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More plotty goodness!
Previous parts are here
Hollow Heart
by Jane Davitt and Bit
Chapter Ten
By the end of the week, she's taking him seriously. Or not taking him because he's stood firm in the face of her taunts, then her threats and finally this morning when she opened her door to his impatient knock wearing nothing but a smile and a knowing look.
"Get dressed," he tells her, averting his eyes from her heaving breasts. They really did heave beautifully. "We'll be late and as Senior Slayer, you really should set an example for the other girls."
"Bite me," she suggests sweetly, turning away so he can see the curve of her arse, which would make a perfect venue for his teeth to sink in to.
He can hear the sound of drawers being tugged open as he waits for her in the corridor of the Slayers' dorm. She's mentioned something about getting a new place with her increased earning power and in other circumstances, he'd suggest that they move in --
"How fucking long are you going to keep this up, or, like, not keep it up?" she asks, flinging the door open again, thankfully clothed this time.
He gives her the same answer that he's given her 27 times before. "Until you're ready to be in a relationship."
"This isn't a relationship," she insists sulkily, following him down the stairs. "You just bark orders at me and make me train. How the hell is that a relationship?"
She has a point. He's been so busy denying her charms and then rushing home every night to wank off over all the missed opportunities that he's completely forgotten to offer her any alternatives.
"Are you free tonight?" he asks abruptly.
Her head whips around. "You're giving in?"
She sounds almost disappointed, he notes with a flicker of interest and hope.
"No. You're not scheduled to patrol tonight either by yourself or in a training capacity and I was wondering if you'd like to go to dinner with me?"
"Dinner?"
"You do eat, don't you?" he says teasingly, enjoying the bemusement on her face.
"Yeah, kind of a habit of mine," she says dryly. "So you want to wine me, dine me and then --"
They reach the street and he heads for his car, hoping to God that he hasn't picked up a ticket again. "And then I'll bring you home and thank you for a lovely evening."
She gives him a sidelong look, cat that got the cream smile curving her lips. "Sure you will, Wes. Okay. Why not?" She slides into the car as he holds the door open for her in a gesture that stopped being automatic a long time ago. "Uh -- where did you have in mind? 'Cause I'm not sure I've got anything in the wardrobe for the Ritz, you know?"
He shakes his head at the very idea of taking her to somewhere that obvious. "Dress as you please," he says. "But if you were to bat your eyelashes and pout I might sanction a long lunch hour for you to go clothes shopping."
She prims up her lips. "That would be terribly irresponsible behaviour for the Senior Watcher and the Senior Slayer," she says in an affected accent that mimics Giles' secretary. He gets a dig in the ribs. "I'm so there."
She lets him accompany her on her shopping trip, or rather she lets him hold the three packets of sandwiches she buys from Pret A Manger while he stands uncomfortably outside changing rooms as she tries on armfuls of clothes.
There's something reassuringly normal about Faith getting excited about the latest fashions, though normal has a strange habit of knocking the stuffing out of him when she does what he wants and unpeels a layer so he can see what lies underneath.
"Never wear dresses," she says apropos of nothing, as they leave New Look empty handed. "He -- The Mayor bought me dresses."
"That was a lifetime ago," he says, almost dropping a cheese and sundried tomato sandwich as he tries to take her elbow when they cross the road.
"Not enough lifetimes ago," Faith mutters, tugging him towards another shop that's thumping out loud music. "'Sides my legs are too skinny for dresses."
"Your legs are beautiful," he protests, glancing at their denim-covered length and she grins, dark thoughts chased away.
"Aw, you're just saying that to get some touch. Know you can't tie a knot in it for ever, Wes."
"I can tie a knot in it, and that is the most disgusting expression, for as long as it takes," he insists stoutly but she just snorts and holds the door open for him.
By three, with the sandwiches eaten as they walk, buffeted by the crowds, he's as exhausted as he's ever been, sapped by the noise, the people; the endless array of clothing. When she tugs him towards yet another shop, window lit with an eye to drawing attention to an attenuated wisp draped over a headless model he finds preferable to the plastic-eyed stares he's been encountering all afternoon, he balks and sits down on a nearby bench.
"I'll just wait here," he says weakly.
Faith sighs and pronounces her verdict succinctly. "Wuss."
She emerges twenty minutes later with a bag dangling from her fingers and a satiated look on her face.
"Uh-huh," she says as he tries to peek inside. "Gonna have to wait until tonight, Wes. Price you pay for bailing."
"I can wait," he says. "Now, as we're so late I suggest that we --"
She tsks sadly. "Wes, Wes. I got the outfit; that's just the start."
"Start?"
"Shoes and stuff," she elaborates with an airy wave.
"Take the afternoon off," he says resignedly. "I'll clear it with Giles."
"Best Watcher ever," she croons, giving his cheek a brush of her lips that leaves him melting with the sweetness of it until a throb from his abused feet kills the mood.
"I'll pick you up at eight," he says.
"Later," Faith says, vanishing into the crowd.
*****
"I feel like I'm going to a fancy dress party as a nice girl," she says as soon as she answers the door at 7.59 p.m. precisely. "Wouldn't do this for anyone else."
All he can do is stand there and goggle at the vision before him of Faith, Faith, in a little black dress that sits demurely on her knobbly knees and plunges not quite so demurely almost past the shadowed curves of her breasts. The little minx isn't wearing a bra.
She poses, one hand on her hip, fingers twirling a strand of hair that's escaped from the little glittery clips pinning it back. "Well? You gonna say something or stay all slack- jawed for the rest of the evening?"
He shuts his mouth with an audible snap and then opens it again. "You look lovely," he offers rather lamely, then tries to do better. "Very lovely."
"Oh, whatever," she breezes but he can tell from her smile, the way she glances at him when she thinks that he's not looking, that she's gratified by his awed inarticulacy.
She's wearing heels, slightly unsteady on them as she goes down the stairs, so unlike her usual strut and swagger that it's perfectly natural to take her hand. He can feel her tense up, then relax; her fingers slightly hot and sweaty when she squeezes his hand as they negotiate the bottom step, which is steeper than the others.
"Better be taking me somewhere nice now I got all gussied up," she blusters, as they walk through the narrow back streets of Bloomsbury. "Could break an ankle, y'know?"
"I could give you a piggy back," he suggests dryly, leading her toward the little Italian trattoria where he's booked a secluded corner table. "Or put you in a taxi if you won't promise to behave."
They both reach for the door handle and she rolls her eyes as she remembers that they're on a date and she has to let him do the honours. "I'll be very good," she drawls. "Won't even play footsie with you under the table."
"Shame," he says lightly. "I was rather looking forward to that."
They sit close enough that he can thread his hand through hers; playing with it gently as she stares down with an exasperated tolerance he's determined to break through. His thumb finds the pulse in her wrist and he counts each beat silently and then lifts her hand to his lips and kisses the edge of her fingers. The whorl of her fingerprints, invisible, intangible, leaves his lips tingling and she catches her breath.
"Romantic," Faith whispers.
He turns her hand over and kisses the palm. "The action, the evening, or me?"
"All three," she says. "You trying to seduce me?"
She still can't see any goal existing that isn't him between her thighs, he realises with a twinge of disillusionment and doubt.
"No. I'm enjoying being with you and expressing it," he says finally, turning away from her to stare out of the window at the lit, busy bustle of a city he'd missed more than he'd known until he returned.
Her hand slips back inside his just as the waiter deposits a bread basket on the table with a sentimental smile as he takes in their proximity and Wesley smiles at her. "I hope you're feeling hungry, Faith."
"Always am," she says, sniffing appreciatively at the air, redolent of garlic and herbs.
She's on her third roll, slathered thickly with butter, and hectoring him affectionately about the menu when he wonders why they've never done this before. Why he's never let her be his girlfriend; just his Slayer, his lost cause.
"What the hell is vongole? Do I like it?" she asks him, a glistening smear of grease at the corner of her mouth tormenting him because licking it off isn't really an option with this new chastity clause that he's invoked.
"It's Italian for clams," he supplies, waiting for her to shudder, but she nods happily, running her finger down the rest of the entrees. "You're not a picky eater?"
"Never met a food I didn't like." She pauses to take another tearing bite of roll, licking her lips lasciviously in a way he'd like to think is because they're bumping knees under the table, but is probably more to do with the fact that Faith's appetites, be it for sex or slaying or food, are the least complicated things about her. "'Cept artichokes -- totally gross."
And that sets the tone for the rest of the meal. Through the canelloni she has for starters and the lasagna she has for her main course, he tries to find out the little things he thinks he should know; her favourite colour, her favourite toys when she was little, what she'd do if she won the Lottery, and by the time he's trying to gently quiz her on Bush's policies on global warming, she's moved her chair a few crucial inches away from him and is shovelling pasta into her mouth at such an alarming rate, it's obvious that she'd rather get indigestion than make small talk.
Finally, when she's sniffing dubiously at the lack of chocolate in his zabaglioni and taking sips of her coffee because she inhaled her tiramisu while he was replacing his napkin on his lap after returning from the toilet, he turns the tables.
"Ask me something."
"What?" Her eyes are dreamy now, food and wine combining with the cosy dimness of the candle-lit room to lull her as much as a Slayer ever is.
"I've been subjecting you to an interrogation in the attempt to strike up a conversation," he points out. "Your turn."
"Oh." She puts her cup down and shrugs. "Don't have anything to ask."
He swallows a mouthful of dessert and pushes his half-full dish aside. "I'm too irredeemably dull to be worth it?" he asks, hiding his chagrin as best he can.
Her eyes are dark, devastating and very close because she's leaned across the table to swipe her finger over his chin, catching a smear of cream -- oh, wonderful -- and sucking thoughtfully at her fingertip while his heart skips and stutters.
"Nope. Just know you," she says finally. "Know all about you, Wes."
"I don't think --"
"I tortured you," she says simply.
The bubble of pretence that they're normal, that he's crafted so carefully, pops and leaves them exposed but Faith shakes her head as his lips tighten with remembered pain. "No, Wes. Not trying to spoil this," she says. "Because you told me it didn't matter, right? Told me you forgave me?"
"I don't think I ever did, not in so many words," he says.
Her hands aren't shaking that he can see, but she tucks them out of sight under the table anyway. "Have you?"
"A long time ago," he tells her honestly. "And although if you feel the need to discuss it, I will, I'd infinitely prefer to forget it."
"And that tells me everything I need to know about you, Wes." He holds out his hand, and after a moment, hers slips into it. "Just let me say that I'm sorry?"
"You don't have to."
Her eyes flash. "I want to say it!"
He can't help laughing at her indignant expression. "Fine; say it."
"I'm sorry."
There's a pause, and then he squeezes her hand in a signal that they're done here and asks, in a determinedly casual voice, "Another coffee?"
"No, I'm good here."
"You're very good," he tells her, wrenching the mood away from the past. "Giles was raving about some move you made in training today; seemed to think you came up with something rather special?"
"Oh God, Wes, you should've seen it!" She's chuckling now and grabbing at the tiny packets of sugar in the pottery bowl. "Say this one is me, and these two are Amy and Marie -- "
He's listening, he really is, but it's to the happiness in her voice, not the words.
There's more battle talk and brandy so that when they finally leave; they're both stumbling slightly, though Wesley thinks it's more the height of her heels than the amount of alcohol Faith's consumed that makes her cling to his arm as they navigate their way down the narrow streets.
"There's no stars," she informs him mournfully, tipping her head back so he can admire not the handful of dim, twinkling lights in the sky, but the delicate column of her neck. "One thing I miss about being stuck out in the boonies in prison; always got some wicked star action."
"It's one of the few things I miss from boarding school," he offers. "We were in the middle of the country, Kent actually, and maybe it's just the memory of them but the stars did seem more plentiful and brighter then."
"Hey, guess I can be romantic after all," Faith says with satisfaction. "Talking about the stars and shit."
And he laughs because he can't not and she just smiles again, enigmatic and implacable, and curves herself tighter against his side.
He's drunk on the thought of how they look to the casual passer by. Like a couple; hands now clasped together as Faith delicately picks her way over cobblestones. But all too soon they're approaching the steps of the Slayer's Dorm House and she's turning to him expectantly.
"So, like, do we just shake hands or am I allowed to ask you up for a coffee?" She makes air quotes and arches her eyebrow mischievously.
He brushes a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Neither. I kiss you on the cheek and thank you for a lovely evening and ask if I can see you again."
Wesley thinks her eyebrow might have to be surgically removed from her hairline as it seems to have got stuck. But she just gives him another lazy Mona Lisa smile. "Go on then."
He should have known better to give away his plan of attack because as he leans in she turns her head so his lips collide with her open mouth.
Stepping back would require saintly levels of self-denial and he's so far from being a saint. He lets them move together, curving around each other in a heart-stoppingly familiar way, and kisses her for as long as he can before it stops being one kiss by anyone's definition. Her tongue's lapping at his with a yearning insistence that calls to the matching hunger in him. He's missed this so much.
When he takes his mouth away from hers she doesn't look victorious but dazed.
"You," he says huskily, "are a very bad girl."
Her arms are still around his neck and he feels the scrape of her thumbnail along the strip of skin under his ear. "Yeah."
"But I'm not going to fuck you, Faith -- "
Her eyes narrow to slits and she presses herself even harder against him so he can feel her breasts smushed against his check, one thigh worming between his legs. "So, let's have sex or whatever - you can make sweet, beautiful love to me. Know you want me." Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper as her hand roughly strokes his hard cock and taking a step away from her is the most difficult thing he's ever had to do.
"Me wanting you isn't an issue," he tells her gently. "But me loving you still is and until -- "
"Blah blah, fucking blah!" She actually stamps her foot, snapping the heel off her new shoe so she teeters uncertainly for a second, an almost comical look of surprise on her face, before she kicks off both of them and squares up to him, chin lifted so she's gloriously and fiercely in his face. "Got an itch, Wes. If you won't scratch it, then there's no goddamn reason why I won't go out and find someone who will."
"No good reason," he echoes, trying to hide the slight quaver in his voice and when he can't, he leans forward and kisses her again. The chaste brush of his lips against her peach-soft cheek that he'd originally intended. Because he's learnt to fight dirty since she first knew him and when he sees her face soften and her lips twist uncertainly, he moves in for the kill. "Except the question here is not if I love you but whether you love me. So if you want to go out and fuck other people, I suppose I have my answer."
He's almost at the corner, when he feels Faith's fingers tug on his arm, hauling him back. "You're such an asshole," she hisses in his ear. "And don't you fucking dare walk away from me."
"I won't," he says. "Never, I promise." And in that moment he means it so profoundly that he's left shaken, as if he's just bound himself to her.
Her face softens and she releases him and gives him a -- fairly -- gentle punch on the arm. "You're a sap too," she says without heat. Tilting her head, she gives him a considering look and then pouts dramatically and whines. "So I can't go off and fuck someone for relief?"
"Absolutely not," he says firmly, playing along with the twinkle in her eyes. "It'd play havoc with my plans."
"Even Giles?" she asks with an innocent look that has his palm tingling with the need to spank her impudent little arse scarlet.
"If Giles so much as touches you --"
She chuckles. "Relax. Since we got back he's been a perfect gentleman, just like you. Must be something in the water."
"I'm very glad to hear it," he says, mentally scheduling a little chat with Giles even so. The fury he'd felt on hearing about Giles sweeping to the rescue has died down to a resentment even he knows is petty and he's seen Giles studying him with a disturbing sympathy from time to time. Time, perhaps, to clear the air.
Part Eleven
Previous parts are here
Hollow Heart
by Jane Davitt and Bit
Chapter Ten
By the end of the week, she's taking him seriously. Or not taking him because he's stood firm in the face of her taunts, then her threats and finally this morning when she opened her door to his impatient knock wearing nothing but a smile and a knowing look.
"Get dressed," he tells her, averting his eyes from her heaving breasts. They really did heave beautifully. "We'll be late and as Senior Slayer, you really should set an example for the other girls."
"Bite me," she suggests sweetly, turning away so he can see the curve of her arse, which would make a perfect venue for his teeth to sink in to.
He can hear the sound of drawers being tugged open as he waits for her in the corridor of the Slayers' dorm. She's mentioned something about getting a new place with her increased earning power and in other circumstances, he'd suggest that they move in --
"How fucking long are you going to keep this up, or, like, not keep it up?" she asks, flinging the door open again, thankfully clothed this time.
He gives her the same answer that he's given her 27 times before. "Until you're ready to be in a relationship."
"This isn't a relationship," she insists sulkily, following him down the stairs. "You just bark orders at me and make me train. How the hell is that a relationship?"
She has a point. He's been so busy denying her charms and then rushing home every night to wank off over all the missed opportunities that he's completely forgotten to offer her any alternatives.
"Are you free tonight?" he asks abruptly.
Her head whips around. "You're giving in?"
She sounds almost disappointed, he notes with a flicker of interest and hope.
"No. You're not scheduled to patrol tonight either by yourself or in a training capacity and I was wondering if you'd like to go to dinner with me?"
"Dinner?"
"You do eat, don't you?" he says teasingly, enjoying the bemusement on her face.
"Yeah, kind of a habit of mine," she says dryly. "So you want to wine me, dine me and then --"
They reach the street and he heads for his car, hoping to God that he hasn't picked up a ticket again. "And then I'll bring you home and thank you for a lovely evening."
She gives him a sidelong look, cat that got the cream smile curving her lips. "Sure you will, Wes. Okay. Why not?" She slides into the car as he holds the door open for her in a gesture that stopped being automatic a long time ago. "Uh -- where did you have in mind? 'Cause I'm not sure I've got anything in the wardrobe for the Ritz, you know?"
He shakes his head at the very idea of taking her to somewhere that obvious. "Dress as you please," he says. "But if you were to bat your eyelashes and pout I might sanction a long lunch hour for you to go clothes shopping."
She prims up her lips. "That would be terribly irresponsible behaviour for the Senior Watcher and the Senior Slayer," she says in an affected accent that mimics Giles' secretary. He gets a dig in the ribs. "I'm so there."
She lets him accompany her on her shopping trip, or rather she lets him hold the three packets of sandwiches she buys from Pret A Manger while he stands uncomfortably outside changing rooms as she tries on armfuls of clothes.
There's something reassuringly normal about Faith getting excited about the latest fashions, though normal has a strange habit of knocking the stuffing out of him when she does what he wants and unpeels a layer so he can see what lies underneath.
"Never wear dresses," she says apropos of nothing, as they leave New Look empty handed. "He -- The Mayor bought me dresses."
"That was a lifetime ago," he says, almost dropping a cheese and sundried tomato sandwich as he tries to take her elbow when they cross the road.
"Not enough lifetimes ago," Faith mutters, tugging him towards another shop that's thumping out loud music. "'Sides my legs are too skinny for dresses."
"Your legs are beautiful," he protests, glancing at their denim-covered length and she grins, dark thoughts chased away.
"Aw, you're just saying that to get some touch. Know you can't tie a knot in it for ever, Wes."
"I can tie a knot in it, and that is the most disgusting expression, for as long as it takes," he insists stoutly but she just snorts and holds the door open for him.
By three, with the sandwiches eaten as they walk, buffeted by the crowds, he's as exhausted as he's ever been, sapped by the noise, the people; the endless array of clothing. When she tugs him towards yet another shop, window lit with an eye to drawing attention to an attenuated wisp draped over a headless model he finds preferable to the plastic-eyed stares he's been encountering all afternoon, he balks and sits down on a nearby bench.
"I'll just wait here," he says weakly.
Faith sighs and pronounces her verdict succinctly. "Wuss."
She emerges twenty minutes later with a bag dangling from her fingers and a satiated look on her face.
"Uh-huh," she says as he tries to peek inside. "Gonna have to wait until tonight, Wes. Price you pay for bailing."
"I can wait," he says. "Now, as we're so late I suggest that we --"
She tsks sadly. "Wes, Wes. I got the outfit; that's just the start."
"Start?"
"Shoes and stuff," she elaborates with an airy wave.
"Take the afternoon off," he says resignedly. "I'll clear it with Giles."
"Best Watcher ever," she croons, giving his cheek a brush of her lips that leaves him melting with the sweetness of it until a throb from his abused feet kills the mood.
"I'll pick you up at eight," he says.
"Later," Faith says, vanishing into the crowd.
"I feel like I'm going to a fancy dress party as a nice girl," she says as soon as she answers the door at 7.59 p.m. precisely. "Wouldn't do this for anyone else."
All he can do is stand there and goggle at the vision before him of Faith, Faith, in a little black dress that sits demurely on her knobbly knees and plunges not quite so demurely almost past the shadowed curves of her breasts. The little minx isn't wearing a bra.
She poses, one hand on her hip, fingers twirling a strand of hair that's escaped from the little glittery clips pinning it back. "Well? You gonna say something or stay all slack- jawed for the rest of the evening?"
He shuts his mouth with an audible snap and then opens it again. "You look lovely," he offers rather lamely, then tries to do better. "Very lovely."
"Oh, whatever," she breezes but he can tell from her smile, the way she glances at him when she thinks that he's not looking, that she's gratified by his awed inarticulacy.
She's wearing heels, slightly unsteady on them as she goes down the stairs, so unlike her usual strut and swagger that it's perfectly natural to take her hand. He can feel her tense up, then relax; her fingers slightly hot and sweaty when she squeezes his hand as they negotiate the bottom step, which is steeper than the others.
"Better be taking me somewhere nice now I got all gussied up," she blusters, as they walk through the narrow back streets of Bloomsbury. "Could break an ankle, y'know?"
"I could give you a piggy back," he suggests dryly, leading her toward the little Italian trattoria where he's booked a secluded corner table. "Or put you in a taxi if you won't promise to behave."
They both reach for the door handle and she rolls her eyes as she remembers that they're on a date and she has to let him do the honours. "I'll be very good," she drawls. "Won't even play footsie with you under the table."
"Shame," he says lightly. "I was rather looking forward to that."
They sit close enough that he can thread his hand through hers; playing with it gently as she stares down with an exasperated tolerance he's determined to break through. His thumb finds the pulse in her wrist and he counts each beat silently and then lifts her hand to his lips and kisses the edge of her fingers. The whorl of her fingerprints, invisible, intangible, leaves his lips tingling and she catches her breath.
"Romantic," Faith whispers.
He turns her hand over and kisses the palm. "The action, the evening, or me?"
"All three," she says. "You trying to seduce me?"
She still can't see any goal existing that isn't him between her thighs, he realises with a twinge of disillusionment and doubt.
"No. I'm enjoying being with you and expressing it," he says finally, turning away from her to stare out of the window at the lit, busy bustle of a city he'd missed more than he'd known until he returned.
Her hand slips back inside his just as the waiter deposits a bread basket on the table with a sentimental smile as he takes in their proximity and Wesley smiles at her. "I hope you're feeling hungry, Faith."
"Always am," she says, sniffing appreciatively at the air, redolent of garlic and herbs.
She's on her third roll, slathered thickly with butter, and hectoring him affectionately about the menu when he wonders why they've never done this before. Why he's never let her be his girlfriend; just his Slayer, his lost cause.
"What the hell is vongole? Do I like it?" she asks him, a glistening smear of grease at the corner of her mouth tormenting him because licking it off isn't really an option with this new chastity clause that he's invoked.
"It's Italian for clams," he supplies, waiting for her to shudder, but she nods happily, running her finger down the rest of the entrees. "You're not a picky eater?"
"Never met a food I didn't like." She pauses to take another tearing bite of roll, licking her lips lasciviously in a way he'd like to think is because they're bumping knees under the table, but is probably more to do with the fact that Faith's appetites, be it for sex or slaying or food, are the least complicated things about her. "'Cept artichokes -- totally gross."
And that sets the tone for the rest of the meal. Through the canelloni she has for starters and the lasagna she has for her main course, he tries to find out the little things he thinks he should know; her favourite colour, her favourite toys when she was little, what she'd do if she won the Lottery, and by the time he's trying to gently quiz her on Bush's policies on global warming, she's moved her chair a few crucial inches away from him and is shovelling pasta into her mouth at such an alarming rate, it's obvious that she'd rather get indigestion than make small talk.
Finally, when she's sniffing dubiously at the lack of chocolate in his zabaglioni and taking sips of her coffee because she inhaled her tiramisu while he was replacing his napkin on his lap after returning from the toilet, he turns the tables.
"Ask me something."
"What?" Her eyes are dreamy now, food and wine combining with the cosy dimness of the candle-lit room to lull her as much as a Slayer ever is.
"I've been subjecting you to an interrogation in the attempt to strike up a conversation," he points out. "Your turn."
"Oh." She puts her cup down and shrugs. "Don't have anything to ask."
He swallows a mouthful of dessert and pushes his half-full dish aside. "I'm too irredeemably dull to be worth it?" he asks, hiding his chagrin as best he can.
Her eyes are dark, devastating and very close because she's leaned across the table to swipe her finger over his chin, catching a smear of cream -- oh, wonderful -- and sucking thoughtfully at her fingertip while his heart skips and stutters.
"Nope. Just know you," she says finally. "Know all about you, Wes."
"I don't think --"
"I tortured you," she says simply.
The bubble of pretence that they're normal, that he's crafted so carefully, pops and leaves them exposed but Faith shakes her head as his lips tighten with remembered pain. "No, Wes. Not trying to spoil this," she says. "Because you told me it didn't matter, right? Told me you forgave me?"
"I don't think I ever did, not in so many words," he says.
Her hands aren't shaking that he can see, but she tucks them out of sight under the table anyway. "Have you?"
"A long time ago," he tells her honestly. "And although if you feel the need to discuss it, I will, I'd infinitely prefer to forget it."
"And that tells me everything I need to know about you, Wes." He holds out his hand, and after a moment, hers slips into it. "Just let me say that I'm sorry?"
"You don't have to."
Her eyes flash. "I want to say it!"
He can't help laughing at her indignant expression. "Fine; say it."
"I'm sorry."
There's a pause, and then he squeezes her hand in a signal that they're done here and asks, in a determinedly casual voice, "Another coffee?"
"No, I'm good here."
"You're very good," he tells her, wrenching the mood away from the past. "Giles was raving about some move you made in training today; seemed to think you came up with something rather special?"
"Oh God, Wes, you should've seen it!" She's chuckling now and grabbing at the tiny packets of sugar in the pottery bowl. "Say this one is me, and these two are Amy and Marie -- "
He's listening, he really is, but it's to the happiness in her voice, not the words.
There's more battle talk and brandy so that when they finally leave; they're both stumbling slightly, though Wesley thinks it's more the height of her heels than the amount of alcohol Faith's consumed that makes her cling to his arm as they navigate their way down the narrow streets.
"There's no stars," she informs him mournfully, tipping her head back so he can admire not the handful of dim, twinkling lights in the sky, but the delicate column of her neck. "One thing I miss about being stuck out in the boonies in prison; always got some wicked star action."
"It's one of the few things I miss from boarding school," he offers. "We were in the middle of the country, Kent actually, and maybe it's just the memory of them but the stars did seem more plentiful and brighter then."
"Hey, guess I can be romantic after all," Faith says with satisfaction. "Talking about the stars and shit."
And he laughs because he can't not and she just smiles again, enigmatic and implacable, and curves herself tighter against his side.
He's drunk on the thought of how they look to the casual passer by. Like a couple; hands now clasped together as Faith delicately picks her way over cobblestones. But all too soon they're approaching the steps of the Slayer's Dorm House and she's turning to him expectantly.
"So, like, do we just shake hands or am I allowed to ask you up for a coffee?" She makes air quotes and arches her eyebrow mischievously.
He brushes a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "Neither. I kiss you on the cheek and thank you for a lovely evening and ask if I can see you again."
Wesley thinks her eyebrow might have to be surgically removed from her hairline as it seems to have got stuck. But she just gives him another lazy Mona Lisa smile. "Go on then."
He should have known better to give away his plan of attack because as he leans in she turns her head so his lips collide with her open mouth.
Stepping back would require saintly levels of self-denial and he's so far from being a saint. He lets them move together, curving around each other in a heart-stoppingly familiar way, and kisses her for as long as he can before it stops being one kiss by anyone's definition. Her tongue's lapping at his with a yearning insistence that calls to the matching hunger in him. He's missed this so much.
When he takes his mouth away from hers she doesn't look victorious but dazed.
"You," he says huskily, "are a very bad girl."
Her arms are still around his neck and he feels the scrape of her thumbnail along the strip of skin under his ear. "Yeah."
"But I'm not going to fuck you, Faith -- "
Her eyes narrow to slits and she presses herself even harder against him so he can feel her breasts smushed against his check, one thigh worming between his legs. "So, let's have sex or whatever - you can make sweet, beautiful love to me. Know you want me." Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper as her hand roughly strokes his hard cock and taking a step away from her is the most difficult thing he's ever had to do.
"Me wanting you isn't an issue," he tells her gently. "But me loving you still is and until -- "
"Blah blah, fucking blah!" She actually stamps her foot, snapping the heel off her new shoe so she teeters uncertainly for a second, an almost comical look of surprise on her face, before she kicks off both of them and squares up to him, chin lifted so she's gloriously and fiercely in his face. "Got an itch, Wes. If you won't scratch it, then there's no goddamn reason why I won't go out and find someone who will."
"No good reason," he echoes, trying to hide the slight quaver in his voice and when he can't, he leans forward and kisses her again. The chaste brush of his lips against her peach-soft cheek that he'd originally intended. Because he's learnt to fight dirty since she first knew him and when he sees her face soften and her lips twist uncertainly, he moves in for the kill. "Except the question here is not if I love you but whether you love me. So if you want to go out and fuck other people, I suppose I have my answer."
He's almost at the corner, when he feels Faith's fingers tug on his arm, hauling him back. "You're such an asshole," she hisses in his ear. "And don't you fucking dare walk away from me."
"I won't," he says. "Never, I promise." And in that moment he means it so profoundly that he's left shaken, as if he's just bound himself to her.
Her face softens and she releases him and gives him a -- fairly -- gentle punch on the arm. "You're a sap too," she says without heat. Tilting her head, she gives him a considering look and then pouts dramatically and whines. "So I can't go off and fuck someone for relief?"
"Absolutely not," he says firmly, playing along with the twinkle in her eyes. "It'd play havoc with my plans."
"Even Giles?" she asks with an innocent look that has his palm tingling with the need to spank her impudent little arse scarlet.
"If Giles so much as touches you --"
She chuckles. "Relax. Since we got back he's been a perfect gentleman, just like you. Must be something in the water."
"I'm very glad to hear it," he says, mentally scheduling a little chat with Giles even so. The fury he'd felt on hearing about Giles sweeping to the rescue has died down to a resentment even he knows is petty and he's seen Giles studying him with a disturbing sympathy from time to time. Time, perhaps, to clear the air.
Part Eleven
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