He pushes her to her back and rolls on top of her, dipping his head to lick around her nipple before biting at it softly. "Yes."

Her whole body jack-knifes up and her legs split open which makes it easy to press his hips into her, cock jerking against her mound, to hold her down.

"Harder," she hisses when he sucks one tightly furled nipple into his mouth and she gives a grunt of approval as he grazes the edge of it with his teeth.

Then the other one and Faith makes noises he's never heard before, parting her legs wider so her arousal paints the head of his cock.

As he cups the weight of both her breasts in his hands and gives in to the temptation to gently kiss the soft patch of skin behind her ear, he gives a moment's thought to the logistics of fucking his Slayer.

She's already frantic, wriggling and groaning under him, issuing threats and commands in her throatiest growl, which might be because it's been over a year since Wood and Faith imploded and he knows for a fact that there hasn't been anyone else. Largely because he's kept her so busy that it didn't become an issue.

"Fuck me, Wes. Goddamn it!" she snaps imperiously but he holds off, just slides his hand down her quivering belly because she'll need to come more than once. And he has to take care of his Slayer's needs.

She's hotly soaked he discovers when his fingers trace the lips of her cunt and she shakes her head in annoyance. "No! Fuck me."

He ignores her mouth, or rather he kisses it, tongue delving deep inside which is a remarkably effective way to shut her up and anyway her hips are already tilting forward trying to get his fingers inside her, instead of tracing lazy patterns along her slit.

"Fu…"

"Shut up, Faith," he whispers in her ear. "I'll fuck you when we're both good and ready."

She laughs, but it's more of a moan, her head shifting restlessly on the pillow. "Don't see me ever being good, Wes, but I'm ready." Her head turns and her teeth meet in his earlobe, a sharp, sweet thrill of pain, soothed away by the soft, fierce tickle of her tongue. "What's it take to get you that way?"

And that would do it nicely, if it weren't a case of wetting water, but he's only too aware of her proclivities when it comes to sex and although the image of her over him, face suffused with arousal, breasts swaying as she rides him, is one he wants to make real, she's damn well not dictating this encounter, start to finish.

Without answering, he slides down, hands skimming the sharp points of her hips, and comes to rest between her legs.

"Don't need to, Wes," she whispers urgently as he rests his head on her thigh and breathes out through pursed lips, sending a short stream of  warm air across the slick skin of her cunt, making her shudder. "Wet already, fuck, will you just --"

"I want to taste you," he says, leaning in to brush a kiss across her clit, finding it easily in the dark, which he's rather proud about. It's been a while for him, too. "And I know you're wet -- " He pushes his face against all that slippery heat, nose and mouth and chin, getting gloriously messy and not caring, tasting her, feeling her, smelling her; hearing the choked-off gasp she gives as his tongue darts out to circle her clit.

"Wes --" It's close to a wail as he pushes her thighs further apart, his thumbs making slow circles on the sensitive hollows of skin he finds there, in time with the ones the tip of his tongue is tracing.

He'd heard stories at the Watcher's Academy; shocked and salacious whispers about Slayers and their insatiable appetites. Some hot and panting Watcher had even written a paper about it in the late 19th century advising that all potential Slayers should have a strict regimen of ice cold baths and bromide so they could concentrate their energies on their slaying.

But right now all his energy is concentrated on Faith and relenting enough when she starts making a noise like she's in agony, to suddenly plunge his tongue deep into her cunt. Only the tight grip of his hands on her thighs stops her from pulling his head clean off his neck.

"Jesus… fuck… Wes," she shrieks and it's so incongruously flattering that he laughs right into her soaked pussy, causing another volley of moans from her.

All it takes is two fingers gently thrusting inside her while he drags the flat of his tongue over her clit and she comes. But he can tell from the way her head twists from side to side and her clit throbs frantically against his lips that it's not enough.

"Poor thing," he coos and bends his head again.

The sweetness of his words is in sharp contrast to what he gives her; sucking on her clit as hard as he can, with his tongue flickering over the captured, tender bump as his fingers, three of them now, shape themselves into an imitation of what she wants and plunge inside her.

She's past wanting subtle, wanting gentle -- if she ever did -- still caught up in her first climax, and he keeps her there, feeling her body tremble with exertion and need. And he could do this all night, he thinks. Could bring her, over and over, until she's breathless and exhausted, quivering at nothing more than the whisper of his breath on her skin.

Then she comes again and the sound of her hoarse cry wraps around his cock like her hand and he's moaning with her, sitting back and swiping the back of his hand across his mouth, needing her around him.

It's a far cry from the measured, formal battles of his encounters with Lilah. Faith isn't pretending to be indifferent and there's no need for him to hide what he's feeling either. He scrambles up and as soon as she feels his prick nudge against her she keens and wraps her legs around his waist, drawing him inside her in one swift thrust that ends with him whimpering because nothing ever felt this good.

"Gonna do it, Wes?" she grits out, and even underneath him, right now she's the one fucking him, because he's locked in place, revelling in the tight, wet heat that's silky and bumpy and perfect around him and she's arching up and falling back, strong enough to be able to move exactly how she wants to. "Gonna fuck your Slayer?"

He nearly comes just from that pithy question but decides to answer it with a quick swivel of his hips that has her legs tightening round him, nails digging into his back, sending a delicious frisson of pain through him, which is just another layer of sensation on top of all the myriad layers of sensation from being on top of her, being inside her.

"I've wanted to fuck you for years," he gasps and he's never even realised that before but with her spread out underneath him, she's familiar – a sight he fantasised about all those long, lonely nights in a rented room in Sunnydale with nothing but a bottle of Scotch and his own hand for company. But none of his fantasies ever came close to the feel of her breasts rubbing against his chest and her cunt rippling round him as he raises himself up on his knees and starts fucking into her in earnest.

She's still arching her pelvis up so he's thrusting deeper into her each time but when he clamps his hands under her arse to hold her steady she tries to twist out from under him. Typical Faith, always got to be on top.

"Let me…" she whines, capturing his mouth in a sticky wet kiss, which he pulls away from so he can bite down hard on her neck.

Her cunt clamps around him immediately and she cries out, clutching his arms. "I'm fucking my Slayer," Wesley purrs in her ear, "Not the other way round. You can get on top next time."

And before she can argue the toss, he's yanking her legs over his shoulders so he can make her yelp each time the base of his cock brushes against her clit and kissing her tenderly because already he can't wait for the next time.

He can't last long and he doesn't even want to. Too much self-denial, too much wasted time. There's a time and a place for drawing it out, and he'd be the last man to decry the pleasure to be had from a long, slow, torturous build-up until every nerve in their bodies is screaming for release but now, with his balls tightening and every slide into her feeling like flicking a sleeping tiger on the nose, knowing the next time it'll wake and roar --  well, he's not really interested in slow.

Just in coming after her, because he's felt her come around his fingers and he wants to feel her flex and clutch at his cock which, he thinks suddenly, with some distant part of his brain, she hasn't even touched yet.

God, he won't be able to last long when she does that, either.

There's a warning throb from his cock; that indefinable stiffening before there's no turning back, and it's only when she moans, inarticulate and desperate, her nails scrabbling at his back, that he realises he's taking her with him.

He's making noises that are meaningless and profound and she's saying his name in an endless chant as they retreat into their own heads for the space of a few seconds and emerge panting and tangled together, silenced by sensation.

She gives him a lazy smile that's softer than any of the others he's seen on her face. Even reaches up her hand to smooth down his damp hair.

"Kinda funny seeing you all rumpled," she murmurs, though what's really kinda funny is that he's still got his half-hard cock inside her, drawing in a breath each time he feels the walls of her cunt flutter around him in a tiny aftershock.

"That was…" he starts and realises that he doesn't have enough words or languages to begin to describe it.

"I know," she says just a tad too smugly for his liking but then she's nudging him with her foot. "C'mon Wes. We done with basking in the afterglow 'cause you're pretty heavy for a skinny guy?"

Not even Faith at her most prosaic can kill the mood. He pulls out of her, ridiculously pleased that she bites her lip when he does, and spoons against her. "I'm not skinny, I'm wiry," he clarifies running the tip of his finger along the sweat sheen on her back.

"Yeah, yeah," she sighs, trying to scooch away from him. "What the hell are you doing?"

Even Lilah had lost her bitch goddess vibe long enough for a post-shag cuddle, but Faith isn't Lilah and she's using her deathly elbows to try and get free.

"Sssh, just lie still," he begs, kissing the path his fingers have just taken. "Please, Faith."

She wriggles round so she's facing him and with a grudging smile, condescends to link her fingers with his. "You tell anyone I was snuggling" -- she practically spits the word out -- "I'll kill you. Capiche?"

"I don't have anyone close enough to share something like that with," he says mildly. "But I think if I told them that the beautiful young woman I'd just made love to had, ah, snuggled up afterwards, I'd get a reaction best summed up as 'so?'." He kisses her temple, feeling the pulse beating strongly there hard against his lips. "Cuddling isn't up there with most of the major kinks, Faith. Not for most people."

She's still holding his hand, but it's oddly tentative and she's shifting closer to the edge of the bed.

Or perhaps he's just not letting go of hers --

"Newsflash, Wes. I'm not 'most people' and that's not just 'cause of the Slayer deal, you know?"

"And do you really think I qualify as normal? Or Giles, or Buffy, or any of us for that matter?" He draws her closer, sighing as she resists. "Hold me," he says finally. "Be the one giving, not receiving if that helps, but I need this. If you want to think of it as a weakness or a perversion, feel free."

Her arms go around him with an unflattering reluctance but it's something and when he wakes during the night she's close enough that her breath's warm against his skin, even if by the morning there's space between them again.

She must sense the moment he's awake because she opens her eyes and gives him a dopey grin that makes his heart lurch.

"Hey," she whispers, waggling her fingers at him so he can't help but smile back. She's sleep-crumpled and glowing.

"Hello, Faith," he says, keeping to his side of the bed, mainly because he has a front row seat to see one of her nipples poking out shyly from the edge of the sheet.

"Gotta say, Wes, usually I'd be halfway to the next town by now. Don't usually stick around for the morning after."

His heart lurches in a far more disagreeable manner and then speeds up as she slides across the bed so they're eyeball to eyeball and if he just leans slightly forward he can gently tweak the nipple that's been tormenting him for the last minute.

Faith squirms against him, giving him a knowing look from under her lashes when his cock reacts with aching predictability.

"So am I allowed to know why you're not halfway to Clannoch by now?" he asks, eyes half shut as she clasps her hot hand around his prick.

She's already sliding under the quilt, but he hears her muffled voice say something about "breakfast in bed."

He's sure that he could've come up with something witty in response, but the smooth slide of her tongue over the head of his cock renders him speechless. It's like being caressed by warm, wet velvet with the slight drag and tug doing just enough to leave him fully erect by the time she's pushed him to his back and positioned herself between his legs.

He reaches down to touch her dark hair and she gives an impatient shake of her head and then relents and takes him in deep, slicking him up and drawing a heartfelt groan from him.

This is something he loves having done to him, content, mostly, to be passive because it's always different that way. Fucking Faith's mouth as she kneels or lies beneath him has a certain appeal but lying there, curious and trusting her not quite all the way is like taking a dare.

Sharp teeth dig in, just this side of pain, circling his shaft and he makes a sound that he supposes should be protesting, but somehow isn't. She chuckles, which eases the pressure, and pulls off him, her strong hand gripping around the base of his cock, holding it in place for her to kiss, mocking, tiny kisses until he sighs and murmurs, 'all better'.

Odd how easy it is to be playful with her. Unexpected and intimate and oh my God --

"Like that, Wes?"

She tosses her hair back and smiles up at him, eyes gleaming, lips parted and moist.

"Do it again," he says hoarsely.

Obediently she obliges, pumping her hand with deliberately measured strokes and rubbing the head of his cock, foreskin already peeled back because he's too hard for it to stay in place, against her closed lips, letting it slip between them slowly until it meets the barrier of her teeth, hard and smooth. It's driving him mad; there's the promise of warmth and she can suck like this, but it's not enough and she's teasing him now, tongue pointed and stiff, whipping it across the slick head of his cock until he's hearing desperate groans and not caring that he's the one making them.

"Please, Faith -- " he begs because he's in torment as he looks down, eyes barely able to focus on the sight of her, eyes glinting wickedly, as she slowly and deliberately licks at his cock like it's the most delicious ice cream surprise and she wants to savour the taste of it on her tongue. "Please --

She lifts her head for the three agonising seconds it takes her to promise him, "Gonna please you, Wes -- "

And then she's getting down to business. No joking. No waiting, just her lips closing over his cock, travelling down and this glorious tugging as she starts sucking him hard. She can't get too much of him in her mouth at this angle but he's always known her to be creative and the way one of her hands corkscrews down the length of him and the other one strokes his balls makes up for it. He is thrusting up into the warm, wet cavern of her mouth now, he can't help it when she's hollowed out her cheeks and one of her fingers is behind his balls now, rubbing, teasing, gently probing --

His hand tangles in her hair as he comes in this white hot burst, hips jerking, all grace lost as he cries out a wordless invocation.

There's a spectacular firework display going on inside his head as he slumps back on the pillows and allows himself one last tiny groan as Faith presses one last kiss to the underside of his cock, licking along the vein, then crawls up the bed and pokes at him; an unbearably superior look on her face.

"You OK there, Wes?"

He manages to whimper which seems to please her more than a long speech about how she's just reduced him to boneless -- there's a pun there, but he's not sure if it translates -- and blissful.

He reaches out and tugs her down so that he can kiss her and she turns that into a coda of sorts, because she tastes of his come and she knows it. Her mouth crushes against his, soft and yielding, in feel if not intent, and then her tongue works its way inside his mouth so he's no choice but to reciprocate. The taste of both of them, mingled and fresh is interesting and not unpleasant. Possibly, at another time, it'd even be arousing, but right now he's incapable.

"Still want coffee though," she says briskly, sitting up and pushing her hair back off her face. She wrinkles her nose. "And a shower."

"Bath," he corrects her. "Didn't you see it?"

She gapes at him. "Saw those weird fallopian tube things that you put on the taps but thought maybe the shower was somewhere else or --"

"You assumed," he says smugly. "Saw what you expected to. How often have I told you --?"

He supposes that he deserves the solid thump she gives him, but if she really thinks that she's on a holiday here, well, she's not. He has no intention of letting her training schedule lapse.

"Bath -- " she muses. "Big enough for two?"

On the other hand, a little R & R wouldn't hurt either.

They sit at opposite ends of the bath - he lost the tussle to sit without the taps digging into the small of his back - knees knocking together as she drapes her arms over the rim and arches an eyebrow as he stares at the impudent thrust of her breasts.

At least he manages not to drool, which is some small comfort.

"Pervert," she hisses, prodding at the head of his cock with her big toe. "Stop looking at my tits."

He refuses, along with his spent cock, to rise to the bait. "I can't help it. They're very nice tits."

Faith looks down at the objects in question, ends of her hair trailing in the water and nods in agreement. "They really fucking are." And then because she is who she is and he's starting to realise that he never wants her any other way, she sighs. "Jesus, I'm dying for a smoke."

"You know I don't like you smoking," he says more as an automatic reflex than with any real conviction and she launches herself at him, a small tidal wave of lavender scented water slopping on to the floor.

"And you know you can bite me, Wes," she titters (Faith titters? Who knew?) and then she suits her action by lightly snagging his nipple between her teeth before sitting back down with a hefty thud that sends more water careering over the side of the tub. It's like sharing a bath with an over-exuberant puppy.

"Maybe later," he says, closing his eyes. "You needn't think you can slack off your training just because you've had your wicked way with me."

"Fine by me. You're looking like you need a little recovery time anyhow, Wes. And just so we're clear, I get to go on top on the rematch."

He'd like to take issue with her phrasing because it's definitely lacking on the tenderness scale, but just then she picks up the bar of soap he brought with them and rolls it between her hands, making a thick lather, complete with a tiny bubble that detaches, floats up, and gets blown to extinction by a puff of air from her pursed, pouting lips.

"We don't have to take turns, you know," he says, his protest mild because she's running her hands over her breasts and the skin is shining under a thin layer of Crabtree and Evelyn's finest. "I really don't see myself keeping a score card, you know."

She pinches her nipples, a reflective look on her face, and he's lost as they darken and harden. "Just don't want you getting ideas, Wes."

"Then you should stop that," he says, the words emerging in a croak.

She tilts her head, a puzzled smile on her face, and then glances down and burst out laughing. "Those ideas I'm cool with. Just don't want you getting all macho man on my ass."

He didn't think it was possible, not this soon, but his cock twitches and fills a little at the alluring combination of words. "I can't fuck it then?" he asks, amazed at how calm he sounds as he meets her frankness with some of his own.

She sinks under the water far enough to rinse the soap off her breasts and rises up, the warm water clinging to her skin. "Dunno, Wes. Can I fuck yours?"

He knows there's a red stain flushing his cheeks but he runs a languid hand through the water so he can flick the rapidly evaporating bubbles at her breasts.

"Oh dear, I wish I'd remembered to pack my strap-on," he muses plaintively and now it's her turn to gape at him open-mouthed.

Faith wags a reproving finger at him. "You --  you're pretty fucking cool, Wes. Have I told you that?"

It's not meant to be this easy between them but he's fiercely glad it is. "Maybe a couple of times, but don't let that stop you from a repeat performance."

"What the fuck ever." She picks up the soap again and starts cleaning herself briskly, hands disappearing under the water into all sorts of intriguing places. "Don't get any ideas, Wes," she says when she sees where his attention is gone. "You've seen how I get now. So we can train after we have breakfast and give your balls time to re-fill." She scratches her neck ruminatively. "Guess it's kinda high maintenance having a Slayer in your bed."

"My Slayer," he reminds her, ducking under the water so he can wet his hair. "You should be proud of who you are, what you are, Faith."

Her lips twist as she stands up and he's sure that little bump and grind of her hips is entirely for his benefit. "Getting there. Now haul your ass out and make me breakfast or I'm going to get seriously pissy."

"Would I notice the difference?" he wonders aloud and she smiles like a seraph and tips a tooth mug of cold water down his back when he's not looking.

After breakfast, where she demolishes a stack of toast and uses her tongue to clean raspberry jam from her hand in a way that's all the more effective for being unstudied, he decides to call Giles.

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.

He ends up in the tiny spare room he used when he was a boy, finding the bed less soft now and a crucial four inches too short. Doesn't matter. The blankets are musty and itch, and that doesn't matter either.

Hearing Faith cry and not being able to get through to her is what matters and he's so out of his depth here --

He finds himself wondering if Giles goes through anything comparable with Buffy and how he copes. Maybe they need to form a support group or something. His thoughts, fatigue-twisted into surrealism take a while to remember that he won't be able to discuss anything with Giles, because they're not likely to ever be speaking together as friends again.

And when he's dealt with that thought, sternly reminding himself of Giles' many flaws and convincing himself that Giles would be no better able to help Faith than him, his mind gives in and he falls asleep.

The front door slamming sends him hurtling into wakefulness; heart racing, skin clammy as his mind races through a million possibilities, but it's not until he staggers out of his boyhood bed to look out of the window and sees Faith charging along the path that he allows himself to take a breath.

But when there's a million other possibilities about where she could have gone and if she'll be coming back, his hands are shaking as he goes through the rituals of making tea and toast.

She's gone all day, if he can pre-suppose that 'gone' will end when she comes back. But with every second, every minute, every hour that crawls by Wesley realises that he's building up a quite glorious anger. They're having a relationship. In truth, they've had a relationship of some form, albeit mostly dysfunctional, ever since they locked eyes in that library in bloody Sunnydale. And after everything they've done to each other, fought and fucked and forgiven, if she thinks that she can shut him out, then she's in for an exceedingly rude awakening.

He's not just her Watcher; he's her lover.

It's past teatime as he paces the small sitting room. There's an imaginary Faith sitting on the sofa and looking sorrowfully repentant as he berates her soundly, when the real version crashes through the door and shoots him a look as if to suggest that she wishes he'd died in her absence. He infinitely prefers the imaginary one.

He hasn't even opened his mouth when she makes the universal gesture for "shut the fuck up."

"I don't even want to fucking talk to you, Wesley," she snaps, heading for the stairs. And yes, she's fast but he has righteous indignation on his side so he's in the perfect position to grab hold of her arm in an instant.

"Well, that's a pity, Faith, because I want to fucking talk to you."

She looks up at him in surprise, flexing her fingers as a prelude to shaking him off then thinking better of it when she feels the cold muzzle of the gun against her neck.

"You're wondering why the gun, I suppose," he whispers confidentially in her ear. "Simple, really. I got bored of waiting for your sulk to end." His hand tightens as her body jerks in protest. "I would have been sympathetic; I would have listened had you cared to share your emotions with me. But perhaps you're not the only one feeling that they're good for little else than fucking. Forgive me for thinking that we were close enough that when you shut the world out, I'd be left inside with you."

There's a pause and then she says quietly, "You planning to blow the back of my head off, Wes?"

"Tempted to," he says dryly, "but I think the paperwork involved would be a sufficient deterrent even if I didn't prefer you whole."

She turns her head, slowly, slowly and then she's kissing him with a hunger he can't help connecting to the gun. They're both sick fucks at heart, because part of him, dark and buried, is loving the knowledge that of the two of them he was the closest to death just now. A threatened Slayer makes a black widow spider look cuddly and he just came very close to making Faith act instinctively.

He shudders, adrenaline-spiced blood rushing south, and the gun gets put aside and that's the last sensible, coherent action he takes for a while.

Her tongue is hot and invasive, as deep in his mouth as his is in hers and the taste of her is driving him crazy because it's good but it's not enough. His hands are tugging at clothes, his and hers, and he'd happily fuck her against the nearest wall with no more than the partial removal of her jeans and panties, but he's greedy for the sight of her body and his hands are craving the soft heaviness of her breasts to fondle and cup.

"Clothes," she mutters indistinctly, echoing his own concerns as she tugs helplessly at his jeans. "Off."

They're an awkward ballet of limbs as she puts her arms in the air so he can pull off her T-shirt, burying his face between her breasts as he wrestles with the clasp on her bra. There's no finesse, just a lot of fumbling and fun as she rips apart the front of his shirt and buttons ping into the far corners of the room.

"Green ain't your colour anyway, Wes," she giggles, shoving him back against the wall. "Stop pouting and fucking kiss me."

"Bossy bitch." Her kisses are so frantic and sincere that the wall scenario which was looming large again, gets abandoned so he can walk her over to the sofa and coax her on to his lap, which she does obligingly, arms winding round his neck.

Eventually it becomes necessary, if not annoying, to stop clinging to each other's lips and take in shuddering gasps for breath. "I think we really should both be naked," he muses, waggling his eyebrows at her breasts, which are jiggling delightfully. Her jeans are hanging low on her hips and he can see the shadowy cleft of her arse as she leans forward to tug off her sneakers and socks.

She stays kneeling on the floor, gazing up at him, all eyes and soft curves. "Gonna get you naked then, Wes," she agrees, pulling off his socks and running an exploratory finger over his instep. "Not ticklish? Way to spoil my fun."

He was going to say something. Something funny and just a little outraged but her hand curls over his cock, unmistakably hard under the denim and he's just swallowed his tongue. "Maybe you're ticklish here?" she suggests.

”Now that would be a tragedy," he says. "Because then I wouldn't want you touching me there, would I?"

"And you do, right?"

He reaches out and rests his hand over hers, pressing it down against his erection. "I do."

There's a sudden silence, as if they're both wondering what happened there as the phrase echoes back and forth between them, and he can't help thinking that if it's a proposal, he should, traditionally, be the one kneeling, but neither of them are exactly conventional and what he wants from her -- what he is to her -- is less and more than a husband would.

And that's far more thinking than he wants to do right now because she stands, a fluid rush upward that takes his gaze with it, and she's naked in moments and he's transfixed.

"Waiting, Wes," she says softly, commandingly and he stands, strips and then they're clinging to each other and this time the kisses don't stop, even when he's deep inside her, not until she rakes his back and howls.

He feels like howling himself.

She's a wet, hot, hard fist of muscle around his cock and each thrust forward feels like a battle waged and won when he gets a moan at the end of it. He can feel his body move into a space where the scuff of carpet against bare knees stops hurting, where the ripe scent of her body is close to tangible, and he fucks her because he wants her and she needs him and vice-versa and --

"God! You feel -- Faith -- "

He's stammering, babbling, awed in his head, but the words that emerge are clipped and hoarse and really, he's astonished he can manage actual speech when his brain is melting from the flurry of her fists, beating on his shoulders as she arcs and arches and shrieks and comes.

Afterwards they don't have their usual argument about cuddling, because they're clinging to each other, afraid to let go, cast adrift on a worn patch of carpet.

She's never been so approachable; fingers stroking through his fuck-damp hair, coiling herself around him and murmuring in appreciation when he traces glyphs on her back.

She sits up all-too soon though, batting away his hands, which are missing her already. "It's almost dark and I'm hungry." She gives him a rueful look from under her lashes, which doesn't fool him in the slightest. "Haven't eaten all day. I'm starving."

She's already wrapping his ruined shirt around her and padding towards the kitchen. "Where have you been anyway?" he calls after her, struggling into his shorts.

"Ran up a fucking mountain a coupla times. Kept seeing it from the window, figured I'd make it my bitch." She gestures vaguely at the shadowy shapes of the scenery outside the window.

"Faith, do you mean Brecon Ridge? The big, craggy one with the snow on top?"

She's rooting through the fridge. "I guess."

"It's miles away," he says coming up behind her so he can wrap his arms round her waist and looking over her shoulder at the diminished contents. "Could you bear bacon and eggs again?"

"Bacon 'n' eggs 'n' tomatoes 'n' mushrooms 'n' toast," she chants, gathering them up and turning round in the circle of his arms. "I was fucked up, Wes. Had to get away instead of busting your head, which, by the way, shows how I'm big with the self-development these days."

"Duly noted," he says, taking the food from her. "And I'm more grateful than you know."

"Sorta like your head the way it is." She ruffles his hair, like she can't not then places a finger over his lips. "Yeah, I know we have to have a big talk,"  -- she pauses to make ironic air quotes --"but it can wait, Wes. I stink, you stink, so let's wash, eat, and then we can talk about our feelings and stuff. Deal?"

"Deal," he says and until she's lounging back on the couch, feet propped up on the coffee table, her hands laced over a stomach she assures him is close to bursting, they stick to chatter or silence, neither of which is in the least bit meaningful.

"You want me to say I'm sorry?" she asks him as he sits beside her and frowns at the placement of her feet.

"Would you?"

"Might."

He reaches out and links their hands. "I don't need that. I just -- I'd like you to realise that I'm prepared to listen to you --" He stops, carefully rehearsed words drying up. "Don't shut me out," he says quietly. "Please? Last night, today -- God, I'm so bloody sick of being alone!"

"Wes?" She turns his face with her hand, coming up to kneel beside him. "Wes, I'm sorry. I am, okay? I'm just not used to having someone look after me for keeps, you know?"

He's absolutely sure that if he blinks wetness will spill over, so he keeps his eyes open as he nods, willing the tears away.

Her thumb rubs over the pulse in his neck soothingly and he manages to take control of his recalcitrant tear ducts.

"I know, but will just let me be there for you?" he says and if he sounds close to begging then he doesn't care.

"I'll try, Wes. But you can't make stuff unhappen." A shadow passes over her face and her thumb stills. "I've killed and that's never going to change. It's with me every day; Finch and that volcano guy and fuck, I can't even remember his name, and I hurt people; Will, Giles, B and yeah, she's been a bitch on wheels but then she's got the right, you know?"

Now it's his turn to run his fingers over her face as if he can erase the troubled furrows that have appeared there. "She does not have the right -- "

" --  and I hurt you, Wes," she finishes dully. "God, how can you stand to even look at me?"

"Because you've changed and so have I," he says softly, cupping her face so she can see how he's holding nothing back. "I've touched the darkness too, Faith. Maybe I needed to so when I found my way back, we had a commonality that wasn't there before."

"Or maybe the stubble just got me hot," she offers and it's a weak joke and she can hardly force out a smile to go with it but she touches the stubble in question and they're both stumbling over each other's faces; trying to read what their words can't say.

Finally she gives a tiny inarticulate moan which he now knows is her way of asking for what she doesn't want to ask for and he shifts on the sofa so she can inch up against him, linking her arms around him so it's like being hugged by a small, fierce jungle cat.

"So last night?" he prompts gently and she shudders against him but lifts up her chin determinedly.

"Last night --  the blood on my hands was real again and I lost it," she mutters. "Like, we'd been locked away just doing our thing and I'd been kidding myself that it was going to work. Like, that I deserved to be happy and then that guy --  and I thought if I could save him, then it'd all balance out but I couldn't. I don't deserve a second chance, Wes, and this isn't going to last forever 'cause Giles will find us and I'll go back to prison and it's where everyone thinks I belong anyway. So I freaked out. It's such a fucking mess."

And she's right there, but he can't help thinking that there's a way out of all this.

"You've paid for what you did, Faith -- yes, you have," he insists as she tries to interrupt him. "You might not ever forgive yourself, but you've -- repented." It's hopelessly Old Testament but he ploughs on. "You were willing to spend your full sentence in prison. I'm the one who made you leave and you did so for unselfish reasons and helped to save the world. Twice."

"Gold star for me," she murmurs tiredly.

He grins ruefully. "It does sound hopelessly dramatic, but you know that it's the simple truth, Faith. And what I'm saying is that you're out here, free, because of me. If you turned yourself in, the conditions you'd have to endure would be stringent and you'd have your sentence increased. That's unfair."

"Yeah, well I'm not the one you have to convince," she says. "Don't hear me saying I want to go back, do you? I figure I can do more good out here now I've got my head straight --"

"You can," he says earnestly.

"But you're the only one who thinks I've changed, and you're not the one calling the shots, Wes." Her hand cups his face. "Buffy is, through Giles. And I'm fucked."

"You're not. I won't let that happen." And if he says it emphatically enough then maybe it will become true. "I have contacts, sources. I'll get false passports; we'll go away to some obscure place with a large demon population -- "

"Sounds neat but you're talking out of your ass, Wes," she says, wriggling nearer so she can kiss his cheek; take the sting out of her words. "But thanks for the thought."

"It is a thought though," he's thinking out loud because a tentative, cloudy, murky plan is emerging. "There are areas where the Council won't send operatives; the Amazon Basin, several politically sensitive spots in South America, Africa and the Middle East."

Faith quirks an eyebrow and he knows that she's humouring him but at least she's making the effort to humour him, which is progress. "Always wanted to go to Brazil," she says wistfully.

"Well, maybe not Brazil, but Chile or Nicaragua. I could swot up on demons indigent to those regions and there are always vampires -- "

"Yup, always vampires," she echoes, lifting herself off him. "I need a smoke, we both need a drink."

And when she returns with the bottle of whisky and a lit cigarette wafting a thin plume of smoke in the air, her expression is calm, resolute, as she hands him the single malt. "Not gonna let you do this, Wes - throw everything away because of me. I can go back to prison, not gonna like it much but y'know, sometimes redemption sucks."

He takes a long gulp of the whisky, wincing as it hits his stomach in a fiery explosion. "You're not letting me do anything. I'm doing this because it's the right thing to do and you're my Slayer."

Faith flings herself down at the opposite end of the couch. "Appreciate the sentiment but -- "

"Oh, do be quiet, Faith," he drawls, because she's stubborn and self-sacrificing but he's fairly certain that he wrote the instruction manual on those two character traits. "I'm your Watcher, yes?"

"Yeah," she agrees unwillingly. "And you're also batshit insane."

"Thank you for the affirmation. Slayers should always obey their Watchers." He holds out the bottle to her, watching with narrowed eyes as she scoots up on her knees and he can see the shadowy curves of her high, thrusting breasts, the flat slope of her belly and the shadowy juncture between her thighs.

He can tell by her sly smile and the way she arches her back so the button-less shirt parts a little further that she knows exactly where he's looking. "That's a nice theory you got going, Wesley. Me obeying you -- " She shoves the bottle back at him challengingly.

"I have my methods," he says darkly, hamming up the pantomime villain impression by twiddling an imaginary moustache and the last of her bad mood dissipates as she snickers and rolls her eyes.

"Guess it couldn't hurt to test 'em out," she husks, fingering the collar of the shirt and the dense desperation of the room is instantly charged with this dark anticipation which is making his cock twitch. "C'mon then, Wes, give me an order and see if I obey it."

He blinks at her in silence and then smiles. "Hmm."

"That the best you got?" she says, sounding vaguely insulted.

"I'm thinking," he tells her. "It's tricky, you see. If I  --  order  --  you to do something that you're happy to do, well, it's not much of a test of your compliance, is it?"

He's having trouble sitting still with his cock swelling against the seam of his jeans -- unlike Faith, he'd got dressed again after they cleaned up -- and in need of adjusting to a less uncomfortable position. On the other hand, the discomfort is providing a nice distraction that's keeping him from embarrassing himself by drooling. Does she know how many of his fantasies have been about a Slayer who doesn't argue with every single bloody request he gives? And contrary to what she's obviously thinking, the requests wouldn't all be sexual in nature. Not overtly anyway --

Here and now though, yes, he's not likely to ask --tell her to do an hour of stake whittling without pouting about splinters. Oh, no.

"And that's not even touching the trickier still area of what I can do to you should you be obdurate and disobedient."

She stirs on his lap, eyes gleaming wickedly. "Something tells me that you'd come up with something, Wes." The way she's grinding against his cock leaves him in no doubt about her meaning.

"Is that so?" he murmurs. "Well, let's put this to the test. Kiss me --"

She leans forward at once, heading for his mouth, and he puts his hand on her shoulder to halt her. "I didn't say where."

There's the expected pout, lush lips pushing forward. "Don't I get points for initiative?" she asks.

"Possibly," he allows, "but you lose them for impatience. We'll consider you as having broken even then. Let's try again. Kiss me --" He unbuttons his shirt, exposing his chest, and taps a finger against his right nipple. "There."

There's just an instant of hesitation as if she's adjusting to the idea as she hadn't before, and then she scootches back a little and dips her head. He can feel the warm tickle of her mouth and the soft circle her tongue makes as she traces around the small bump.

"Good girl," he says blandly. Her teeth snap together audibly but she does it as she's straightening up and he chuckles. "Now I think I'd like you to take off my shirt."

Her eyebrows lift in a question and he smiles and touches the one she's wearing and then his own. "Both of them."

"Both of them, huh? Any preference for which one I get rid of first?" she asks, slipping a handful of cotton down her shoulder before hoisting it back up and failing utterly at looking prim.

Wesley pretends to give it some thought though really it's a win/win situation. "Why don't you exercise some more of your famous initiative?" he suggests and she's crawling the few inches needed to get to him and grabs a handful of shirt.

"Already ripped one of these tonight," she muses with a grin. "Wouldn't want you to think I was getting predictable."

And there's nothing predictable about the way she slowly undoes the last four buttons, taking such a long time that his teeth are gritted, fists clenched. But it would be churlish to criticise when she's nibbling and sucking at every inch of skin she carefully uncovers so by the time she tugs at his shoulder so she can pull the garment free, his flesh is adorned with a pattern of palest pink to deep red, souvenirs of her clever mouth.

"Think it's my turn," she says, pausing briefly to mouth his cock through denim that's getting damper and darker before she raises herself up on her knees and shuffles gracefully around so he can see the sleek link of her spine come into view as she lets the shirt slip off her shoulders and pool against the back of her legs. "So how did I do, Wes?" she asks with her back still to him. "Am I an obedient little Slayer?"

"The best -- " he manages to say coherently, reaching blindly forward so he can touch the dimples that indent the smooth skin just above her arse. "Move around, let me look at you."

She turns her head with an impish smile that he wants to lick off her face. "Maybe I will. Maybe I won't. Gotta say I'm kinda curious about what you'll do if I decide that I don't want to follow orders."

"You could just ask me," he suggests mildly, praying to any god that's listening that she won't and then seeing the heat in her eyes and knowing that he's safe.

"Could," she agrees. "But it'd save time -- be more efficient -- if you gave me a quick demo, right?"

"What makes you think that the, ah, penalty would involve any exertion on my part?" he asks. "What exactly do you think I'd be demonstrating?"

That gets him an eye roll. "Come on, Wes! Told you I knew about Giles' little ways; you telling me you didn't go to the same school he did?"

He laughs. "Six of the best and an institutionalised corruption of the third form fags by the prefects? You're very behind the times, Faith."

"So you're not going to spank me then?" she says, placing her hands on her ass with an audible smack and fluttering her lashes. "My ass is safe if I tell you that I'm not gonna turn 'round unless you say 'pretty please'?"

"Are you?" he asks.

For answer, she turns her head to face the front, giving him nothing to see but dark hair and a beautiful back.

"I see," he says quietly, his lips twitching as he tries not to grin. Reaching out, he peels her hands off her bottom and wraps his hand around her slim wrists. "I'm afraid in the face of such flagrant disrespect for your Watcher's commands you leave me no choice but to --"

She takes in a quick breath and murmurs, "Yes, Wesley?" demurely, her shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

"You," he breaths in her ear, "are a minx, you know that?"

She leans back against his shoulder. "Spank me, Wes," she says throatily. "You know you want to."

"I don't think I'm alone in that wish," he drawls as she wriggles her arse against his cock, which has ceased to be painful and is now verging on agonising.

"C'mon, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce, how do you want me?"

And if that isn't a leading question --

He can't even risk having her over his lap as much as he'd love it. But he wants to last longer than the first flash of his hand on her warm skin. And if there was ever an illusion of who was really in control then it shatters as she hurls herself over the arm of the couch as per his instructions and arches her back.

"Hey, does this pose make my butt look big?" she simpers, with another ophidian shudder that makes her rear end shimmy voluptuously.

Wesley rubs his palm roughly over his cock as if to say, 'not now' and runs his other hand assessingly over the curves in question.

"Not big," he decides because he's not completely stupid. "But certainly rather pale and definitely impudent."

"Oh get to it, Wes, not gonna break," she sighs impatiently, kicking out one of her legs at him as he kneels behind her and it's just the incentive he needs to bring his hand crashing down with great force on her left cheek; sinking into the plumpness on contact and feeling the crack of flesh on flesh before he even hears it.

"That's for drinking milk straight from the carton," he intones stuffily because spanking Faith might be all his erotic fantasies rolled into one, but she's already snorting with barely held-back giggles and the notion that spanking some manners into her is possible is completely ridiculous.

"And that's for slamming doors," he continues, with another resounding thwack, which makes her shriek with laugher.

"Never do it again," she squeals and he gets one more smack in with the spurious reason that she always belches loudly after drinking Coke, which she does, but she's laughing too hard to keep still and he can't keep touching the heated curve of her arse without matters becoming too prescient.

"Aw, why did you stop?" she whines, arms hanging over the side of the sofa as she sprawls in a giggly, squirmy heap.

"Because I really, really want to fuck you," he says simply and she rolls over and pushes the hair out of her face.

"Only had to ask, Wes," she says, eyes swooping downwards. "Jeez, you must be in fucking agony."

She's already attacking his belt, his button, his zip and he gives a groan of relief as he pushes himself into her waiting hands. "Don't --  please, Faith. I'm hanging by a thread here."

"Poor Wes," she croons and sympathy from her is unusual enough to have him blinking in surprise for just long enough to allow her to yank at his jeans a crucial inch further with one hand and then his arse is bare against the couch, her hands are stroking his cock and balls in a perfectly timed, exquisite sequence of movements and he's leaning back and sighing.

"Don't get too cosy," she hisses, doing something terrible with a fingernail that has him yelping, but it gives her the space of time she needs to climb on top of him and sheathe his cock inside her. She's so wet and hot that it's like fucking, well, custard comes to mind, rich, thick custard and he goes cross-eyed trying to picture Faith's reaction if he shares that thought with her afterwards.

He rather thinks if he does, he'll be the one getting spanked.

She rocks gently back and forth and smiles down at him, sweet as sugar.

"Oh God."

He's right to be suspicious. In the space of one hastily taken breath she starts to ride him hard, slamming her backside -- and one day he's going to finish that spanking because it was fun -- against his thighs and moaning as his hands lift up to give her breasts something to bounce against.

It's wild, it's frantic, it's still playful, and he can feel one hell of a climax hovering and he's not even trying to hold back because they've got all night. He cranes his neck to take one of her nipples between his teeth and feels a cool ripple of air strike his back. Even then he doesn't turn, not with Faith moaning like that, one hand reaching back gropingly to cup his balls, the other supporting his neck, like the thoughtful girl she is.

Giles saying, "I'm sorry, is this a bad time?" as he drops a case to the floor and kicks the door shut behind him manages to get his attention though.

Part Three

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