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.

There's a flurry of demonic activity in the next few days though that keeps all of them busy. He barely has time to even check in at the offices, before heading out with Faith who's taken to the role of Senior Slayer with alarming alacrity. And if she threatens to "bitchslap" the more unruly elements in the ranks, then he hopes it's just an idle threat.

He hasn't even had time to take her on another date, just snatched the odd hurried meal at the greasy spoon on the corner before one of them is dashing off.

He's lingering over a cup of coffee and the Times crossword though, after a cholesterol-laden lunch, when there's a tap on the window and he looks up to see Giles raising a tentative hand in salute.

Really, it would be churlish not to nod his head and gesture at the empty seat opposite him and Giles is sitting down, filling up the space that had previously been taken with possible romantic excursions that Faith wouldn't sneer at and 14 across which was proving to be an obstinate little bugger.

"I didn't know this was one of your haunts, Wesley," Giles says as he scans the specials on the blackboard. "What would you recommend?"

"Well, it's up to you," he says with a smile. "What would you like your chips to come with?"

Giles snorts. "Ideally?"

Wesley shrugs, curious despite himself. "All right."

"There was this restaurant in Sunnydale that did the most marvellous steaks," Giles says. "And they called their chips 'fries' of course, but they really did know how to cook a pepper-encrusted filet."

Wesley indulges in a little gastronomic wistfulness himself -- that Chinese place three blocks from the Hyperion did the best sweet and sour chicken he'd ever had -- and then shakes his head. "I really wouldn't ask for the steak here."

The waitress drifts over and Giles charms her with a smile and gets her to take his order for a full English breakfast, which apparently is served around the clock.

"I'm going to regret this, aren't I?" Giles murmurs with the wince of a man anticipating indigestion.

"I hope not," Wesley says. "Giles -- we need to talk."

"We do, but here?" Giles protests.

"It's as good a place as any," Wesley says. It's cruel of him but he adds, "Unlike our last encounter, I don't plan to do anything indiscreet or ill-advised."

"You really are angry with me, aren't you?" Giles says. It's probably pure coincidence that his hand moves an inch or two and he begins to toy with the knife he's been given. "I hadn't realised that you were that inexperienced; do forgive me."

"I'm not talking about letting you fuck Faith -- " He manages to keep his voice low but his hissed words have a vehemence that makes Giles frown.

"Letting me? As I seem to recall -- "

"Shut the fuck up, Giles." His hand snakes out and clamps around the older man's wrist, who looks down at the tight bite of Wesley's fingers with surprise. The little teenage waitress is hovering with a steaming mug but she takes one look at them and scurries off in the opposite direction. "You should have told me about the pardon. I'm her Watcher."

"You're beginning to sound like a stuck record, Wesley," Giles says wryly, not sounding as pissed off as he should. He shakes his hand free and glances round. "Pity you scared off the waitress. I'm gasping for a cup of tea."

He wonders what Giles would do if he gave in to the urge to punch him for being so maddeningly obtuse when Giles' expression changes from amused to that empathetic smile that he thinks is even worse. "I couldn't tell you, Wesley."

"But you told Buffy and look how well that turned out," he says coldly.

Giles winces. "I didn't expect that," he confesses. "They'd been getting on so much better -- "

"You really do have a blind spot when it comes to her," Wesley says, but there's the lurking awareness that when it comes to Faith, his own lacuna is too depressingly wide to blunt the edge of his voice and he and Giles share something approaching a rueful smile.

"I remember when Slayers were properly respectful and obedient," Giles says. "I often wonder what that must have been like."

"Boring as hell," Wesley says.

"The dewy-eyed reverence from some of the younger Slayers does get wearing after a while," Giles admits.

Before the rapprochement gets too chummy, Wesley drags the conversation inexorably back. "Buffy. Is she likely to return in as hellish a mood as she left?"

"I'm not sure she plans to return at all," Giles says quietly. "Since she went I've heard nothing from her, despite leaving many messages. She's -- lost to me. As distant as when she was dead."

"Save the melodrama," Wesley tells him roughly. "She's here, walking the planet. You can find her if you want to; see her, talk to her -- "

"I'm sorry," Giles said after a moment. "You're right. It's just so damnably hard to have her this angry with me."

"Do you know where she is?" he asks, his voice softer than he intended and Giles shrugs, giving the waitress a grateful look when she timidly places his tea down.

"With Willow, who was incredibly unforthcoming about providing any more details. It would seem that my feet get more clay-like with every passing week," Giles adds wryly.

"What you've been through, with Buffy, you'll always have a bond." Wesley feels like he's tiptoeing through broken glass as Giles stares intently at his mug and doesn't so much as flutter an eyelash in reaction. "And she knows that, no matter how stubborn she's choosing to be. She's lost so many people, Giles, that I'm sure by pushing you away she's sure that she's just preparing for the inevitable."

And why he's gone from being righteously indignant with Giles to trying to offer words of comfort via a pithy psychoanalysis of Buffy, he's not entirely sure.

"Possibly," Giles mutters non-committally, before giving a snort of laughter. "It would seem that you and Faith have the more healthy relationship these days."

Now it's Wesley's turn to look like he's trying to curdle milk with the power of his gaze. "Oh, would it?"

"Trouble in Paradise, Wesley?"

Oh yes, he's not feeling quite so sympathetic towards Giles anymore. Homicidal would be far more accurate.

"What the hell are you trying to say, Giles?"

Giles blinks. "I just meant that the two of you seem to be closer. Successfully combining -- well, I won't say business with pleasure, because that's not quite accurate, or fair, but you do seem --"

"We're not sleeping together now," Wesley says flatly. "I thought you knew that."

"You're a brave man," Giles says, his fingers busy with an unopened sachet of sugar. "I just don't know how you managed to persuade Faith to see it as a romantic gesture rather than a rejection of her charms." His eyes light with amusement. "Ah. She hasn't accepted it, has she? Poor Wesley."

"She's tolerating it." Barely, he thinks to himself, remembering the way she made their training session this morning seem like a particularly athletic form of foreplay, pinning him down and rubbing her breasts against his chest until Andrew of all people suggested that they get a room. "And she understands why, even if she's not particularly happy about it."

"And are you -- ?" Giles tails off and gives a greedy little moan as a laden plate of fried everything and chips is placed in front of him. "That is, are you happy about it?"

"Ecstatic," Wesley says flatly and maybe if Giles and he were closer and hadn't seen each other naked, touched each other, God --  he'd be able to confide in him. As it is, he feels as if Giles is titillated and too bloody amused about it for his liking.

"Not worried that she's going to get her jollies with someone else?"

Someone else? Someone who knows only too well what she's like, who's had her writhing and moaning under him? Someone like --

"Giles?" He waits until he has Giles' attention and then smiles at him, making it a clear threat. "Fuck off. You're not getting her again. Ever."

The shove he gives the table as he stands sends Giles' mug rocking dangerously. Wesley reaches for it and steadies it. He's not feeling petty right now. He's too busy imagining how pleasant it would be to watch Giles bleed.

"Wesley, I didn't mean that it would be me --" Giles has the grace to look apologetic and although fear would be a little too much to expect from a man who's faced an opening Hellmouth once or twice, there's a gratifyingly wary look in Giles' eyes.

"Yes, you did." Giles' lips part and Wesley glares at him. "One more word, Giles and you'll be eating that bacon with the aid of a straw."

Frustration replaces wariness but it's a measure of the man's intelligence that he stays silent. Wesley nods and walks away. He's half a mile away when he realises he's going the wrong way and he's still shaking with reaction.

It's easy to give Giles a wide berth in the next few weeks because his head, well, his everything, is taken up with Faith.

He barely sees her at work as she's so wrapped up in Senior Slayerdom; embarking on a series of training sessions that have the other girls complaining about aching muscles even as they trail in her wake like a procession of fluffy ducklings.

And then there's the itinerary of dates that he's taking her on. Long walks on Hampstead Heath. Trips to the Renoir to see arthouse movies with enough flesh in them to keep her gaze rivetted on the screen. Romantic dinners at the little Italian place in Bloomsbury. Even a day trip to Brighton so they could stagger, hand in hand, over the pebbles and at the end of every date are the kisses, each one more devastating than the last. Each one harder and harder to walk away from, to leave her wanting, when they both want the same thing.

But Faith still won't say it. He's starting to think that she never will. Not because she can't but because she doesn't feel the same heart-wrenching giddiness that he does. Instead she vacillates between mammoth sulking fits when he struggles free from her arms or the light-hearted flirting that put him there in the first place. Sometimes he thinks he's going mad. And just when he's sure that he's teetering on the very edge of insanity, she'll rest her head on his shoulder, ruffle his hair and murmur throatily, "You're so fucking good to me, Wes." He finds that he can live on crumbs much better than he ever thought.

<center>*****</center>

Then one day he opens his mouth to invite Faith to an exhibition of weapons through the ages at the British Museum and she stops him with her hand pressed against his mouth in a brief caress.

"My turn, Wes," she says, her eyes gleaming.

"I'm sorry?"

She sighs and prods his chest with her finger. "I'm asking you on a date, Wes. I can do that, can't I? Not breaking any rules? 'Cause I never, like, got a list, so -- ."

"No," he says quickly, before she changes her mind or says something that stamps all over the flicker of hope her words have lit. "Of course you can. Er, what are we going to do?"

"If I told you, it wouldn't be a surprise," she says, dimpling, which makes him instantly suspicious. "Oh, and, Wes?"

"Yes?" he asks her retreating back.

"Dress casual."

It turns out to be Laser Quest. He digs his heels in, protesting loudly until she pouts extravagantly and then has a whale of a time, cornering a pesky child who's decided that Wesley represents all that is evil and has knocked him out of the first two rounds when they were, technically, on the same team, and reducing the brat to tears of fury.

"Told you this would be a blast," Faith says later as she eats a generic burger and slurps noisily at a thick, pink shake.

He eyes a fry dubiously and then dunks it into ketchup. "Yes, you did."

"And?"

He grins at her. "It didn't suck."

She smiles like the sun coming up and he doesn't protest when she leans across the table and kisses him, leaving him tasting of grease and salt and not caring all that much.

So, the sun is shining and the birds are singing and there are new rules of engagement as they wage a battle of dating wills, and it's the most fun he's had since those handful of times in the cottage when he was inside her.

He takes her to see the National Ballet of Cuba at Sadlers Wells, she makes him go to punk rock karaoke in a beer-soaked pub in Kings Cross and holds his hand tightly all the way home because he's sung Teenage Kicks without a murmur of protest. He takes her to Ladies Day at Ascot, though she absolutely refuses to wear a hat and she takes him dog racing in Walthamstow and snogs him senseless when her greyhound romps home at 25 to 1.

The differences don't end there. When he's taken her out, they exchange frantic kisses under glowing streetlights. But on Faith dates, that always seem to involve large quantities of alcohol, they end up entwined on his sofa or the ratty couch in her room, mouths glued to each other, thrusting against each other, her hands prodding and pulling him, enticing him to touch all that warm skin under her clothes.

"You're driving me crazy," she sighs after one particularly fraught make-out session when his fingers are damp from daring to skirt forbidden places. "Why do you have to be so fucking stubborn, Wes?"

"I could say the same of you," he pants, pushing at her knee so she relaxes the death grip of her thighs and he can slide away from her. "But I'm far more patient than you, Faith. It's --  you're worth waiting for."

She sighs then, settles back on the cushions and finger combs the hair out of her eyes. "You keep saying stuff like that and it all seems so easy. Too easy, y'know?"

He's beginning to, but he just settles for what he hopes is an enigmatic smile and strokes the back of his hand against her flushed cheek.

The next day Buffy comes home. Wesley can tell that something's happened as soon as he walks into the Council building. There's an air of expectancy and bustle as if royalty's due to pay a visit.

"What's going on?" he asks Sandra at the reception desk as he signs in.

She smiles at him, chilly efficiency thawed somewhat. "Miss Summers flew in late last night, sir. She's with Mr. Giles and he asked that you join them."

"Do you know where Faith is?"

"She's with Mr. Giles, too," she says.

He nods and moves away without hurrying, but as soon as he's in the lift he starts pacing. Of all the days to be late --  A restless night spent analysing every look, every word Faith had said has left him sleep-dazed and sluggish but concern is driving that away, leaving him ready to do battle if needed.

He's walking along the corridor when Faith appears, eyes flashing, lips set in a mutinous, furious line.

"Faith!" he says, going to her and grasping her arm, keeping his voice low. "What did she do?"

She makes a noise that defies description. "Do?"

"Did she hurt you? Threaten you?"

Her eyes focus on his face and she shakes her head, her hair whipping across her face until she pushes it back impatiently. "No, nothing like that." She sends a fulminating glare back at the closed door of Giles' office. "Worse than that."

He can't see any signs of a fight and security guards aren't appearing from every direction so he allows himself to relax a little. "Go on."

"She congratulated me," Faith says, spitting out each word.

"I beg your pardon," he says, not sure he's heard right. Sleep deprivation can --

"She was all like, 'Ooooh, congratulations on the senior slayer gig,'" Faith assumes a simpering tone, which in all fairness sounds nothing like Buffy. "Fucking bitch. It was, like, a total diss."

Every inch of her is vibrating with tension and he's sure that he if just pressed a finger to her forehead, she'd shatter in a million pieces. "I'm sure that she didn't mean -- "

"You taking her fucking side?" Faith splutters furiously, face squinched up in disbelief. "What the fuck ever! Giles wants to see you so you can fawn all over her in person."

Despite the whole shattering threat and her sheer irrationality, he does try to take her in his arms then, but he only gets within glancing distance before she's shrugging him away with a murderous look, which he wisely decides is fair warning. "Faith, please."

"Gotta go," she hisses and stalks off. If she was a cat, she'd be twitching her tail, fur standing up on end.

He's left to trudge unwillingly down the corridor and knock on the door, which is opened seconds later by Buffy, her face wreathed in smiles. "Hey, Wesley," she beams. And then she does something he'd have sworn on his life that she'd never do, she envelops him in a quick, friendly hug.

"Buffy," he manages to say. "You're back."

He hopes that at some point in the day he stops stating the obvious but right now it's as much as he's capable of it seems.

"Yes, she is," Giles says. There's a quiet, deep happiness in his voice and as Wesley turns to him there's nothing to suggest that Giles bears a single grudge for the way his errant Slayer has behaved.

He can't help wondering just what Buffy would have to do to make Giles scold her -- set off an apocalypse? -- but dismisses the uncharitable thought. It's neither the time nor the place for recriminations.

Buffy's waving her hand around pointedly and Wesley focuses on a glimmer and glint of diamond.

"I -- Congratulations?" he says tentatively, his gaze going to Giles in a 'help me!' fashion that draws a chuckle from the man. It seems that everyone's forgiven today because there's no sign of the coolness that's sprung up between them.

"Xander," Giles says, which is all Wesley needs to paste a fairly genuine smile on his face. Xander. One of them. She could have done worse.

Buffy certainly seems to think so. She looks at the miniscule diamond band as if she can't quite remember how it got there. Then there's another toothpaste commercial smile as the memories come flooding back. "Xander," she confirms dreamily, punctuating it with a soft, little giggle. "You know how it is. You can see someone day in and day out and then suddenly -- " She shrugs her shoulders at her inability to express what's written all over her face, but Wesley knows exactly what she's talking about.

To see someone day in and day out. At their best and their worst. Someone you used to despise and pity in equal measure, before you managed to find a grudging admiration for them. Then you liked them. And then one day, she came into the room with the sun in her hair and a smile as she caught sight of him and he was in love with  --

" -- Faith and me, and it might be a bit weird, but I'm only here for a couple of weeks." He realises that Buffy is speaking, alternately turning to him, then Giles who's watching her with paternal pride. "Organising a wedding is actually a lot like getting ready for an apocalypse. There's so much to do!"

Buffy has the peachy look that she used to have when he first knew her. She's softer, rounder, and more carefree and those relentlessly frequent smiles reach her eyes now.

"Depending on the guest list, the actual wedding might feel like an apocalypse too," Giles comments and he's smiling too now.

"Congratulations again, Buffy. I'm very happy for you and Xander," he says softly, aware of Giles' approving nod. And he's even happier that she'll be back in the States in a fortnight, away from Faith who evidently is not sharing the glad tidings for the forthcoming nuptials.

"Thanks, Wes." Buffy squares her shoulders. "Sorry about what happened before I left."

Wesley waits for her to elaborate on the apology. Maybe promise that it will never happen again but she's steadfastly refusing to meet his eye and he realises that that's as good as he's going to get.

There's a small sound of protest from Giles, smothered when Buffy gives him a swift look, but enough to make Wesley feel glad that he's not the only one who finds Buffy's contrition a little thin.

"You're invited, of course," Buffy says and Wesley swallows. Faced with a choice, he'll take the apocalypse, thank you.

"Both of us?" he enquires and Buffy looks thoughtful, then grateful as Giles chimes in.

"Unfortunately, Buffy, someone has to be in charge of this menagerie and if Xander's really insistent that I give you away --"

"Totally," Buffy says with an eye roll and a smile. "You wouldn't believe how stubborn he can be. Men!"

Wesley and Giles choke in unison and recover quickly.

"So you see," Giles goes on smoothly, "Wesley will be needed here, isn't that correct?"

"It looks like it," Wesley says. He raises his eyebrows. "Do let me see your gift list though; I'm sure Faith and I will want to commemorate the occasion appropriately."

There's half a moment's pause, enough time for her to start to wrinkle her brow then think about it. Unusually for Buffy, she takes the path of least resistance.

"That's cool. You and Faith grooving in Watcher/Slayer harmony. Like me and Giles." And her eyes flash with triumph as Giles makes a pleased noise and Wesley makes a mental note to do everything in his power to ensure that Buffy never finds out what happened at the cottage because hell really would be unleashed on earth.

"Well, I'm sure you and Giles have a lot of catching up to do and I need to -- do -- stuff."

They're not even listening to him but regarding each other with a steady, warm gaze and Wesley knows then that Xander will never have all of her heart, and it makes him feel sad and sorry for a man he never met and the boy he can barely remember.

"You should probably find Faith," Giles all but chirps. "Could you give her a hand with her evaluation reports?"

As he retraces his steps along the corridor, Wesley contemplates ducking out for the rest of the day. Faith's already in a filthy mood thanks to the return of the prodigal Slayer, but having to write reports on top of that may just push her over the edge completely.

A sense of duty -- or morbid curiosity -- drives him onward though and he pushes open the door to her small office and stands in the doorway watching her stab viciously at a piece of paper, a pen clutched in her hand like a stake.

"Is that an attempt at Braille?" he asks mildly.

The pen whizzes past his head fast enough that he wouldn't have been surprised to find it embedded, quivering in the wall when he turns his head, but it's simply landed on top of a filing cabinet and disappeared behind it.

"Not in the mood, Wes," she hisses. "Unless you've come to tell me she's caught some disease that means she'll need surgery to get that fucking grin wiped off her smug little face."

"She's happy," he says, closing the door and walking over to her. "In love."

He's taunted demons twice his size, whilst armed with nothing but a dagger, and been in less danger, but Faith's not the sort of girl a coward would bother falling in love with and he's well able to keep a cool smile on his face as he sits on her desk and waits for the explosion.

There's nothing too incendiary at first. She just snatches another pen from her drawer and prods at the paper with it.

She's muttering an invective under her breath that features the phrase "fucking bitch" with alarming regularity and he watches in fascination as the prodding becomes more frenzied and her voice gets louder and angrier.

"Always smells of fucking roses -- pulls shit on people and it's poor Buffy, she's so fucking conflicted and, like, all I have to do is, like, miss the trash can and I'm never fucking allowed to forget it. Couldn't even say sorry to me!"

The pen can't take it anymore and splinters under the force of being smashed against wood several times. She looks up at him and it's like he's falling seven years back into the past because there's a malicious, bright smile that doesn't go with the shadowed, hurt look in her eyes.

"Let it go, Faith," he says softly. "Let her go. She's in -- "

"Love," she spits out the word like it tastes rotten in her mouth. "Yeah, you already said that, Wes. With Xander fucking Harris, who I had first by the way."

There are icy fingers clutching at his heart. He knows that she's had other men, that she's had Harris. It's not as if he ever expected or wanted her to come to him untouched. It's the way she screws up her face every time she says the word. And he can't help picking at it like it's an oozing scab.

"There's nothing wrong with being in love."

"Yes there fucking is!" She out of the chair now, one knee up on the desk so she can gather up his shirt front in her fists and yes, he's in danger now and yes, he's bloody terrified. Words always hurt the worst. "We're Slayers. We're not made for love; we're made to fuck and fight and that's it and if you can't deal with that, Wes, then get the fuck out of here."

It takes him long seconds to prise her hands off him and walk to the door. He closes it behind him with a gentle click.

The worst part about it all, as he walks, numb and distant, to his office, is that she's absolutely right. Buffy has no business falling in love. Any of the times. As ever, Faith's the one setting the example of what a Slayer should be.

A weapon. A power in an endless battle, poured into a shell that ultimately, always, breaks and shatters.

Only the lineage is eternal. The girls themselves -- and he should call them 'women' but they're so young, all of them, so heartbreakingly young -- are mortal. Hard to kill, yes, but given what they do, the odds they face, they should count themselves lucky at the end of every night.

She's right to keep him at a distance, to refuse to commit. She has to stay focused; everything that gives her the strength of a Slayer is telling her that. Fight. Slay. Die. Nothing more.

And if her body, keyed-up and wired seeks release in sex, as violent and swift as the death her hands deal, then who is he to deny it her?

He's not been seeing her as his Slayer for weeks now. Just Faith. He's been letting her down, juggling his duty and his desires and never managing to keep both in the air.

He's failing her. Selfish.

He's so very fucked-up and he still can't stop loving her.

He sits at his desk for hours, ignoring the phone for a while and then sighing and going back to work because it's easier and right now he needs easy, needs simple. Requisition forms for weapons, training equipment --

Finally he squints blearily at an estimate for repairs to the training room wall, where a mounting has been ripped free. That had been Anna as he recalls, short and stocky and solid muscle, leaping for it and clinging as she swept her feet around and sent Faith flying, landing with a thud, a woosh and an admiring grin.

Surely it hadn't done this much damage, though? Frowning, he decides to check it out as his final task of the day.

As he approaches the training room, he can hear muffled thumps coming from behind the double doors and he slows down. Some of the younger girls can be a little self-conscious about their scrapes and tumbles.

"Why the fuck did you come back, B?"

"Oh, was I supposed to get written permission from you first, Faith?"

And there's another muffled thud, which actually sounds more like someone's head being smacked against the wall and he's running, in time to see Buffy pin Faith's flailing body to the ground and keep her there with some considerable effort.

He's just about to get his favourite shotgun and commit first degree murder, when he realises that Buffy is holding Faith off rather than trying to finish what she started a few months ago.

"I said I was sorry," she pants, clinging on as Faith bucks viciously beneath her and tries to get her legs free. "Even offered you congratulations on your new job so why are you being such a grade one pain in the ass?"

"Fuck you," Faith growls. "And fuck your bullshit congratulations." She wriggles free after digging her knees into Buffy's ribs and in a whirlwind of black cotton, gets Buffy in a vicious headlock.

He's standing there, rooted to the spot, not sure what to do. Whether he should help Faith because even he won't be able to sweet talk Giles into forgiving this. Or whether he should help Buffy because it seems as if Faith is about to pull her head free of her neck.

Buffy doesn't need his help though. She kicks Faith's legs out from under her and down they go again, Buffy on top. "Will you just stop and tell me what the matter is?"

"You, you're the matter." Faith's voice is choked, like she's holding back sobs which simply can't be the case. "Coming back here and saying you're in love. It's not fucking fair."

And she is crying. Stretched out on her back, fists balled into her eyes as she cries like her hearts being torn out of her chest.

"'Fair'?" Buffy sounds genuinely at a loss. "I don't -- God, Faith, you and Xander -- you're not -- oh God."

"What?" Bewilderment, then disgust, does a remarkable job of calming Faith down. Her hands drop away and she sniffs comprehensively and sits up with a tentative helping hand from Buffy. "You think this is because I've got the hots for Xander?"

"What's wrong with him?" Buffy snaps back, and it's all about to start again when Faith shrugs awkwardly.

"Nothing. He's kinda sweet. So not my type, but the guy's got guts and yeah, he's nice."

She's utterly sincere and Buffy, after searching her words for some hidden slight on her honey, relaxes and shrugs as well, a decidedly dreamy smile crossing her face. "More than nice."

"Yeah. I remember those bits." Faith's mouth purses in a frankly sensual pout.

Wesley quells the urge to howl with horrified laughter but Buffy, amazingly, takes no offence. There's even a wicked gleam in her eyes as she nods slowly and raises her eyebrows.

"So how does Wesley -- ?"

"Compare?" Faith shakes her head and Wesley's rooted to the spot, his nanny's words about eavesdroppers never hearing any good about themselves loud in his head. "Sorry, Buffy. Not gonna kiss and tell."

"So you have -- ?" There's a world of insinuation in her voice and Wesley finds himself thinking grimly that Giles really does need to have a word with --

"Oh, yeah." A deliciously dirty smile lights up Faith's face but then it fades. "Not like I'm getting any now, though."

Buffy's eyes are out on stalks. "Why not? Did Giles say something?"

Wesley thinks his blood must have instantaneously freeze-dried. Faith is unpredictable to say the least and this would be the killer blow, but she's shaking her head.

"Nah, he's been wicked supportive. It's just Wes -- he's -- " she tails off and stares at her hands.

"He's a what? A jerk?" Buffy supplies helpfully. "An idiot. A wannabe badass. I mean, the gun fixation alone." He knew there was a reason why he violently disliked the woman. Well, four reasons and counting.

"Worse than that." And his nanny was right. "Won't fuck me because he has this screwed up thing about love and how we're having this relationship."

"Well, aren't you? Jeez, sometimes you need to come with flashcards."

"We're Slayers, B, you got that memo, didn't you?" Faith snaps. "We've got a sacred birthright to kill the forces of darkness. Nothing about snuggling with your honey in the small print, last time I checked."

Buffy slowly gets to her feet and stretches then gives Faith what can only be described as a pitying look. "God, you're stupid," she says feelingly.

"Say what?" Faith demands, scrambling up in an instant.

"He's a Watcher. He's your Watcher," Buffy says. "He knows all about everything you are and everything you do."

"So?"

"So he's safe."

Safe? Wesley feels vaguely insulted.

"That's not a word I'd hang on Wes," Faith says indignantly, the little darling.

"Whatever," Buffy says. "He's not going to care that you could break him and he's not going to freak if you come home bloody. If you want to die and have no one care, keep on being the loner. If you want to grab a small slice of normal, stop fighting it and admit that you're in --"

"Don't say it," Faith warns her, shoving her face forward. "Warning you, B, just don't --"

Buffy rolls her eyes and flips shining hair back out of the way. "In love. With Wesley."

"In love. With Xander," Faith snarls and Wesley's back to feeling insulted again.

The eight words hang between them and they're glaring hot enough to melt steel when suddenly they start to smile and then giggle and by the time Wesley's turned to stalk away, stiff-backed with outrage mixed with hope, they're clinging to each other, laughing helplessly and hiccupping as they try and catch their breath in between gasped words like, 'English', 'demon magnet', 'bookworm' and 'donut-lover'.

There's a light drizzle misting the air as he steps outside and he walks for hours and wonders whether she'll come to him. Or if it still counts if he goes to her? Or if neither have them make the first move, can they still meet halfway?

And as he sits in an old timber and sawdust pub somewhere off the Strand, he knows that he doesn't want halfway. He wants everything and that will always be his curse. So if Buffy can't get through to her then he'll have to -- well, he's not sure exactly how but it involves a good length of enchanted chain and strict rations until she finally comes to her senses.

Somewhere between the third and fourth glass, he remembers that she never actually confirmed Buffy's snarky little affirmation and by the time he stumbles out into the rain-soaked night, he's full of whisky and despair, but certain that he'll take whatever crumbs she throws his way.

For one moment, he contemplates standing outside her dorm window and reciting sonnets but he's not so drunk that he doesn't recognize a spectacularly bad idea. Instead he crosses over the Strand, and starts walking home through Covent Garden.

Wesley turns into his street, hunched over the bag of chips he bought on Endell Street to stop them going soggy from anything other than the liberal amounts of vinegar he doused them in and at first he thinks it's just an apparition sitting on his doorstep. If it is an apparition, then it's a very wet, very pissed off one. Faith.

She's wearing the black dress she bought for their first date, which is clinging to her shivering skin. Her hair's in rats' tails and her mascara is running down her face along with the raindrops. He doesn't think she's ever looked more beautiful.

"Where the fuck have you been?" she starts with a snarl and then looks down at the bedraggled bunch of daisies clutched in her hand. Or maybe they were daisies in a past life. It's hard to tell. "Don't you ever switch on your goddamn phone, asshole?"

"I love you so much," he says in his head but it comes out as, "Phone?"

"Yes, phone," she says. "It rings, you answer, I get to be able to tell you -- "

"Tell me what?" he murmurs, entranced by the rivulets of rain running over her like silvered fingers.

She opens her mouth and he waits, distanced by the whisky and swaying slightly. Tell me, he commands her silently. I'm your Watcher and I order you to tell me, to tell --

"Wes, you are so fucking drunk."

"Indubitably," he replies smartly. "Tell me what?"

"You're making up words!" she says accusingly.

"No, I believe you'll find that one in the dictionary between 'intractable' and 'intransigent'."

Faith snorts. "I might not know what it means but I know my fucking ABCs. It comes before them, dumbass." She nods sharply, point proved. "Drunk as a skunk."

"Oops?" he offers.

"Buffy was right," she says and so he really must be that drunk. "You're a jerk. Stupid, drunk jerk."

"I stand guilty as charged," he says because he loves the way her eyes flash when she's mad at him.

"I've been waiting for, like, hours and I put on this lame dress and I even bought you flowers. Flowers!." Faith brandishes them in his face so the petals wilt and droop like water-logged confetti. "And I'm soaked to the fucking bone and you weren't here."

"What did you want to tell me?" he reminds her because she seems to be going off-topic.

Her eyelids flutter down and she twists her lips. "Stuff. I wanted to tell you stuff but you're probably too drunk to even hear me."

It's like pulling teeth with a pair of foam pliers. "What kind of stuff?"

There's just a shadow of a smile that makes him think that she's yanking his chain and having a bloody good time of it too. "The kinda stuff that's better said inside where it's warm." She prods his chest as punctuation. "And dry. And I don't have raindrops running down my ass crack. OK?"

He imagines plump drops of water sloping down the cleft of her arse, chasing them with his tongue --

"I said OK? God, give me your keys." She holds out her hand and he dutifully starts rummaging in his jacket pocket, grimacing apologetically when she rolls her eyes.

"Sorry, it's just the wool's rather damp and -- "

"Jesus, Wes," she hisses, yanking his hand out of his pocket so she can rummage herself. "I fucking love you, you fucking idiot. There! You happy now?"

"Yes," he says. "Oh, yes." Wesley looks around for a choir of cherubim to suddenly descend from the heavens and when none appear, he reaches out to touch Faith's hair but she ducks away from him.

"Nuh-huh, not so fast, mister," she snaps without an ounce of her usual venom. "I came up with my end of the deal now it's all official and coupley, can we just fuck already?"

"You didn't just say that so you could have your wicked way with me?" Wes asks and he's not entirely joking, as he stands there, chips forgotten, rain lashing down the back of his collar.

The look she gives him is half-exasperated, half-fond. "I'm not saying it again, Wes. Not until you're fucking me and then I can pretty much guarantee that I'm going to be screaming it. Now, c'mon, let's go inside and get naked."

He thinks about that, cursing every drop he's drunk. "Tomorrow?" he says regretfully. "I've had rather a lot of whisky. I'm quite pissed, you know."

Her hand reaches out and grabs his, tugging him towards the front door. "Fuck that. We've waited long enough."

He stares down at her, raindrops caught in the streetlight, flaring into a halo. "Worth it."

"Yeah." Her lips, cold and warming instantly as they touch his, curve in a smile. "Still going to fuck me right the hell now, Wes." She fits his keys into the lock and looks over her shoulder at him.

"Make love," he corrects her as the door opens and they stumble inside. "Call it making love."

"Whatever. We can make love and shit tomorrow," she insists as she tugs him up the stairs. "Right now I want to fuck. God, Wes, it's been weeks! Girl can only take so much."

They're already on his landing and she's looks fragile and soggy. Just a girl who's inexplicably tied his heart up in knots but then she shoves him up against the door of his flat with not even a fraction of the strength she's capable of so she can cup his face in her frozen hands and kiss him.

He doesn't even know how they get inside, just one moment his arms are full of Faith; the next he's spinning through space and collapsing on the sofa as she stands in front of him with a deadly intent look on her face and slowly begins to peel off her clothes.

It's not provocative, not some grind and shimmy of a striptease, just Faith ridding herself of her clothes because they're cold and wet and preventing him from seeing her beautiful flesh. She really was the most considerate, darling girl sometimes.

"Shower," she says, tossing the wet ends of her hair back so tiny droplets of water bounce off her breasts. "Get undressed and come join me." Then she leaves him gawping at the wiggle of her arse as she walks out of the room.

By the time he's stripped, undressing with clumsy, shaking fingers, the rush of the shower is all he can hear. He walks into a bathroom fragrant with soap-tinted steam and gets in beside her, gasping as the heat scalds him part-way to sobriety.

She turns, hair plastered to her head, her face bare of everything; makeup, defences, masks. Just Faith, eying him quizzically, then wrapping her arms around him and nuzzling in close. He squeezes her to him, feeling hot slippery skin against his chest and belly and the soft soaked fuzz of hair rubbing against his thigh.

She's very real for a dream girl, for a fantasy, knocking their knees together painfully as she squirms closer still, her fingers stroking his back in frantic spiralling circles as if she's checking that he's still as she remembered him. "Missed you," she says fiercely against his throat, the words choked and hard to hear.

"Oh God, Faith," he says. "You had me. I was always there."

"Not like this," she insists, tipping her head back so that she can start to kiss him, dotting the kisses randomly over his face and neck. "Want all of you, Wes. You know that."

And if she can feel that way, it's a mystery to him why she fought so hard against his insistence that without love they weren't having it all, but he's too happy -- and drunk -- to quibble.

"You've got me," he repeats. "I'm right here -- "

Her mouth fastens onto his in a greedy kiss, her tongue warmly slippery against his. "Yeah," she pants, her hand sliding down between them. "I noticed."

But even the best efforts of her quick fingers can't work against all that whisky and he's only half-hard, content to stand there with his eyes shut, warm water streaming over his rapidly thawing skin and have her hands on him.

"I did have rather a lot to drink," he mutters apologetically, cupping the weight of her breast in his palm and marvelling at the way her nipple hardens when he drags his thumb over it.

She bites her lip and tightens her grip, lengthening her strokes and realising that she's getting nowhere fast. "Just as well I love you, Wes," she hisses, reaching up to snag his earlobe with her teeth. "'Cause otherwise I'd make you sleep on the couch."

"But you're not going to?" It's too much effort to stand upright and Faith's doing a wonderful job of holding him up.

"Nope, guess not." She's switching off the water as he slumps forward so he can rest his head on her shoulder. "Though you totally deserve it."

He stumbles out of the shower cubicle and gropes for a towel. He seems to have lost the use of his opposable thumbs but he manages to drag the cloth round Faith, though it's a crime to cover up all that damp flesh. "I'll go down on you," he hears himself offer and his voice sounds like it's coming from a long way away. "I really want to, Faith, but I just need to lie down for a bit first."

"Yeah, yeah, Wes. Promises, promises."

If he squints over the top of her head, he can just makes out the edge of his bed. And if he takes one step forward and then another it works very well because it means he's getting nearer and nearer to his pillows. "Bed, Faith. Just for a second, please."

The room spins slightly as he hits the bed, but then Faith's wriggling free from the towel and holding his hand, anchoring him safely so he can close his eyes just for a second --

"Stupid, drunk jerk," she whispers almost tenderly and it's the last thing he can remember before he falls asleep.

He wakes in the night but he's too sleep-blurred to do more than stagger to the bathroom to pee, pinball-bouncing off the walls and collecting a few incipient bruises and a drowsy snarl from Faith. Sliding back in beside her, he's awake enough to feel astonished pleasure when she rolls over and drapes her arm across him. It's not entirely comfortable, but he sinks back into sleep with his hand resting on her hip, taking her into his dreams where she's been for so long now.

Waking is a series of stages, none of them as unpleasant as he deserves. His head is muzzy, and his mouth dry, but Faith's drooling onto the pillow next to him and by some miracle there's a glass of water by the bed flanked by two aspirin.

Touched by her forethought, he swallows the tablets and drains the glass, thinking with a glimmer of humour that if she offers to bring him breakfast in bed, he's calling Giles because she'd have to be under some magical influence or other to do that.

Rolling onto his side, propped up on an elbow, he lifts a strand of hair off her face and leans down to kiss the skin he's exposed. She tastes clean and soft against his lips and very edible.

Hmm.

With a careful, stealthy hand, he pushes back the covers, getting a protesting murmur as she curls up tight, but persisting until he can see her, naked, bare, his.

And he owes her something.

There's not much of her he can get to as she's doing a good impression of a ball but there's inches and inches of smooth, unblemished skin, pulled tight over the knobs of her spine and when he leans forward he can kiss each one.

She makes an agreeable little noise when he strokes his hand over her hip bone and uncoils herself slowly on to her back. Wes thinks he sees her eyelids flutter, a glimpse of sleepy brown eyes, but she just purses her lips slightly and either goes back to sleep or pretends to.

And like this he can see her breasts quivering gently with every breath she takes, nipples hardening as they're exposed to the air, even more so when he leans over and gently blows on them. Faith doesn't react, but well, it can't feel comfortable so he kisses one better. Then the other one, swirling his tongue softly over the tightly budded nipple because she's supposedly asleep and can't moan at him to do it harder.

When he drags his tongue down her stomach, he can feel the muscles trembling and knows from her hurried breaths, the quickening of her skin, that she's awake. But like the first time he touched her properly in that awful motel room, she keeps her eyes closed. And as his fingers trace patterns over the slight indentation of her belly, he allows her this indulgence, like he'll allow her so many more. Because maybe this is the only way she can be passive, to take rather than give.

Besides, it's going to be fun to see just how much she can take.

And as he reaches the apex of her thighs with his busy tongue and fingers, she arches up just a fraction. Wes grins as he plants a chaste kiss on her mound and carries on down her thighs so he can gently worry at the scar on her right knee with his teeth.

"No fucking way," she growls, sitting up so she can tug at his hair. "Back up, Wes, or we're gonna have a problem."

He squints up at her. "Good morning, Faith."

The painful grip on his hair notwithstanding, he's feeling decidedly chipper.

"Back up," she insists.

"All in good time," he says primly. "Now let go of my hair, please."

She releases him, lies back and her hand's burrowing between her legs in an instant as she gives him a challenging smile.

"Oh, do stop that," he says. "We've both had enough of that activity recently, haven't we?"

He knows he has. Night after night and sometimes in the day, locking himself in the small washroom adjoining his office, and jerking off, eyes wide, heart hammering, consumed with a need for her that nothing but she could quench.

Missed her? He's addicted to her and if she thinks he's rushing what should be savoured, she can bloody well think again.

She bites her lip and nods reluctantly. "Just don't want to wait, Wes," she whines.

His hands push her thighs open further and he stares meaningfully at her hand until it drifts away. "I suppose you were remarkably sweet last night," he muses.

She chuckles, deep and rich. "Sweet. Yeah, right."

He can't help it. He nuzzles into the damp heat between her legs, ravenous for the taste of her on his lips, the smell of her. "So sweet -- " he whispers, the words lost in her moan.

Faith's just starting to get aroused; the heart of her damp and pink and when he darts out his tongue he can feel her clit swell and throb against the tip. It's a fascinating sensation, like a tiny little time bomb ticking away, definitely worthy of further investigation. He spreads her legs further apart with a tight, almost bruising grip to see what will happen. Her clit gets harder and she's getting wetter especially when he presses his tongue firmly against it. Then she grunts and tries to grab at his hair again.

"Was a fucking angel last night, Wes," she reminds him, with an impatient little buck of her hips as punctuation.

He nips her inner thigh in rebuke. "All in good time," he drawls. "I'm conducting a controlled experiment and I would prefer not to go prematurely bald while I'm doing it."

"Whatever." She lets go of his hair reluctantly and settles back on the pillows. "C'mon then, Wes. Do your worst."

And he had a mind to tease her some more because he's missed those throaty, furious whimpers she makes, but her folds are coated in that sweet-sticky glaze and he has a perfect sense memory of the taste of her blossoming on his palate and he's sick to death of living on memories, Wesley slides his hand under her arse so he can urge her to lift her legs, hook them over his shoulders in an artless, desperate move and then he dips his head and begins to tongue her in earnest.

She groans out her approval, breathy little grunts of pleasure that leave him in no doubt that she's enjoying this. Slick and slippery and wide-open --  his cock's filling and hardening with every lap and drag of his tongue, every swallow that takes her taste inside him.

He glances up and watches her reach back, winding her fingers through the bars of the headboard as she had done with his hair, anchoring herself as her lower body twists and grinds against his face. Faith's heels drum against his back, but there's no impatience there, just an ache of need he wants to soothe and then reawaken over and over.

His tongue pushes up inside her cunt, into that grasping, greedy heat, fucking her slowly as she chants his name.

"Fuck, Wes, please -- " She sounds close to tears and he replaces his tongue with one, then two, no three fingers as her begging increases; frantic mewls that may be the sweetest sounds he's ever heard. Her cunt ripples round his fingers as he grazes her clit with his teeth, then bites down hard.

Faith's beautiful when she breaks. Her body arches upwards for an infinity; her toes dig into his shoulders but still she keeps pushing her soaked pussy against his busy fingers, his greedy mouth, because she's just as hungry as he is.

Faith stills for one second, legs sliding down, gives him a slightly dazed smile and then starts fucking herself on his fingers, which are still embedded deep in her cunt. Forcing them deeper still as she plants her feet firmly on the bed.

"You're so lovely," he says, kneeling back slightly so he can watch her spread out before his avaricious gaze, hand still busy between her legs.

"Yeah," she mutters in agreement. "Rub my clit -- harder."

He's not in the mood to argue.

His thumb strokes and presses against tender skin and she mewls and kicks and squirms for him, already starting the long climb up again. He'd give her that second release gladly but the demands of his own body, almost forgotten in the drive to make her come for him, suddenly make themselves known, insistent and persistent.

"Faith -- "

It's all he says, but it's enough. Her desire-smoked eyes sharpen with comprehension and she smiles. "Mm."

He's still kneeling and she wriggles free and turns onto her stomach, her head level with his up-thrust cock. The perfect curve of her back and the flare of her arse are temptingly close but he braces his hands on the bed, gasping as her tongue curls around his erection, wetting it, slicking it. She doesn't do it for long, butterfly flitting from licking to sucking to taking him deep, then back to teasing, light flickers of her tongue across the exposed, leaking head.

"Taste good, Wes," she murmurs.

It's his turn to slide his fingers roughly into hair. "I want to come inside you," he whispers.

She's straddling his knees before he's finished speaking, a sinuous slither that ends with the head of his cock nudging into her as she settles herself in place, admirable thigh muscles letting her hold position without more than a quiver. Then she leans forward a little and kisses him, messy and wet, their tongues sliding together as she slowly drops down, engulfing him inch by inch.

Wesley doesn't know how he managed to live without this. She's in his arms and on his mouth and he can feel her heart thudding away against his chest. But wonderful though all that is, it pales into insignificance compared to the feeling of her cunt's tight wet embrace.

"I missed you so much," he breathes, wrapping himself tighter round her and she gives him her crooked smile.

"Preaching to the choir, Wes. Wanna know how much I missed you?" She arches an eyebrow mischievously as the same time as she flexes around him and all he can do is nod dumbly because he doesn't think he's going to regain the power of speech. "Enough that I'll let you go on top."

And it's tempting to pin her down on the bed and fuck her so thoroughly that she'll always be his but he shakes his head. "I love you like this, so powerful -- "

She swoops down to take his mouth in a kiss that's as sweet as it is ferocious, swivelling her hips slowly all the while so he has to clutch at her helplessly. "Sit back then, Wes," she gasps, when they both have to come up for air. "Gonna go to work."

Faith starts off slow, rising and falling in a rhythm that's as old as creation, nuzzling at his neck on the downstroke, never taking her eyes off him; it's almost too intense and she begins to move faster when his hands slide down to cup her arse.

He can feel the muscles shift smoothly under his hands. She's got, he thinks, the most delicious backside and he's got fond, frustrated memories of her wiggling it him very often recently in a blatant attempt to wind him up.

"I promised myself I'd spank you," he says suddenly, remembering. "For teasing me so much. Don't let me forget."

That gets a gurgle of laughter out of her and a clench of her cunt that comes close to ending their encounter. "Wes, you loved it," she murmurs, running her finger down the bridge of his nose and tapping his lips. "You totally got off on how desperate I was."

"That won't save you, you know," he says, trying not to let his resolve melt.

She giggles again, leaning in to rub their noses together before the smile drops away and she frowns and bites her lip, holding in a small sound that once released is his name. "Wes--"

"God, yes," he says fervently, following her from laughter to lust without a backward glance.

She links their hands and grinds against him, her eyes glittering. "Want you. Want this."

Then they're straining together; a messy, graceless tangle of limbs, mouths too busy kissing for any more words.

Faith's barely rising up, more interested in sinking down on him, clasping his cock tight and they're so close now. Not just from his own quickening thrusts and the way she keeps grinding her clit against him but because nothing can come between them as they cling together on the bedsheet sea.

She quivers around him, leaning back, pulling him with her. "Fuck me, just fuck me."

He's on top of her, still in her, staring down at her as she arches her back and reaches between them so she can rub her clit and the sticky base of his cock as it emerges from her. Wesley grits his teeth and shuts his eyes because the sight of her is going to make him come undone long before she does.

His strokes get choppier, more urgent, shunting Faith up the bed, until he pins her wrists to stop her from shoving her head into the wall.

"Don't," he mumbles indistinctly. "Don't hurt yourself."

"Lovely man," she smiles, then goes rigid under him, eyes rolling back as if there was any doubt when she's bucking under him, her cunt clutching at him like a vise. Three more hard, quick thrusts and he can't leave her, buried balls deep in her, breathing her name as he spills inside her.

He's just getting his breath back when she pushes meaningfully at his shoulder. "Can't breathe," she mutters, sounding as drained as he is. Reluctantly, but giving into the inevitable, he pulls out and rolls to his back.

There's a moment and then she stirs and turns towards him, shifting closer and tugging at his arm until he raises it and she snuggles up against him. It's like enticing a strange cat over to get its chin tickled; he hardly dares to move in case he startles her back into her customary brusque dash for the bathroom.

"Cuddle me," she says indignantly after a few seconds have passed and he's still lying there, stiff in all places but one, his arm curved awkwardly around her. "Fuck, Wes -- "

And she starts to squirm away but he's grabbing her and doing it properly, wrapping himself around her and breathing kisses and nonsense into the damp silk of her hair as she sighs and strokes his back.

"Love you," she says and there's still a hint of defiance about it, as if she's saying the worst swear word she knows but he doesn't mind.



"Love you," she says, glancing over at the calendar she's pinned on the kitchen wall. "Hey, I'm over my quota for the week. Who'd a thunk it?"

Wesley raises his head from silent contemplation of his bowl of cereal and tries to look stern. She smiles back at him in the most infuriating fashion.

"It doesn't count when you're just saying it to be competitive," he rebukes her mildly. "I'm not taking you out for dinner."

"Oh suck it up, Wes," she drawls, sticking out his tongue. "Said it more times than you this week and you know it."

She's perched on one of their kitchen stools wearing nothing more than a pair of black knickers and that shit-eating grin. And once again, he's eating breakfast with an aching cock despite her best efforts the night before.

"Well, even if your declarations of love were completely believable, I can't take you to dinner with Giles away," he reminds her. "In case someone suddenly decides to unleash an apocalypse."

"You were both away once and the world didn't end," she reminds him, reaching out to steal a freeze-dried strawberry from his bowl and popping it into her mouth.

"I'm not so sure about that," Wesley says with feeling.

Her mouth twitches in a grin. "Wes, get over it. You two were hot. Got me going, you know?"

"Tell me what doesn't," he says sourly, plunging his spoon into the soggy flakes in his bowl. "And I'm completely over it. We were in a stressful situation; it was just -- one of those things." He warms to his theme. "Giles and I are both men of the world; neither of us were, well, that is, it wasn't the first time for either of us. With another man, I mean, not each other. But it's something that we've agreed to never discuss and I'm perfectly happy with that."

"Mm," she says cryptically, grabbing an apple and tearing at the green peel with her fingernail, exposing the white flesh. "You know, Wes, it's his birthday coming up and you don't have a clue what to get him."

"No."

He thinks he's starting to hyperventilate here because the idea's both tempting and terrible and if she's really got her heart set on it he's not sure either of them stand a chance.

"No?"

"No." He firms his lips. "It would be a very, very bad idea, Faith."

"Would be fun," she murmurs wistfully.

There's just the slightest grin tugging at her cheeks and enlightenment dawns. "You duplicitous, deceitful little tease --"

She's leaping off the stool shrieking as he starts to chase her, hampered by giggles. He catches her easily and slams her up against the fridge door, pinning her wrists above her head and dislodging half a dozen fridge magnets in the process.

"You," he says in a conversational tone of voice, "are going to be late for work. When your Watcher reprimands you, I trust that you'll be suitably contrite."

She squirms against him, shuddering and yelping as her bare flesh comes into contact with cold steel. "Wes -- "

"What?" he says, sliding his hands down her arms and bending to lick at a pink nipple.

"I love you."

He glances up and smiles. "I know," he says gently.


Return to Home

Click here if you'd like to send feedback