knees falling apart, her hips tilting inviting, pleading.
When she comes, it's with a sigh and a shudder and a smile.
They brave the icy water one more time for a quick rinse before they shrug their shivering bodies back into their clothes and start ambling through the woods.
If she was another girl and it was another time; he'd pull her down to the ground again so he could pick wild flowers and scatter them in her hair. But she's Faith, she's his Slayer and he takes what he can get, which is her hand tucked into the back pocket of his jeans as she squints up at the sun through the canopy of trees.
"No one's ever bothered to get me off like you do," she says softly and before he can even respond, she's changing the subject. "Hey, I learnt to cook this wicked pasta thing in prison, maybe I'll make it tonight."
His attention, just as she intended, is piqued. "You cook?" He echoes incredulously.
"Yeah, I cook. Have to; they don't sell Hot Pockets over here." And she laughs at the vaguely repulsed expression on his face, reaching up to pinch his cheek.
But it's not until she's happily ensconced in the kitchen, utilising every cooking utensil that they have that he indulges himself in five minutes of delicious, full-blown panic. That there are hordes of Watchers all crossing over the Scottish border. And that if Faith continues to eat at the pace she has, they'll be forced out of their rustic idyll to the shop in the nearest village with the manageress who's made gossip an art form. And what if Giles placed a tracer on her while she was drugged because he's a devious bastard and always has been and what if he can't continue to keep getting her off in a style to which she's rapidly become accustomed, then what? And what --
"You're freaking out, Wes." It's a bald statement and he blinks and then focuses on her standing in the sitting room doorway in one of his shirts, staring at him with an unreadable expression on her face.
"I'm just -- this is --" He can't get the words out without hurting her and making her think that he wishes he hadn't rescued her. Which is something that he can never regret, not really.
"Scares you?" she asks and nods as he gives her a quick, resentful look for saying it, his good intentions forgotten.
"A little, yes." He walks over to her, his hand drifting up to rest on her shoulder for a second, until he sees how uncomfortable she is with what he's revealing and he lets it drop away. Trying to keep his voice light he continues, "Once again, though a quixotic, impulsive action I've lost my place in the world, lost all my friends -- " He shakes his head. "When Spike forced Angel into undoing that memory cloaking spell -- I was stunned by what I'd done, how much I'd lost through it. And now I've done it again." He sighs, because her face has closed down. "Faith, I don't mean --"
"No, it's cool." She turns away, her shoulders stiff and tense and he's going after her the instant that she does, his hands on her arms, turning her and pulling her to him hard.
"I can regret what I've lost without wanting to change what I did," he tells her, the words filtering through the tightness in his throat. "You're my Slayer remember, and I'd like to think that I was wrong about one thing."
"What?" she asks, her voice dull, her eyes fixed on the second button down of his shirt.
"That I've lost all my friends."
She absorbs that and then jabs him hard in the ribs with her finger. "You're such a fucking sap, Wes."
Relief wipes away his nerves and he nods. "I'm beginning to think that I am. Does it really bother you?"
She pulls a face and makes a sound as if to suggest that she's the longest suffering person in the world. "Guess I can deal," she decides with just trace amounts of a smile. "As long as you don't start crying and shit."
He dabs a finger under his eye, amazed at her ability to shift the mood. "See? Dry as a bone."
Faith nods approvingly, standing on tip toe to give him a kiss so fleeting, he's not even sure if she realises what she's done. "Cool. Anyway, question. Do you like your pasta sauce extra spicy or, like, extra, extra, extra spicy?"
Wesley follows her down the hall, transfixed by the hem of his shirt shifting against her legs. "Just extra spicy, please. I do rather value having some sensation left in my mouth after eating."
That gets him her slyest smile, tongue poking out to swipe lasciviously across her lips. "That a fact, is it?"
"There was absolutely nothing salacious about my remark, Faith," he says opening one of the bottles of wine. "Get your mind out of the gutter."
She's throwing handfuls of pasta shapes into bubbling saucepan so she doesn't look up. "Man, Wes, it's never out of the gutter. Jesus, I'm antsy tonight. Been a while, y'know?"
And delightful and rapturous and ecstatic as fucking her is, he blanches at the thought of just how much administering to she needs when the girl herself gives a pointed cough and throws a piece of dried pasta at him.
"Hey! Gutter boy! Been a while since I slayed. Nine days, in case you're interested."
"I -- that wasn't what -- " He's spluttering like one of his earlier incarnations though he has a sneaking suspicion that she finds it rather endearing.
"Yeah it was. but I'll let you off," she says equably, throwing a piece of carrot in the air and catching it in her mouth. Show off, Wesley thinks to himself. "So cut to the chase. Is there anything around here I can kill?"
It's an excellent question, one to gladden the heart of any Watcher.
"Aren't we supposed to be on a holiday?" he says and wonders if it sounds as much like a whine to her ears as it does to his.
She crunches on the carrot and swallows, the line of her throat rippling with it. "One, we're more in flee for our lives mode and two -- Wes, it's not a fucking job, okay? Might be to her because she never did get that she didn't have a choice, but it's what I am. Can't stop, any more than you can stop being man who reads, you know?"
And he hasn't opened a book since they left -- oh, wait. Down by the lake. She might have a point.
"I really doubt that any vampire would be stupid enough to hang around here; far too remote," he says.
"Then let's get in the car, head to a city and watch the moon rise over a graveyard." She smirks. "Pretty romantic, y'know, Wes?"
And, after eating her pasta with a sauce every bit as incendiary as he feared, that's more or less what they do. The city's a fairly large town, an hour's drive away, and as this isn't Sunnydale they settle for prowling the back alleys instead, with not one, but two, rather awkward incidents where the couples locked and writhing, panting and moaning, weren't in need of rescuing.
Then, behind a club even Faith turns her nose up at, with vomit and worse splattered up the walls, they find what they're looking for. At first Wesley thinks they've stumbled on yet another couple getting off, two men this time, one standing against a wall, his head back, mouth open like his jeans, eyes wide; the other kneeling in God knows what filth, his hands pinning the man in place, a wetly succulent sound making it clear what he's doing. Wesley averts his eyes, more than ready to hurry away, when Faith, face grim, eyes blazing, seeing more clearly than him, launches herself forward.
Wesley turns back and sees the horror in the wide eyes of the man and smells the blood. The thing, the awful, terrible, gut-sucking thing is changing as he watches, insubstantial as filthy gossamer and Faith snatches at it again and again, arms windmilling, legs kicking out, her face a rictus mask of fury.
Eventually she manages to find purchase and start tearing into it; grey shreds of whatever it is falling at her feet like smoking confetti and Wes realises that he's standing there like one o'clock half struck. He squats in front of the man and listens to his faint shallow attempts to breathe.
"Are you all right?"
It's a stupid question and he gets nothing more than a gurgle for his trouble. A prelude to the death rattle but he's still pulling out his mobile phone and dialling 999.
"What the fuck are you doing?" comes Faith's angry voice behind him as the man against the wall slides down it, close to a death that's not so little, blood spurting strongly from his femoral artery, skin torn and grey with dust from the thing that fed from him moments before.
Faith's hands are hard as she bats him away and falls to her knees in front of the dying man. Doing everything she can, clearing his airways, trying to give him mouth to mouth, pressing down on his chest and doing nothing for him but breaking a couple of ribs if the sudden crisp, snapping sound is anything to go by.
There's the distant wail of a siren and Wesley takes a step forward. "He's dead, Faith," he says a lot more harshly than he intended, but time is running out. "Or he will be soon. We need to go. Now!"
"Fuck off," she spits over her shoulder, bending her head again to listen for a heartbeat that isn't there as the siren's wail gets louder and louder until he's forced to seize a handful of brown hair and a taut arm and tug at her resisting body.
When the ambulance comes and Faith, blood-splattered and shaking, steps back, her hands like a Lady Macbeth who cut out the middleman, he's there to hold her, even when she struggles and spits and fights and cries.
They drive home in silence. Utter, complete silence that begins the moment he straps her in and feels her tremble with the need to run away. He's not sure that he could stop her if she tried. Knows he can't take her in a fight.
But she stays and when he walks around the car to his door she doesn't take advantage of that moment to disappear.
It's then that he realises that she's got nowhere to go; that, come what may, they're in this together, and he feels panic and fear because he's let down so many people and she shouldn't trust him as much as she does.
When they get back to the cottage and the engine noise dies he looks at her and sees that she's crying. tears rolling, sliding, dripping down her face, in a silence so absolute that he can hear the small smack each one makes as it freefalls from her jaw to her jacket.
"We're home, Faith," he says gently.
Without looking at him, she gets out, stiffly, graceless and takes three steps before he's there to hold her.
"Not your fault," he whispers, unsure why she's so devastated. "We tried. And he didn't get away."
"He never does get away from me," she says, her eyes cold and hard. "Never. When I dream about him, he tries, every time he tries, and I always get him. Always kill him." Her mouth twists, bitter-lemon sour. "Because he didn't stand a chance, did he? Human. I'm the Slayer. There's not a human alive I can't take." Her breath's hot on his face as she leans in close. "You should know that, Wes."
Her hands slips around his wrists and pull them behind his back, cross them over. Oh, he remembers that night. With her face this close and the smell of blood.
"We're past that now, Faith" he says. "Long past that."
"You are. He isn't."
"Who?" And then he knows. "Oh, God. Faith -- he wasn't -- it was an accident. We all knew that. It happens; the heat of the moment --"
"Not what you thought then." She's not arguing as she lets his hands slip free; her voice is calm, thoughtful.
"Giles did," he says. "He told Buffy that it's happened more times than the Council would like to admit."
"I'm never special, am I?" she says and starts to laugh, hysteria helping her hit the high notes effortlessly.
"Stop it," he whispers fiercely, even though only the night can hear them. "You are special. To me you're -- "
"I'm a good fuck," she supplies bitterly, throwing her hands out to showcase the shadowy lines of her body. "It's all about how I fuck, how I kill -- face it, Wes, can't actually keep up with the big brain of yours can I? All I am, all I ever can be is tits and ass and these hands -- "
And he can see the dark patches of dried blood, even through the red mist of his sudden and glorious fury.
"Have you ever thought that maybe that's all you want to be?" The words are out of his mouth before he can rein them back, hanging heavy in the air between them because sometimes he wants to shake her, knock some sense into her, march her into the house, up the stairs and force her to look at her reflection in the cheval mirror in the bedroom so that she can see what he sees. There are more tactful ways to put it though, she obviously thinks as her eyes flash and her top lip curls back on a murderous sneer.
"You're a fucking lousy bastard," she spits and all he can do is nod dumbly in agreement. "Glad you're on message."
He opens the door and not a second later, she's shouldering him brusquely out of the way so she can run up the stairs. He hears the water start to run and pours himself a glass of whisky. Then another and he discards the third halfway finished so he can cautiously mount the stairs.
She's lying on the bed, wrapped in a towel and huddled in a small ball. Her tightly curled limbs spell out misery and despair quite succinctly and the last residual flashes of his anger melt away.
"Faith -- "
Her head whips around far too quickly for him to think that she was asleep. And there are damp smudges under her eyes, a trembling cast to her mouth.
"Get the fuck out! Not fucking sleeping with me after what you said."
Fred was easier to comfort. Lilah was easier to read. But Faith is like walking across a patch of ground littered with landmines. "I'm sorry if I -- "
She moves so fast that it's a blur, snatching something off the nightstand and he just has time to close the door behind him before he hears the smash of glass and, if he strains his ears, the faint cadence of someone sobbing.
Part Six
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