Chapter Two Hundred and Sixty

The next few days just blend together into this unpleasant gray miasma. She doesn't take any pleasure in anything. Even her mother's second-time-around sobriety and strangely optimistic demeanor starts to grate after the umpteenth "Faithy, honey, you've gotta get out of the house."

Something is seriously fucking wrong with a world where Darla's got her life more together than Faith does. And rather than coping with the problem head-on, Faith just slumps down on the couch, flipping channels and wondering how long it's going to take Wes to come back to her. In her Technicolor-bright version, it's just another day —two at the most— before he's on her doorstep wearing a dark suit, looking impeccable. He's brought flowers, expensive ones, and she doesn't say a word —just leads him up to her bedroom with the stupid slow leak and the stupid, childish posters. She undresses him slowly and he just lets her and when they make love it's languid and sweet.

But she knows, deep down, instinctively, that's not how it's going to go down.

As soon as Darla's out of the house in the morning, she gets the vodka out of the cupboard and starts the pity party over again. Funny how it gives everything this nice, fuzzy quality and she doesn't have to think too hard about anything.

She's right in the middle of the serious quandary of choosing between Springer and Judge Hatchet when the doorbell rings. Again, she quells the "Fuck off!" that she always seems to have at the ready these days, and shuffles blearily to the door.

"What do you want?" she snarls.

Once her eyes adjust to the sunlight she sees Holden's smiling face. Great, just what she fucking needs. God, you couldn't throw a fucking rock in this town without hitting an idiot.

"Hey, Faith. Got a package for you this time. Better than a manilla envelope any day, right? So, uh, how are you holding up, huh? Is there anything I can do?" He actually looks sincere. Well, bully for him.

She's still quelling the "Fuck off" that's been building and building, but she just smiles her best ingratiating smile and thanks him as sincerely as she can. Which is to say: not very. She scrawls her name on the little electronic pad, and he proffers a box at her.

She can see the gears turning in his optimistic little brain, searching the pitifully small amount of RAM for another conversational gambit, but she makes it easy for him by clutching the box and adding, "Thanks, Holden. I appreciate it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've gotta go."

He looks perplexed for a second, then laughs and says, "Well, OK, then. Call me if you need anything."

Was that some sort-of come-on? Whatever, dude, she thinks, practically slamming the door in his face. She retreats back into the house, incredibly curious about the box's contents and dying to open the damn thing. It's really fucking heavy, and she wonders what's in it. That's when she notices that it was sent from —the address label is written in a fussy, controlled script that she'd know anywhere.

So, yeah, not exactly the flowers she wanted. Just her life, once again reduced to a box of meaningless objects. And when she drops it with a resounding thud and starts to cry again —with these great, choking sobs that she's had enough of to last a fucking lifetime— she
wonders which one of them is more expert in betrayal.



"Do you want the good news or the bad news first?" The good news must be pretty good because Eve's practically glowing, beaming like she's just been crowned Miss America or something. Of course, it could just be that it’s Friday night and she’s got a hot date with that Mr. Gunn.

"Whaddaya think? The bad news, of course." She's still smarting big time from having every single one of her possessions from the office and the house mailed back, meticulously wrapped with what could only be seen as perverse care.

"Well, actually, it kind of goes better the other way around."

"Whatever, Eve. You're the one that studied rhetoric and all. Whatever works for you." Yeah, she'd actually paid attention during one of Wes' stories about law school, what was so surprising about that?

"Mr. Wyndam-Pryce is refusing to press charges. Which is kind of putting a crimp in Mr. Gunn's case, if you know what I mean."

"Yeah, I do know what you mean, it means you're out of this little pro bono gig without actually having to do anything. Or step foot in a courtroom with me again. Lucky you."

"See, Faith, that's where you're wrong. That would be the bad news."

"Ah, so I still have to go back to court then?"

"A formality, just you know, declare the charges null and void in the eyes of the law, that kind of thing." She flashes that goddamn Miss America smile again, like she can't wait for Faith to be out of mind and out of sight.

"Right."

"So, you know, be there Monday morning, 9am."

"Sure thing, I'll be there." She can't get out of there fast enough, and jumps to her feet as soon as it's clear she's been dismissed.

"Oh, and Faith?" The fake smile’s gone and Eve's got this weird look on her face, like the cat caught in the cream. "Mr. Wyndam-Pryce won't be there Monday. In case you wanted to thank him personally, seeing as I can't exactly forbid you from seeing him now... Just thought you might like to know."

Damn that bitch! She really was a freakin’ watered-down version of Lilah, wasn't she? Still, she didn't quite know how to deliver the put down with the right amount of bitchslap yet. Not even close. Which is why Faith just turns on her heel and marches right out of her office without a word.

"Hey, a thank you would be nice, Faith," Eve's reedy voice barely carries out into the hall, but she's long gone, skipping the sluggish elevators to take the stairs two at a time.



The way Faith sees it, standing out at the bus stop, the sun shining down on her for the first time in weeks, she’s got exactly three options. She could go home and celebrate with Darla, she could dig up Xander and go out for a night on the town, or she could take possibly the most ill-advised route, and find Wes.

Ok, yeah, it's not like the best idea she's ever had, but it's worth a shot. 'Cause if he's dropped the charges, he's not exactly fucking pissed off at her anymore, right? Maybe that ol' mercurial mood of his is starting to swing the other way, just a teensy bit. Just enough for her to get her foot in the door with a little conversation? There doesn't have to be anything physical. Not in the first fifteen minutes, anyway.


Naturally, she tries the office first, but strikes out. Not surprisingly, Harmony's of little to no help.

"Like, actually, Faith, he hasn't been in for days. Pretty much since I took your advice and offered him a you-know-what, remember? I was totally at the end of my rope! He kept slamming the door and he called me a... well never mind. Anyway I told him what you said, and he got that weird look on his face, like when I make the coffee?" Faith can't help but snicker at the thought that Wes' rictus of horror was pretty much plastered on any time Harmony was within like, a 10 foot radius even if she wasn’t burning the coffee or offering him blowjobs. "And then he just kind of disappeared. Has me call him at home if anything important goes down. That trick must have just worked for you, I guess. I still haven't figured out what to do to make him less grumpy."

Try getting a brain, moron, nearly pops out of her mouth, but she snaps it shut before she can actually say anything too horribly insulting. "Oh, okay, Harmony. Thanks!" And she's backing out the door as fast as possible trying to remember if the buses ran anywhere near his neighborhood.



It's not exactly the cheapest cab ride up the hill, she'd forgotten that. And shelling out the $20 from her own pocket, well, that's not exactly the most prudent use of her limited funds, but it's not like she doesn't have a plan. OK, not really a plan but maybe a little strategy that kind of solidified on the way there. And it all involves some nice flowers ('cause yeah, maybe she's the one who needs to show up with flowers in hand) and maybe a change in strategy.

She'd gone about it all wrong before, confronting him. Maybe it was time to appeal to him in their shared language and she wasn’t thinking of the one that had lead to screaming fights and black eyes. What she needed to be was more contrite; sorrier than just words. She would offer him her body -- he could punish her that way, make it right that way. And God, she hoped that'd work, 'cause frankly, it was kind of her last resort.

She was actually surprised she hadn't thought of that sooner. Though she knows that if he takes the bait, it's going to hurt. He's had days to think up inventive ways to punish her and she's sure he has.

Then she thinks of something he could do that's both the best and the worst way possible.

And there's no denying that the cold knot in the pit of her stomach is a tangled mass of both fear and outright lust.

Chapter Two Hundred and Sixty One

But it's not going to be that easy because even before she rings the doorbell, she can tell he's not there.

The house has got that locked-up tight feel about it and for one awful second, she wonders whether he's already left town. But no, this is Wes. He's got to cross the t's and dot the i's, pay off all those final bills and pack every single one of his gazillion glasses in newspaper and bubble wrap.

She gives it the old college try though, pressing on the doorbell and listening to it chime merrily away. Even peers through the keyhole of the heavy wooden door to see if he's passed out inside but she can't see jackshit, just darkness. And without the door codes, she can't even get into the garage to see if his car's still there. Then again, one thing he's taught her in spades is how to wait, so she plonks herself down on the doorstep, putting the flowers on the ground underneath her to keep them out of the sun.

Without her watch, which now she comes to think of it, has been sitting in the pawn shop for far longer than she ever got to wear it, it's hard to tell how long she sits there. She's glad that she managed to find the energy to not put on her jeans and whatever t-shirt happened to be lying on the floor when she got dressed this morning.

She's such a tragic little drama queen these days, that the thought of running into Lilah while she looked like she was auditioning for a part in The Beverly Hillbillies was too awful to even contemplate so she actually managed to wash her hair and get all spiffed up in a pencil skirt and her favourite polka-dot blouse. Still feels like shit though and as she takes a mirror out of her make-up bag, she realises that she still pretty much looks like it too.

It takes two application of panstick to hide the bags under her eyes and the faint yellow traces of the bruise on her cheek. By the time she's stroked on eyeliner and her favourite red lipstick (and the irony of it being called Harlot is not lost on her. Nope, inside she's fucking laughing her head off), she hears the distant rumble of a car coming up the hill.

And because there's nothing to come up the hill for unless it's to see the broken man who lives here, her heart is suddenly leaping up into her throat and she can feel her palms getting sweaty.

But the car isn't long and black and sleek and as she sees the blue and white fender of one of the local cabs come into view, her blood pressure is already lowering gently until the car sweeps into the driveway and stops a few feet away from her.

She's already scrambling up, clutching the flowers to her protectively as the door open and Wes climbs out.

He's drunk. She can tell that right away from the exaggerated care with which he shuts the door and extracts a handful of bills from his wallet to pay the driver. But as he straightens up and catches sight of her, the stubble covering his pallid skin, the puffiness of his bloodshot eyes tells her the rest.

His jaw tightens and the blank mask of his face gives way to this ugly, twisted fury and she thinks as he takes a step towards her that he's going to physically throw her into the back of the cab and give the driver a 100 bucks to drive her as far away as possible.

But the cab is already reversing down the drive and it's just the two of them, standing on the gravel unable to tear their eyes away from each other.

And it's so fucking stupid because she can't speak or move. Like, she doesn't even have the right to say his name any more. That she took for granted all the times when she could climb into his lap or wrap her arms around him or even just gently brush his shoulder with her hand as she walked past him. Now she's not allowed to even look at him so she drops her eyes and stares at the pointy toes of her kitten heels instead.

"What do you want?" His voice is dull but savage at the same time, which is a pretty fucking cool trick and he's jangling his door keys in one hand, like he's nervous. But most probably because he's sunk enough booze that it's seriously messed around with his motor skills.

There's a whole lot of things she wants and the list begins and ends with his arms around her and his voice whispering that everything – no, that him and her are – going to be OK.

She can't quite spit those words out of her mouth because her tongue seems to have turned into this dead, lumpy thing that's making speaking really hard. Instead she thrusts the flowers in his general direction, an already wilting bunch of daisies, even though he hasn't taken one step nearer to her.

"I got you these," she chokes out.

"Why?" He's not going to make this one little bit easier for her and there's no reason why he should.

He's edging closer to the door, eyeing her warily, and she knows he's wondering how he can get inside, get all that wood and stone in between them, without having to touch her. She plants herself firmly in his path and lifts her chin up.

"They're to say thank you for not pressing charges," she says, trying to look him right in the eye but it's not working because her gaze is all over him at once, drinking him in for the first time in days. And it doesn't matter that his shirt is rumpled and he looks like hell, he's in front of her and she doesn't know when she's gonna get another chance to just… do this - see him.

He doesn't say a fucking word, just raises an eyebrow skeptically and then comes right at her, keys poised so she automatically steps out of the way.

He's got the door open and he's just about to step inside, shut himself away and her hand is on his arm, chewed nails against the white cotton of his shirt.

"Wes, please…" Her fingers are curled and she can't let go, can feel him warm under her skin. "I know I can't explain, not how you want me to, and I can keep saying sorry but it's just words…"

And then 'cause the only thing more out of control than her stupidity is her fucking death wish, she's pressing her face to the tense line of his back, not caring that she's probably getting make-up all over his shirt and her arms are pulling him towards her, rigid but unresisting.

"Keep telling myself that I hate you," she mutters and he stiffens even more. "But I don't. I'm so fucking sad without you. I miss you, Wes. It's like I've got this ache right in my heart…"

It's all spilling out of her so fast, words tumbling from her mouth and he shakes loose of her grip and walks into the shadowy hall without ever looking back at her.

Her shoulder, her head, her everything is already drooping down to the ground until she realises that he hasn't slammed the door in her sorry face and it's simple enough to step over the threshold and follow him down the hall.

Chapter Two Hundred and Sixty Two

She’s still clutching the flowers and it’s out of the question to drop them on the polished hallway table, to shed petals slowly as he leaves them to wilt and wither, so she takes them with her as she follows him into the kitchen.

He’s by the sink, swallowing the last of a glass of water, and he doesn’t turn to look at her as she edges into the room, but he speaks.

“I don’t know why you’re here.”

It’s not a question; it’s not even a statement; it’s an admission, a confession even, and she has to bite hard on her lip to keep back the words she wants to say. But maybe there’s been too much of that, and if this is her last chance to reach him, she’d rather regret what she says than what she doesn’t.

“Yeah, you do. Because you’re smart, Wes, and even drunk you know I love you and I’m not going to just let you go without –”

“A fight?” he says tonelessly. “Haven’t we already done that?”

He turns, setting down the glass, and crosses his arms across his chest as though he needs a barrier between them.

“Guess we did. I’m not here for that.”

She dares to move a little closer, tossing the flowers onto the counter, though the table’s still between them so he can’t freak that she’s about to get inside his personal space, which, at this point, seems to be about a mile in diameter.

“Enlighten me,” he says, and it’s a pale imitation of his usual biting, sarcastic drawl, but it’s enough to make her swallow nervously.

“Can we – can we, like, sit down or something?”

He’s about to refuse, because if she sits, invited, she becomes a guest, and she’s guessing he wants her out of here fast and no fucking privileges, but he’s only standing straight because he’s got the counter at his back, and after a long moment he shrugs and leads her further into the house. She knows why he didn’t just drag out a kitchen chair; that would’ve put them too close, no matter which end of the table he chose; here in the front room he can take a chair that leaves her no option but the couch, a long stretch of carpet away.

She perches on the edge of it, feet tucked neatly to the side, hands in her lap, just as she used to sit when she was taking dictation, but there’s no pad and pencil to hold, just her own fingers, cool and damp, twisting nervously.

He’s giving her this bored, detached stare and it’s fucking intimidating but she’s seen him use it as a mask way too often for it to work as well as it used to.

“I meant it,” she says, forcing herself to start talking when all she wants to do is crawl over there and weep silently against his knee until his hand comes down to touch her hair and still her sobbing. “I wanted to say thanks.” She pauses. “Why did you – I mean, I told Eve what you wanted me to say, so –”

He lifts one hand and lets it fall back to the arm of the chair. “It’s quite simple. I realised that it would serve no useful purpose to pursue the case. The money was never the issue; your father’s beyond my reach, and that pathetic creature he enlisted to help him isn’t worth any effort.”

“And me?” she whispers. “What about me?”

“Tempting though it is to want to see you pay for your misdeeds, I think we both know that’s impossible without far too much light shed on aspects of my life I’d rather were kept private.”

The skin around his eyes tightens for a moment and she gets a look at the agony he’s been in, picturing himself exposed, open, vulnerable to a scrutiny that would be mocking at best. Word got out how he liked to play and she’s guessing in this town the shoulders would be turning, the fingers pointing... hell, he might even get the classic villagers with pitchforks and flaming torches storming his castle... not that the people here don’t have their own dirty, nasty little secrets, far worse than his...

He’ll do anything to keep that from happening, she thinks dully. Nothing to do with wanting to spare her. “That’s it? That’s the only reason?”

And she’s just handed him a knife and he gives it right back to her, slamming it home and twisting it viciously hard.

“What other possible – oh, Faith.” An eyebrow arches up and even drunk he can still pull off that little trick to perfection. “Were you feeling... protected? Cherished? Loved? So sorry.”

“Two weeks ago? Yes,” she says, refusing to flinch as he pours scorn over every word. “Now I just feel –” She glances to the side, her fingers clenching into fists. “Wes, I’m going to talk, and I want you to listen. You owe me that.”

“I owe you nothing,” he spits out and then gets himself under control though his eyes are hard, glinting with an anger just waiting to spill out. “You, on the other hand, owe me two thousand dollars, which I’ll let you get away with as you’re currently without means of support, and an apology, which you’re unable to make in the least convincing or adequate because what you did -” His voice; level, brittle, hard, cracks just a little, but he finishes his sentence. “It’s unforgivable.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” she says, helpless in the face of his bleak stare. He shakes his head and sighs, looking away, and this time the weariness doesn’t look fake. He’s at his limit; shoved there by so many nudges, so much pressure; every drink he’s swallowed, every memory of her that’s surfaced – and she’s not resenting the fact he sent back her stuff now, because it was probably killing him to look at it.

She’s running out of time.

“Wesley, I love you,” she says, and her voice steadies, though her hands are like ice. “I love you so fucking much I can’t stand it, not seeing you, not being with you... If I didn’t make you see that before – but you knew. You had to. You know everything about me. And when you said you loved me, that wasn’t a lie, so don’t even try to fucking deny it.” Her voice is starting to rise in the face of his stone-faced reception of her words. “And you know what? I’m not going to apologise. I’ve been through hell this past month and I was all by myself -”

“Which, let me remind you, was your choice,” he interrupts. “I believe I made it perfectly clear that you were to come to me, that I wished you to confide in me –”

“I was too ashamed!” The words fall into a silence that’s tight with tension and she leans back, running her hands through her hair. “Wesley, you’ve given me so much. I’m not talking about the clothes and stuff, you know I’m not. I’m talking about the way you made me feel –”

“How did I make you feel?” He sounds distantly curious as if the answer’s not really relevant to him.

“Special,” she says after a moment’s thought. “You were, like, a chance to be something else. Something better.”

His lips twist in something that shouldn’t be called a smile. “How very noble of me. And here I was thinking I was simply availing myself of your undeniable charms.”

“Wes, you fucking say that again, and look at me when you do it!” she demands furiously. “Because it’s not true! Never was, not even at the start.”

“Well, it was a little,” he says surprisingly. “I had no intention of falling in love with you, Faith. Or, to be more accurate, I’d ceased to believe it was an emotion of which I was capable.”

Only Wes can be that precise when he’s drunk, but his fingers are curled around the leather of the chair arm and his nails are digging in.

“Yeah, well it kinda snuck up on me, too,” she mutters. “But I did fall in love with you and it was working. For the first time in my stupid, pathetic life, I’d done something right. And then he called and I went and he had those –oh God, he had his hands all over them, spoiling it all, fucking it all up.” She takes a deep breath. “If I could’ve done it, I’d have killed him. I haven’t shed a single tear for him. He fucking tortured me with them and I couldn’t tell you, I just couldn’t.”

“Why?”

She’s gaping at him, struck dumb by the simplicity of his question.

“Why? I told you. I was –”

“Ashamed. Yes, so you said.” He frowns a little. “Of what you were doing? With me?”

“No! Christ, Wes, it’s not that! Not saying I want the whole world to know –” She sees his jaw tighten and hurries on, “- but I wouldn’t have told Xander if I felt that way. No; it’s –” She shakes her head in frustration, trying to find the words to explain. “I’m ashamed of my family,” she says quietly. “Always have been, ever since I can remember. Oh, Darla’s pulled out of the drinking right now and she’s been, well, she’s been nice, which is totally freaking me, but it doesn’t make up for –”

“Faith, I’m tired, I’m drunk and I’m not in the mood for a sob-story,” he says harshly. “If it will save time, I’ll grant that your motives in attempting to handle blackmail, extortion and fraud single-handed were well-meant, if hopelessly flawed. You’re stupid, not culpable. Are we done now?”

She’s left speechless for a moment. “No!”

“I thought it wouldn’t be that easy,” he says dryly.

“O.K, you tell me what’s pissed you off,” she snaps. “Because there’s something wrong,over and above all this shit.”

He smiles. “How very acutely observed.” He shrugs, “I’m afraid you have Lilah to thank for my mood being slightly less than pleasant.”

“What did she do now?” The words burst out of her, and she’s surprised at how bitter they sound. “And did she tell you she was the one pushing Liam to sue you, putting ideas in his tiny fucking head?”

“She touched briefly on her involvement when we met last week,” he says, “but today she was less inclined to propitiate me – I really was rather annoyed when I called on her – and more in the mood to gloat.”

She’s about to ask exactly what Lilah said that drove him out of the house and diving head-first into a bottle, but something occurs to her and she sits bolt-upright. “And if we’re talking about unforgivable,” she hisses, “mind telling me what the fuck you think you’re doing putting Harmony fucking Kendall in my seat, behind my desk?”

It’s his turn to give her an uncomprehending look and then it melts into a smile that makes her want to whimper with relief, because if he can look like that, maybe –

“Does that really bother you so much?”

She nods emphatically. “Really does, Wes.”

He purses his lips. “She’s the most incredibly stupid girl...” he muses. “Do you know what she offered to do –” The smile vanishes as his eyes narrow. “But of course you do,” he says silkily. “Because you told her to do it, didn’t you, Faith? Was that just, like, the best fun ever?”

And she’s not sure if he’s mimicking her or Harmony but he’s looking well and truly pissed.

“It was a joke!” she says. “I never thought even she’d be dumb enough to think I meant it. And I was – hurt.”

The animation vanishes from his face. “I really don’t see how it’s any of your business,” he says coldly. “You’re no longer in my employ.”

And that’s the first thing he’s said that hurts enough to make her eyes fill, because she might have loved being with him as his girlfriend, but she was fucking proud of being his secretary and he’s stripped that away from her without caring and for a second she hates him.

“Faith, if you cry, you leave,” he warns her. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Fine. I’m not crying. See?” She scrubs her hand across her eyes and shows him a dry hand. “No fucking tears.”

“Less swearing would be rather nice, too,” he says pointedly, and for a second he sounds like the old Wes, getting snarky over her appalling behaviour.

“Don’t push it, Wesley.”

“I rather think I’ll push as much as I fucking like,” he says deliberately. “My house, my rules. And my patience is nearly exhausted.”

“Yeah, funny that,” she says quietly. “Because usually when it’s a question of rules, you’ve got all the patience in the world.”

“Tell me what you want.”

“Besides you? Besides a second chance?”

“Yes,” he says flatly.

She stands up and there’s something – is it disappointment? – in his eyes. “You think I owe you. I think I’ll do anything it takes to get you back because I don’t have any pride when it comes to you, Wes.I’ll beg and I’ll kneel naked when I do it if that’s what you want, but I want you back. No - I want you to let me back in, instead of pushing me away like this. I didn’t betray you, what we had; everything I did was to protect you, but I guess you’re too angry to see it so I’m gonna help you.”

She starts to walk towards the door and he’s struggling to get up. “What are you doing?”

She’s running now, light-footed and fast, running up the stairs, and he’s closing on her so she runs faster, snatching at the handle to his bedroom door and running into the stale darkness of a room where the curtains have been left drawn for days and the bed’s a tangled mess of sheets.

She’s just got time to find what she wants, and she’s kneeling in front of the chest in the corner when his hand closes on her shoulder, fingers bruisingly tight as he snatches at her.

“What the hell are you doing?” he says, his voice bled dry of anything but anger. “How dare you come in here –”

And he’s dragging her up to her feet and she looks over his shoulder and sees what he’s trying to hide; the shirt, button missing, that she wore that first night – lying across the bed, crumpled by his hands.

She hadn’t needed anything to lend her strength because she’s so set on this nothing could stop her, but that gives her hope.

And it lets her meet his eyes, furious, blazing blue, scary eyes, and say softly. “I want you to punish me, Wesley. I want you to hurt me just as much as it takes for us to be even and then I want you to fucking hold me and kiss me and fuck me until I’ve made you believe I love you. Until you trust me again. You can do anything, Wesley. Anything you’ve dreamed up while you’ve been hating me, anything at all.”

She stretches out her hand, unwavering and steady, the switch lying across her palm.

“And I want you to use this.”

Chapter Two Hundred and Sixty Three

Maybe it's because she's been apart from him for so long, but every tiny movement, every tic, every mannerism is outsized and heartbreaking.

His eyes widen almost comically even as his mouth compresses into this thin, tight line before he snatches the switch away from her like it's a motherless child he's sworn to protect.

And then he does the one thing that she never expected him to. He starts laughing.

But it's not a happy sound, not an amused sound, when it's being wrenched out of him and his hand is on his chest, like it hurts.

"Lilah," he bites out. "It's really rather ironic. She seemed to think that a scenario like the one you're suggesting had already taken place and I was so overcome by the overwhelming charm of spanking you hard enough that you couldn't sit down for a month that I dropped the charges. Though, strangely, I find little comfort in the fact that you and my ex-wife think I'm so easily swayed."

"This has got nothing to do with Lilah. It's about giving me back all the pain I put you through. Making us even."

"You stupid, stupid, little girl," he says through his cat that got the canary grin. "You think it's that easy?"

And she tries to tell herself that she wanted this as he's pressed up against her with one step, his hands biting into her upper arms, the switch cutting into her bare flesh, so he can sear her flesh with angry eyes.

"I want things to be better," she cries helplessly, shifting tighter into him so nothing can come between them. "I want it to be like it was. Just do it, Wes. Hurt me like I hurt you…"

This is getting painfully familiar too – the way he suddenly gets all fucking mercurial, face crumpling, hands losing their grip so he can push her away so hard that she's stumbling, falling backwards until he yanks her upright again and then lets her go like he can't bear to touch her.

"If you knew how angry I was with you, if you could even begin to imagine… then you really wouldn't be putting such ridiculous ideas into my head," he spits out, crouching down to pick up the switch.

"It's not ridiculous," she insists, watching him place the thin length of wood back in the chest. "Not if it's what you need. If it makes you stop looking at me like I'm a piece of sh…"

"Don't," he mutters, sitting down heavily on the edge of the bed and rubbing a hand over his eyes like he hasn't slept in weeks. "Don't talk about yourself like that."

It's the easiest and most natural thing in the world to drop to her knees in front of him and clutch onto his hands so tightly that her knuckles are white from the effort to stop him shaking free.

"Listen to me. I'll do anything, Wes," she says and her voice has never sounded so deep and dark and desperate. "I'd let you lock me away from the rest of the world, keep me naked and I wouldn't speak, wouldn't do anything until you told me I could and then you'd know…"

"And what would I know, Faith?" he spits out. "Other than the fact that playing the martyr would only serve to make you feel better?"

She ignores that because it's kinda true even if it is kinda off message. And there's something else that's way truer than all the barriers he keeps trying to throw in front of her.

"You'd know that I love you," she says simply. "And if I thought that you didn't love me any more, that it was all completely fucked up between us, I'd go. I swear, Wes. I'd be out of that door and you'd never see me again."

The tears are spilling down her face now, which means he's gonna show her the exit pretty soon anyway but his hands have slackened so she can curl her fingers through his and she looks into his eyes so she can see his soul. But it's hard through the sheen of her tears.

"What makes you think I still love you?" he asks and there's a finality to it that has her crawling backwards to get away from all his rigid fury.

"You love me," she insists but it's coming out wrong because she's sobbing now, even though she promised she wouldn't. Because she breaks all her promises to him. "And nobody in the whole fucking world will ever love you as much as me."

He gets up so he can stand over her while she's crouched in a huddle of misery on his carpet. "I don't love you any more for the simple reason that you destroyed it with your lies. I gave you everything I could possibly give you and I got nothing back in return."

"I didn't ask you to keep buying me things…"

"It's not about the fucking money!" he roars and she's clamping her hands over her ears because he never shouts and swears and this is just a double whammy of agony. "I let you into my home, my heart," and his voice has dropped to a hoarse whisper. "I trusted you, Faith. And you took everything you could get your greedy little hands on and didn't give me anything of you in return."

"It's not true!" She's wrapped around his legs now, tear-soaked face upturned so she can stare at the granite lines of his blankest stare. "I tried to tell you a fucking million times but I loved you so much I didn't want to spoil what we had."

"I was a better fuck than those filthy little boys you used to pick up," he informs her harshly over her squeals of protest. "You're young and foolish, which is why you confused sex with someone who could actually make you come, with your immature notions of what love is. Now, get up."

He prizes her fingers away from his legs and she's so far gone now that just to have him leaning down, his face inches away from her, is all she needs to yank on his shirt, try to kiss him because then he'll know. Kisses don't lie.

Her lips bump against his in a clumsy mockery of what they used to have and he's flinging himself away from her.

"I love you. I fucking love you. Gonna keep on saying it 'til you believe me." And the part of her brain that was so set on being rational and calm is trying to bitch slap the other part of her brain which is stuck on the hysterical setting.

She hauls herself to her feet and stands there sucking in deep breaths which make her shudder. He's leaning against the wall looking ready to bolt if she makes any sudden movements.

"I'd like you to go and wash your face," he says calmly like he hasn't just cut her heart out and stamped all over it. "I'm going downstairs to call you a cab and then I hope that you have enough regard for me to believe me when I say that I don't want to see you again. Do I make myself clear, Faith?"

She nods because there's nothing left to say and already she's overcome with nostalgia. This is the last time he gives me an order. This is the last time he clarifies that order. This is the last time…



Just the sight of all those gleaming white tiles makes her cry again. Because even bathroom fittings can make her ache with all that she's lost. The sight of his shaving kit makes her moan out loud and she's glad that he walked out of the room before she came in here because he'd probably storm in and demand that she revoke it.

By the time she's splashed her face with cold water and got rid of the black streaks of eye make up that would win her first place in an Alice Cooper lookalike competition, she's back where she was when she first rang his doorbell.

The white-faced girl in the mirror lifts up her chin and fixes her with a steely glare. "You gonna let him feed you all that 'I don't love you' bullshit, Faithy?"

"He sounds like he means it."

"Then you're even more fucking dumb than you look. You can fix this. You have to fix this. Now get your ass downstairs and make it right."




He's waiting at the foot of the stairs for her, her Emily Strange backpack dangling from his fingers.

She's not even reached the bottom when he lifts his hand up so when she gets to the last step, he can tuck a loose strand of her hair behind her ear. It's a small gesture, one he's done a hundred times before, and it still makes her heart bang painfully against her chest but for a hundred different reasons.

"I'm so sorry, Faith," he murmurs and his eyes are the colour of bruises. "But I can't love you any more."

She takes her hands from behind her back and pushes the shirt with the button missing and the switch into his hands. "Yes, you can," she says.




It's a fucking great exit. Like, she's some chick from an old black and white film. It wasn't whiny or teary, just all kinds of sassy but with this heartfelt inner core.

And it wasn't fucking enough. She should have come down the stairs stark naked with Mr Bunny (who seems to have got lost in the move) clutched in her hand. Should have just bent naked over the hall table and begged him to hit her, to fuck her. Should have sucked him off so many times that he didn't have the strength to throw her out.

She's a weeping, wailing mess right on cue as the cab pulls into the kerb outside her house and the driver doesn't say anything as she fumbles with the door handle and practically falls out onto the sidewalk. Whatever Wes is paying the local car company it isn't enough.

Darla's still at work and her latest hiding place for the vodka is so lame that Faith's found it within five seconds. Like anyone but Darla would hide two bottles of Smirnoff in the breadbin that they never use.

She chugs down a quarter of the first bottle before she does anything else. The she's closing the drapes, stripping off her clothes and climbing into bed.

It takes a sleeping pill and a few more slugs before her sobs have muted down to a few faint whimpers and sleep is smoothing over all the jagged edges. She falls headfirst into its arms.

And then she's climbing out again to find the room pitch black because it's dark outside and the insistent ringing of her cell phone is stopping her from drifting off again.

It finally fucking stops and she's curling back under when it starts again. Stops. Starts. Stops. Starts, and then she's snaking out a hand and fumbling in her bag so she can tell whoever it is to go fuck themselves.

"What the…?"

"Faith."

If she lives to be a hundred, which is a moot point with her new life as an alcoholic pill popper already mapped out, no one says her name like him. Like it's a promise. Like it sounds so fucking good in his mouth.

"Wes?"

"Did I wake you up?"

He sounds different. Or rather he sounds the same, like he used to.

"Yeah, but it's OK. I should probably get up now anyway. Look, I'm sorry about…"

He sighs down the phone and she shuts up instantly. "It occurs to me, Faith, that I may have been hasty, and your tenacity is rather… endearing. Certainly, it's hard to ignore."

She's too fuddled with sleep to be anything other than grateful that he's talking to her so she can clutch the phone like it's a life-raft when she's been cast adrift in a sea of tangled, tear-stained sheets. "I'm so glad you called," she whispers. "I didn't want it to end like that."

"I have to know, Faith, if your offer was merely a gesture or a sincere attempt at reparation," he continues and she can feel every word vibrating with tension.

"I meant it," she slurs fiercely. "I want to hurt like you're hurt so we're the same again."

"It will hurt, Faith, which is why I'm only going to give you ten strokes as a gesture rather than a punishment. Ten strokes as a symbol of your contrition. No more, no less. And I want you to think about it very carefully before you agree."

She counts to thirty in her head so she can listen to the slight hitch in his breathing because she already knows what her answer is going to be.

"Yes, I want that, Wes. I know it's not going to make everything, like, magically…"

"Very well." He cuts right across her babble. "You're to get up and have a shower. Please ensure that you're perfectly smooth. Then I want you to dress in your work clothes. All your work clothes. I want your hair neatly pinned back, no make-up. I'll send a cab to pick you up in half an hour. Is there anything you'd like me to clarify?"

She's gone from the pits of despair to the penthouse suite of the Hope Hotel in two minutes and she can't hide the relief in her voice. "No, Wes. It's all fine."

There's a pause and then that fucking lovely drawl is back where it belongs. "I beg your pardon?"

"No, sir, I understand."

"That's very good, Faith," he practically purrs and she's smiling for the first time in days. "But I'll ask you again. Are you sure this is what you want?"

"It is. It really is."

"Then I advise you to start getting ready because the cab will be there in 28 minutes and I'll be most displeased if you're late."

Chapter Two Hundred and Sixty Four


The line goes silent and she just sits there for a moment —not moving, just listening to the strangely comforting, steady hum of the dead connection and trying to will her brain to work so she can start processing what the hell just happened.

28 minutes she's got to get out of bed, shower, get dressed —when fuck, she can barely scramble for the light switch before her poor head starts to protest. She's blinking furiously against the light, trying to coordinate her uncooperative limbs even though she can barely untangle herself from the sheets.

"Goddamnit! Fucking motherfucker," she mutters —as though getting the swearing out of her system now is gonna spare her ass later. She finally kicks aside the morass of sheets and quilt and succeeds in standing up, albeit with all the steadiness of a newborn foal. She still feels drunk, not to mention a little nauseous. She's placing a mental bet on the shower sobering her up or else she'll be in real fucking trouble. Lord knows she doesn't want to face a now-sober, angry Wes on a stomach filled with Liquor Barn's finest and little else.

The hot water feels good, though. She turns it up so it's nearly scalding-hot, which is damn effective at shocking her out of her alcohol haze. And yeah, that shade of pink it's coloring her is kinda familiar too. Her stomach is still in knots and unsettled but at least
she doesn't feel like she's going to hurl its paltry contents any longer.

So far, so good. Sorta. But now she's at the serious hand-eye coordination part of this enterprise, and she doesn't exactly have the steady hands of a surgeon. She does the best she can under the circumstances, with her pink Daisy razor and some foul-smelling fakey
raspberry-scented shaving cream that Darla must have bought (oh, how she loved the alcohol-cloaking scents). God, if the initial shock of the hot water hadn't sobered her up right quick, that stench would have.

She tries not to think of the care and deliberation he took doing the same task that first night she was in his house —or of the intent look on his face, followed by the slight softening of his features when he was finished and could finally look upon his handiwork. She doesn't have the luxury of enjoying it this evening —it's strictly a rush job, performed perfunctorily so she won't displease him. But really, she's
got so much else at stake that this is way down on her by-now epic
list of misdemeanors.

She turns off the water and forces herself out of the comforts of the shower. She's so fucking nervous but exhilarated too, and she feels even more so when she starts to step into her work uniform, which has been rendered unfamiliar with disuse. Her fingers skim over the collection of wool and silk and lace and she has to stop herself from being flooded with memories, good and bad. Again, she doesn't have the luxury. It's funny though, because for all her ambivalence about wearing them, she feels imbued with confidence from the moment she begins to carefully draw the nylon stockings over her calves, or when she smoothes the black dress over her body. She's no longer this
foolish, fucked-up girl; the woman she sees in the mirror is standing up straight and tall and looks like an Amazon, or a movie heroine from one of those snappy comedies from the thirties. She smiles for the first time in a long time, and this woman she barely recognizes smiles back.

She's his secretary again.

***

She can hear the fucking cab starting its infernal honking in front of the house. She barely has time to grab her purse, tuck an errant lock of hair behind her ear, and run out of the house —all done as quietly as possible so Darla doesn't wake up.

She runs down the steps to see a by-now familiar blue and white cab. Suddenly she feels more cheap hooker than elegant lady, but she's not going to let that keep the self-assured tone out of her voice when she gives the cabbie Wes' address.

"Right away."

It's a long trip down winding, dark roads, and even though she's slept fitfully if at all for the past few days, she's wide awake with anticipation now. She tries not to think about what's waiting for her, fixing her eyes on the faint glow of the new moon and the beautiful gnarled trees.

She kind-of zones out for a little while, in this little reverie, when the squeal of brakes snaps her out of it and she sees Wes' house. The second floor bedroom light is on, but the rest of the house is dark. There's a figure silhouetted in the window. When she gets out of the cab, the figure disappears.

She reaches into her bag and pulls out some cash for the driver. She doesn't have much, but it doesn't seem to matter, because he waves for her to put the money away. "I've been remunerated, thank you," he says politely. And she does a fucking double-take because since when do cabbies talk like Wes? Unless this was an hallucination and she'd actually banged her head getting out of the shower and was lying on the bathroom tiles at home, out cold. That would explain it, right?

But the cabbie seems real enough when he nods to her, then drives off down the road. She just stands there watching, like she's afraid to turn and face the house, knowing he's waiting for her there. And watching. She feels a sudden chill.

Where did all that confidence go? It was there —and now it's not.

"Pull it together, Faith," she mutters to herself as she squares her shoulders, straightens her back and turns with a look of determination towards the house.
 

Her hand reaches towards the bell, at the same at the outside light snaps on and she's standing there bathed in its luminous glow when he opens the door.

It's like the rumpled, whisky sour man from earlier never existed. He's impeccably dressed in his darkest grey suit. Shirt impossibly white, tie impossibly straight. He's shaved and if he looks a little pale, a little wary then she's not going to get too bogged down in the small print because he's making the effort to do this properly.

And it should be stupid that they have to dress themselves up in costume but it's not. Actually, it's kinda comforting because right away she knows that he's cast her as his leading lady for tonight anyway and all she needs to do is follow his directions.

"Faith," he says, like they've only just been introduced and his smile, 'cause this time round she's deemed worthy of his smile, is vague and impersonal. But it's still a smile. "Please come in."

Her heels click against the parquet in a steady rhythm as she follows him down the hall and into the study.

The smells of beeswax and old books, all that polished wood gleaming in the lamp light, the creak of his leather chair as he sits down – it's like she's come home. Even the switch placed diagonally across his blotter pad looks kind of welcoming and she can feel that familiar tingle of anticipation and fear and lust slowly unfurl in the pit of her belly.

His eyes are sweeping over her as she stands there, shoulders as far back as she can get them, hands neatly clasped together and he smiles properly now. The lines of his face ease away like someone's taken an eraser and rubbed out all the tension.

"I'm glad you came, Faith," he says softly. "And I'm glad that you've followed my instructions. I trust that you followed all my instructions?"

And it's easy because he's given her a script. "Yes, sir."

"Good, that's very good." His hands are stroking the thin length of the switch and she's sure that he doesn't even realise what he's doing but it's like she can feel the corresponding movements of his fingers on his skin, tracing the thrust of her breasts, the jut of her hips, the sweep of her spine. "I think it would be best if we established some ground rules first, though. Would you like to sit down?"

No she wouldn't. She likes standing in front of him, feet placed slightly apart, her posture picture perfect. "No, sir."

He gives her a thoughtful look then pushes the switch away from him, smiling slightly when her eyes follow the movement. "This isn't about apportioning blame, Faith. I'm sure that neither of us have any desire to rehash the whys and wherefores of recent events. Both of us have been thoughtless, lashed out at each other with accusations and insults, and there's no place for that any more."

She's nodding frantically because it makes sense and anyway she just wants to cut to the chase, feel the sting and burn of the switch and then his arms around her, his lips on her and his voice whispering in her ear that everything's going to be all right.

"I need you to obey me unquestioningly," he says abruptly, straightening up and fixing her with unwavering blue eyes. "You're to answer me with either, 'yes' or 'no'. And there's one other word I'll permit you to say; would you like to tell me what it is, Faith?"

"Neruda, sir," she whispers and she can't look at him now because she's remembering the only time she's ever had to use that word. And hey, isn't that funny? Because he used the switch then too.

"Ten strokes, Faith, and if you want to stop at any time, then I expect to hear the name of our favorite poet on your lips, yes?"

"Yes, sir." And she's smiling at him, surprises a sudden grin out of him too, because they have a favorite poet and they have lots of favorite things like doing the crossword in bed on Sundays and drinking red wine that costs more than $20 a bottle and holding each other after they've made love and they're both within touching distance of them again.

"Is there anything you'd like to ask me? Anything that needs clarifying?"

And she breaks out of her rigid posture, takes a step forwards and forgets about the 'yes sir', 'no sir", so she can murmur throatily: "Everything's gonna be like it was after this, isn't it? We'll be even?"

He swallows hard and it's so tempting to just fling herself at his feet, beg for forgiveness one more time but this way is better. It's both of them back in the game; ritual, rehearsal, routine.

"I hope so, Faith,” he says and there's a slight catch in his voice which makes her frown but the moment's gone because he's getting up and walking towards her and he's, yeah, God yeah, he's touching her. "Your hair, always so unruly," he says quietly, smoothing back the stray wisps that have escaped from the topknot which she'd assembled with more enthusiasm and hairpins than actual skill.

And from her hair, it's a short path for his fingers to take before he's tracing her cheekbones, feathering along the bridge of her nose until he sweeps his thumb across the curve of her bottom lip and she knows for certain that he still loves her.

She's opening her mouth, not even sure what she's going to say, but he taps her lips with a finger. "I didn't ask you a question, Faith, so there's no need to say anything." He takes a step away from her and folds his arms and he's hard and she's wet, soaked right through her black, satin panties but that doesn't really matter because he says, "I'd like you to take off all your clothes. Apart from your stockings and your shoes."

She can taste the tension in the room; it's thick and sweet. Because as she unzips and unclips and frees herself, he walks slowly around her, his eyes not missing a single inch of skin that's slowly revealed. He takes each piece of clothing from her; her dress, her corset and places them neatly across the back of a chair.

Sometimes she thinks that she's spent more time naked in front of him than she has dressed. But she's never felt this naked, like she's revealing herself to him for the very first time. And he's never seen her nipples peaked and aching, never seen the flush that pretties up her skin. He's clothed and she's half naked and it feels shockingly, excitingly different.

His fingers brush against the small of her back before they curl round the waistband of her panties. "Now these."

It's so quiet that she can hear the hitch in his breathing as clearly as a gunshot as she slowly pushes the black satin down over the curve of her ass, unpeels the material away from the wet heat of her cunt and slides them down her legs.

"Give them to me, please."

She bends over, legs braced and there's another tiny gasp from him before she straightens up and places the damp scrap of material into his outstretched hand. He gives them such a fond look, touches the strip of soaked satin that rested against her pussy before folding them up and placing them on top of the neat pile he's made.

He walks over to the desk and beckons her with one crooked finger. "Come here, Faith."

Her hips sway gently as she moves and it feels like she's wading through molasses. Takes her an age to get to him but then it seems like it takes her no time at all because the switch is in his hand and he's tapping it lightly against his palm, testing the springiness of the wood and she can't take her eyes off it.

"Look at me, Faith." And she said that she'd obey him so she tears her eyes away so all she can see is blue and he's never looked at her like that. Like, she's good and evil and all fucking points in between.

"Are you sure this is what you want?"

She's never been more sure of anything her whole sorry life. "Yes, sir."

The switch makes a hissing sound as it arcs through the air and lands in the centre of his palm. He flexes his fingers before he turns to her with a completely unfathomable expression on his face.

"Assume the position, Faith."

Chapter Two Hundred and Sixty Six

And is it so very wrong of her to hear those words as, ‘I love you’? She lets them warm her as she leans forward, as she’s done so many times for him, lets them ease this transition from expectant to waiting.

She knows exactly how he wants her, could move her feet to precisely the correct distance apart, arch her back just so, until her ass is curved, presented... but she doesn’t. Instead, she leans forward, forearms flat and fingers spread against the deep sheen of the wood, but she keeps her feet close together and her back straight.

It’s partly for him – Wesley won’t permit anything but a perfect stance, but he likes her to achieve it through his instructions – and partly for her, because she’s hoping –

Yes. There’s an impatient click of tongue against teeth and he’s crouching slightly and tapping his fingers against the tender skin just above the inside of her knee. Touching her.

“Wider than that, Faith,” he says in just the right tone of voice, a mixture of indulgence and irritation. She’s missed his orders, missed being told what to do so simply, so firmly, with no room left for her to argue or misunderstand. It’s what he does. He makes life simple, and she sighs out something that must sound enough like, ‘Yes, sir’, to pass muster.

His hand lingers against her leg as she edges her feet wider, placing them so that he’s left with nothing to do but straighten and say, with a harsher note now, as if he regrets that he allowed her that minor disobedience, “Have you forgotten how you’re to be when I discipline you, Faith?”

The edge of the desk digs into her stomach and the points of her hipbones as she achieves the desired position and she murmurs, “No, sir.”

“Good.” His voice softens for a second and she can feel his gaze skimming over her, from the smooth glide of her back to the upthrust curves of her ass and the long stretch of her legs, muscles taut to the point of pain because it’s not easy to hold this position and she can already feel the tension along her calves, the pressure against the soles of her feet.

The switch slashes down against her skin without warning, without giving her chance to prepare, and her body jerks and jolts awake in a rush of sensation. Pain, instant and immediate, splashes over her in a searing rush. She’s not sure if she speaks, if she cries out, because all she can hear, faint and far-away, is Wesley’s voice whispering ‘One’ with a calm that’s almost ominous.

She fights to breathe steadily, eyes open and fixed on the row of books on the wall behind his desk and waits for the second stroke, thinking that it won’t be as bad because now she knows, now she’s prepared...

The switch is laid across her skin, in exactly the same place as it hit, not a stroke because there’s absolutely no weight to it; he’s just resting it on her ass as he starts to speak.

And if she’d thought this would be over quickly, an intense minute or two, no more, she realizes she was wrong.

“That was your third stroke from this cane in all, wasn’t it, Faith?”

He waits and she swallows, trying to reach the words that are jumbled in her head. “Yes.”

“And now you’re remembering the other two, even though they were weeks ago.” His voice is still calm, each word deliberate, but he sounds almost dreamy as if he’s lost in memory too. “I always used to, anyway.” He moves his wrist and the switch slides away from the weal it’s left across her skin, caressing the unmarked flesh in a promise. “I’ve certainly never forgotten the first time this was used on me.”

Her fingers spread wider, clutching for support and finding none, and she can only listen because she’s not allowed to speak, though she’s fairly sure she’s permitted to scream.

“I was ten; deemed old enough to graduate to this form of chastisement. I’d – now what was it? – oh, yes, of course. It was the day I’d lost my nerve riding. I should have spurred my horse faster at the gate and I did the exact opposite, bringing the horse to his knees and sending me flying over his head to land in an ignominious heap. I don’t think father would have cared quite so much were it not for the fact I did it in front of his friends. He told me I was a coward for pulling the horse up – made me take that jump at a gallop over and over when I was able to sit a horse again -”

And she’s not seeing a small boy perched on top of a horse, reins wrapped around his hands, she’s seeing Wesley driving at a speed that would be near-suicidal if he wasn’t always so in control. Another tiny piece of the puzzle, another –

“Two.”

She cries out this time. It shouldn’t have been unexpected, but it was and she’s sobbing as she gulps air to replace the breath driven from her body with that fierce crack of wood against skin.

She hears him take a shuddering breath - and is that her name spoken faintly, whispered into the splintered silence? - and squeezes her eyes shut against the guilt that fills her. She’d suggested this and never thought how it would affect him, thought that she’d be the only one suffering. Thought, God, yes, that he’d even enjoy it... somehow she’s not so sure he is.

The switch isn’t touching her anywhere now; it’s hovering behind her, like a wasp about to sting, and she tries to concentrate so she’ll be ready. She thinks that’ll make it easier to bear, and she listens though the blood pounding in her ears, for the hiss of parted air that signals the down stroke.

It doesn’t come immediately. Instead she gets his fingertips trailing with a delicate touch across the two marks and no matter that the touch is so light it’s barely there, she’s whimpering, and half of that’s arousal because he’s taught her that pleasure follows pain, and her body, stupid, hopeful, starved, is clamoring for release.

As if he’s well aware of what she wants, his hand slips between her legs. “You’re so wet...” he murmurs. “Do you like this, then?”

And she’s expected to answer because he pauses the exploration of her slicked, swollen cunt and waits.

“I don’t know,” she says and really, she should’ve known that temporization would earn her instant retribution and his fingers disappear and the switch cuts into her a bare inch beneath the previous stroke.

“Three,” he says in an ice-edged voice. “Now answer me as I instructed you.”

And it’s not fair, because he knows not all questions fit the only answers he’s allowed her, but fairness isn’t a concept either of them is familiar with, so she tries to think.

And really, there’s only one answer after all, because though, yes, this isn’t something she wants the way she wants his hand on her, spanking her until she’s burning and hot, it’s going to get her Wesley back, so she says, “Yes!” and this time she hears the switch rushing at her and God, she was wrong, it’s worse, when she knows, because it takes an endless time to fall through the air, driven by every ounce of strength his arm possesses and there are three lines of agony throbbing away already and they hurt more when the fourth lands and this time she screams, a choking, raw-throated scream that smacks against the book-lined walls.

He waits until she’s silent, if gasping panting shudders count as silence, and says, “Four.”

And she starts to move then, in a protest that’s not about the pain but about the way his voice holds such a dark satisfaction now he’s got her to scream, curling in on herself in an instinctive need to hide, look smaller, so her hands come together, squeezed against her breasts and her legs are so tightly clenched against each other she can feel knee and ankle bones touch.

“How dare you move?” he whispers and there’s a menace to the way he says it that frightens her more than anything else. “Do you know what happens to boys who move?”

Boys? And she’s shaking her head as she tries to return to the correct position but her legs are trembling with strain and arching her back splits the skin on her ass in four places, she swears it does, and she moans in anguish.

“You –will –stay- still,” he says and the three strokes he gives her as he pants out the words send her into a place where there’s nothing but pain and there’s no room to scream but someone is.

And it must be her, because Wesley’s crying.

She struggles to turn her head and what she sees has her breaking position, and stumbling the three steps it takes to bring her to his side. He wards her off, one hand lifted and she freezes, hands falling back, dizzy with pain but not caring because Wesley’s hurting worse than she is.

He braces himself against the desk, one hand still clutching the switch and his head is bent down so she can’t see his expression but what she saw when she turned lets her guess. Tears spilling out, the grudging, difficult tears of a man, forced on him by a body with no other way to deal with the tumultuous emotions inside him. Lips tightly compressed but not tightly enough to stop the sounds that are welling up inside him and won’t be left unspoken.

Though they’re not words, not really, though she thinks she hears him whisper ‘no’ and she’s sure her name’s amongst the sounds, though it’s hard to tell.

She can’t leave him alone in whatever darkness has engulfed him and she tugs him up and into her arms, kissing him frantically until his mouth stops moving, stops shaping words she doesn’t want to hear and kisses her back; desperate, passionless kisses. His face is hot against hers but the hands that are cupping her face are icy and the inflexible length of the switch is between them still.

He calms enough to move back and stares at her with bewildered eyes. “Faith?”

“I’m so fucking sorry,” she says, “I’m so sorry, Wes.” She’s babbling apologies that stop meaning anything because his face closes up and he’s retreating again even as she watches. He pulls out a handkerchief, hesitates because for once they both need it, and then, with a hand that’s shaking slightly, he dries her face and hands it to her so she can blow her nose. Then he takes it back, finds a clean spot, and scrubs his face dry with a rough carelessness that’s foreign to him.

She’s expecting – oh, she doesn’t know what the fuck she expects but it’s not what she gets.

Three words, in so exact a replication of tone that she shivers.

“Assume the position.”

And she’s shaking her head, eyes wide in horror but he bends forward and kisses her, a hard, painful pressure. “Do it, Faith,” and it’s a plea she can’t ignore, impossible to refuse. She has to trust him, has to believe he knows what he’s doing, because it’s Wesley and he needs her, oh God, he needs her to have faith in him, the way no one ever has.

She turns away from him and her safe word’s filling her head, sounding so loud she must have said it, but his hands are on her, pushing her into position with a clumsy haste, so she can’t have.

Because if she’d said it, he’d stop, wouldn’t he? All this would end. But the desk’s against her skin again, fitting against the nascent bruises on her hips; her fingers are spread, her back is arched. It’s not over.

And her ass is something she doesn’t want to think about because it’s hurting so much she’s close to throwing up, hurting with a pain so intense and all encompassing now she’s bent over like this, that it’s unbearable.

“I’m going to ask you if you’re ready, Faith,” he says. “If there’s something you want to say. Remember what I told you you could say?”

And there’s a pleading note that she can’t understand because the room’s starting to gray out at the edges, shrink and shimmer as she blinks at the books she’s been staring at for ever and she’s doing it, isn’t she? Doing what he wants.

And he hasn’t really asked a question, so she doesn’t answer, and he sighs and whispers, in a low, dragging voice, “Are you ready to continue? For the next stroke?”

And her lips shape a word that’s got more than one syllable but that’s all they do, and when she speaks aloud she says, “Yes, Wesley,” and his name’s enough to make it easy, so that when the stroke lands and it’s a whisper-brush against her skin, no more, she cries out in shock, not relief.

“Eight,” he says, his voice wearied and full of a distaste she can’t understand. “Are you ready -?”

And she’s saying ‘yes’ before he’s finished and waiting, heart hammering because now the relief’s there, soothing her because it’s Wes and he’s found a way to finish this that doesn’t break the rules but doesn’t hurt her any more.

But the next feather-stroke doesn’t fall and she doesn’t dare turn to look, though she can feel the tension in him, because his hand’s stroking her tumbled, fallen hair, smoothing it off her burning face and his fingers are unsteady so he has to try again and again until it’s tucked behind her ear, lying against her back. Then the switch whistles through the air and she’s crying out in alarm but it pauses, with the savage cut halted inches from her skin, and she feels the cruel, soft tap and she’s crying because she’s not sure now – she doesn’t know – doesn’t trust –

“Nine.” And his voice is tight, achingly tight. “Faith, this can end. This should end. I don’t want –”

“Ask me.” She has to clear her throat and try again because that didn’t come out right, not at all. “Ask me, Wes.”

In a toneless whisper, he says, “Are you ready?” and she’s barely finished saying yes when she gets the final soft touch from the switch.

“Ten,” he says and it’s a disbelieving, furious question. “Ten fucking strokes and you never – why didn’t you -?” The switch hisses down, slamming into the desk, inches from her spread hand, marring the polished surface and making her whimper in shock and pull back her hand. Maybe he hadn’t hit her as hard as he could, because if he had, that would mean her skin was more than reddened, more than bruised...

He’s still talking, harsh, labored breaths punctuating the words. “You can’t –expect me not to – when you won’t - can’t know what you’ve done – no. No.”

She twists around too fast, crying out as the pain grabs and shakes her, and stares up at him, puzzled and confused. “Wes?”

He’s glaring at her as if he hates her and the switch is still in his hand. He sees her gaze drop to it and raises it to his face, the anger draining as he turns it to the light. “Your blood is on it,” he says, examining it with an odd, wondering curiosity, eyes wide as if he’s seeing nightmares. “It’ll need cleaning now.”

And when his face twists like that she knows she’s not the only one close to throwing up.

He walks over and places the switch back on the blotting pad and yeah, he’s right, she can see the dark flecks against the darker wood and she stands up, moving back from the desk, away from it, but not from him, and that grayness is back and her legs aren’t doing such a good job of holding her up, but her hand reaches out, groping for the edge of the desk, and that helps, a little.

He’s coming around the desk to her and there’s a sick, shamed look in his eyes that’s scaring her because it’s over, they can be happy now and he shouldn’t be looking like that. Why is he looking like that?

Some instinct makes her reach behind her and she touches wetness, sticky and warm. She doesn’t need to look at it to know what it is; his face tells her, horrified and guilty. She tries to tell him she doesn’t feel so good, but the words are lost in the roar and rush of blood in her head and it doesn’t matter; she knows he’ll catch her, because he always does.

Chapter Two Hundred and Sixty Seven


Everything’s dark for what seems like a long time. When she’s out, she’s out —dead to the world, a dead weight. She doesn’t dream, or think, or move. There’s just this pervasive quiet that’s wrapped around her like a cocoon.

When she finally starts to emerge, it’s a slow process. Her own limbs don’t seem to respond the way she wants them to, and the air feels heavy, making her feel as though she’s moving through quicksand. And when she tries to turn onto her back, she’s met with a searing pain that shoots through her like wildfire and jolts her awake.

She’s gasping from the pain, and thanks to the adrenalin rush her mind is racing even though she’s not yet fully awake. She’s trying desperately to remember where she is, and what happened, when an unsteady hand reaches out to still her.

“Stop that, Faith. I’m here.”

Right. She’s in Wes’ house and that should be — oh.

She remembers now.

One whisper is all it takes for the memories to start rushing back —fragments and flashes so vibrant that they almost seem unreal. But she knows better. She closes her tired eyes, hoping that’ll do the trick and banish them until she’s ready to deal. But she doesn’t have to make the effort, because that’s when his hands are turning her ever-so-gently back onto her stomach —and it’s such an incredible relief to have his hands upon her body again that she forgets everything but the immediacy of tactile sensation. It’s such a simple, caring gesture, but circumstance makes it complicated and bittersweet and God, it’s everything she wants. He’s touching her again, and she can’t contain the feeling. Tears are welling up in her eyes and she blinks them back furiously. She brushes the back of her hand over her eyes, and Wes notices.

“You need to stay still now, Faith,” he says somewhat tersely, before adding a ‘please’.

She’s going to obey, of course, not just because she’s beyond exhausted, but because he asked. She feels she owes him something —an explanation? Something. But her brain can’t seem to form anything even approaching coherent.

“Wes, I didn’t know —I mean, I didn’t mean to— didn’t want this to be—” And she’s so frustrated, wanting to explain to him why she thought this was going to make things right between them, when really it was the most fucked-up thing she could have asked of him. Why can’t she have the gift for distilling her jumbled, chaotic thoughts into one of those crystalline, perfect sentences that he seems to have perfected? It’s funny how far away from him that makes her feel –she’ll never have that assurance. But then she sneaks a sideways glance at him and it’s plain from his demeanor that he doesn’t have it either, not exactly. It’s a good front, but when it comes down to it, they’re a fucking matched set —broken beyond repair. And that’s another thought she’d like to banish for good. They can’t be, they can’t—

And he’s staring at some point on the wall beyond her, eyebrows knitted together and mouth down-turned. He opens his mouth to speak and closes it just as quickly. Finally he says, simply, “I know. You don’t need to say anything.” And he’s touching her again with tentative fingers and that’s enough. “If anything, I need to—”

It’s an effort to speak but she tells him, “No, you don’t. No.” She swallows audibly. She wants to say more but it doesn’t come. She tries to shift her position —she wants to be facing him— but she aches all over and there’s white-hot pain washing over her in waves. So she just lies there quietly and for a moment the silence between them is deafening.

“Wes?”

“Mm?”

“How long was I—?”

“Not long.”

“Would you—” She can barely force the words out, but then again, she can’t not say them. “Would you lie down with me? Please?” She doesn’t mean it to sound so childlike and needy, but she doesn’t have the reserves of strength to say it any other way.

This storm cloud passes over his features, for the briefest moment, and then he tries to school them into some semblance of neutrality. “No,” he says curtly, but then his expression softens and he adds, “I’d like to get you out of bed —see how bad that looks.”

How bad it—? Oh. She remembers that too.

She tries to lift her head, but the room starts spinning. She grabs hold of his arm in an effort to steady things. At least he doesn’t flinch from her grip like she’s a fucking leper. That’s got to count for something, right?

“Hmm. I think I should get some food in you before I try and clean you up.” It’s as though he’s thinking out loud, not talking to her at all.

Oh, no way. Not with the way her stomach's feeling now, like she's been out on a quintessential bender and heaved a technicolor rainbow in the ratty bathroom of a downtown club, the tile cold and sticky under her knees. Except she's pretty sure she hasn't puked yet... but if the room doesn't stop spinning like that, she can't promise anything.

"Can't eat. No way." At least that comes out somewhat succinctly.

He gets that look, the Don't mess with me, Faith, I know what's best for you look, lips pursed in a thin line of dismay. Like she's doing this just to be difficult or something.

"Perhaps just some dry toast..." He trails off when she screws up her face into a disgusted grimace. “You must eat something. You haven't eaten a proper meal in days, have you?"

Oh, yeah, she's forgotten about that. He knows the territory of her body all too well, knows when she hasn't been eating; knows what it means when the rounded contours of her hipbones are more pronounced, when her elbows are more knobby.

"Just the usual liquid diet, vodka and more vodka."

He's so obviously peeved at that response he doesn't even bother to cluck his tongue at her, or dish out any of those sweetly charming admonishments like before. He just looks darker —if that's possible. "You shouldn't drink like that." he eventually says, simply and tonelessly, looking at his hands.

"Yeah, well. They say it's genetic." Even through the bleary lens of pain and dehydration, she can’t help but be flip. The words are supposed to come out light, but instead they go over like a lead balloon. 'Cause he lets out the mother of all heavy sighs and curls his hand over her cheek, brushing her hair away.

"Have some water, at least."

She doesn't argue, considering her mouth is pretty nasty and pasty. Booze, tears, and not to mention getting so damn turned on — she’s so wrung dry it's amazing she's even managed to speak at all. So she just lets him tip her chin up to meet the lip of a small glass of cold water and tries not to gulp it down too quickly. Which isn’t too hard, because each swallow provoking the dull throb of every muscle below her waist into a sharp twisty stab of pain.

He doles out little sips for her, until he's satisfied that she's had enough, which, not surprisingly, is exactly right.

"Better?"

She licks her lips, slowly; raises her head again, slowly. The room's no longer revolving around her, and that's a relief. "Yeah, actually."

"Good. Have some more." She can tell it's taking every fucking square inch of his self-control to do this; his fingers twitch nervously against the glass. She can read his little signs too; she wants to remind him of that. Wants to tell him he doesn't need to make everything orderly now, but knows that would be like ripping a lifejacket off a drowning man and leaving him to founder in the waves.

It doesn't take as much effort this time to swallow each sip of water down, and he manages to get her to choke down a horse pill of a painkiller too. And she knows it can’t be kicking in that soon, but with each stroke of his hand against her hair or her flesh, every fingertip that grazes her cheek or traces the edge her lip, she's a little more relaxed, the knots in her stomach untangling and unclenching.

"Wouldn't mind that toast now, Wes." She smiles faintly, the thought of food much more promising now. "Gonna get crumbs in the bed, though."

He smiles for the first time in —well, forever, and her fucking wrung-out little heart does a leap. Flesh wounds make her really fucking sappy, apparently. Who knew?

“That doesn’t matter,” he tells her quietly, before getting up to fix her something. She closes her eyes and tries not to drift back to sleep.

Chapter Two Hundred and Sixty Eight

She can feel the warm waves of oblivion licking at the edges of her mind again and it takes all her energy to stretch out her hand and touch his leg where he's solid and real.

"Not gonna leave me," she mumbles and she doesn't care that it's not a question. Just a statement of fact. His warm hand covers her icy-cold fingers and she's clinging on with a strength she didn't know she had. "Don't leave me, Wes. Hate it."

"Just for a little while," he says and his voice sounds like it's coming from such a long way away. "I'm going to make you some toast."

But she can't let go because it always comes down to the simple truth that he's made her hurt in so many different way and only seven of them are responsible for the throbbing, seething mess of her ass, and he's the only one who can make the pain better.

"Just stay with me," she begs and she doesn't know exactly what she means either but he's gently uncurling her fingers from their death grip on his hand, bending his head to kiss each one when she whimpers.

She turns her face from him when he stands up but she can still hear his sigh as he walks across the room. "Try to stay awake, Faith," he advises her. "You'll feel better when you've eaten something," he adds doubtfully and then he's gone and she's not going to fall asleep because he's coming back and she needs to talk to him. Needs to make sure that everything's going to be OK. Needs to make him keep touching her and talking to…



"You need to wake up, Faith," says a voice in her ear and there's this feather-light touch on her neck, brushing her hair out of the way so she can open her eyes and stare up at him blearily.

"You came back?"

"I only went to the kitchen to get you some food," he says, just pissy enough to make her smile because he sounds almost normal. And she doesn't know what that pill was, but she reckons she could get $20 for it at the Alibi because it's seriously kicking in and her body’s so numb that she feels like she's been wrapped up in industrial-strength cotton wool.

"God, I feel so fucking out of it," she murmurs happily. "This is some serious shit you gave me."

He sits down next to her and she peers at the plate on his lap without much enthusiasm. He's made toast, buttered it, and cut it into tiny little pieces. Smells good, but she can't quite work out how to get them into her mouth and just thinking about it makes her head spin.

"Feed me," she says and she sounds so much like that freaky plant in Little Shop of Horrors that she starts giggling. "Feed me, Wes."

And he does, just like he's fed her so many times before. And even though the toast feels weird in her mouth and she's almost deafened by the sound of her chewing, he brushes the stray crumbs away from her mouth and tells her that she's a good girl and he's proud of her when she manages to clear the plate and take a few sips of the sweet tea that he's made.

"You're such a brave girl," he tells her softly, getting the intonation in his voice so right, so fucking tender that she doesn't protest when he gets up and leaves her again. It's gonna be all right 'cause he's only going to the bathroom and she can just about turn her head and see the shadows he's making as he moves across the floor.

When he comes back to her because she's singing her siren song of need, just by lying on his bed bleeding and needing him, he's carrying a basin in one hand and cradling a whole medicine cabinet of bandages, tubes and bottles against his chest.

She makes a sound of protest, because if there’s one thing a lifetime of bumps, bangs and crashes has taught her, it’s that nothing hurts more than the clean-up afterwards, and antiseptic anything stings like a bitch.

“Doesn’t hurt now, Wes,” she says. “Take it back. Take it all back.”

“I’ll take back the part about you being brave,” he says dryly and somehow that pushes the worry away. She might have woken up feeling as if her ass would never be the same again, but if Wes can be that snippy, it can’t be as bad as she thought. And it’s hard to remember the pain now. Hard to remember anything but the fact that she’s home again.

“You gonna tell me this’ll hurt you more than it hurts me?” she says in a voice that’s got more slur than snark to it. Her words have turned slippery-slick, like the last piece of pasta on the plate and she’s chasing them around and around and – “Oh, you fucking bastard!”

That was a mistake. His hand pauses so the cloth he’s holding, the drenched-in-acid cloth, drips liquid fire on her ass and takes her breath away.

“Wes!” She’s struggling, but he must have her tied up again because she can’t move. She squints at the headboard but, no, nothing’s attached to it. No Faith, spread-out and waiting. Then she realizes that her arms are folded beneath her chin and sighs.

“I’m not making sense,” she confides.

“You said I was a bastard. I think you’re remarkably lucid.”

He sounds resigned; his voice all flattened out, and it’s important to explain to him that he has to be happy, but that’s way too difficult so she gives up.

He brings the cloth back to her skin and now the first shock’s over it doesn’t feel as bad. She can feel tight skin loosen as he bathes it with lukewarm water and when she moans, his free hand comes to stroke her hair and curve reassuringly around her shoulder.

When he’s finished bathed her ass, taking away the dried-on tightness of something she’s not letting herself think about, he sets the bowl down on the bedside table.

“It’ll make a ring,” she says in a moment of clarity. “Need a coaster.”

He doesn’t even turn his head. “It doesn’t matter.” He twists the top off a bottle and tips it up into a square of gauze. She knows that smell. Oh, fuck, she hopes he can bear one more scream from her...

His hand slips past her ear and covers her mouth. Startled, she parts her lips and he wedges the side of his hand against her teeth. “Bite down,” he says tersely and fucking drenches her ass in mercurochrome.

She doesn’t take advantage of his invitation at first, because her mouth opens wide on a yell, but when her teeth snap back together, she gets a grunt of pain from him. Biting the hand that just fed her isn’t such a good idea though and she relaxes enough that he can draw his hand away, indented with her teeth-marks.

“They banned that stuff you know,” she mutters, blinking back tears.

“Unfortunately for you, I stocked up,” he says. “And that’s the worst over, Faith.”

It is, too. There’s the softest of dressings laid over her and taped in place and then he clears away the debris and comes back to sit beside her.

“Was I brave again?”

“Very much so,” he assures her, although it sounds mechanical.

“Then I get a kiss better?”

She’s able to watch his face close down and it’s fucking fascinating if you like that sort of thing.

“I think it’s been damaged enough for one night,” he says.

“Didn’t mean kiss me there,” she protests.

There’s a tiny hesitation and then he leans forward so his face is beside hers and kisses her lips, as if he knows – oh, of course he knows – that she doesn’t want his mouth anywhere but there. He pulls back and she gets strength from somewhere and shifts enough to free her hand, reaching out and grabbing his collar. “Again?” she pleads.

“How can you want me to kiss you?” he says sounding so fucking sorrowful it makes her next breath hurt.

“Don’t think I’d ever not want you to kiss me,” she whispers. “Early on, I’d dream about that as much as you fucking me.”

He swallows and brushes his lips against hers again, in a stiff, awkward parody of a kiss before pulling away from her. “I can’t,” he says. “Please, Faith.”

As she watches him in dreamy astonishment, he moves away, pushing up the pillows and leaning back against them, his eyes closed and his arms wrapped around his bent knees, folded tightly in on himself.

That’s... OK, that’s not good.

“Wesley?” she says cautiously. “I – I’m staying the night? You’re not going to make me go?”

It rouses him from his absorption, but his answer’s not what she was hoping for.

“If I sent you home now, I’d be both cruel and stupid,” he says. His gaze meets hers. “You’ll stay here until you’re well enough to go home.”

And that’s so silly, because she is home, and she’s not going anywhere if that’s where he’s sending her. It’s not often Wesley gets something wrong so she’s smiling with a drowsy satisfaction as she murmurs, “You got it wrong. All wrong.”

There’s a silence that’s loud enough to make her twist her head to catch sight of his face. His eyes are still closed, but his face is taut with strain and she doesn’t know why.

“I did, yes,” he says heavily. “I’m sorry. You’re being so very –” His eyes open suddenly and he says, “Promise me something?”

“Anything,” she says with as much eagerness as she can force into her words, which are starting to wriggle away from her again. God, she’s going to have to ask him to tie her to the bed, because she’s sure she’s floating and wouldn’t want to hit her ass with the ceiling, oh, no...

His hands slam down beside him, rocking the bed and making her whimper as her position shifts abruptly and her ass pays the price. “No! For God’s sake, Faith –”

And now she’s whimpering again, because he’s angry and that’s not fucking fair when she’d just been doing what he asked. “Why are you mad at me?” she asks in a stricken whisper.

“Because you’re not waiting to see what it is,” he says, going to his knees beside her. His hands are trembling and his voice is rough. “And you’re not to do that anymore, you understand?”

She can’t nod, not the way she’s placed, but she tries. “Yes, Wes, I won’t, I promise.” She frowns. Was that right? “No, Wes?” she adds uncertainly.

He sits back on his heels and looks up at the ceiling. “Oh, God,” he says quietly. “I can’t do this. Not tonight. Faith, we need to sleep. I’ll –”

“You’re not going!” she says, panicking. “Please, Wesley, please... you don’t know what it’s like trying to sleep without you. It’s horrible. I can’t do it again.”

“I know,” he says. “I know just what it’s like, Faith.” He hesitates. “I’m going to get changed. Try and sleep.”

He drapes the cashmere throw across her and she feels his hand linger against her arm as he tucks it in.

“You’re coming back?” she says, luxuriating in the feeling of being surrounded by something that’s got his scent on it.

“Yes.”

It’s all she needs to fall asleep.

Chapter Two Hundred and Sixty Nine

Jolting awake, on your stomach? So not cool. That's the first thought that crosses her mind minute her eyes snap open, quickly followed by do not scratch that itch, Faithy.

Better to get bearings first before making any hasty movements though, 'cause her ass, in addition to itching something wicked is also still home of the dull throb. That's not even factoring in the whole did someone kick me in the kidneys or what? feeling in her lower back. In short, she's pretty sure jumping out of bed and dashing to the bathroom is kind of out of the question. Which sucks, because she's really got the need.

She peers out of the folds of where the blanket meets the pillow. It's eerily silent in the house, even though sunlight is pouring through the gap between the curtains. There's no clanking of breakfast dishes, no whiff of coffee wafting upstairs.

Which is all understandable when she sees Wes is curled up on his side of the bed, about as far as he can get from her without sliding over the edge, and still sound asleep.

And that makes sense, because she's sure they didn't fall asleep —or well, she didn't fall asleep anyway - until the very tiniest hours of the morning. Her money's on the fact that he didn't exactly crash immediately after either— though that's mostly given away by the half-drained glass of scotch on his bedside table that she's pretty sure hadn't been there before.

She can't help but want to reach out and pull him closer, but she definitely doesn't want to wake him 'cause he really does look so damn pretty like this, even with the purple-dark circles under his eyes, the slightly etched crow's feet, the tiny lines pulling down the corners of his mouth. And it occurs to her: He's far off, out of the reach of her outstretched arm, because he didn't want to risk rolling on to her in the night, she's sure of it.

It's disgustingly endearing until the hazy memory of their last exchange flits through her memory. The tired, blunt words, exasperated and terse. But he'd said he knew. Knew about sleeping alone, knew he didn't want that anymore. That is what he'd said, wasn't it?

That nagging thought's forgotten when he sighs, eyes moving under their lids. He's dreaming, and she's all melty all over again. He's so rarely still, and it's even rarer that she's awake and he's not, even with the way she can coast in and out of sleep on a dime, that's canceled out by that miraculous teenage ability to sleep half the day away if she wants to. Which, yeah, she most often does.

Time's stretched out thin with long sweeping seconds and minutes full of memorizing every square inch of his face all over again. After a while, though, she's starting to telegraph wake-up vibes because damn, she'd sure love a good-morning kiss, some coffee, and maybe even a shower —even though a cranky pang of stiffness through her calves makes that last option seem more daunting than anything else. And even though she's remembering his reluctant kisses now and hopes that was just a last night thing and that maybe he'll be back, that they'll both be back to their normal selves when he wakes up.

Again, she fights the urge to reach out and touch him —to pull him close, tell him it’s going to be all right. On a more prosaic note, she’s gonna have to wake him soon because she’s reasonably sure she can’t get to the bathroom unassisted. How’s that for romantic?

She doesn’t shake him, just rolls gingerly onto her side and whispers in his ear. “Wes? You awake?”

He’s still curled on his side, eyelids twitching but otherwise there’s no sign that he can hear her.

“Wes? Wake up.” Louder this time. She doesn’t want to touch him —she’s just not ready to, not if she can help it. Why should wanting to reach out to him feel strangely like a temptation she needs to resist? That’s just —so fucked-up and weird. But she feels like, she wouldn’t just be reaching across the expanse of empty bed between them but this wide gulf of emotions so complex she doesn’t even want to start parsing them out. Can’t. Right now she just requires things to be simple and immediate.

She’s not sure why it’s this weird point of pride with her, but it is.

So, yeah. She’ll wait patiently if she has to.

But he starts to shift restlessly and she can see him struggling against waking up. Finally his eyes flutter open. He doesn’t say anything at first —just stares at the ceiling— and she wants to fill the silence.

“Hey,” she says, trying to sound more chipper than she feels.

Finally he turns to look at her. And she can’t breathe for a moment because he’s fixing her with that intense blue stare. Or maybe it’s just because that miracle-worker of a painkiller is finally wearing off…

She’s not sure what she expects him to say, but she’s surprised by his quiet “How are you feeling?” There’s an unusual tentativeness in his voice.

And the question is a relief, because it’s one she can answer —despite the fact that the inside of her mouth still feels like it’s made of cotton-wool.

“Okay. I mean, considering.” He flinches a little at that, and she starts to do the furious backpedaling. “I mean, better. I wouldn’t refuse another one of those pills, though.” ‘Cause, yeah, her ass is starting to throb in a soon-to-be-more-than-merely-unpleasant way. She looks at him somewhat imploringly. “And I really, really need to pee. So, like, could you—“

“Of course,” he replies curtly, not waiting for her to finish her question. She knows that his flash of annoyance isn’t because he doesn’t want to help her, but because her immediate neediness is another reminder of all the unspoken stuff between them. And they’re both exhausted, and the lack of solid sleep certainly isn’t helping matters.

He peels back the sheets so gently, wrapping his arms around her back, being careful not to touch anywhere that she might be sore. He gets her sitting up, which hurts like a bitch, but thankfully it’s only momentary as he pulls her cautiously onto her feet.

Chapter Two Hundred and Seventy

He shuffles and she hobbles and somehow they manage to get to the bathroom. Every step she takes sends a warning twinge across her buttocks and down her legs but she bites her lip and concentrates on what really hurts.

And that's his hand resting so lightly on the small of her back that she can barely feel it. It's the way he holds his body stiffly so no part of him can touch any part of hers that isn't strictly necessary and it's weird to have the cool tiles under her feet 'cause she fucking swears she's walking on egg shells.

He leads her over to the john and her bladder is sending such urgent messages to her brain that she practically skips the last few steps and plonks herself down on the seat with more haste than caution.

"Fucking son of a fucking bitch," she howls as the welts on her ass let her know exactly how pissed off they are and he's backing away so fast, he almost trips on the bathmat.

"Sorry," she hisses, gripping the seat with her hands and lifting herself up a couple of inches.

And why the fuck is she apologizing? OK, they don't pee in front of each other, which actually she's kinda glad about because Liam would always bust the lock on the bathroom door when he had a belly full of beer and someone had the nerve to be in the shower. That's when he didn't decide to just piss in the kitchen sink.

That repulsed expression on his face has got fuck all to do with the fact that she's hanging over the can and trying to relax all her muscles which are locked on the 'clench' setting so she can go. It's to do with her. That he doesn't want to look at her. Or touch her. Or speak to her because she's hurt him and he's hurt her back and now he can't get her out of his house because she's this gaping mass of cuts and mercy.

"C'mon, Faithy," she mumbles under her breath and he's sliding through the open door at twice the speed of light.

"I'll just… I'll just... go... somewhere," he stammers and she gives a little sigh of relief and pees for, like, fucking ever.

She manages to heave herself upright and stagger over to the bathtub. Her ass has quieted down to a mute roar and while a shower on even the gentlest setting is going to feel like stabbing needles, she reckons she can handle a bath.

She's just deciding whether to go with the bergamot bubble bath or the citrus, when he's back.

"What on earth are you doing?" he asks in an appalled voice. "Scented products are just going to aggravate… " He tails off and yeah, he's not looking at her just hurrying over to adjust the temperature because she's not even capable of running a bath without him.

"You don't need to do this," she says in a voice that only quavers a little. "I'm gonna have a bath and then I'm gonna go home. And I'm not saying that so you feel like you have to ask me to stay, just this is all so fucked up and neither of us know how to unfuck it and…"

For a second she thinks he's just going to ignore her. He's way too engrossed in rummaging around in the bathroom cabinet.

"You don't… I don't want you to go home," he says finally and he's looking at her now. Really looking at her as she clings to the towel rail and tries not to look completely pathetic. "I'd like you to stay and I'd appreciate the chance to make up in some small way for what happened last night. I'm sorry, Faith, so very sorry…"

And the weird thing is that she feels so naked in front of him that she has to yank a bath sheet from the rail and hold it in front of her. "You don't have anything to say sorry for, Wes, 'cause I'm fucking glad that you hurt me…"

His face is crumbling right before her eyes, like someone's swept the rug out from under him. "Please, Faith, don't…"

"No, Wes. Only thing I'm sorry about is that you ended up getting hurt again. So I've got a sore ass but it was worth it if you'd just fucking tell me that things are all right between us now."

"You're always so brave, Faith," he says gently, leaning over to turn off the taps. "Things are different between us now, but I still love you. I think I always shall."

And while she's reeling from that little announcement and trying to get her brain working on actually processing it, he's coming towards her and plucking the towel out of her hands then guiding her over to the tub, arm curved round her shoulder now, hand at her elbow.

Once she's settled on her tummy in the not too hot, not too cold, just about perfect bath, she rests her arms on the lip of the tub and gives a soft, little sigh as the water laps over her ass. "This is so nice."

He gives her a tentative smile and crouches down so their faces are almost level. "We'll have a wonderful weekend together, Faith," he promises. "I'm going to go out and get some food and you'll have to tell me what DVDs you'd like to watch because I'm sure my choices would be lamentable and then we can curl up in the den. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"So are we OK, Wes? Like, really OK?" she asks throatily.

The kiss that he presses against her mouth is sweet and lingering and when it's just a faded memory, she gets another one and another one. She gets his hands stroking the hair back from her face and she's been starved of his touch for so long that she closes her eyes, leans forward so the ends of her hair are trailing in the water and completely forgets what the question was.




There's another teeth-gritting session with the antiseptic and the dressings but then there's more toast and another mofo of a painkiller and she's drifting off to the sound of his voice telling her that he won't be long and that she's to phone him if she so much as gets a shiver.

It doesn't seem like she's shut her eyes for more than five minutes before he's back, lying on the bed next to her so she can nestle against him, head on his chest, and feel his arms around her.

"You should go back to sleep," he whispers.

She yawns in cooperation. "You could have a nap too and then when I wake up you'll still be here."

"I'm not going anywhere the whole weekend," he assures her, smoothing her hair behind her ears, fingers seeking out all the sore spots on her neck and rubbing them away. "And I bought you ice cream and also a quite revolting confection called a Ding Dong."

"What else did you get? Stinky cheese, I'll bet."

"I got all your least favourite stinky cheeses too including some Brie that's so ripe it will practically slide off the plate," he tells her and she can hear his smile. She doesn't know how they got here but they are here and she's starting to let herself hope that she's bled out enough pain for both of them.

Chapter Two Hundred and Seventy One

The house seems strange to her as he leads her through it, though nothing’s changed while she was away. Maybe it’s the faint layer of dust. He’s supporting her with his arm around her waist, more because the painkiller’s left her legs feeling wobbly than because she can’t walk alone. The bath’s helped and she’s starting to feel as if she’ll be able to sit on her ass before the day’s out, though that might be just the drugs talking.

He settles her in the den, lying on her side on the couch, with an assortment of cushions to support her head so she’s in the perfect position to watch TV, but when he offers to let her watch whatever she wants, she shakes her head.

“Just want you,” she says. “Missed you so fucking much, Wes...”

So he sits on the floor, leaning back on the footstool he’s placed at right-angles to the couch, so his head’s by hers, and she can kiss him and touch his face and just generally go to town. He lets her do everything she wants. Lets her push her hands through his hair and rumple it up. Lets her trace his eyebrows with lips and fingers, lets her follow the jerk up and down of his Adam’s apple as he swallows, lets her kiss him until she feels a twinge that’s a different sort of pain and slides her tongue into his mouth, tasting him.

His head jerks back and he’s looking at her all wide-eyed and she’s about ready to fucking cry because if she can’t even kiss him...

“Wesley –”

“I’ve been most remiss,” he says. “I promised you ice cream and failed to deliver.”

He stands up and he’s gone before she’s had time to finish telling him that she’s not fucking hungry for anything that isn’t Wes-flavored right now. Not that she’s up for more than kissing him. Not right now. But looks like she’s not even going to get that...

By the time he gets back with a bowl of Cherry Garcia big enough to make even her eye it nervously, she’s made up her mind. She lets him feed her some of it because it gets him close and he’s got that adorably intent look in his eyes as he fills the spoon with precisely the correct amount and gets it to her mouth without a single drip.

“Full now,” she says, batting her eyelashes in a way that should have had his eyes narrowing and his hand flexing, because they never did agree on when she’d had enough to eat.

He hesitates, staring at the half-full bowl and then sets it aside. “Then I’ll put on a movie, shall I?”

“No, you’ll stop avoiding anything like a conversation and talk to me,” she says. It’s not easy sounding determined when you’re lying down, naked except for a Wes T-shirt that’s way too big, but she manages it.

“Of course,” he says smoothly. “But perhaps that could wait until you’ve spoken to your mother?”

And just like that he’s deprived her of speech. Shit. It’s, like noon, and Darla would be freaking, because no way would she believe Faith had got up early, and –

“She’s working today,” she tells him. “Won’t have missed me. I’ll leave a message, tell her I’m –” She looks at him. “What shall I tell her, Wes?”

And that’s put him right back on the fucking spot and he’s squirming and flustered and she fucking hates it.

“You – that is –” He stands up abruptly. “Faith, it occurs to me that this situation is one you might feel tempted to take advantage of.”

She gives him a lazy smile. “Might do. And you just ended a sentence on a preppy-thingummy.”

His eyebrows shoot up faster than rockets on the Fourth of July. “Faith, if I might finish?”

It’s still not right, it’s still not his normal drawl, but she’s not inclined to criticize.

“Yes, Wesley,” she murmurs, all meek and mild again because she knows it’ll get her that look, yeah, that one where she starts to shiver and get wet on a good day, which this isn’t, but the general effect’s the same.

“I’ll be frank with you,” He folds his arms and stares down at her. “While you’ve been away I’ve had very little with which to occupy my time –” And, God, she wants to know every detail of how he did. “- so I fell victim to the allure of that time-waster.” He nods at the TV and she snickers, composing her face quickly as he glares. “As you’ve declined the chance to be the one to choose what we watch, I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with whatever I choose.”

He picks up the remote and presses buttons with a competence that proves he wasn’t lying. The screen goes green and she blinks at grass and a roaring crowd . “Wes? This is soccer.”

“Football,” he corrects her, shifting the footstool and sitting on it. “It’s coming up to the end of the season, so it’s all very exciting...” Someone hacks someone else on the shin and brings him down in a crumpled heap and Wesley gives an anguished squawk. “Dive! That was a bloody dive! Good Lord, is the ref blind?”

She’d like to think it was an act, but he knows the name of every player and he’s boringly detailed about just what the defense is doing wrong.

“Kinda had you down for a cricketer,” she murmurs when it goes to half-time and his absorbed interest flags, because no way, no how, can the commentators in the studio know any better than him.

“Father played cricket,” he says without turning, as if that answered her, which she guesses it does.

She wonders if Roger and Liam are sharing a hell and gets a kick out of the idea for about a second. Then she reaches out and kisses the back of his neck, making him shiver with surprise. “Is this a, like, really sadistic way of punishing me?”

He goes rigid. “What?”

“My ass is off-limits,” she says. “Least for a while. So you’re making me suffer this way? Gotta say you’re inventive.”

He turns and his eyes glint at her. “Watching football is not a punishment, Faith, and I’m hurt that you think I’d do that to you.” He grins.

“Yeah, well. If I've learned anything in my short time on this earth, it's that deep down all men really want is a few brewskis and a sport to watch. For you it's soccer...” He tries to interrupt, to correct her, but she plows on. “Next thing I know, you'll be sending me to the kitchen to grab you a fancy microbrewed beer and a bowl of peanuts.”

“Oh, would you mind...?” How the hell does he do that without cracking up? His voice is perfectly serious, but she can see the teasing glint in his eye.

“Always happens when the shoe's on the other foot, doesn't it?” She tries to keep a straight face too, but has a little more trouble with it. “Tired of being at my beck and call?” She tries not to think about the fact that he'd been more on the preemptive side, 'cause that would distract her from the fact that they're actually engaging in some freakin' banter, the lighthearted kind. For the first time in like, half a millennium.

“’Fraid so,” he says. “You really didn’t take advantage of it at all. Such a pity.” He smiles at her. “You know, you look very pretty in that shirt.”

“Oh please, don't even pull that line with me. Isn't there an oh-so-important game you should be watching?” She points to the screen, and sure enough, on cue, the players are returning to the field for the second half. “You'll get some of this action if your team wins. That seems fair, doesn't it?” It's hard to flip her hair over her shoulder coquettishly in this position, but she actually pulls off a pretty good approximation of that page from the naughty girl's playbook.

“Are you bargaining with me, Faith?” His eyes narrow suspiciously, but he's not cutting her off or shutting her off, so she blindly plunges forward.

“Maybe.” And the look on his face after that single word made her little gamble worth it. Oh yeah, it was nice to be back in familiar territory, even if they were standing on a shaky ground.

“I see.”

“If your team wins, I expect a cozy little make-out session, at the very least. But nothing too...”

“Strenuous.” He's not completely on board, she can tell. But he's trying, he really is.

“Right.”

“And if they lose...?”

“I have to... I mean you have to wait until tomorrow. Seems fair, right?”

And oh, he makes her wait even then, while he thinks it over, and she can't really tell if he's faking that indecision or if he's really not sure; she's almost kind of certain it's a little of both.

“Well, I can't deny that the thought of making you wait is always a pleasurable one...” There's a tiny crack in his voice as he trails off.

“But...?” He looks at her blankly. “C'mon Wes, I hear a 'but' coming...” She almost laughs at her unintentionally lame-ass pun, but he's got that distant, pained look again. Dammit, since when did he get an all-day ticket to ride the emotional roller coaster? That was her job.

He shakes his head, as if to clear away nagging inner voices or some cycle of circular reasoning.

“Right then, yes. It's a deal.” His smile is wan, but there're good intentions behind it. That's plain in his eyes, which as far as she know, could never really lie, or not convincingly, anyway.



It's funny how when you actually have a wager riding on something, it's suddenly much more interesting. Which is how she finds herself suddenly getting an impromptu lesson in football. Though he’s struck speechless when she asks which one’s David Beckham.

“He plays in Spain, for Real Madrid,” he hisses when he’s regained the power of snark. “Really, Faith!”

“Huh? But he’s English!”

He makes this strangled kind of gulping noise and then starts to laugh, and he won’t tell her why. His shoulders relax though and he reaches over to take her hand, holding it in his, with his thumb stroking it gently.

Until there’s nearly a goal by his team and he lunges forward to study the slo-mo as if the ball’s gonna go in if they slow it down and show it, like, five times.


It looks good at first, her team – yeah, his team's her team now, too – score a goal right off at the beginning of the half, and she's feeling very smug until one of the big goons in the back trips up one of the little skinny ones that do all the running, and Wesley's yelling a blue streak of profanities at the humorless referee on the screen, and there's players removed and a penalty kick and suddenly they're both silent, 'cause the score's flip-flopped, and the opposing team's gained the lead.

“There's not enough time for our guys to catch up, huh?” She tries not to sound too beat-up about it, but fails miserably.

He sighs heavily and strokes her hair out of where it's fallen over her eyes. “They could still pull it off. It's very unlikely, but I've seen some strange things happen in the last five minutes of a game.” He doesn't sound very convinced either.

She's not sure how five minutes can stretch into twenty, but they do. Added time for stoppages, whatever the hell that means, and then it's all over.

“Tomorrow it is, then,” she says. “Sorry they didn't win.”

He puts up a brave little half-smile, leaning over to kiss her. She's expecting another chaste brush of his lips over hers, and she's pretty sure it surprises both of them when it's anything but that. She's breathless and wild-eyed when they pull apart, searching his face for any clue, any indication of what it was that had changed the tide.

“Tomorrow then.” he says with an enigmatic smile that tells her everything and nothing.

Chapter Two Hundred and Seventy Two

And she pauses for as moment —just to stare at him, trying desperately to figure out what it is that’s going on in his head because it sure as hell isn’t clear to her. She suddenly remembers this old saying of her grandmother’s, “You’d make a better door than a window,” and yeah, that describes Wes to a fucking T. It’s also just about the only funny thing her grandmother ever said. But it’s not so funny in this context, really. ‘Cause she’s mystified and a little scared and she wants things right again but doesn’t have a fucking clue where to start. And, sure, maybe watching some silly game on TV is a pretty good one, but it’s not a means to an end.

“Turn the TV off,” she says suddenly.

“What? I thought— if you’d rather watch something else, I can—” He reaches for the remote.

She shakes her head vigorously. “No, Wes, that’s not it.” She squares him with an intense look she’s seen him give her a million times. It seems to have the desired affect, because he drops the remote and gives her his full attention.

“You don’t have to do this, you know? Don’t have to — indulge me. Or whatever this is. I mean, I appreciate it. And, like, my ass appreciates it.” She giggles. “And you’ve been so sweet. But, like, I don’t know how to—“ She stops, frustrated by the imprecision of her words. Instead, she reaches out to touch his face, and, to her surprise, he leans into her hand. She closes her eyes. “Just want that, Wes.”

“I know,” he whispers. He’s got this faraway look in his eyes as he says it and it’s not reassuring her.

“We can just be quiet, just —here.” Again, she’s not even sure if that’s what she wants to say. But then. there’s just too much to say and it’s like this all or nothing proposition. She doesn’t want it to all to spill out in this flood because she’ll fuck everything up somehow, make it all worse. She doesn’t trust words like he does.

She raises her other hand to his cheek, pulls him close. It might as well be their first kiss ‘cause she’s got these butterflies in her stomach. She looks at him from under her lashes. “Nothing says we have to wait until tomorrow.”

“Are you saying that rules are made to be broken, Faith? Because that’s a position that would require vigorous defense.”

He sounds so much like the Wes of old, like her Wes right then —voice all velvety, dark promise, that she tries not to squirm, because she knows damn well her ass is going to protest. “Yeah, well —maybe? This one time. Special, uh, circumstances?” she queries, flashing him her most enigmatic smile. Like, she could give the Mona Lisa pointers.

“By that standard, they’re all arbitrary.” So now he doesn’t look like he’s going to kiss her anymore, but rather like he’s ready to lecture her on the casual flaunting of rules, which they’ve covered, like, three million times.

She’s not going to let that happen. She shakes her head in frustration. “Dammit, no. I mean, this is all just —it’s like when you’re little, and you have to go to bed and you don’t want to. So you ask for a glass of milk. Once you drink all your milk, you ask for a cookie. And after the cookie you want some more milk. And by that point it’s like an hour past your bedtime.” She pauses. “That’s us.”

Now he looks really fucking bemused. “We’re up past our bedtime?”

She sighs. “I know this is gonna be a slow process, Wes, but I just don’t want you to think…” She kisses him lightly, cautiously, and then again, with more feeling behind it. “Not gonna break, Wes,” she whispers. “I promise.”

“Don’t promise,” he whispers back, and sounds so solemn, all trace of amusement gone in a flash.

She leans against the cushions and pillows that are propping her up. “What else am I supposed to do, Wes? I don’t know. Tell me.”

He looks as unsure of the answer as she does. And his silence isn’t fucking helping. And then another, possibly ill-advised, question is out of her mouth before she can stop it.

“Why’d you go to my father’s funeral?”

For a moment it just hangs there, unanswered in the silence. She tries to cover up with a breathless rush of words. “Knocked the breath out of me to see you standing there, really did. Then Xander had to go and fuck it up.” She smiles sadly. “Maybe that was for the best, though, y’know? If you’d come over to me I think I really would have lost it. Not over Liam, but just from seeing you there, when I thought— I thought you hated me. Thought you were going to leave without—”

He cuts her off abruptly. “I had no intention of saying a word to you.” He looks right at her when he says it and she can’t breathe again.

“Then why—?” It’s hurtful, yes, more than she can say, but she needs to hear it. She blinks back the tears and holds onto him because it’s all she can do.

There’s silence again, but she can see him, frowning, trying in vain to put this into words.

“I didn’t go to my father’s funeral,” he begins, but that’s not the explanation, just a statement of fact. “When he sent me away it was a relief, in a way. It was deeply cowardly of me, but I was glad to have an out, some reason I didn’t have to deal with my familial obligations,” he says in a voice dripping with derision. “I didn’t understand them and they certainly didn’t understand me. Leaving, cutting all my ties to them —wasn’t it just easier that way?” He sighs heavily. “I thought so. And all that drinking I did certainly made the decision easier. I couldn’t wait to have an ocean separating us from one another.”

He halts again, but she squeezes his hand by way of encouragement.

“My mother tried to reach me, many times. I didn’t answer her calls, sent all her letters back unopened. Knew that if I heard her voice, even once, my resolve would weaken. I was too angry to let that happen.”

“I know what that’s like, Wes, you shouldn’t feel ashamed—”

“Ashamed? I wasn’t ashamed. I was deeply arrogant, and younger than my years. I thought the path of least resistance was the best thing for everyone. It was quiet that way, discreet. And I was content with being the black sheep of the family, the one talked about in hushed tones, the one who got away.”

His face looks strained, weary. She knows how difficult this is for him, which doesn’t make it any easier to watch. “I didn’t call her even when I knew he was dying. She wanted me to be there, at his side, even if he didn’t. Maybe he did and was too stubborn and proud to ask her.” He pauses for breath, for composure. “I couldn’t go. Couldn’t see him in the end. Couldn’t face putting up this great façade of caring when I wasn’t at all sorry to see him go. Didn’t want to lie to family friends —gritting my teeth and paying lip service to grief I didn’t feel. I certainly didn’t want to listen to my father’s colleagues, ruddy-faced and tipsy on port, reminiscing drunkenly, their nostalgia like so much salt in a wound.”

He turns to look at her, and lets her see all the regret he’s feeling. “But I left her to face all of it alone. That’s the one thing I can’t forgive myself for.” He’s hurting, but she’s almost afraid to touch him again for fear she’ll break the spell, make him go silent. “She never called me again.”

It’s all he wants to say and once she realizes that, it’s easy to shift forward and put her arms around him, hugging him with a grip so fierce he yelps a little.

“Sorry. It’s just–” She relaxes her hold on him and gives him a smile that’s wobbly because she thinks she’s about to burst into fucking tears or something. “Wes, you break my heart, you know that? You’ve just —all this shit that’s happened to you and you’ve had to deal all by yourself. Me, I’ve always had someone. Xander, and these days, Darla—which still feels majorly weird—” She takes a breath. “And now you, most of all. God, I’ve cried on you so often—”

He disengages her arms from around his neck and somehow they end up holding hands. When he does that it’s almost like being kissed, because his hands are warm and strong and God, what haven’t they done to her?

“So going to my dad’s funeral kinda made up for missing your father’s?” she asks, a little doubtfully.

His lips quirk in a rueful smile. “Not exactly. If I told you I wanted to make sure the bastard was dead, would that anger you?”

She grins. “Think that just puts you in the same boat as half of the people who showed,” she confides. “Including me.”

He stands up, letting her hands go with a swift, reassuring squeeze. “Wait here.”

“Like I can do anything else?” she says, but he’s already gone. She tries moving as soon as he’s disappeared up the stairs, and it’s not too bad. With a caution that proves to be unneeded, she sits up, after making a nest of the softest pillows to cushion her ass. It’s not
totally comfortable, but being able to sit up is worth it.

Wes comes back with two crystal tumblers, each holding an inch of whiskey. “Faith, you weren’t to move!” he snaps and it’s kinda funny how, when he doesn’t think about it, he drops right back into the good old ways.

“It’s fine, doesn’t hurt,” she tells him. “And you look weird sideways. It was giving me a headache.”

He purses his lips and, ‘cause this is still a freaky day, lets her get away with it. “Well, if you’re certain you’re not in too much discomfort...” He sits on the footstool and passes her a glass. “Here. I think I should have done this a long time ago, and you’re welcome to join me.” He raises the glass, face determined but the lines of stress smoothing out. “To my father, may he rest peacefully in hell.”

She thinks about it and clinks her glass against his. “To a matched pair of fucked-up men who should have had their balls cut off at birth.”

He winces and then shrugs and tilts the glass back, swallowing the whiskey in a gulp. She follows suit, though it’s not really her drink of choice.

“So, do we, like, smash them in the fireplace?” she asks.

He gives her a horrified look. “No, we most certainly do not! They’re part of a matched set of twelve that belonged to my grandfather.” Her glass gets swept up and placed out of reach.

“Now, where were we?” he says, making it clear that they’re all done with the walk down a memory lane that’s overgrown with brambles and probably has quicksand too.

“I was about to ask you to read to me,” she says, which she wasn’t, but she means it now. She settles back and watches him look at her warily. Clever Wes... ‘cause he’s right, there’s more to this than he thinks. “And I want you to do it in the library, with us sitting next to each other, and I want it to be all dark—”

“That might make the primary activity a little difficult,” he says dryly.

“Apart from a lamp,” she hisses indignantly, because he’s just being so fucking picky now. She gives him a level look. “And I want you to read the hottest book you’ve got, Wes. You can’t touch me... much, but my ears aren’t bruised and I want to come. I won’t feel like I’m back until I have, and …I couldn’t when you weren’t there.” She gulps, because that’s total share-mode, but she doesn’t look away. There’s so much indecision in his face and she wants to wipe it away, wants to see him thinking about nothing but her. “All this time, I couldn’t, no matter how I —And I wanted to. I thought about you and—” She bites her lip. “You gonna make me beg, Wes? Or are you going to read to me until I’m so fucking turned-on you stop making sense?”

There’s a disquieting gleam in his eyes now, but it’s better than panic. “I see. You really do delight in setting me the most difficult of tasks, don’t you?”

She holds out her hands so he can help her up. “Wes, if I didn’t think you could, I wouldn’t ask.”

“I said I’d do anything you wanted today,” he murmurs. “I suppose this counts as indulging you...”

“Really does,” she says.

“My reading to you is even better than ice cream?”

And there’s a touch of vanity there that she doesn’t mind stroking. “Way better than ice cream,” she assures him.

He smiles and it’s better than the painkillers for making her forget the way her ass is still throbbing.

“You pay me the oddest compliments, you know.”

“If this is about me calling you pretty...”

They argue about that all the way to the library.

Chapter Two Hundred and Seventy Three

It feels like months since she's been in the library, but it hasn't been, really. It's still the same: warm and red and inviting and smelling faintly of musty books, and of him, but in a totally good way. A comforting way.

He makes sure she's settled in on the cushy love seat in a nest of pillows before becoming completely engrossed in the contents of a particular set of shelves, tipping a few books out by a few centimeters from their orderly positions.

“This really is quite a challenge,” he says, more to himself, she thinks, than directly to her. “A great number of these books have moments of pure genius; a particularly vivid description, a particularly creative sexual act, well-drawn characters that seem to come from your own life...” He turns around, and all she can focus on, besides his mesmerizing murmuring, are his hands; he's unconsciously stroking the embossed crimson leather of a small volume. “There's so much subjectivity involved in choosing the best; what I think fits the bill may do nothing for you...”

She doubts that entirely, and says so, with an encouraging smile. “Doesn't matter, Wes, as long you're reading it.” Besides, she's deadly curious to know the one volume in this room, the set of pages, the string of erotically incendiary words that make him hard, make his cheeks flush and goose bumps crawl up his forearms.

“Ah, yes, you say that now, but you may not feel that way were I to read to you from a particularly vivid section of Sub-Umbra, or Sport Among the She-Noodles...”

And yeah, she can't help but laugh at that. “You're kidding, right?”

He's smiling too. “I admit, the title is a bit ludicrous and misleading. It was a novel serialized in the Victorian journal 'The Pearl' – but it has its moments, including liberal use of the word 'fucktious,' which is particularly delightful.”

“Uh, fucktious?” The word rolls clunkily off her tongue. “It's like, how they say things like 'frig' and 'cunny' and 'love dart' and all that...” And she's giggling and blushing at the same time because just saying the archaic words makes her feel a little ridiculous.

“Yes,” he drawls it out, in the precious way he does when he's thinking and being officious at the same time. “We may have hit upon a self-selecting factor here. Reading the Victorians aloud is quite another prospect entirely from reading them alone.” He turns back to the shelves and tips a handful of books back in place.

“Now, an obvious choice would be Anais Nin, or Henry Miller, or D.H. Lawrence...” He's back to telling this to no one in particular, and she actually doesn't mind that this is turning into a guided tour of his library, and she's grinning like a fool just to hear him speaking for any length of time without tripping up over his obviously conflicted emotional state. She just closes her eyes, lets his voice wash over her, and concentrates on the way the cool, smooth cotton of his shirt that she's wearing oh so gently slides over her peaked nipples, 'cause, oh yeah, if he keeps talking like that, going on and on about his dirty books, she may not need him to read anything to her after all.

“Faith? Have you heard anything I've just said?”

Her eyes snap open. “Of course.” Which is to say, she heard the words, sure -- but she didn't really absorb them. “Uh, you were talking about Anais Nin, and uh, poetry? And how when she wrote for her mysterious patron, he demanded she get right down to the sex and skip the poetics... That sounds kind of lame, actually.”

“Another candidate that's extremely good for solo wanking. You have a very good point, I'm not sure if her words really hold up when read aloud,” he says as he replaces three slender volumes.

“And hey, Wes, aren't the naughty bits of Lady Chatterley's Lover kind of boring too?” At least, that's how she remembered it anyway, skimming the marked, dog-eared pages of a copy Willow Rosenberg had passed around their fifth grade class. She'd expected it to be dirtier, but instead, it was just really wordy.

“I admit, Faith, I'm rapidly running out of viable candidates, what with the both the Victorians and all the influential erotica of the early twentieth century out of the running.” He's dismayed, and in the dim light she can't tell if it's a put-on or for real. “And I'm afraid we'll have to relocate to a more uncomfortable location if you'd like me to consider post-WWII pulp novels...”

“There's more beside what's in here?” She's not surprised at that, really. “In the library? In your study?”

“No, in a storage unit off highway 95.”

“Okay, then...” She wants to give him more crap about that, but he's gone back to studying the shelves and muttering something she can't quite make out.

Titles, authors, and snatches of his musings meet her ears: “Trocchi's Helen? Southern's Candy? Ballard's Crash?”

“I liked that movie,” she pipes up, and he whips around, startled.

“What? I didn't realize I was speaking aloud.” He's charmingly befuddled, and crosses back over to her side of the room and perches on the edge of the cushion, leaning in to plant an indulgent kiss on her forehead. “Which movie? Candy? Or Crash?”

“Crash. That James Spader, he's creepy, but totally hot.”

“Hmm, I see.” She knows that's not a flicker of peevish jealousy in his eyes just then -- or was it? “I must be failing you, Faith, if you're sitting here thinking about other men...” His hand glides up the inner edge of her thigh, and her sharp gasp at the shock of his touch prompts a sly smile and a cocked eyebrow.

“Uh, Wes?” His fingers brush feather-light, back down the length of her thigh, leaving his hand resting heavily and promisingly on her knee.

“Yes, Faith?”

“Maybe we could just skip the whole reading thing...”

Chapter Two Hundred and Seventy Four

And way to give him a weapon, Faith, she thinks as he starts to shake his head in pretended dismay. She knows just what he’s going to say, and the fact that his thumb is stroking the inner curve of her knee as he speaks doesn’t make his words any less uncompromising.

“I think not. Faith, you’ve cajoled me, much against my better judgment, into setting aside our little wager, you’ve enticed me here and allowed me to spend at least ten minutes browsing through my books –”

“Which you totally got off on doing,” she says indignantly because they got more touching than she has and he’s always so fucking gentle with the paper and leather and ink.

“It’s always pleasant to recall old favorites,” he admits. “Even though I find myself at a loss for the perfect book to read to you... but that’s irrelevant. You wanted to be read to, and I’m very much afraid that no matter how prettily you plead, I won’t omit that preliminary.”

And if she wasn’t still sore, still stiff, she’d have spread her legs wide and let him see for himself just how far past foreplay she’s gone, because she’s waited too long and it seems that he’s been frustratingly out of reach for ever.

“Wes...” she says plaintively. “I need you. I really do.”

His hand moves, with a breath-taking assurance, along her thigh and strokes the damp heat between her legs. “So I see.” One finger goes to her clit and unlike every other hand beside her own that’s touched that small, concentrated source of pleasure, he doesn’t fumble, or press down an infuriating eighth of an inch off where he needs to be... Not Wesley’s style at all. It’s a perfect touch, in the perfect place, and her hips lift, her mouth sighs and she winces and whimpers a second later, because she just can’t wriggle and grind her hips and expect to get away with it today.

The smile that flickers across his face isn’t smug, it’s wistful. “I thought you might be rushing things a little,” he says regretfully.

“It hurts,” she snarls. “Yeah. Newsflash: I don’t fucking care. Wesley, I’m –”

“On edge. Aroused.” He might as well be reading off a shopping list as far as emotional goes, but the blue in his eyes is deepening. “Demanding.”

“Yes, and when I’m better, you can make me pay for all of it, but right now, Wes, right now...”

And she can’t stop reaching out for him, clutching at his arms and fuck, she must look desperate, but she doesn’t care.

“Faith, stop it,” he says and he’s standing up, breathing fast. Her eyes drop and, yeah, he’s hard. Well, she’s half-naked and begging him to fuck her, and it’s been nearly two weeks since –

“Wes, these last couple of weeks, you didn’t – I mean –”

She’s floundering now and he’s frowning, but there’s less tension in the way he’s standing and he comes to sit beside her, a cautious distance away. “You’re being particularly hard to follow,” he complains. “Did I what?”

“Not going to ask if you managed to come solo when I couldn’t –” she says, though she’s dying to know, “but did you – was there anyone -?” He’s giving her an incredulous look and she pushes out her bottom lip in a pout. “What?”

“You seriously think that the state I was in, my primary concern was going out to find a replacement for you? That despite the fact that I’ve gone months without a – partner in the past, I couldn’t last twelve days without – ” He runs out of words and just stares at her looking well and truly pissed off.

“You might have done it to get back at me,” she says in the tiniest of whispers. “I’d understand that.”

He reaches out and tips her chin up, holding it steady so she’s got nowhere to look but at him. “Is this an interrogation, or a confession, Faith? Because if it’s the latter –” There’s a dull resignation in his eyes but his fingers are still soft against her face. “Well, I’ll understand, too. And, no. There was no one. After you, how could there be? You really don’t appreciate how –”

And normally she’d let him finish, because when he tells her she’s special, when he tells her he loves her, she could listen for hours, but she can’t wait a second when he’s thinking that she’s gone out and fucked the first warm body she’s found. “Wes, there wasn’t anyone! Fuck, how can you even ask?”

She’s scrambling into his lap and pressing a dozen kisses onto lips that are trying to say something, but she’s not letting him talk, not letting him do anything but kiss her back. And he does. Proper kisses, cradling her to him so her ass isn’t touching anything but air, kisses where his tongue’s tasting her and his hand’s moving on her back in these jerky, frantic movements that tell her more than anything how much he’s missed her. If she’d been up to it, she thinks this’d be one time when she’d have got fucked fast and furious, because now they’ve crossed the line there’s a hunger for each other that’s almost frighteningly intense.

“I thought of you every moment,” he says and he’s biting down, not gently, on her neck, sending shivers over her body and making her press against him, seeking a contact she’s only felt in dreams these last weeks. “Reminded of you in so many ways, so angry with you and so very lost without you there.”

“Me too,” she whispers, tugging his shirt free of his pants and raking his skin in a possessive caress that makes him groan softly. “God, Wesley, missed you so fucking much. Wanted to see you, hear you... driving me crazy knowing you were sitting in your office, or this house –”

“I –” And he pushes her away, just a little, eyes searching her face. “Faith, I need to know, want you to tell me –”

She’s running her hand down the side of his face compulsively, feeling the slight drag of stubble against her hand, the sharp, clean line of his jaw. “Tell you anything, Wes,” she whispers. “I won’t ever keep secrets again, I promise.”

There’s a shadow darkening his eyes at that but he kisses her before he carries on, a sweet, long kiss that ends with their faces still close enough that all she can see are his blue eyes. “What?” she asks dreamily. “Ask me what?”

“Hmm? Oh –” He hesitates and then says gently. “Last night – why didn’t you ask me to stop? Use your safe word?”

And it’s such an intrusion into the warmth and closeness they’ve got that she shivers, because she doesn’t want to think about last night. Not now. Not yet. “Couldn’t, Wes,” she says finally, frowning, because he has to know the answer already, so why is he asking? “You wouldn’t have let me come back if I had. You said you wanted to give me ten strokes and that was the deal, right? And I trusted you, like always...” She gives him a kiss, but his mouth’s still under hers and she sighs and carries on talking instead. “And you did it; you worked out a way to make it ten without it hurting.” She squirms and gives him a rueful smile. “Much.”

“You... trusted me,” he says, and he’s staring down at the floor now, not meeting her eyes. “You gave me that switch when you knew how angry I was, you put yourself in my hands and you trusted me...”

She’s starting to get impatient now. The slow burn that’s replaced the heat of a few minutes earlier isn’t any easier to deal with and she’s sure if she can just get him to come, they’ll be half-way back to normal.

“Yeah, Wesley, I did. Always do. That’s good, right?”

He’s a long time in answering, but when his head lifts, he’s smiling. “Of course it is. And now we’ve got that sorted out, there’s the little matter of the somewhat imperious commands you’ve been issuing...”

She lies back on the cushions and gives him an innocent look. “I was only asking...”

“No,” he corrects her and fuck he’s rolling up his sleeves and that shouldn’t send a quiver right through her, but it does. “You were demanding a release from a tension I share, I assure you, which means I’m feeling very sympathetic for once.” He slides to his knees and places his hands on her knees. There’s an agonizingly long moment when he’s holding them together as he stares at her but she must be looking fucking pitifully needy because he relents, spreads her wide open and leans forward.

She nearly comes just from seeing his face as he tastes her in a delicate sweep of tongue over glistening, sticky-hot skin and glances up at her, eyes half-closed. “You’re so very beautiful,” he murmurs. Then his eyes sharpen. “But you’re not to move, Faith. You’re to remain very still, or I’ll stop.”

And he fucking would and they both know it, so she makes sure she’s as open as she can get without it hurting and reaches down to touch his hair. “I’ll be good,” she says.

He chuckles with his lips on her and she fights to keep still as her skin prickles and tingles with heat. “Will you?”

His fingers slide into her without warning and she cries out, feeling her cunt clutch eagerly at them, blindly craving, but she doesn’t move. “See?” she whispers triumphantly, almost giddy with relief, because she’s done what he asked. “I can do it...”

“My good girl,” he says even as his fingers plunge inside her, nearly enough because they’re part of him, though she misses the stretch of his cock, the weight of him on her... “My beautiful girl...”

And she thinks she could come just from that, just from the love and the approval in his voice.

Chapter Two Hundred and Seventy Five

And that's not an exaggeration 'cause she's gotta concentrate really hard on not coming right then, with his fingers crooked expertly inside her, with his mouth finally, finally against her, his tongue flicking, teasingly over every part of her open and exposed pussy, everywhere except her now-throbbing clit.

“Damn, you're such a fucking tease,” she mutters, breathlessly, as he finally swirls his tongue in the right spot but quickly pulls away, dragging his lips along the edge of her inner thigh, and he's chuckling again. She's got half a mind to grab him by the hair and reposition him exactly where she needs him to be, or tip her hips just a teeny bit and shove her snatch right into his face. But fuck, no. That would make him stop, and that's the last thing in the world she wants.

And just when she's about to scream and shift just a teeny bit, every muscle taut and burning, he finally relents, slipping his tongue languidly over her clit, sliding along the side to that perfect little spot that's twitching like a little ticking time bomb, and it's such a relief, she can't even say.

Then again, maybe the strangled little half-cry that escapes her lips says as much.

And with his tongue hitting the right spot over and over, his nose gently bumping the sensitive boundary of flesh between her smooth pussy and the hot pinkness beneath, and his fingers still inside, barely moving, she starts to relax, letting the pressure of his free hand still resting on her thigh gently push her into the yielding cushions.

He pulls back with a start and nearly slips his fingers out too, leading her to respond with a raspy shriek of frustration.

“You moved.” His voice, a terse whisper really, thunders in her ears.

She doesn't give a crap that she's nearly gracelessly grunting in annoyance now as his fingertips circle slickly over the inner edge of her cunt. “Didn't. Didn't move, Wes. You pushed me.” Her voice is faint and distant, like it's not even coming from the same room.

He doesn't reply, and when she opens her eyes to stare him down, he's ready for the challenge and playing dirty 'cause his pinkie is slipping over the tender flesh between cunt and asshole, never fully penetrating either.

“Are you sure?” He almost sounds bored, detached – as if he's questioning a recalcitrant witness that's quietly refusing to relent to his not-so-gentle prodding on the stand.

“Didn't move,” she repeats, nearly on the edge of begging. “I swear. Please don't stop. Please?”

His other hand's raking along her inner thigh again, but gently, barely touching her, really, as he makes her wait, silent as stone, his flinty gaze slicing right through her.

“If you're sure, then...” He slides his fingers back inside her aching cunt while shoving her shirt up with his free hand, leaning in to take one of her stiff nipples in his mouth, tonguing it gently before snatching it between his teeth.

“Y-yes. Sure. I'm sure...” Damn him for making her talk now, 'cause the part of her brain that makes the words is sludgy and it seems like every other available neuron has just gone euphoric over the slight pressure of his teeth on her tender flesh; her cunt's gone back to clutching at his fingers and her speech dissolves into a throaty moan.

“Good, then. Stay still, Faith -- I don't want to stop again...” The words are a relief when they fade and fall away as he returns his attentions to her pussy, but it's a short-lived reprieve. He's all tease again, tongue reaching everywhere but her clit, until she's nearly gnashing her teeth in frustration; the cozy hum of desire that's running through her body's turned achy and near-painful, and behind her eyes, screwed tight, pink chrysanthemum fireworks flicker in time with her hammering pulse.

The words tumbling out of her mouth between the guttural cries of frustration are senseless, a mindless jumble of pleas and half-formed words, until, with exquisite timing he twists his fingers deeper inside, nearly pulling her up off the cushions while tracing tiny circles 'round her clit. But it's when he moves to heartily sucking on it that she's coming with such force she nearly slams her knees into his head as the wave of pleasure rocks through the lower half of her body. She can't help but move then, sending one of the cushions dragging with a slight friction over her ass that sends her bucking and screaming a second time as his fingers stroke that central, aching spot deep inside her cunt; his tongue relentlessly flicking over her clit until she's grasping at the slippery velvet upholstery, fingers scrabbling for anything to hang on to 'cause she's swears she's totally about to slide bonelessly off her nest of pillows and right to the floor.

Chapter Two Hundred and Seventy Six

Everything she’s feeling —from the accelerated thrum of her heart pounding in her ears, to the involuntary shiver that jolts through her, even the renewed throbbing in her ass— is so fucking welcome. Just to feel —something, anything, after all those weeks of numbness. She just lies there, not saying a word, catching her breath and smiling like she hasn’t a care in the world.

And maybe she doesn’t, not when Wes is looking down at her with such devotion. It’s so good to see him smile. So good, it’s almost too much. Can a heart break from happiness? And oh God, she’s putting that thought away, because it’s just too fucking sappy for words.

She doesn’t have more time to elucidate that particular train of thought anyway, because he’s sliding his t-shirt up over her head and pulling it off of her. “You were wearing far too many clothes,” he whispers, grinning now, and mmm, his fingers are tracing an absentminded, sinuous line across her breast, each feather-light touch electric on her still-sensitive skin.

She doesn’t want to let on how much she longs for him take off all those frustrating layers; much as she loves him buttoned-up and impeccable, it’s time to get him rumpled and undone, even the score a little. “Could say the same about you, Wes.”

“You could, couldn’t you?” And damn it if supreme self-possession isn’t a really good look for him. She raises her head to look at him —the time away has made him new again. Not that she was ever used to him, really. But she feels the same sense of incredible anticipation akin to when she first found herself in this room. And it’s been so long, she almost seems as though she’s never touched him, never seen him unclothed, only imagined it.

And she just looks at him imploringly. “I can’t undress you, Wes. Feeling poorly and all.”

“Yes. All that recent exertion.”

She swats at him. “Now you’re just being a jerk.”

“I am, rather.”

“Wes, please. You must want to—” She reaches out to touch him, gingerly, as though he’s going to vanish into the ether if she actually succeeds. He’s taught her a certain kind-of —precision?— about her wants, and if she’s going to get him naked, wants to get him off, she’ll have to be more sophisticated about it. It’s obvious, really, once she thinks of it. Now it’s her turn to smile deviously. “So, what is it that you want, Wes? Tell me."

If he’s a little surprised, he doesn’t let it show, just lets his restless fingers come to rest between her legs again. Her desire must be plain to him —she’s obviously still wet and wanting— but the opposite isn’t patently true. Well, of course there is certain evidence —he’s been hard ever since they’ve sat down— she wants to hear it, hear it all in that seductive voice of his. Because every word out of his mouth is a promise to her.

God, how she’s missed his voice.

“I don’t— I can wait,” he says, and suddenly his self-possession’s gone and he’s moving back a little, as if he thinks she’s just gonna let him get away with that. “Really, Faith. There’s no need to reciprocate.”

“Do you think that I’ll let you stay like this?” she says, and she’s outraged because she knows how she felt –still feels— when the need clawing at her was so intense it hurt. She’s lying there in front of him, naked and wet and fuck, if he isn’t aching for her, she’s going to cry on general principles.

“I can take care of myself,” he says a little stiffly, as if he’s hiding the fact that, yeah, that’s freaking him a bit to discuss.

She settles herself back and, you know, her ass doesn’t seem to hurt as much. Must be all the endorphins racing and rushing around in her blood. “Sure you can, Wes,” she murmurs. “If you remember I helped you out with that once. ‘Course you were a few thousand miles away then, so I only got to hear you...”

There’s a hectic flush rising in his face and he swallows once, hard, before starting to speak. “Faith—”

“I’d like to see you,” she murmurs, gazing at him through her eyelashes. “You’ve seen me come...”

The calm returns and he gets this faraway look in his eyes. “Indeed. Some of my favorite memories involve watching you pleasure yourself. For me.”

The last two words give it all away and she can’t help the delicious shiver that has her rubbing her hands along her arms to drive away the chills. There’s something about the idea that every climax she has, he’s claimed. Every gasp and whimper aren’t just for her ears, but to arouse him.

“You, like, totally get off on...” She hesitates. She doesn’t want to say ‘owning me’ because that’s just a little too far down the rabbit hole, but damn, sometimes it feels as if he does. Own every breath, every word...

“On loving you, Faith,” he says. “Yes, I suppose I do. You’re such a—” He leans forward and kisses her with a gentle pressure that has her lips parting under his in an unhurried surrender. “Joy,” he whispers as the kiss ends.

“You trying to make me cry again?” she says, matching his hushed voice and stroking back his dark hair. “Because I will if you say stuff like that.”

“My darling Faith,” he says and it’s just about the most romantic moment ever but Wesley isn’t about to drop to his knees to do anything except what he did just do and she’s cool with that. He’s close enough now that she can reach for his cock, trapped and hidden away from her and she makes a little mewling sound of frustration.

“Wes... I want to make you come more than I wanted to.”

“You say that now,” he points out dryly. “I can’t help feeling you wouldn’t have been quite so unselfish five minutes ago.”

And maybe, but it doesn’t matter. Right now she’s passionately determined that he’s going to come and she’s not going to give way on that.

Chapter Two Hundred and Seventy Seven

She’d like nothing more than to have him inside her but she’s reluctantly aware that she’s not up for that. Not today. Maybe tomorrow... but she’s not exactly helpless, and every passing hour is helping. Her ass wasn’t the only part of her that got hurt; there are bruises, blue shadows, across the tops of her thighs where the edge of the desk had punished her flesh, and every muscle feels tight and sore, as if she’d run for miles, pushing herself far beyond her limits... But that’s wearing off now and she’s too caught up in the moment to care about anything but him.

She moves around so that she’s sitting sideways on the couch and pushes him so his back’s against it and he’s facing forward. “Faith?”

She ignores him because she’s busy; busy with buttons and zips and –

“I won’t allow you to do anything that might aggravate your injuries,” he warns her, mouth set in an inflexible line. She doesn’t want it like that; lips tight and straight. Wants it open on a gasp, lips soft with pleasure, bitten as he tries – and fails – to hold back a groan...

“I’m not going to be doing anything but watch,” she tells him, settling back comfortably after she’s left him exposed; shirt unbuttoned part-way and folded back so she can see the dark line of hair pointing the way down to his cock, like she needs any help finding that. He’s so hard already and he gives this little grumbling sigh as though he’s decided to humor her, and pushes his pants down just a little so the angular sharpness of his hips frames his erection.

She wants to slide forward, lie supine and weightless over him and draw his cock into her mouth, wants to feel it quiver and jump as she explores it with tongue and teeth. She wants to swallow as he comes, wants that moment  when his body succumbs in a surrender that’s inevitable and for a while, for an instant, he’s lost and utterly open and it’s because of her.

But that’s going to have to wait.

“Show me,” she says and she’s already breathless with the ache of need that’s rising within her so her voice is this husky, throaty murmur that doesn’t sound like her. “Tell me. What you’re thinking, what you wish we could do...”

The room’s shadows gather and wrap around them as he stares at her and there’s an intensity there that’s almost frightening. “Nothing held back...” he murmurs. “You never do that, do you? Every emotion, every reaction... I see it on your face, in your eyes.” He smiles and brushes his thumb over her mouth. “I’m not so used to that.”

She captures his thumb between her lips and kisses it, a wet, soft kiss, with her tongue flickering against it.

“Maybe it’s time to learn,” she says. She wants to watch his face, but she decides to make it easier on him and nestles against him, with her head on his shoulder. She reaches out and takes his hand, bringing it down to his cock and wrapping it around his erection with her own hand keeping it in place.

“I don’t think you have to instruct me,” he says with a small smile. “I’ve done this before, you know.”

She bites his earlobe hard enough to make his fingers curl tightly. “Very funny.”

He lifts his hand from where she put it and she’s all set to pout when he brings it to her breast, pinching her nipple. “But usually the only stimulus has been my imagination or a book, a picture,” he says and he’s sounding thoughtful. “I find myself curious as to the difference it’ll make having you to hand, so to speak.”

“You think too much,” she says and it’s close to a wail because he’s not letting go of her nipple and the attention it’s getting is making her body forget it just came.

“Do I?” He sounds interested, as if he’s genuinely curious. “But it’s worth some thought, don’t you agree?” He shifts away from her a little and yeah, this might have been her idea, her game, but all of a sudden it’s Wes in charge again.

He’s got both hands free now and his right hand goes to his cock, holding it with an assured grip that makes her realize any hesitation he’d shown wasn’t because he was shy, while his left begins to move over her body.

He half-closes his eyes and begins to talk. His voice – and yeah, it’s the accent but there’s more to it than that – always sounds good, but when he’s saying stuff like this it’s like being touched. She swears he could talk her into coming when he starts to drawl out his words, lingering over them like that.

And when his hand skims down her stomach and her legs part for him she wonders who’s going to come first. She’s practically in his lap, one arm around his shoulders, half-kneeling on the couch so her ass isn’t touching anything, and as she rocks her hips against his questing fingers, gaze fixed on his hand as it does a really fucking expert job of getting his cock to sit up and beg, she’s getting dizzy with need.

“The day you came for your interview,” he says, and he takes his hand away from her and brings it to his mouth, studying the sheen of wetness on the two fingers he’s had inside her cunt and then lifting them to her lips so she can taste herself, before he pushes them back inside her slowly. “I was hard when you left. It was... painful.” His fingers aren’t moving and when she catches her breath on a sob of frustration, grinding against his hand, he turns his head and bites down on her nipple, a sharp, intense jolt of pain that only makes her want to writhe more. “Stay still, Faith, or I’ll make you watch from the chair, hands at your sides,” he whispers. “I had work to do, a client expected... I couldn’t take care of it and I didn’t want to.” His hand’s cruelly tight on his cock now, squeezing it but not moving. They’re poised, waiting and they’re listening to his voice, as if it belongs to someone else, someone controlling them both.

“I didn’t want to let you have that effect on me. It was... I was caught between wanting you and being terrified. I gave you the job and yet if you hadn’t shown up the next day, I might even have been a little relieved. Reality doesn’t mix well with dreams and you’d been in mine for some time by then.”

He starts to move, slackening his grip a little so his hand can work his cock in slow, lazy strokes, placing his thumb against her pulsing clit so that every breath she takes gives her a faint, slight pressure that’s maddening and never quite enough, but even so, even so...

“How long was it before I approached you? Ten days, I think... God, Faith –” He turns his head and there’s the memory of those days in his eyes and they’re haunted and desperate. “Every night, I’d do – this –” His hand blurs on his cock, jerking off faster than she ever did when she was doing it to a boy because she’d always worried she was gonna hurt them. But Wes doesn’t look as if he’s in pain, even though his teeth are gritted and he’s breathing with shallow, fast sips of air. “Or go to the city... find someone who didn’t look like you, ever, because that wasn’t what I wanted, and I’d charm them and seduce them... and they were never –” He makes this frustrated sound. “That first time I hit you, it was because I’d seen you with Xander,” he whispers and he’s fucking her with his fingers now, so she has to gather a fistful of his shirt in her hand and concentrate hard on staying still as he’s told her.

“Every idea I’d had about you – us- they all seemed so pointless. You were with him and you looked so happy, so relaxed. I – gave up a little. And I was so angry, with you, with myself for being so stupid.”

She’s supposed to just be listening, but she can’t help it, she has to lean in and kiss him, soothe away the hurt. “Not stupid,” she whispers. “Wes –”

There’s a faint smile on his face as she leans back and she gets his idea of a reward she guesses, because his hand shifts and a slick fingertip circles her clit and brings her so close to coming that she starts to panic but she can’t move away. He eases off and carries on talking, eyes on her now, and though his cock’s sliding through his fingers and it’s wet-tipped and God it’s killing her not to touch it, she finds herself meeting his gaze and she can’t look away.

“I had nothing to lose, so I gave into temptation. And you were tempting, Faith, even as unkempt and disheveled as you were that day.” There’s an echo of his past disapproval in his voice and that just gets her wetter because she’s remembering too. “That first time –” he whispers and his voice is getting ragged now and his eyes are burning, blazing blue. “You turned and you looked at me and I waited for your shock to turn to anger, disgust, for you to scream at me, leave... but you didn’t.”

No. She didn’t. Because she’d never been so turned-on in her fucking life and he’d taken the chaotic confusion that was her life and made it simple in the split second his hand met her ass.

“I still couldn’t quite believe it...” His head falls back and his eyes squeeze shut and she glances down. His hips lift in a movement she makes herself when she comes as though, even alone, her body needs to clasp and clutch at something.

She wants to come, but she wants to watch him more. Reaching down, she circles his wrist and tugs his hand up to her mouth, sucking his fingers again with an urgency that’s rooted in the need to share this with him. He gives a guttural moan and his hand speeds up. She lets his fingers slide out of her mouth and brings them to her breast, crying out because there’s nothing gentle about the way he touches her then and she wants, she wants –

He starts to come. She can see the first, thick spurt and then his hand moves up and curls around her neck, and she looks up, startled into his wide open eyes.

He doesn’t say anything, just lets her see him come, face tight with strain, eyes wild – and as soon as he’s finished and his shuddering has calmed, he pulls her to him and kisses her and there’s still enough need in the kiss to make her wish it was tomorrow, or the next day, or the one after that because this isn’t enough.

He breaks the kiss and glances down then meets her eyes with a smile that’s back to being relaxed, assured. “I think you’ve just made sure the next thing I do is shower,” he says softly.

She hasn’t come, but she doesn’t mind somehow. “Wish I could scrub your back,” she answers, kissing his cheek and taking a moment to appreciate the fact that she can again, that he’s hers.

“Tomorrow,” he says, and there’s as much longing in that word as it deserves to have.

Chapter Two Hundred and Seventy Eight

He'd told her to stay put when he wandered off to the shower, but after a few long, dull minutes half-dozing on the couch, she’s bored and hungry and above all, restless. After all that laying around, the short walk to the library has served to remind her that she is really starting to loathe all this enforced bedrest – no matter how much she needs it.

She scrabbles back into his shirt that ended up wadded in a corner of the love seat, wedged in between the cushions, and tentatively gets to her feet, hand gripping the curved, plush armrest for support.

That endorphin high must still be on because it doesn't hurt nearly as much as she'd expected it to, but getting to her feet still gives her the mother of all headrushes. It takes a few moments for her gritted teeth and grimace of resolve to fall away as she takes a few cautious steps towards the door, but she's walking and not stumbling or swaying to the floor, and that's a good sign.

The kitchen's her shiny goal of triumph, and she manages to reach it by taking one tiny step after another until the pull of the healing flesh on her backside isn't so much an annoyance but a physical reminder of all the reparations achieved so far - and it was barely mid-afternoon. The thought of what that night might hold, not to mention all of Sunday and the promise of a hearty breakfast at Wes' favorite diner and a drive to the shore, or something suitably low-key, leaves her daydreaming and smiling like a fool.

She's gulped down two glasses of water, fast, and is making headway with a crispy, tart apple with gusto when between crunches she hears the faint but familiar bleat of her cell phone from inside her Emily Strange bag, still sitting where she'd left it on the kitchen table the day before. Seemed weeks ago, really —like she and Wes had crossed over from some fucked up dimension where things were all very, very wrong to one where things were right as rain.

The odds are even that it's either Xander or Darla on the other end of the ringing, though she's pretty sure it's the latter, considering that Xander was probably still asleep, it being Saturday afternoon and all.

She can't exactly hustle to grab the phone, but she does reach it before the fourth ring starts to fade, right before it rolls over to voicemail. The glowing green display flashes Darla's number, and she sighs and hits the green 'talk' button, knowing it's best to just deal with her sooner rather than later, otherwise the phone'd be ringing off the hook for the rest of the day.

“Hey Mom...”

“God, Faithy! I've been worried sick about you! Where have you been?” Darla's near-hysterical but there's no boozy slur underneath, which is more comforting than she'd ever expected it to be.

“It's okay, it's okay. Chill. I'm at Wesley's house...”

“Oh, honey... are you all right? Is he all right? You didn't hit him again, did you? Not that he doesn't deserve it...” If only she knew... but best not think about that or all the wrong words would come spilling out.

“No, Mom, I did not engage in any physical violence,” she says, a little primly. Which wasn't too much of a fabrication. “I just dropped by yesterday afternoon to thank him. He dropped the charges...”

“I know; Eve called here this morning looking for you before I left for work. I just assumed you were out with Xander, but when I couldn't reach him... I got worried. Why didn't you call me?” It was nice there were a few things still constant in this world, she thinks. Darla's self-absorbed simpering would never fade no matter how long she was off the booze.

“Well, we... uh, well...” Why does she always find herself having to reveal way, way too much about her sex life to people? Especially her freaking parents?

Parent, corrects an inner voice. Your mother, Faithy. Just her now.

It's then that the full gravity of what's transpired hits her like a ton of bricks, nearly makes her knees buckle, even. The lies, the deception, the nightmare were all over. It was really all over. Mostly.

“Kissed and made up did you?” She's jolted out of her reverie 'cause Darla's whine has turned to a good-natured tease, a tone so rare Faith could count on one hand the number of times she'd heard a sober Darla giggle.

“Uh, yeah. Something like that...” Goddamn if she wasn't blushing up to the ears. God, she hopes they never, ever have a conversation like this one ever again. “Look, Ma, I'd really rather not talk about that, you know?”

“Just being nosy, baby. I'm sorry.” Darla laughs again, a tinkering peal of giggles that turns to a dark guffaw in a split second. “Don't give him too much too soon, honey. Make him work for it.”

“I have,” she says, maybe a little too curtly, suddenly wishing very much she could tell Darla all that had transpired, ask her for help. Then she pictures it: Hey, Mom what do I do with a man who's still fucked-up because of something that happened years ago with a girl he loved who betrayed him, just like me? And what if I can't exactly shake my ghosts either? “But I think... I think I'll be going with Wes to New York after all.”

“Oh baby, that's exactly what I mean. It's only been a day and you've forgiven each other for everything, then?” Darla's heavy sigh rattles some static in the phone line. “And he's asked you back?”

Come to think of it... “Well, not exactly...” There's a disapproving sputter from the other end of the line, but she just talks over it. “But I know him. I know Wes. We're gonna be all right now.” Especially if she says it enough times to convince herself that it was true, just in case her still-smarting ass, or the memory of his face as he came for her, or the way his endearments had filled her heart to bursting weren't enough to buoy her hopes.

“Oh Faith. If I had five bucks for every time I'd felt that way after making up with your father... Well, let's just say I'd have that condo by the beach by now.”

“Wes is different, Mom. He's not like dad...”

“No, he ain't, and I won't argue with you there. They couldn't be more like night and day, those two.” Darla's harsh laugh blasts her ear again. “But they're both men, honey. And at the end of the day, they're all lying and cheating bastards. Can't help themselves. Trust me on this one.”

Hot tears of protest are stinging in her eyes, each word coming down the crackly phone line a little dagger in that big aching hole in her heart that was just starting to heal up again too, even if it was still a little tender and bruised too. “He's different, Mom. He's not gonna do that to me. He's not.” But she can't deny the hot tears spilling over her cheeks and sniffles loudly.

“Oh, Faithy, don't cry. I didn't mean to make you cry...”

“It's okay, Mom. I'm okay, really.” She wipes her face with the back of her hand, shoving the tears away. “Look, I need to go...”

Another melancholy sigh fills her ear. “I'm just a bitter old lady now; don't listen to anything I have to say. Or at least take it all with a big grain of salt.”

In spite of herself, Faith laughs. “For eighteen years and counting, Mom.”

“But you know you can call me if you need anything, baby —right? Anything at all, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I love you, Faithy. Be good, all right?”

“Love you too, Mom.” The words come right out of her with no sarcasm or bitterness, probably for the first time since she was able to walk, practically.

She's barely clicked the phone off when the floodgates really burst open and she's gotta hang on to the edge of the table 'cause her sobs threaten to send her sinking to the floor, which is really the very last place she wants to be.

Chapter Two Hundred and Seventy Nine

And just when she was starting to think she’d cried everything out, that she was bled completely dry— These tears are more out of relief, than anything else, though. She still can’t quite believe the tumult of the last twenty-four hours, never mind of the past two weeks. Add to that Darla acting all responsible and even motherly and it’s too, too much.

She just lets everything out; the hot tears splashing down her face and the wracking sobs she can’t really control and wouldn’t want to. And it’s amazing how cleansing it is, how good it feels. Her sobs have slowed by the time she hears the water shutting off on the other side of the house and she wonders with a start if she can make herself presentable by the time he gets downstairs. She wipes the tears away roughly with the back of her hand and hobbles slowly to the kitchen sink to splash cold water on her face.

And yeah, she feels so much better, but she’s willing to bet she looks like she’s been put through the fucking wringer. No mirror handy but she can picture it: eyes red and puffy, skin pale, the bruises she remembers getting and quite a few she doesn’t, hair’s probably a mess. She runs the water as cold as she can and gives herself another invigorating splash. She runs her wet hands through her hair, in the probably vain hope that’ll tame it a little bit.

She hears his footsteps on the stairs and straightens up, rushing to dry her face on a clean dish towel. She sits down at the table, grabs her half-eaten apple off the table where she left it, and takes a big bite out of it. Crosses her legs and tries to look fucking well-put together and not like someone who’s just cried until there aren’t any tears left.

He pauses in the doorway, looking at her with this slight, enigmatic smile on his face —as though he’s surprised to find her there. His face still looks a little worn around the edges, but he’s wearing a crisp black button-down shirt and jeans. Barefoot, he moves silently over to her, crossing the room in long, purposeful strides. He rests his hands on her shoulders and kisses the top of her head.

“Hey,” she whispers.

He glances at the nearly-decimated apple. “You must be hungry. I think you should go and watch some more brain-rotting television while I cook us something for dinner.”

She smiles brightly, her momentary misery banished for now. “Real World marathon, here I come!”

“I have no idea what that means, and for that I am thankful.”

She slowly inches out of the chair and half-turns towards him. “There won’t be, like, cheese involved, right?”

Now he just looks devious and impassive. “Your curiosity shall be rewarded.”

“Goddamn it, Wes,” she snaps, only half-kidding.

“Go on then. Out.”

“Thought you were going to teach me how to cook?” she says and, yeah, fresh from Darla, that’s a question with a double-whammy attached.

“Not today,” he says, and there’s no hesitation or awareness of anything significant in his voice, so she settles for dropping the apple-core on the table and winding her arms around his neck. One kiss that qualifies as a smooch because it’s just so fucking sweet she wants it for dessert, and she leaves him to his chopping and stirring.

After just long enough that she’s started to miss him, he appears with a glass of wine for them both. “I thought you might like to try this,” he says. “It might not travel well, so it needs drinking.”

Before they pack up the house and head north. There’s a blissful sense of security combined with excitement. New York by herself is enough to make her tummy flutter a bit – hey, she’s a small-town girl - but with Wes there it loses every shadow and it’s bathed in the pinkest of rosy glows.

She stares at the glass, sloshing the wine around until he whimpers in anguish. “Not like that!”

Then it’s a five minute lecture before she’s allowed to even touch it, and truthfully, after all the crying her nose isn’t clear enough to get any of the burned toast – or was it burned caramel and buttered toast? – she’s supposed to be smelling, but when she’s finished swirling it around her mouth, lips parted a tiny bit so she can suck in some air, and she actually gets to swallow, she has to admit it’s –

“Nice?” He gives her a horrified look. “Faith, it’s a 1990 Chateau Gruaud Larose!”

She gives him an apologetic look and takes another sip. “Very nice?” she hazards.

The lines on his face deepen but it’s because he’s chuckling so she doesn’t mind.

They eat – he’s placed a cushion on her chair so she’s wobbling but comfortable – and she tells him Darla rang but doesn’t go into details. He says all the right things about how he hopes she’s coping, without ever tipping them into dangerous territory, and when she’s full of an omelet, stuffed with nothing that looks suspicious, and fried potato slices, crisp and slightly garlicky, he takes her back to the couch and hand-feeds her raspberries until she sticks out a deep-pink tongue and tells him to stop.

“Very well,” he tells her, setting the bowl down. He strokes her hair back from her face and gives her a smile. “Are you sure you’re full?”

She pats her tummy. “Really am,” she assures him. “All I’m good for now is –”

“Yes?” he prompts her, as she hesitates and gives him a cautious look.

“It’s going to sound weird, but did you – I left my hairbrush here, didn’t I?” she asks. “The one you got me?”

He tenses up. “You did, but I don’t see –”

“Missed you brushing my hair, Wesley,” she says and somehow they’re holding hands now and she’s never seen his eyes look bluer.

“I’ll – it’s in –” He stands up after bringing her hand to his lips for a gentle kiss. “I’ll fetch it.” He pauses in the doorway. “I missed that too,” he says without turning. “Taking care of you.”

He’s gone just a little too long and she wonders if she’s pushing him too hard, too fast back to their version of normal, but when he returns, there’s nothing in his eyes but a calm happiness.

“I’d like this off,” he tells her, settling beside her on the couch and tugging at the hem of her borrowed shirt. She skins out of it obligingly and then he pushes her forward. “And these too,” he murmurs, peeling off the tape that holds her dressings in place. “You should let the air –”

His voice drags to a halt and she twists her head trying to see her ass, which gets her a crick in her neck and a reproving tap on the arm. “Please don’t,” he tells her. “It’s – healing well, I assure you.”

And she knows it feels easier but what with all that’s happened she hasn’t had chance to see it and curiosity’s replacing squeamishness.

“I want to see it,” she protests.

“Then look when you’re alone,” he says and there’s ice coating his voice but it’s cracking and she knows why.

“Sorry,” she whispers and she kneels on the couch, her back to him, and waits.

He slips his hand under the fall of her hair and scoops it aside so he can kiss her back, high up. “Such a neglected area,” he says, and there’s nothing but faint amusement in the words. “Hidden from view and severely under-kissed.”

“Is that, like, a word?” she giggles, because he’s kissing it a million times, fast little pecks that tickle.

“That should bring it up to quota,” he says, finishing with one warm, lingering kiss on the nape of her neck that makes her nipples harden in a reaction she’s sure he anticipated. “And now –”

He never rushes this. The only time they were ever late for work because of him was when she’d gone to sleep with it damp and woken up with it in a tangled snarl. He’d insisted on teasing each tangle out with a patient, painstaking care – and then tucked the brush into her purse. She’d spent her coffee break over his knee getting fifteen slow, hard spanks from the brush; one for every minute he’d been delayed.

He starts at the top, sweeping the brush down in unhurried strokes that can be ruthlessly thorough until her scalp’s tingling, or barely there, so the bristles feel as soft as his hand would be. She sighs and arches her back, feeling pampered, cherished and adored.

They don’t often speak when he’s doing this; it’s a ritual completed in rapt silence. He usually does it with her seated in front of a mirror and she loves watching his face, absorbed and intent, waiting for the moments when she catches his eye and he smiles at her before returning to his task.

No mirror-Wes to watch and smile at tonight, but she can almost feel the tension leave him as he draws the brush through her hair.

“It’s very beautiful,” he says seriously, finally stopping with her hair silk-soft and tangle-free. “I hope you never cut it short.”

“I won’t if you don’t want me to,” she says, wondering why he’s telling her, because she can imagine his reaction if she did anything that drastic without discussing it first, and she’s brave, but not that brave. He can’t see her so she grins.“So how do you feel about me getting a tattoo? Maybe a piercing?”

He reaches around and rolls her nipple between his fingers, biting down gently on her earlobe. “I don’t know, Faith,” he murmurs. “Suppose you tell me how you’d think I’d react?”

“I –” It’s not easy trying to think, or speak, when he’s doing that and his shirt’s brushing her back and he’s so close to her... “I don’t know,” she discovers. “You might get a kick out of it.”

“I might, might I?” he asks dryly. There’s a silence long enough for her to think the conversation’s over because he’s tasting her skin with hard, hot kisses, until she’s trembling, and his hands are both on her body now as she kneels beside him, never dipping between her thighs though she’s long since spread them in an invitation he’s ignoring.

“I don’t believe I’d care for it,” he says finally and his fingers find her clit and she gives this breathy little moan.

“Fine,” she says. “Never said I wanted one...” Which was a lie; she’d just never had the money and Xander had told her enough cautionary tales to stop her from going to the cheap places. She tries not to pout and it’s easier than usual because he’s spreading her legs just a little wider, with his palms flat on her inner thighs, and if she tilts her head back so it’s against his shoulder, she gets to kiss him, and no one kisses like Wesley.

He doesn’t break the kiss as his fingers slip inside her, just matches it with his tongue, soft against hers.

Chapter Two Hundred and Eighty

Just in case she's forgotten he can render her into a quivering, babbling idiot, he's done a fair job of reminding her without even needing to relocate the action from the sofa, where she's still splayed out.

She yawns enormously and stretches, all feline. “What time is it? I feel like it's gotta be like, past midnight, but I know that's not right...”

“No, it's only just 7:30.” He smiles up at her from his seat on the floor, one arm draped over her belly, the other reaching up to brush her rumpled bangs away from her eyes. “Perhaps you should get to bed, soon, though. You could certainly still use more rest...”

Carefully rolling over onto her side so as to present her upturned face for a kiss from his still-moist lips, she's all giddy smiles. “Not tired, Wes. Haven't had enough of you yet.”

“I'd forgotten just how energetic you are.” he drawls, drawing his fingertips gently along the curve of her back. “Even if you are still slightly incapacitated. It would appear that it doesn't take long for me to go out of practice in keeping up with your youthful energy...”

“Oh please, Wes. You totally outlasted me plenty of times.” She smiles at the memory of the rumpusful evenings that ended in the wee hours leaving her barely able to keep her eyes open. She knows some of those times he'd tiptoed out of the bedroom to read in his study or just stayed up watching her sleep. She knows 'cause she'd only pretended to be asleep some of the time, finally sent off into dreams knowing his gaze was still locked on her face. Come to think of it, he'd probably known she was faking...

“Faith, did you just hear a word I said?” His tone is sharp, but still mostly teasing.

“Mmm? You said something?” She blinks lazily at him, confused.

“I have a pile of films due back at the video store tomorrow that I never got around to viewing. I always seem to rent more than I end up watching, for some reason...”

“Well, if you weren't like, watching those soccer games that last all afternoon, you wouldn't have that problem. 'Sides, who needs to rent things when you've got 900 channels of satellite?”

“Criticizing my couch potato habits are you?” He's archly serious, but he can't quite suppress the mirth in his voice as he rises wobbly to his feet and offers a gallant hand to assist her. “For your information, Faith, there were films made before last year that are worth watching...”

She lets out another wail of complaint, full-on bratty. “I don't wanna watch a movie. I wanna stay here and look at you and talk...” She narrows her eyes suspiciously at him when he doesn't budge, arm still outstretched and waiting for her hand. “You prolly rented a bunch of those fussy, long costume dramas, did you?”

“Guilty as charged, I'm afraid.” She rolls her eyes and finally allows him to help her off the sofa. “Still, I'm sure there's something that will meet with your approval. I think I picked up a quirky independent or two. And at least one loathsome teen film.”

“Were you expecting me back or something?” she teases, then immediately regrets it, but she can't read his expression 'cause he's turned to pick up the hairbrush from where it's fallen, knocked under the sofa.

He's mostly composed when he turns to look at her, only his gaze is slightly chilled, betraying his still-warm voice. “Is it so outlandish that I would find the oeuvre of Kirsten Witherspoon a charming diversion? I'm especially fond of that Election film.”

His malapropism is enough to shove the conversation past that rough spot, as she nearly collapses back to the sofa in a pile of giggles. “Might believe you if you got the names right, Wes...”

Before he can bite back with a tart retort, the phone rings and he hustles her off in the direction of the den, and she's actually kinda grateful for a chance for a pit stop, in case he like, rented some three-hour epic or something.




Turns out he'd gone for the whole panorama of the human pain experience in his doldrums. There's a stack of DVD cases she hadn't noticed before on the side table, and she's still ruffling through them when he enters, two glasses of wine in hand.

“Man, Wes, did the surly staff have like, a shelf devoted to bleak movies or what?”

“Really, Faith, you may recall that I wasn't exactly in the most cheerful frame of mind before yesterday.”

“Well, yeah, but usually when people are depressed, they rent things that will cheer them up. Written on the Wind isn't exactly high on that list. And, I mean, did you really need to rent three Scorsese films? Mean Streets, Taxi Driver, and The Age of Innocence?”

“I found all the violence vaguely cheering,” he says tonelessly, setting the wine stems on a side table.

She purposefully ignores falling into the trap of asking why, 'cause she's pretty sure she won't like the answer. “There's no violence in The Age of Innocence...”

“Not the physical kind, no. Emotional violence. Obfuscation. Thwarted love. All under a thin veneer of propriety.”

She's actually been leaning toward suggesting they watch that one, but thinks the better of it, returning it to the pile. “I'd forgotten about that...” she says weakly, feeling rather small now, until she flips another case open to find it contains Heathers. She can't help but let out a huge guffaw and he looks up, startled.

“Big Winona Ryder fan, Wes?” she asks, waving the box at him.

Not meeting her eyes, he stammers out a muttered, inaudible retort, digging around in the pile for another box. “How about The Royal Tenenbaums, then?”

“Way to avoid the question, there,” she says, plucking the box from his fingers and hitting the eject button on the DVD player. “But whatever. I'll let it slide... for now.” He gives her a look of mock-horror that only does a fair to middling job of covering up the fact that he's a little jarred from keeping up with the see-sawing mood of the conversation. “Anyway, yeah, this is perfect.”




She really hopes that it'll always be like this, curled up under a soft chenille throw, her head resting on his knee, watching a perfect movie. And just when Gene Hackman's totally chewing up the scenery, yelling about the missing javelina trophy, she remembers something.

“Who was on the phone?”

“Hmmm? Faith, must you insist on chattering through one of my favorite scenes?” he murmurs, stroking her hair off her cheek and tucking it behind her ear.


Chapter Two Hundred and Eighty One

She lets that go, and, yeah, she has a feeling she’ll be doing that a lot over the next weeks, because she’s lost ground and she knows it. If she stops to think about it, this, all this, Wesley close enough to touch, fingers gentle on her hair, is more than she deserves so it’s wrong of her to mind that the two weeks they were apart she missed more than she’ll ever be able to recapture.

“Wesley?” she says as the credits roll. “On Monday – at the court – you –”

He seems to know what she’s having problems saying and he stands up, gathering their empty glasses. “I won’t be able to be there, no.” He walks away and she scrambles to follow him, wincing slightly because she’s stiff from sitting, but catching up with him as he reaches the kitchen.

Over the noise of the tap as he begins to rinse the glasses, she says. “I don’t mind, Wesley. I get it.” She reaches out and pats his arm. “It’d be – awkward, right?”

He glances at her and his expression is so remote she feels a chill. “Awkward? Well, yes. Trust me, Faith; it’ll be far better for you if I’m not there.” He hesitates. “In any case, Monday is going to be a rather busy day, actually. I have a lot to see to.”

She nods, trying to look all understanding and inside she’s starting to panic. Suppose something goes wrong and they’ve found out – something. Suppose Lilah’s there, looking for blood, for revenge... Suppose Eve and her judge pal have –

“Faith.” His voice is cool and slightly amused as he cups her face with a still-damp hand. “I think you can set aside the lurid scenarios I can practically see you dreaming-up.” He leans down and kisses her lightly. “Nothing will go wrong. I’ve taken care of it.”

“You always do,” she murmurs and it takes no time at all for the kiss she gives him back to turn serious until they’re locked together, making little desperate noises, hands everywhere, which, as she’s still wearing nothing but his T-shirt, isn’t hard for him. Even the throb of pain as his fingers brush over her tender ass does nothing but make her hungrier for him.

“Fuck, Wes,” she says, in what’s perilously close to a whimper. “I can’t – don’t want to wait...”

And she doesn’t. Arousal, intense and sudden is ripping through her, leaving her trembling and so fucking wound-up she thinks she’ll scream if he stops touching her. She’s been waiting for this since she knocked at his door, no, since she picked up the phone and heard him order her to get ready, to come to him.

She’s been waiting and tomorrow is too far away.

There’s a terrible longing in his eyes and she can see him hesitate, about to tell her she’s not ready, it’s too soon, although she doesn’t need his cock hard against her body to know he’s as eager as she is.

“Want you to fuck me, Wes,” she whispers, and it’s really that simple. “Please?”

Darla always told her it was the magic word and she was right, because it unlocks the place he’s retreated to and he pulls her inside, with him.

The bedroom might as well be on the moon. No way can they get there, when they can’t stop kissing for more than a few seconds but they don’t need to. He leads her back into the library, or maybe she’s tugging him, and he closes the door behind them so they’re in this space of his, warmed by the red walls and the memories. Without taking his eyes off her, he strips; swift, impatient movements that have him naked in moments, and it’s about all she’s willing to swap for his mouth on hers, the sight of his body again. Too many nights spent remembering it, but the reality is better, immeasurably so, although, like her, he’s looking thinner.

“I should tear this off you,” he says, in a voice that’s not quite steady, bunching the T-shirt she’s wearing in his hands. “But I don’t think I could destroy it, ever.” It’s pulled off over her head pretty fast though and he sinks down to his knees in front of her.

Wesley kneels to her so many ways. Out of practicality, out of desire – he can make her feel worshipped without ever losing the edge of control she needs him to have. Tonight he’s doing it because it’s the fastest way to get his mouth on her and his fingers spread her wide as she sways and catches hold of the back of a chair.

She’s dizzy and aching, grinding against his tongue and teeth and moaning because it’s good but it’s not enough, not even when three fingers, pressed tightly together and stiff plunge inside her again and again.

“Need... more than that,” she says and it’s a wonder he can understand that croaked whisper but he does and even like this, with her heart thudding painfully and warm blood tingling inside her, fizzing and sparking until she’s ready to tear at her skin to get to the itch, she knows this is going to hurt.

He moves, rocking back on his heels and shifting until he’s lying back, half-propped up against the front of the couch.

“Come here.”

And she thinks this can work but by the time she’s straddled him and his cock’s nudging inside her, just the tip of it, she’s back to feeling as if she’s going to die if he doesn’t just fuck her already, so what difference does it make if her ass comes out of this a little more the worse for wear?

The urgency’s left him, though, as if now she’s there, hovering over him, with her breasts full and soft for his mouth to kiss and tease, he can wait all night. His hands slip to her hips, curving around them reassuringly lightly and he’s nowhere near the seven stripes on her ass but they’re singing and stinging and it feels kinda good, the way it does when he’s spanked her so hard and so long that the heat swallows the pain.

“You’re to tell me if this hurts,” he says in this hoarse voice that’s practically fucking begging her not to because he’s gonna die too if they don’t, she knows he is.

She can’t stand it any longer, and if he’s still capable of talking she’s doing this wrong, so she slams down on him and watches his head fall back and every muscle lock so she’s going to have finger marks all over her but she doesn’t give a fuck because he’s in her, every inch she can get, and fuck he feels so good...

She can’t ride him the way she normally would, rising and sinking, grinding and squirming, but it’s almost enough just this, the sense of emptiness being filled which has fuck-all to do with the physical this time and everything to do with the way he’s looking at her now, all wondering eyes and bitten-lips as she lifts just a little and eases back down.

Maybe this was too soon. Her ass is burning, skin stretched taut and the pain’s enough to turn her a little sick but call it interest on a debt because she’s not leaving him like this.

But if he was fucking her in the proverbial cellar at midnight he’d be able to tell the difference between her face screwed up in pain rather than ecstasy and before she’s got time to splutter more than, “What the hell -?” he’s lifting her off him and he’s all closed-off and distant again.

“That was unforgivably stupid of me,” he mutters, not meeting her eyes.

She hits him. Not hard and she’s shaking so much from frustration it’s this weak little flap of her fist against his shoulder, not the thump he deserves but it brings his head around.

“It’s my ass,” she growls.

He holds up his hand. “And it’s bleeding,” he says tiredly.

It’s a smudge, that’s all, the tiniest smear of red, and she’s not happy about it but she’s got other things on her mind and one of them’s right there, still interested even if Wesley looks as if he’s three seconds away from hitting a cold shower and shrinking it down to size.

With an evil look at him, because damn, he can be stubborn when he’s protective, she jabs her finger into his chest. “Fine,” she hisses. “But you’re going to come in me, one way or another, Wes, or I’ll –”

Words waste time, she decides, giving up on arguing with him. She moves between his legs, spreading them wide, and shifts backwards so that she can lie out full stretch with her head level with his cock. It's not the ideal position, but her ass appreciates it and once she's resting her arms on his thighs it's not too bad.

"Faith," he says, and there's this exasperated yearning in his voice. Talk about mixed signals...

She ignores him and when he doesn't struggle away she gives his cock a gentle, approving kiss, right on the top, and hears his breath suck in with a satisfyingly ragged moan to follow as she dips her head slowly, lips parted so he slides into her mouth.

Chapter Two Hundred and Eighty Two

At this angle, it takes every effort not to gag a little as she relaxes the back of her throat, taking in the length of him – slowly -- dragging her tongue along his hot shaft. She can feel his thigh muscles tighten under her hands, and this almost pleases her more than his soft moans that echo each time the head of his cock bumps against the furthest edge of her soft palate.

And now that she's settled in place, one hand slithers up over his inner thigh, curling around the base of his cock, her pinkie lightly stroking his balls as she works her mouth and hand in tandem, his hips bucking slightly in counterpoint.

She can barely breathe through her nose, but it's worth it; the lightheadedness makes it easier to take him a teensy bit deeper in every time he thrusts against her. Lips taut and slick, she slips up and down in a furious rhythm for a few moments before slacking off. He whimpers needily as she nearly slides him completely out of her mouth before clasping her hand tightly 'round, squeezing and jerking him off, all the while lapping at his dripping head teasingly with the soft tip of her tongue.

His hands twist into her hair and for a moment she thinks he's gonna shove her back down, force her to take him fully back in her mouth again, but instead he holds her there, gasps of pleasure interspersed with her name repeated in a whispered raspy blur and she can feel him holding back, waiting. Not so much making himself wait as making her work for his come, and she only too gladly obliges, inching him further and further into her mouth so very slowly, until she's taken him in as far back as she possibly can, her hand now gently cupping his balls as she takes to working up and down his shaft, pulling hard with her tongue to create little bursts of extra suction over and over and over again ...

He shifts his hips ever-so-slightly and she lets up again, just for a moment that drags out interminably, lolling her tongue lazily up and around, just teasing him for once. Only he's nearly begging her to not to stop, and she's only too happy to oblige ...

Until the moment his fingers curl around the back of her neck and she only needs to lightly, oh so lightly tighten her lips around his cock again and gently pull him out, the action of her tongue working in resistance, and he comes, filling her mouth with salty, hot spunk that she greedily swallows down. Her tongue's swirling around the head and she lets him do the work, thrusting into her yielding mouth until the final shuddering spasm fades and she swallows down the last drops she's sucked from his throbbing head.

She wants to stay with him in her mouth like that, just for a few more moments, but he's pulling her up fast and she scrambles to her knees as he dips his head down, snatching her mouth in his for a possessive, hungry kiss. His hands are still tangled in her hair and he won't let her go, won't let her break away until he's finished, his tongue sliding along hers until the taste of him fills both their mouths.

She's seeing stars by the time she's able to breathe properly again, still on her knees. He's pulled her close, his arms wrapped around her protectively, his breath soft and hot on her ear and for a moment she thinks she just may come too, her burning cheek pressed against his chest, his heart hammering in her ear.



They stay like that a long time, until her knees go numb, her ankles demanding a reprieve. She doesn't want to move, but she's afraid she might collapse and slide out of his grasp if she doesn't.

Tilting her head up to meet his eyes, she's almost startled by the raw intensity of his gaze locked with hers, and by the way he markedly shivers in her arms, she knows he sees the same thing looking back at him.

“Love you, Wes...” she whispers, so low there's barely any sound that makes it past her lips.

Pulling her close again, he murmurs against her ear. “And I love you, Faith.” The sound of her name sends tight prickles of headiness straight to her overloading brain. “More than you'll ever know.”

“Doubt that, Wes,” she says, twisting her head 'round to plant a soft kiss on his lips. “Think I've got a pretty clear idea right now.”


She doesn't argue when he insists that she have another hot bath before she falls asleep, and the whole trip from den to bathroom to bedroom all runs together in a blur until she's on her stomach in the bed, his hands working to unclench the strained muscles in her neck, whispering poems that make her heart squeeze up and set her warm, soporific limbs tingling before she finally slips in to dreams, carried there on the soft cadence of his voice.

Chapter Two Hundred and Eighty Three

And his voice is the first thing she hears when she finally manages to unpeel her eyelids.

"Wake up, sleepy girl," he says and all her senses come alive because he's stroking his fingers along the curve of her spine, dipping into the dimples just above her buttocks. And there's sunlight flooding every inch of the room so she has to squinch up her eyes and the smell of chocolate and caramel is making her nose twitch.

She might be still stupid with sleep but the smell of chocolate and caramel can only mean that Wes went out to get her breakfast.

"Hmmm, did you get me a caramel latte?" she mumbles. She rolls gingerly onto her side and hey, what do you know? Her ass is feeling way better. Like she's gone a dozen rounds with Wes and her hairbrush, but that she can live with. And he's sitting on the edge of the bed, looking like he's been back-lit by God's own cinematographer and if she moves her head just a little bit to the right… Disco! There's things made of pastry on the plate that he's placed on the night stand.

"Good morning, Faith," he says, his hand brushing back her sleep-tangled hair from her face and she's leaning into his touch and holding her face up for a kiss that's sweeter than all the caramel lattes in the world.

He gives her an approving smile when she finally prizes her arms from around his neck and sits up without even a wince. "I take it you're feeling better?"

"So much better," she agrees, reaching for the caramel latte, which he's decanted into one of his heavy china mugs. "You didn't have any plans for today, Wes, did you 'cause…"

She doesn't get any further than that because his eyebrows are shooting up and he's doing a good job of looking scandalized. "Please, Faith, if you're going to suggest what I imagine you're going to suggest, may I remind you that this is meant to be a day of rest."

And she's never going to take this for granted again. Not the smooching or the way he gives her perfect Sunday mornings or how they're getting back to this place where he can tease her so she bumps her shoulder against his and giggles when he gives a frantic little moan as her latte sloshes dangerously close to the rim of her mug.

"Dunno what's going through your mind, Wes, I was just gonna say if you want me to help you start packing, I'm feeling up to it," she tells him smugly and he bites his lip because she knows that he's as desperate to be inside her, properly inside her, as she is. "I could start in the study, while you did the library."

"It can wait," he says firmly. "I've already planned to spend every moment of the day lavishing attention on you, looking after you, touching you. I don't want you out of my sight for a second." And he sounds so fucking serious about it, like he's just daring her to say that she'd rather go to the Monster Truck Rally that's happening in the next town. His hand is already sliding under the sheet so he can cup her knee, just in case she thought he was joking.

She's needy, She knows that. Been so long, like 18 years too long of being the girl who got used and abused and laughed at. But he takes her need and makes it all right. Makes it OK that she craves his attention as much as he loves giving it to her.

"You just don't want me whining about getting paper cuts," she blurts out because she's about to get dragged under by a tsunami of raw emotion and it's the worst thing she could have said because paper cuts bleed and…

But he's smiling gravely and she didn't think that was possible until she met Wes. "And then I'd have to kiss every one better and I doubt that either of us would get much packing done so it's simpler to stick with my original plan, don't you think?"

His original plan involves feeding her breakfast. Tearing off ragged chunks of pain au chocolat and almond croissants and not even pursing his lips at the flaky crumbs that are adorning the sheets. Then there's another bath where she lays in the scented water, languidly lifting each limb ready for his attentions until he tells her that she looks like some dissolute empress. He even shaves her; legs, armpits and even though it's practically baby's butt smooth, he spends what feels like several millennia on her mound until he isn't even using the razor, just running his fingers over her as reverently as if she was the rarest of rare books.

"You're so beautiful, Faith," he tells her when she finally complains that the water's getting cold and she's standing patiently on the bathmat while he dries her. "You quite make me catch my breath sometimes."

And she can feel herself pinking up under his gaze because since she met him, she does feel beautiful. She feels softer and prettier, not like the girl that the boys would call hot because they thought that was a good way to get into her pants.

"So are you," she mumbles quickly. "Not trying to get you pissed, Wes. You are and one day you're gonna realise it too."

"Well, I suppose beautiful is slightly more poetic than that other adjective you're so fond of," he drawls but there's this grin threatening to crack across the tightly drawn lines of his lips.

"What? You mean fucking?"

"I'm not even going to dignify that with a response, Faith," he says, rising slowly and walking over to the counter so he can pick up the bottle of moisturizer that he's probably going to spend the rest of the day rubbing into her skin, but he's smiling properly now, eyes dancing with delight.

"Oh! You mean pretty," she exclaims like the light's suddenly dawned, and he's been away from her for ever. 'Cause five seconds is too long and she's hurrying over the tiles so she can press herself against his back, standing on tip-toes to press a frantic line of kisses against the back of his neck. "You're so fucking pretty, Wes and I love you so fucking much."

And the walk back to the bedroom is this entwined stumble of lips and hands getting in the way and it was dreamy and slow before like she was still asleep. Now it’s urgent and she's wet and wanting him so badly that she sprawls on the bed, thighs spread, and throws him a beseeching look.

"We could spend the day in bed," she pleads even though the hungry way he stares at her cunt makes her think she's not going to have to beg too long. "You could lavish attention on me and touch me in bed, Wes. Want you to."

But he doesn't answer for the longest time and she watches in fascination as this flush stains his face and his hands twist nervously like they've never wielded a razor or a belt so assuredly. "That sounds lovely," he chokes out. "And from the way you flung yourself down, I assume that you're on the road to recovery."

"Really am…"

He's kneeling at her feet in an instant but his fingers aren't gliding up the taut muscles of her legs but clutching at her hands. "I'd like… that is… this is very awkward, Faith and I'd entirely understand if you didn't want to…"

It doesn't matter what he wants. He could slather her in chicken liver pate and make her stand there for half an hour statue-still and she'd do it. Especially when he doesn’t order, just stammers and falls over his words.

"Anything, Wes. You know, I'll do anything," she assures him eagerly and his grip tightens almost painfully around her wrists, shadows darkening his eyes to the deepest navy.

"You shouldn't agree to things so easily," he bites out. "I don't expect you to willingly comply with my every demand, do I?"

Somehow they've managed to crash through the door marked 'don't go there' and she drags him back, leaning forward to pepper his face with kisses. "No, no! Wes, I didn't mean it like that. Don't be mad at me. I just want us to be all right. I've been good, haven't I? Done everything you wanted me to because that's what I wanted to."

"You've been delightful…"

"So don't go changing the rules on me, Wes, I just want us to be happy." Her fingers are clutching his shoulders so tight that she's going to leave bruises but she has to look long and hard into the stormy blue of his eyes so he can see her. Believe her.

"I don't want you to get hurt," he whispers and she almost laughs in relief.

"Then don't be angry with me," she says simply. "That's what hurts the most."

"I'm not angry with you. Not anymore and not ever again." His voice has got this dull, heavy tone to it like he's trying to bite down whatever he's feeling. "It's forgiven, Faith. It's forgotten."

The tears are prickling at the back of her eyes. "I'm so sorry, Wes. You know that, right?"

"You crying didn't figure too highly during my plans for a perfect day," he says with a shaky smile. "So I'll be most displeased if I have to kiss them away."

"Not crying but you could still kiss me."

It's not until she's got her legs wrapped round his chest so she can yank him in closer and tighter and maybe not ever let him go while he fists his hands into her hair so he can tip her head back and sink even deeper into her mouth, that she knows she's going to get fucked. Not some gentle rocking with her on top but him pinning her down and slamming into her.

"Do you wanna fuck me, Wes?" she hisses when he lets go of her mouth so they can both take ragged breaths.

He gives her this sibilant 'yes' in reply that's dragged so hard out of him it sounds like it hurts.

"Want you to fuck me hard," she tells him fiercely and his hand is already snaking between them so he can rub his palm roughly against her clit. Then he's pushing her down on the bed and hauling himself to his feet.

"I want a picture of you," he barks suddenly as she raises herself up on her elbows. "Like this. When you're so wet and needy for me."

She freezes up because there's these crumpled black and white images rushing through her head and the room's spinning so she shuts her eyes to make it stop. But when she opens them all she can see is him and the longing in his eyes makes her heart hitch and then beat out this maddening rhythm that makes her feel giddy.

And even as she croaks out "why?" she's parting her legs even wider just to hear that tiny little gasp he always makes and then tries to hide.

"Because I love to see how beautiful you are, how much you want me. Even when I was away, remember? How I'd bring myself off and think about you. And a photograph wouldn't be the same, wouldn't be so delectable, so wanton, but it would always be… As if I'd captured a tiny part of you that you only let me see," he finishes in this inelegant rush and now all she can see is other photos of her all pink and pretty and her fingers and her cunt, how the shiny photographic paper would glisten and he'd have them spread out on the bed in some sterile hotel room while his hand was wrapped round his cock and it'd be like she was always with him.

"So you wouldn't show them to your lawyer buddies then?"

"Faith!" He's not faking that utterly appalled top note and she grins and she's getting wetter because…

"What if it wasn't just one photo?" Her voice is thick and husky like her tongue's turned to cotton wool. "What if I let you take pictures of me while I did this?"

Her index finger is circling her clit, tracing a path to her aching cunt so she can dip inside and show him just how much she wants him.

And he doesn't say anything. Kinda hard to when he's growling.

His knuckles are white as he grips the chest of drawers and his face has blanked out, shut down because no one will ever know him like she does. "If you did something for me I'd even let you take photos of me coming" she says sweetly and pulls her fingers away from her dripping pussy. Then she sits up and gives him a demure smile. "You gonna let me tie you up, Wes?"

Chapter Two Hundred and Eighty Four

He regains some of his composure at that. "Rhetorical questions are such a waste of time, don't you think?" he murmurs.

"Wasn't one," she says pertly but with the hope that she's ever going to get him naked, bound, and at her mercy, flickering and dying, because if he won't agree to it on Indulge Faith Day, when will he?

"Let's pretend it was, shall we?" he suggests pleasantly. "If you're adamant that your agreement requires a concession from me, well, I'm sure we can come up with something else." He sits beside her and holds her gaze as his finger trails up her leg and pauses. "I could forgo any waiting for once... make this first time one of, ah, near-instant gratification?"

She gasps with indignation. "Like you're not as desperate as me!" she says. "Wes, once you're in me, even you wouldn't be stopping to tease and drag it out. Not this time."

Which, OK, not the most sensible thing she could've said because now he's looking all challenged and insulted and fuck, if he dreams up one of his, Faith doesn't get to come for an hour, scenarios she's gonna be kicking herself.

Then his face relaxes and he chuckles. "Perhaps you're right," he concedes. "I'm certainly very eager." He gives her a reproving look. "Not desperate."

'Course not. She gives it one last try. "I'm, uh, negotiating from a position of strength here."

His eyebrow shoots up and she bites back a giggle. "I beg your pardon?" he drawls.

She traces a circle around her nipple so it hardens as he watches – because he's watching in fact – and gives him a slow, sweet, utterly not-budging smile. "I want you naked, Wesley. Want you lying here in front of me, all mine to play with, for... "She thinks about it."Half an hour? And you get the same amount of time with the camera if you need it and I'll pose any way you want me to, doing anything."

Linking it so he cuts down the time he spends bound, and loses at the other end of the deal is a stroke of fucking genius, she thinks and it's working because he's looking all kinds of conflicted even as his tongue is wetting his lips because the bait she's dangling is just so fucking tempting, she can tell.

"Very well," he bites out. "If you're resolved on this, I really have no choice, but, Faith, I don't think I need to tell you that I'll be most displeased if you in any way overstep –"

She yawns and studies her fingernails and he glares at her. "What?" she says innocently. "Wesley, I know what you get off on and what you don't. Stop fussing."

He's lost for words, but guess he doesn't need them, because he's sliding off the bed and walking around to where he keeps the scarves she's felt against her wrists and ankles so many times. She watches him pull out the drawer and rummage inside it, his face slightly grim.

And she'd feel kinda bad about this but it's something she wants to do and she's got a suspicion that deep-down he's almost glad she's asked for something big, because he's still got this idea that what happened between them didn't balance the scales the way they'd intended – that he owes her.

And yeah, apart from the tingles she's getting just thinking about what he'll look like, she wants to see if he trusts her again and she can't think of anything that would prove it better than this.

Of course, now he's started to undress, his eyes on her as he unbuttons his shirt with unhurried, casual flicks of his fingers, she can't think, period. He takes away everything that isn't him when he looks at her like this, when he's stripping bare for her.

She gets off the bed as he places his pants on the chair, folded neatly, and kisses him, feeling his mouth soften under hers. Her resolve wavers because his cock's hard against her and she just knows she could get it inside her in thirty seconds if she asked...

Stepping back from him takes all her willpower but she manages it. "Want you on the bed, on your back, Wes," she says, trying to capture some of his assurance.

He purses her lips and studies her before giving her an odd little smile and a nod. "Of course," he says silkily. He tilts his wrist and looks at his watch, then unfastens it and straps it to her wrist. "Thirty minutes," he says, picking up the heap of black silk and handing it to her without commenting.

"Yeah, and they've already started," she says, closing her hand on the scarves which feel so heavy suddenly, "so why are you still standing?"

He sits on the side of the bed and twists to the side, bringing his legs up and shifting to the center in one smooth movement that might look unconcerned if not for the pulse hammering away in his throat. This is fucking killing him, not least because of the fact that his cock's rigid and she's as good as told him he's got half an hour to get through.

"Would you like me to tell you the best knot to use?" he asks politely as she kneels beside him, a length of silk trailing from her hand.

"Xander was a Scout for six months," she says. "Know 'em all, don't worry."

If anything the slight frown deepens. "Could I just –"

She nods at the headboard without speaking and sees this fucking beautiful look of indecision on his face before he swallows heavily and extends his arm up and to the side.

She runs her finger across the crease of his wrist and watches his fingers curl inwards and then relax. "It feels cool at first," she tells him as she slips the scarf under his wrist. "The silk, I mean. You can feel it, every inch, and it's not like a bracelet. You know it's something meant to hold you and I don't think it matters if you use silk, like this, or cuffs, or chains, or rope..." She attaches one end of the scarf to his wrist and says, "I don't want you to look, Wesley. Eyes on the ceiling."

His head moves back into position with an effort and she smiles and wraps her hand around his wrist, pulling it into position. "No, it doesn't matter at all. They all do the same job, right?"

He nods slowly as she finishes fastening his hand in place. "Yes."

She clasps her hand around his bound wrist. "Feel warm yet, Wes? Feel part of you, so you forget it's there until you try to move beyond what you're allowed?"

His eyes close for a moment. "It – yes. Yes, it does."

His voice is tense, almost panicky, as if he's already spread out and helpless and she leans over and kisses him, feeling the way his mouth opens and he strains up to reach her because he doesn't know how long she'll stay and he has to make the most of her because he's not going to have any say in if she stays or goes.

She realizes, with a flash of insight, that she'd be so fucking turned-on by that... there's something about the combination of need and helplessness that gets her every time when it's Wesley looking down at her with a frowning, thoughtful intensity, because she loves him, and she trusts him, so there's never any risk, any danger of him not delivering.

Got to be difficult for Wesley though. She's not sure he's ever got to that place with anyone and the way she's fucked stuff up with him recently she doesn't need the swift glance down to see that he isn't totally happy with this, though the whole naked and no-fucking-for-two-weeks is on her side.

It's gone on long enough, she decides, kneeling back on her heels. "Wes?"

Staring at her with carefully-blank eyes he raises his other hand above his head and twists his fingers into the metal frame of the bed. "I'm ready," he tells her.

There's a second where she's so fucking tempted... This is one image she doesn't need to record anywhere but burned into her memory. The muscles in his arms are taut and all the delicate, tender soft skin she doesn't get to see and touch half enough is exposed and waiting to be kissed, to have her nails rake over it and leave faintly scarlet lines that sink back into the skin only to be called out to play when she does it again...

"Want to make sure I tied it right first," she says. "Suppose you try pulling on it?"

There's this look of relief that he gets to try and break free but it's chased away by the realization that he's going to have it well and truly rubbed in that he's tied-up. He deals with it, shoving it down as she watches, and then he takes a quick, shallow breath and tugs sharply.

The scarf, tied in a loose bow, slips free of bed and wrist and his head jerks to the side to stare at it.

"I thought you knew how to tie knots."

She scoops up the scarves and tucks them away in the drawer. "Just wanted to see if you'd do it, Wes," she says gently. "And you've got guts, because you didn't like that one little bit, did you?"

He gives her a look that's almost angry. "I don't find this amusing, Faith," he begins, starting to struggle up.

"Wasn't meant to be," she says. "And you're not off the hook, Wes, so stay right where you are."

His lips tighten but he does as she tells him. "I'd appreciate it if you told me exactly what you have in mind," he says.

"Bet you would," she says dryly. "Deal's this, Wesley; I won't tie you because that's, oh, it's like zucchini sex for you, right?"

His lips twitch in a small smile. "No one but me would understand that reference, you know."

"No one else needs to," she tells him tartly. "That's, like, one of those memories you take to your fucking grave without sharing, OK?"

"Agreed," he says and the smile she gets melts her a little because she's starting to think she's gone too far but he's still happy with her if he can smile like that.

"But I still want to just, you know, have you to play with," she says, hurrying on as his lips part on what has to be an objection at the very idea he's her own, personal GI Wes. "So I'm gonna give you a safe word –" Now he's looking as if she's lost it, totally, " – and kinda put you on your honor not to move."

"My honor."

He's sounding bemused now and she nudges his leg impatiently with her knee. "Right. You've got to promise not to move unless I tell you to. And you don't get much time to decide because this is all on the clock here, remember?"

There's nothing but amusement and love in his face now. "Faith, this is – it's not what I expected."

'Tick-tock," she says with a pointed look at his watch.

"I agree," he says softly. "I promise to behave as if the bonds are real and if even that becomes too... arduous, I'll ask you to stop."

"Word?" she snaps out.

He hesitates, his eyes clouding over in thought, then he gives her a wicked grin that vanishes in an instant, so his face is perfectly straight as he says, "Courgette."

"So gonna make you pay for that," she mutters. "And I've got... twenty one minutes to do it in."

He doesn't wait for her command, just spreads his arms and legs wide, holding onto the headboard again and, yeah, he's back in the game again now...

Chapter Two Hundred and Eighty Five

It's such an overwhelming image, she's not quite sure where to look first. She's glad this is happening now -- with the mid-morning sun spilling through the windows still giving the whole room a dazzling golden glow that seems to both be radiating from him and lighting him up at the same time -- glinting off the hidden gray bits of his hair, which she still finds completely adorable.

Rocking back on her heels, hands pressing into her thighs, she slowly counts to thirty in her head, as she imagines he must do when their roles are reversed – when he's itching to touch her, but holds back. Or does it just come so naturally to him and he doesn't need to keep close track of the time, instead bending it to his will, making moments drag or speed up or stop entirely? She's not sure she can match that.

And to say the possibilities presented her at that moment are overwhelming would be an understatement.

She can feel his eyes on her, but she doesn't meet them, instead lets her gaze wander from one tightly clenched fist to the other, his fingers curled around the headboard, the tendons in his wrist slightly raised with the effort. The line of his neck where it meets his shoulder; the soft shadows of his ribcage; the fine, soft hair that trails down his belly; the way his still-stiff cock gently butts against the scallop of his hipbone; the impossibly long lines of his legs that end with his bare feet, finely boned as his hands. And she could be mistaken, but she's sure she sees one toe twitch, in that way she knows wayward limbs and digits will when you're trying to hold perfectly still. Soon after she's enraptured by the way his thigh quivers ever so slightly when she nearly reaches out to run her fingers along his pearlescent flesh.

Snatching her hand away and deciding starting so close to his cock would be a little too hasty, she evaluates all the bits of him that are screaming out at her to be touched, finally deciding to run a solitary fingertip along the inner edge of his arm, wrist to bicep and
back down again with the back of her fingernail, smiling faintly at the curl of goose bumps that spring up.

"Woah..." she breathes, suppressing a hysterical giggle, a little stunned 'cause she'd almost forgotten the feeling of watching the near-imperceptible effects her fingers have on his smooth, pale skin. Leaning in to run the tip of her tongue along the same line, she's
doubly pleased to hear a hitch in his slow, even breathing. His skin's slightly salty and when she's this close, faintly redolent of his usual sandalwood and bergamot scent that makes little bits of her, deep inside, immediately clang madly at the sense memory.

It clears the haze of desire in her brain, though, suddenly realizing that she's already lost track of time and she must have wasted precious minutes marveling over just a tiny portion of him, and is almost pissed off until she realizes that's exactly what she's supposed to be doing, mapping her way around the territory of his skin. And she proceeds to do just that, running fingers and tongue over all her favorite parts of him, finally planting a light kiss on the protruding wrist bone of each arm, her hair and breasts swinging teasingly over his surprisingly blissed-out face as she leans over to
reach the one furthest from her.

And yeah, she's more than pleased to see him actually relaxing now, stock-still except for the occasional slight quivering of his cock -- so pleased, in fact, she knows it's time to dispense with the feather-light touches and sweet kisses, dipping her head down and
dragging her tongue along his neck and down his chest, circling each of his nipples in turn, feeling him fight the urge to move. Oh yeah, that's some heady stuff, that power and all of a sudden she's pressing the heel of her palm to the shallow divot where hip meets thigh before swinging her leg over him, the outer edges of her slick, hot pussy rubbing along the length of his cock, pinning it between them.

"You're not to move, Wes," she warns him as she feels his hips shift under her, his cock quivering and twitching and she knows damn well that's an involuntary reaction that he can't control, just like he can't do anything about the mottled flush that's pinking up his skin. "I'm gonna stop if you do."

She's feeling all kinds of generous, which might have something to do with the way that the twitching length of his shaft is rubbing against her clit so she doesn't point out that the way he narrows his eyes to give her the mother of all glares technically counts as moving. Instead she slides herself an inch forward so she can get more of the wriggling undulations of his cock against her.

"I'm sure that your half hour's up," he snaps with a petulant bite and with a grin her eyes shifts to the clock on the nightstand. Her meter ran out three minutes ago but it's not like he knows that.

"Nuh-huh, Wes. Still got a good while yet. Unless you want to use that little word you got if this is too much for you. And I don't mean to get all pernickety but all those filthy looks you keep giving me are just adding more minutes on to your running time."

And payback is so fucking sweet because he opens his mouth to snap out some dire threat but she's already swooping forward, locking her fingers around his wrists and invading his mouth like some conquering army. Because she'd promised him this, before she got too carried away with her evil plans to have him all splayed out and at her mercy. Now that she's got the reality of it, all that smooth skin and tightly corded muscle spread out beneath her like a fucking gourmet dinner, she doesn't want all the things she promised herself. Doesn't need ice cubes or belts or anything like that. Because she promised once that she'd give him six minutes of serious smooching if he ever let her do this and she's made a solemn vow that she's always going to keep her promises to him.

She's so busy getting a high from the taste of him, running her tongue along the roof of his mouth and the top of his teeth that it takes a little while to realize that he's not kissing her back. In fact, if it wasn't for the near constant wet caress now of his cock between the sticky lips of her cunt, she'd bet that he'd died of outrage.

"You're meant to kiss me too, you know," she hisses indignantly against his frozen mouth.

"Wouldn't that count as moving?" he enquires archly and she's this close to rethinking the whole ice cube and belt vow.

"Six straight minutes of smooching," she echoes from their other perfect weekend. "And I'll cry if you don't kiss me back."

"Well, in that case…" He gives her a secret little smile then purses his lips so they're just the right shape for her kisses.

It's six perfect minutes of being sprawled on top of him, the smooth wall of his chest sliding against her aching breasts as she tries to get enough of something she'll never be able to get enough of. Because even though she's drunk on his kisses – could just about fucking die from the slide of his tongue in her mouth – she's rapidly reaching the stage where she's gonna die for real if she doesn't get his cock inside her soon.

As it is, the frantic circling of her hips and all that wriggling around gets the head of his cock nuzzling right against the slippery heat of her hole and she's pushing herself forward, tormenting the pair of them so he's groaning into her mouth every time she lets him gain an inch and then slips back.

"I think you can move now, Wes," she chokes out and his gaze follows her, flickers to the clock and then back to her, his eyes promising all sorts of wicked things.

"Forty three minutes," he murmurs to himself as his fingers slowly uncoil themselves from the bed posts and he stretches his arms over his head. "Remind me to take issue with you about your deplorable time keeping after we've fucked."

"You in the driving seat then, are you?" she asks, like she doesn't already know the answer from the way he's pushing her upright so he can cup her breasts and rub the pads of his thumbs over the stinging tightness of her nipples.

He's already in motion, planting his feet flat on the bed so his legs lift up and she's tilted backwards against his thighs. "Do you even need to ask?" he purrs with a grin that's an eighth of an inch away from malevolent. "Now put me inside you."

The moment her hand clutches greedily around the throbbing, wet length of him she's sending frantic messages to her ass to behave itself. And as she scrambles up on her knees and treats herself to just one, no two, what the fucking hell, three sly swipes of her clit against the leaking head of his cock, she can't feel anything but the slightest twinge of healing skin, which is nothing compared to how much her cunt aches to have him inside her.

"No dawdling, Faith," he says with a delicious taunt to his voice and she's greedily slipping his cock home in one clumsy lunge because it's been so long and now the wait's over and her cunt is clutching him tight, walls fluttering around him and if she leans forward, rests her shaking hands on his shoulders and puts all her weight on him, she can feel him pressing against her sweetest spot, the base of his cock rubbing at her clit and she's swooning, mouth open in a gasp that she can't quite get out.

It takes one tiny thrust of her hips and she's coming already with those little ripples of sensation that she always thinks of as a prelude to the main event.

And the main event is seconds away because the sense memory of the bite of his hands on her hips is replaced by the real thing, and he's lifting her up so she can sink back down. "That's my girl," he groans, eyes tight shut before they snap open. "You're all right?"

And if she said she wasn't, she thinks he'd cry like a little baby. As it is she gives him her most beatific smile and rewards his concern with an evil twist of her hips that has him snarling and his head thrown back.

"A fucking OK, Wes," she assures him sweetly before she finds a resolve she never knew she had and raises herself up so she's open and empty and lying back on the bed next to him while his face screws up in confusion. "You gonna fuck me or what?"

"I thought that's what I was doing?" he grits out because her fingers are dancing over his cock.

"More like I was fucking you," she pouts. "And I'm exhausted from all my recuperating and topping you and stuff."

"I'm sure I could find some part of your anatomy to give a good spanking to or have you developed an unprecedented level of restraint in the last fortnight? And you were not topping me; I was allowing you the illusion of control, which is an entirely different…"

"Oh stop being so snarky," she sighs, letting go of his cock and tugging at his arm. "Up, Wes, want you to fuck me."

God, he wants it too because he's shifting fast, looming over her to spread legs that are already parted for him before hesitating. "I'm not sure that this is the most comfortable position for you, Faith."

She doesn't reply because actions speak louder than words and she's scooting down the bed and lifting herself up so her knees are around his ears and her legs are draped over his shoulders. "If my ass touches the bed then you'll be the first to know."

Chapter Two Hundred and Eighty Six

And his hands are moving to support her even as he's turning his head to press one sweet but totally unnecessary kiss on the inside of her knee, where the skin's tender and smooth.

"Faith..." he murmurs, and she doesn't know what he was going to say because his hips are moving forward and she's not sure he could have stopped that first deep stroking thrust if he'd tried, and once completed, the second, third, and all the rest of them, are as inevitable and welcome as sunrise and sunset.

There's this instant though, when he's first in her, deep and hard, and he pauses, staring at her, his expression almost imploring because she might not have made him beg - not that she'd tried – but she'd brought him to the point where this, just this, was enough to make him need to stop because he's so close to coming he has to.

She holds still, perfectly still, and she's way better at it than she was, but the faint tremor that runs through her body as he starts to withdraw is all it takes. He makes a sound, too harsh to sound familiar on his lips, and his eyes squeeze closed, face contorting. She can feel him struggle to regain a swiftly-slipping control and then he relaxes, opens his eyes and smiles at her, looking fucking wild and not a little scary.

But if there'd been a mirror around this time, she knows her own expression would match it.

"Fuck me," she says without moving, each word deliberate and clear. She can feel her lips peel back in a challenging smile. "Hard."

She doesn't have to ask again. Her legs slip down into a more comfortable position and she gets that second stroke, gets the third, and then he's just fucking pounding into her in an onslaught that, right then, is exactly what she wants, what she needs.

Later he can take all the time he wants; spin it out, twist them from one position to another as the fancy takes him, make her plead, make her please him – he can do whatever the fuck he wants, just as long as he fucks her now, just like this.

She's making a sound, full-throated and wordless, every time his cock slams into her and his hands are cupping her ass, holding it so that she feels as if she's floating, anchored to the bed by his body.

By the time he comes they're wrapped around each other and Wesley's head is cradled against her shoulder. It's a long time before they speak, even longer before he slides, reluctantly, out of her and rolls to the side, pulling her into his arms.

"I don't think I've come that fast since I was a teenager," he says reflectively. "I'd apologize for being so precipitate were it not for the fact that –"

"I was coming pretty much the whole time and I'd have been fucking furious if you'd even tried to stop?" she asks wryly. "Not gonna get any complaints from me, Wes. That was perfect."

"Perfect?" There's a faint surprise in his voice. "Oh, I can soon change your mind about that, Faith. You're too easily satisfied by far." He snuggles his head into the pillow and sighs. "Just give me a few minutes to recover."

She snorts and it turns into a grin when he laughs back at her. "I'll give you a few hours," she says, punching him lightly on the arm. His hand slips down her back to her ass and it's still tender enough to make her lips tighten, just a little, in anticipation of pain, though it never comes. That's enough to get Wes freaking though, and the smile drops off his face.

"On your stomach," he orders. "I want to see if that rather energetic bout had any less pleasant after effects."

She lies there as he peers at her ass and can't help wriggling as his finger prods at her skin. "Hey! That tickles!"

"As long as that's all it's doing," he mutters. "It looks fine. You do heal quickly." His hand comes to rest against her skin. "I don't –" He clears his throat. "I don't think it will leave any – lasting marks, Faith."

And she can't bear not to see his face, though when she turns and she does, she wishes she hadn't. That closed-off, shamed look is back and he's staring down at his hand as if it's not fit to touch her or something.

She gets inside the circle of his arms, forcing him to hold her, and presses fierce, hard kisses on his mouth. "Don't, Wes. Just don't. Not saying to forget about it, 'cause we can't and we shouldn't, but don't go all sad on me. Please?"

His face warms a little. "You love to make things simple, don't you?" he says softly.

She frowns. "That's what you do, Wesley," she tells him, puzzled. "I'm the one with the complicated, fucked-up life; you're the one who makes me feel all safe and –" She waves her hand vaguely. "You know."

"Not exactly," he says, "but it seems we both see each other through a roseate hue, doesn't it?"

"Speaking of seeing," she says, eager to change the subject. "While you're recovering, guess you could take those photos?"

"Ah, yes," he says reflectively. "The ones I bought at such a high price..."

She pouts. "Can't tell me you hated it, Wes."

"It was... " He stares at nothing and then gives this brisk shake of his head. "Illuminating. I discovered that you're remarkably gracious when given the upper hand –"

"My pleasure," she says, giving him a wicked grin, because if he thinks she had all these evil plans and let him off easy, well, she's not going to tell him she did exactly what she'd wanted to do.

"And have an exceedingly odd notion of what constitutes thirty minutes." He reaches out and unbuckles his watch from her wrist with a stern glance. "Thirteen minutes extra is well outside allowable limits, Faith."

And, face it, for Wes, thirteen seconds would be, so she hangs her head and tries to look penitent when there's this fizz of anticipation building because sooner or later she'll pay for those thirteen minutes and she can't fucking wait.

"Yes, Faith, that's charming," he drawls, not sounding fooled. "You look delightfully contrite, but, sadly, not at all convincing."

She lifts her head and dimples at him. "Spent six of those minutes kissing you, Wes. You can't expect me to regret that no matter what you do to get me back."

"I'm flattered," he says, his eyebrows rising slightly. "Let's hope you still feel the same way when you're actually experiencing my wrath."

"It's not gonna, like, involve tickling is it?" she asks cautiously.

He gives her an infuriatingly smug smile and gets off the bed. "I do so love it when you make my task easier," he tells her, leaving the room before she's got chance to start arguing with him about how that just isn't fucking true.

Left alone she takes the first real chance she's had to look at her ass, scampering over to the long cheval mirror and peering over her shoulder. She sucks in a breath. It's not – no, it's not as bad as she'd thought, but it's still a mess. She can count each welt, thin dark lines of bruise-surrounded flesh, but the skin's whole and the bruises are edging away from spectacular now.

She hears Wesley's footsteps and by the time he comes back in, she's just where he left her, heart thudding guiltily, even though he hadn't told her not to move.

He gives her a speculative glance and a small smile. "I told you they were healing," he says mildly.

"Fuck, Wes!" she says, disgusted at how transparent she seems to be. "Do you have superpowers or something?"

"Just excellent hearing," he says. "And when you hurtle across the room and fling yourself on the bed, making as much noise as a herd of baby elephants, if I can quote my nanny, it's not difficult to work out your prior actions." He walks over to the bed and studies her. "This will do," he says, with a decisive nod.

She's never seen a single photograph of him on display all the time she's been here, and he didn't take a camera along on their trip to the beach, so she's not sure what she expected a tech-phobic Wesley to have in the way of a camera. Whatever it was, it's not this sleek silver Polaroid.

"Where'd you get that?" she asks curiously.

He sets it down on the bed beside her and goes to the bathroom to fetch his robe, finishing tying the belt just as she's starting to press buttons.

"Stop that!" he barks, taking it from her with a possessive grab. "It's, well, technically it's office property..."

There's a slightly embarrassed flush on his face and she narrows her eyes. "Did you, like, appropriate it, Wes? For your own personal use? Tsk, tsk."

He tightens his lips and gives her a curt nod. Trust Wes to get all freaky over something other people would do without thinking twice. "I needed some photographs of certain valuable pieces in the house – for insurance purposes," he explains stiffly. "And I omitted to return the camera. It's really not important; I've never had occasion to use it, and –"

"Chill, Wes," she tells him, grinning. "We're back on the clock, remember?"

Which they're not, because he can take as long as he wants, and they both know it, but it gets him relaxing again and his eyes skim over her with a familiar gleam. "Well, since you're so amenable to the idea, perhaps I should expand on my original plan of just a few, simple snaps."

And he can expand on it all he wants, but there's something she wants first –

"Wes? Let me take one of you? Just your face, nothing else?"

He blinks and there's a refusal all set to pop out of his mouth when he hands the camera to her with a sudden capitulation.

"I can't imagine why you'd want – but very well. Just the one, though."

She takes him sitting on the edge of the bed, his face turned towards her with a half-smile lighting it, the robe open at his throat. She lowers the camera and props the photograph on the night table to develop.

Then there's this moment when they're just staring at each other and she's thinking she could take a thousand photos and never catch each mood, each favorite expression he's got.

Doesn't need to. They're all safe, locked away in her heart, and fuck, she's so close to crying now that thought's crossed her mind that it's almost a relief when he picks up the camera and edges the mood away from the sentimental to the seductive.

"I want you exactly as you positioned me," he says with a cool nod at the headboard. "To start with at least."

And it feels as if the metal's still warm from where his hands gripped it and there's a matching heat in his eyes as she spreads her legs slowly for him, never looking away.

Chapter Two Hundred and Eighty Seven

She notices his hands are a little unsteady when the silver camera enters her field of vision and she remembers what one of Xander's starving artist photographer friends said once, not to look directly into the camera – so she doesn't move. If he frames her properly -- which, this being Wes and all, he eventually will, even if he's not completely comfortable using the camera -- then she won't look like a deer in the headlights. She'll totally look mysterious or seductive or something. Especially so, she's certain, after she hastily moistens her lips and freezes them, slightly parted, in what she hopes is her most enigmatic smile.

The camera's gone, and she's back to looking at him, that tender look replaced with a steely glare. “Take that ridiculous look off your face.”

So much for looking like America's Top Model. “Hey, I was working something there!” she snaps in a huff, sitting up. “That's my seductive look, in case you were wondering.”

“It was completely unnatural and wholly unseductive. You looked like some slack jawed tart in a low-rent lad rag.” Of course, she should have known he wouldn't exactly want her looking like some vapid TV starlet of the week in an “edgy” Maxim spread. And he's his face has hardened into that patented Wes-look-of-doom that no amount of eyelash batting can soften, so she just hides behind the curtain of her hair, scrubbing her hands over her face and running her fingers through her hair, which she's pretty sure is gonna accentuate the freshly fucked, birds nest-y look she's going for now. And she's sure as hell not smiling when she leans back and curls her hands around the headboard again.

He nods curtly. “That's better.” And his face is gone again, hidden behind the camera.

She can't help but be fascinated at the way he tilts the camera slightly this way and that and how his perfectly manicured fingertip hovers ready over the shutter, poised to mash it down at the perfect moment. Her eyes start to get watery from not blinking for ages when he finally makes a sibilant sound of approval and the blinding flash makes all that worrying moot, 'cause she's pretty sure she just ruined that shot – her eyes snapped shut, she's sure of it.

The little square of film is wending its way noisily out of the bottom of the camera and she pops up in a split second, there to snatch between her fingers it before he can reach it.

“Faith.” He says, hand extended, palm up. “Give me the picture.”

She shakes her head vehemently. “I totally blinked, Wes, take another one.”

“This film isn't cheap, Faith – I can't have you squirreling every shot away because you're convinced you'll be unhappy with it. Furthermore, I believe I have final say over whether the picture's a good one or not, don't you think?”

Of course she can't argue with that logic. She shoots him an icy look but hands him the picture anyway; it's already started to develop, and the white of the sheets is already coming through, surrounding a big greeny-gray blob she hopes is a gorgeous shot of her unblinking self.

He places it on the night table next to the one she took of him and shoos her away 'cause she's hovering close, hoping to catch a glimpse of both, or either.

“You can't see them until I'm finished. You're self-conscious enough now as it is...”

“I am not! I just thought I blinked is all...”

“...and I can't have you contorting yourself into any more ridiculous poses because you think they'll make you look better...”

“...I'll show you self-conscious...!”

Leaning back a lot less carefully this time – okay, yeah, she flops back to the bed, actually, propped up on one elbow – she slips her hand between her legs, drawing up the sticky and slick mixture of their commingled come that's still inside her, gently circling her fingertip over that extra-sensitive spot that he hits sometimes -- a bulls eye with his tongue, because he's Wes -- but she always knows exactly where to find it, and fast. Her clit's still tender and throbby, protesting at being prodded at again so soon, but she's soon breathless from the ribbons of heat radiating from it, spreading right to her core.

“Isn't this what you wanted, Wesley?” she says, voice nearly unrecognizably low and husky. “You want one of me coming, don't you?”

He doesn't answer right away, just unties his robe and kneels between her legs, expectant. Aiming the camera again, and the flash pops blindingly again, twice, and he carefully sets the two pictures aside on the edge of the bed.  

“You're to tell me at the exact moment you begin to orgasm.” And though his voice is low and quiet too, it hasn't lost any of its authoritative edge.

Only he could take a moment she was sure she'd had in her control, and completely turn the tables with one sentence.

“You mean you won't be able to tell by the look on my face?” she says, more tartly than she'd expected to and he's snapped another picture before she can rearrange her features into a sweeter look.

“You've forgotten, haven't you?” he smiles, sweetly condescending. “Don't you remember our little exercise with the mirror?”

How could she not -- but she can't remember exactly what she'd looked like, no -- only that feeling of delirious joy as she watched them both come together. “Yes...” she says, hesitating.

He leans back, framing her at a different angle, and catches a shot of what she's sure is a look of gaping bewilderment, and oh, won't that be attractive.

“That was only one orgasm of the hundreds I've seen you have. You couldn't possibly know this, but you look different every time you come, Faith. I would hate to be sure you'd achieved your goal, only to discover that a face I thought I'd recognized as one of climax was merely one of ... slight euphoria?”

“I'll tell you exactly when I start to come. Which shouldn't be long now, actually...” The little twinge deep inside signaling that the goal's in sight has long passed, and nerve endings all over her body are tingling and ready.

“Not yet, Faith,” he says and she's about to grumble something about how that's never fair, the way he makes her wait, and how she should be able to say when for once, since yeah, that's what he'd ordered her to do just a few minutes before -- when he leans in to the inclined angle of her torso, steadied on his camera-less hand, curling his lips around one hard nipple, than the other, dragging teeth and tongue over each in turn.

“I don't want to sound ungrateful for the assistance, but if you don't pay attention, Wes,” she pants, “you're totally gonna miss it.”

Pushing himself back upright, camera balanced in one hand, he manages to aim and shoot as he glides the pads of his fingertips down her thigh, narrowly avoiding a collision with her own busy fingers. Slipping two of his inside, he whispers, “Not if I do this...”

She can't help but screw her eyes shut tight and whimper faintly when he easily twists his fingers back to bump the tingling bits that are also demanding attention. “You're really gonna miss it now,” she breathes, voice nearly gone. Behind her closed eyes, she discovers that that flash is still really freakin' bright, and she's pretty sure that's gonna be the worst shot ever, opening her eyes only to give him a narrow look of annoyance.

“Faith, your lack of confidence in my abilities is quite worrisome. I seem to be managing just fine, don't you think? But if you're that concerned...” His eyes are all smiles as he quickly slips his fingers out and leans in again, snatching her mouth in his for a greedy, needy kiss that's all tongue and very little sweetness.

Pulling away and nuzzling her neck, he whispers in her ear, his breath sending a brigade of goose bumps across her scalp and down her back, even though his breath is far from cold. “Anyway, I should imagine you'd be nearly ready by now.”

She resists the urge to scream that she's been ready for quite some time, thank you very much, and instead concentrates on the steady rhythm of her fingers, still circling the same spot of tender flesh.

And she's secretly pleased that he's ready and waiting, hovering above her with the camera positioned perfectly, so that there's hardly a split second between the flash and the moment she hoarsely whispers, “Now, Wes. Coming now.”

Chapter Two Hundred and Eighty Eight

When she comes, it's always like her brain shuts down so she becomes this thing, this boneless, breathless mess of sensation. But now she's aware of more than just the waves of heat and colour smashing into her and she can feel her feet pressing down hard on the bed, her hips thrusting against the insistent movement of her fingers, which are still relentlessly rubbing her clit.

And even more than that – more than her frantic, panting moans and his hovering presence by her tightly curled toes – she can hear the click and whirr and pop of the camera as he keeps shutterbugging until her poor clit starts protesting and she's pretty sure that she's never going to be able to come again.

She manages to unwind the hand that hasn't been busy from the headboard and flops back onto the pillows with a tiny little sigh. He's kneeling at the foot of the bed, slotting another cartridge into the camera and he's so intent on his task that he seems startled when she nudges his shoulder with her toes.

"Hey, sorry Wes, but I'm all orgasmed out," she murmurs and he gives her a disbelieving look. Disbelieving and just a little bit disappointed. "I'm not, like, the Duracell bunny. Think I just put my clit out of action for the rest of the day."

"Yes, well, you were rather fervent in your attentions," he says with this dreamy little smirk, almost as if he's already reliving her thrashing and writhing though it was only a minute ago. He finally puts the camera down so he can stroke his fingers in soothing circles along her inner thigh. "Maybe I should take a quick look to ensure that there's no permanent damage?"

"Maybe you should," she says with just the tiniest hint of a challenge because there ain't no way in the world, despite all his best intentions and she knows better than anyone just how good they can be, that she's going to be clutching the sheets and screaming out to God and Wes for, ooooh, at least a couple of hours.

She's still open and wet, the lips of her cunt glistening with her juices, his spunk, but for all his neat freak tendencies she's never known Wes to worry about that. Just like he's not worrying now but staring appreciatively at the sticky mess between her legs as he taps his finger lightly on her swollen, tender clit so she hisses at him.

"Wes, it's sore," she whines and it's good that she can have one part of her anatomy hurting that he's not going to get all shame-faced and distant about. Instead he places warm fingers on the span of her thighs so he can push them further apart and lowers his head.

"Maybe I should kiss it better then," he purrs so his warm breath stirs her right there and she shifts under his hands.

"Be gentle," she warns and he is, placing tiny, tickling kisses against her clit and finally snaking out his tongue and smooching her right there like it's her mouth.

He's not trying to make her come and she really, really couldn't anyway. He's just making her boo boo better and by the time he lifts himself away with one last lingering kiss, she rewards him with a lazy smile.

"Thanks, Wes. Maybe you should have been a doctor instead of a lawyer because I think you've got the healing touch."

He wipes an unself-conscious hand over his wet mouth and grins at her, which makes her heart flip over a few hundred times. "I rather think my bedside manner would have me struck off the register, don't you think?"

She pretends to consider it for a moment. "Well, I think your version of a pelvic exam might raise a few eyebrows, Wes, know what I'm saying?

And he looks so thoroughly offended that she can't help but giggle especially when he says really huffily, "Faith, I always know what you're saying. And you look revoltingly smug right now," he adds, snatching up the camera and aiming it at her gleeful face.

"No! Don't take any more pictures of me," she squawks because she knows for sure that her hair looks like a family of weasels have been using it as a lair and now that she's not all horny and desperate, it just feels kinda awkward to be butt naked while he's snapping away.

"Yes, that's it, Faith," he drawls, leaning in closer. "Give me another outraged glare."

She wipes that off her face in a fucking nanosecond and tries to prize the camera out of his snap-happy hands but he clings on tight and she has to satisfy herself with poking her tongue out at him and then pouting when he clicks the button.

"Man! You are so not going to jerk yourself off to that, are you?" she snarls and gives him the finger, the middle one, which he deems worthy of another picture for the family album and she can't help it. He's so fucking strange sometimes and she loves it, just like she loves all the other bits of him. So all she can do is scramble up on her knees so they're a matching pair and beam at him. And the undeveloped pictures are falling between them on the bed and she's giving him an exasperated look, which she knows is way too tender to have any bite to it.

"Hey, hey," she says softly, because there's no film left now and he's still holding that fucking camera up to his face. And this time when she pulls it away from him, he lets it go from nerveless fingers and he looks so sad, so lost that she's starting to panic. "Don't look at me like that, Wes. Thought we were going to have another perfect day and you looking like your whole world's turned to crumbled cookies is against the rules."

His hands cup her face and he's gazing at her so intently and he is… thought it was just a trick of the light but he's got one tiny, little tear trickling down his face which she kisses away and wishes she could kiss all the hurt and pain away just as easily.

"Don't, Wes…"

"It's just I missed you so terribly," he tells her in a broken whisper. "And now you're here and it doesn't seem quite real, that you're not just some fever dream which I'll wake up from and you'll be gone…"

"Not gonna happen," she say fiercely, leaning up so she can run her hands over his chest, his face because she can't quite believe that he's really there too. "Can't live without you, Wes, you know that."

His arms wrap round her and he buries his face against her neck and she's squeezing him so tight that her hands meet around his back. He mumbles something against her sweaty skin, but she can only make out "sorry…"

"Stop it, Wes, just fucking stop it." She's tugging at his hair now so she can stare into his wild eyes. "I know we've got an assload of work to do before it's like it was but haven't I been good? Done everything you wanted me to and I haven't argued with you and that's how it's going to be from now on. I'm gonna trust you, like, like, implicitly. Always gonna obey you…"

It's not working. He looks like he's gonna bolt at any moment, trying to twist himself out of her embrace.

"That's not what I meant, Faith," he says desperately. "You don't have to…"

And she shuts him up really easy just by kissing the words out of his mouth, putting everything she is into her lips and her tongue.

"You've made me all messy," she tells him in a hushed whisper like they're in church. "You wanna take pictures of me in the shower?"

And Mr Fucking Mercurial shakes his head. "I think the steam would have a detrimental effect on the film," he says frowning like that's the only thing that's bothering him. Then he starts gathering up the Polaroids, barely glancing at them.

He's gone away from her, back to being that distant Wes that she can never figure out, even when he's naked on his knees in front of her. "Wes…?" she pleads. "You could just watch me have a shower or you could, like, join me?"

At least he nods gravely and by the time they're standing under a blissfully hot jet of water and he's sliding his soapy hands into all those hard to reach spots, neither of them want to ruin a good thing by talking about things best left unsaid.

She's wrapped up in one of the towels and sprawled back on the bed, yawning when he emerges from the bathroom dressed in just a pair of jeans.

"Just gonna have a little power nap," she says sleepily, already rolling over so she can snuggle against the pillows. She doesn't know where he got them from but they're, like, the plumpest pillows in the world.

"I'd like you to stay awake," he says sharply enough to make her eyes snap open in protest. Then he's striding over to the bed and sitting down so he can turn her over so she's lying on her back and glaring at him. "I'm afraid that sleeping through the better part of our perfect day is completely unacceptable, Faith."

"We haven't eaten yet," she points out.

"No, we haven't."

"So you could, like, make us something and I could have a little snooze while you're chopping and fricasseeing and whatever," she says smugly but he's already scooping her up because it's obvious that her ass is well enough to be carried.

"I'm not letting you out of my sight for a minute," he says, shouldering open the door. "I'm certainly not running the risk of you dreaming of people who aren't me."

"I so would dream of you," she exclaims and he kisses the tip of her nose.

"That's very sweet of you, Faith, but I really can't allow the vague possibility that you might not. Wouldn't you like to know what I have planned for this afternoon?"

She nods eagerly because she really fucking would. He's concentrating on taking the steps carefully so he doesn't answer until they get to the bottom. "We were rather rushed before, circumstances being what they were, so I'm going to spend hours making love to you."

"Hours?!" she snorts inelegantly. "No fucking way, Wes. It just isn't possible."

He smiles thinly and she can tell from the steely glint in his eyes and the determined tilt of his chin that if he says he's going to spend hours doing stuff to her willing, naked body, then he means it.

"I assure you it is, Faith," he says breezily, setting her gently on her feet and slipping a cushion on to one of the kitchen chairs before pressing her down on it.

"OK, an hour maybe," she concedes as he opens the refrigerator door.

"An hour will only suffice for kissing every inch of you, starting with your feet," he explains, his voice muffled. "And that doesn't even begin to cover how long I aim to spend bringing you off with my mouth."

Her own mouth is hanging open so wide she swears her bottom lip just brushed the flagstones. "Well, I guess it sounds like an interesting way to spend the rest of the afternoon," she says feebly.

He gives her a bland smile. "I thought so. Now are you in the mood for chicken or steak?"


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Part Eleven

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