Chapter Three Hundred and Twenty Nine

She switches off the computer after that, even turns off the phone for good measure. Because she's getting so undone now that if he writes back some patent Wes bluster about needing time then she's going to… well she's not completely sure what she's going to do but it ain't going to involve hearts and flowers that's for sure.

When it comes down to it, he's all about making her wait for, like, everything. And it's about time he found out exactly how it tastes.

Instead she crawls into bed, closes her eyes and there she is on his desk, completely naked apart from the pink collar around her neck and the black, silk scarves tugging at her wrists and ankles. And she falls asleep, hands still between her legs…


Thursday is easy to get through. It kinda is. There's a metric assload of stuff that needs doing like keeping Darla away from edible foods and cooking utensils, cleaning all the battered, chipped furniture so it looks like really shiny battered and chipped furniture and thinking all the time about what Wes is doing. Is he being all snarky and British and not doing Thanksgiving but has gone into work so he can dust off his depositions? Or, like, maybe he's gone round to friends 'cause he actually has some now. Friends who want to set him up with sophisticated women his own age who do charity work and would probably squeal in horror if he tried to…

"Hey kiddo, happy Thanksgiving," Ted's suddenly there grinning, hands full of Tupperware containers that look all kinds of interesting. "Made you some of those chocolate cookies you like."

And though it's like the law that she has to tell Ted that he's never to call her kiddo again, he makes wicked cookies so she lets it go.
He also manages to get Darla out of the kitchen so he can whip up their Thanksgiving meal, and a great one at that – brined turkey, fancy squash bisque, homemade yeast rolls, mashed potatoes and gravy, cranberry stuffing, the whole nine yards.

And by the time Ted's pushing a second piece of pie on her, she's definitely beginning to understand why Thanksgiving is such a big deal to other people. Used to mean a whole two days of Liam getting drunker and drunker and meaner and meaner until it exploded into smashed china and split lips some time around three on Friday afternoon.

But Ted… he might actually be a decent guy. Whatever. But he's sweet enough to choke down Darla's green bean and cream of mushroom soup casserole with a smile and compliments Faith's attempts at a pumpkin flan – which she'd found a recipe for online. It sounded kind of exotic, but just ended up just being a boring pumpkin custard, the kind of thing Wes would have called pudding. Which had always made her smile, 'cause things he called pudding never even remotely resembled the Jell-o instant chocolate kind.

Friday's better because she's not stuck in the house with two lovebirds who want to snuggle on the sofa, holding hands, without her hogging the remote control. She heads over to the flea market, stopping off to pick up Spike and Dru on the way who are still righteous with indignation at the way Dru's father asked Spike when he was going to make an honest woman of her.

It's so easy to be with them. Even after the whole three-way angst-fest. It's like they're the only people she knows who don't expect anything from her. Don't want her to be anyone except who she is. After they've spent an hour mooching around the stalls and she's bought this little, red wool, vintage dress which buttons all the way up to her neck so Holden won't get any bright ideas when she wears it tomorrow night, they end up in the local hipster café, wading through the emo kids to the last empty table.

Faith reaches into her bag and pulls out the books Spike lent her. "Thanks for these, they were kinda interesting."

Drusilla smiles into her gingerbread latte and Spike arches his eyebrow which makes her wonder for, like, the gazillionth time if they teach that little move in English schools.

"Well, OK, they were a lot interesting and I made notes and stuff but I don't need them anymore. Don't think me and Wes… well, we're not… I think our little issue about limits isn't going to be a problem anymore."

Another eyebrow arch. “Yeah?” Spike doesn’t sound entirely convinced. He puts his hand gently on her arm, by way of encouraging her.

“Yeah,” she says firmly. Spike and Dru just stare at her quietly, intently, as though they’re waiting for an explanation she’s not entirely sure how to formulate. Everything between her and Wes still seems so …exploratory and new, a little fragile even; she doesn’t want to endanger it by trying to reduce it to something deceptively neat and tidy.

She swallows audibly, searching in vain for a way to quantify it. “Well, when I said that I’d never played like that before… well, he hadn’t either. I mean, not in depth. Obviously he’d known for a while …what he was, what he wanted, but before he met me, he’d never…”

She pauses, frustrated by her inarticulateness and feeling justifiably protective of Wes’ history.

“I mean, we’re working through it. We’re taking it slow, but that’s good. It’s really…” She weighs it for a moment before she speaks. “Different, yeah, but good.”

Dru slips the books quietly into her over-the-shoulder bag as Spike asks, “He’s still in New York, though, yeah?”

She sighs heavily, but the sound’s lost in her cavernous caramel latte. “I said ‘slowly,’ didn’t I? It’s really …fucking frustrating sometimes, but I think it’s the best thing for us. The distance, I mean. Not the frustration.” She smiles slowly, and not a little coyly. “Although …that’s kinda interesting too.”

Dru smiles wickedly. “Oh, do tell…”

She laughs. “I’m not saying another word! I’ve said too much already.”

“I bet the phone sex is phenomenal,” Dru adds matter-of-factly, peering at Faith through her lashes.

Faith doesn’t need to answer because that blush from ear-to-ear is kinda saying everything for her. Spike practically elbows Dru. “Ease off, pet.”

Dru doesn’t say another word —she just takes another sip of her cooling coffee, looking for all the world like the cat who ate the canary. That’s when she and Spike share the tiniest of conspiratorial glances.

“What was that?”

“What?”

“That look.”

Dru giggles. “This is all a bit familiar to us.”

Now she’s curious. “Yeah? Do tell.”

Spike picks up the thread. “We spent two months apart once, early on. Mostly because I was being thick. Wasn’t dealing well with the …non-monogamous aspects of our relationship. Spent all my time being jealous rather than being honest. So, yeah, we had a little time out.”

Dru sighs wistfully. “That’s when I discovered that Spike has an absolutely filthy mouth. And what a lovely revelation that was.”

Spike chuckles. “It certainly was.”

Dru gives Faith one of those unsettling, unerring looks that seems to see right through her. “Wes doesn’t have a chance, my dear.”

“Not gonna give him one.” She sounds so fucking convinced, so absolutely sure of it when she says it out loud. That gives her another little shot of hope. And if each day of waiting brings her a little closer to him, then it’s not a day wasted.


Chapter Three Hundred and Thirty

Holden calls for her, like, half an hour early, but she's been ready for ages, perched on her bed and reading the paperback edition of The Taming of the Shrew that she's found buried in a box of school-related junk. And wasn't digging through that a blast from the past, seeing the names of boys she can barely remember scrawled across dog-eared notebooks...

All her thoughts are with Wesley, picturing him getting ready too, maybe sipping at a drink as he dresses – and her mind melts a little at the thought of him in black-tie, even though it's not all that likely. No, not black-tie – but he'll be in one of his suits, all dark wool and crisp cotton shirt and he'll be so perfectly, absolutely right. With a slight shock she realizes that when you've spent your life with parents who've shown you up in dress, behavior and speech at every chance they've had, there's something hot-bath relaxing about going out with someone who never will.

Unless he's trying to make her come in a restaurant, of course.

Driving into the city with a date – and Holden's just a little bit too on-edge for her to think the 'come with me as a friend' message sank in as deeply as she'd hoped it would – is freaky when she thinks back to making the drive with Wes months before, heading for a club and one of the most twisted games they'd played. Holden's car is a clunky box that does the job of getting them from A to B and no more, and the floor's slightly sticky against her shoes.

She can't even think his taste in music is better than Wes' because he tunes into a country station and when she yelps in horror he gives her a puzzled look and turns the warbling up a bit, just so she doesn't miss a single tortured wail of pain.

She pushes memories of the leather-cushioned luxury of Wes' car away, after lingering regretfully on the way he used to drive with one hand clamped possessively on her leg, and tries to chat to Holden.

It's labored and awkward until she remembers something her computer's been doing that bugs her and by the time he's finished telling her about the proper way to organize her files and more about folders, sub-folders and data trees than she's ever wanted to know, they're in the city.

With Wes, it was a dark place he made safe and scary at the same time. With Holden, it's just the city, crowded, scruffy around the edges and the only parking is, like, miles away. Wes would've known somewhere close they could park, she thinks. And she's got to stop this because there is no comparison, so why is she even trying? And she's really got to stop pretending she's with Wes, keeping her head turned so she's not actually looking at Holden because that pops the bubble real fast.

Walking into the theater lifts her mood. There's something so cool about the idea that Wes is doing this right now – she hasn't checked when his performance starts but it's got to be about the same time – that he's chatting in the bar, looking at all the people out to enjoy themselves, little bit buzzed because there's something different, something special, about a live performance and they're all dressed-up.

Holden buys her a glass of white wine, slightly too warm to be drinkable, but sticks to juice as he's driving. She gives him a brilliant smile of thanks and steps back quickly as his hand jerks with shock and he's an inch away from slopping his drink on her dress.

"God, I'm sorry," he says, looking flustered and she's all set with a reassuring smile when
a man who looks enough like Wes from the back to make her heart pound with a dizzying thud of excitement walks by. Even though she knows deep down he's too narrow-shouldered and not tall enough, when he leans in close to his companion and kisses her cheek the lights dim a little. Because wherever Wes is, whatever he's doing, he's doing it with that Anne woman, the one she hates, just a little, sight unseen. She might be fifty and frumpy but somehow Faith doubts it. Giles – who's gone on her shit list, right at the top, for his not-so-bright idea, wouldn't have picked a dog, not when she was supposed to be someone to get Wes out dating again.

As they go to their seats – good ones, with an excellent view of the stage – she's consumed with jealousy because Wes is too good-mannered and too kind not to be nice to that Anne woman. He'll be holding open doors, pulling out seats, draping her coat over her shoulders and giving her that smile...

"Faith?"

Holden's hissed whisper drags her out of a reverie-turned nightmare just as Wesley's looking deeply into Anne's eyes and telling her softly that the night's been wonderful and why doesn't she come back to his for a nightcap.

"What?" she snaps.

He looks grieved. "I got you a program," he says, holding it out.

"Oh. Thanks. Sorry." Queen of the monosyllables. She makes an effort and smiles at him. "Never been here before, have you?"

He shakes his head and they look around at the red-gold splendor, the arched ceiling and balconies... which uses up a good ninety seconds.

Then the house lights go down, the curtain sweeps aside – and Holden's hand edges onto the arm rest and comes to rest too close for comfort to hers, not close enough to call him on it.

It stays there as the play begins but at the interval it vanishes and Holden's turning to her with a babble of information, not about the play but about shrews. Yeah. Seems when they're scared their hearts beat 1200 times a minute. And some can run on water. And the sound they make is the Chinese word for 'money'. And –

Her face is aching from her fixed, desperate smile and she escapes to the washroom and hangs out in there until the bell sends her back to her seat, staring at herself in the mirror and wishing she was a very precise number of miles away.

Because she's having fun – they've gone for a traditional staging, all period costumes and props and she's picturing Wes in doublet and hose which is enough to make her grin wickedly, because he'd freak if he knew – but she's having it because she's reminding herself that she's here because Wes wanted her to be, and each time she does that, she gets a little shivery thrill.

The play itself is working its magic because she can't help seeing an echo of the games they've played in the way Petruchio handles Kate. And when Kate hits him and he remarks, 'I swear I'll cuff you if you strike again,' she's torn between a wistful sigh and a grin because she can just hear Wes drawling that at her and meaning every word. Though she doesn't agree with Kate's remark that if Petruchio strikes her he's 'no gentleman'.

No, she really doesn't...

There's a second interval, too short for them to leave their seats, and Holden gives her a smile. "This is great," he whispers. "Really makes a difference seeing it without the whole of the tenth grade here."

She snickers, because ain't that the truth and Holden leans in. "Though I hate the ending," he confides. "It's just not right, y'know; saying she'll put her hand under his foot for him to tread on and all that."

"Well, I don't know if it's, like, literal," she begins with a little squirm in her seat because God, how many times has she crawled to Wes? And if he'd told her to do it, she would have, getting quivers as his foot pressed down against her hand, although when you think about it, it's not exactly hot... Face it, she thinks, if Wes told you to top and tail a freaking Brussels sprout you'd get wet these days. God, she misses him...

"It's just wrong," he says earnestly. "Treating a woman like that."

And obviously someone wasn't listening to the teacher when Mr Bennett did his little speech about different times, different attitudes and how – well, she hadn't been listening all that closely either, but she'd got the point he was making; that you can't expect a bunch of English people who lived 500 years ago to be down with feminism, even if they did have a genuine chop-your-head-off queen at the time.

"Katherina's a bitch," she tells him. "And he holds up a mirror to her, so she can see what she's like, but it's one of those fun-house mirrors, maybe..." It's all making more sense now. "And when she changes, it's 'cause she wants to, because she doesn't like what she sees..."

Which makes her remember Wesley, her lighter held between his fingers, all those months ago, flicking it open so a flame lights up the space between them and asking if it helped. And it had, but not half as much as his hand on her...

Holden's all bewildered now, because she's not reacting the way he expected. "You're such a – you're so independent," he says. "How can you like the way she knuckles under to him like that?"

And she wants to tell him that it's more fucking complicated than that, that it's love and compromise and some things you don't budge on, and it's all bound up in simple words like they're saying up there on the stage, words like, 'I burn, I pine, I perish.'

But, really, what's the point? So she smiles and pats his hand – big mistake as he latches onto hers and doesn't let go and she's squeezing it so hard she can't help the anguished moan and then he's so busy apologizing the curtain rises and he's still doing it...

Holden's eager to leave as soon as the curtain falls, talking about a club, dancing, but she turns him down gently. She's not dressed for it, not really, and she wants to get back and wait for Wes to call her.

"This wasn't a date, was it?" he asks, looking woebegone.

"I told you it wasn't," she says, getting into the car and looking at anywhere but him.

"I thought – Xander said –"

"What?" she says, turning her head and giving him a death-glare. "Holden, tell me exactly what 'Xander said'."

And she's going to fucking kill him slowly because he's gone behind her back and filled Holden's head with hope and she knows how quickly that sours, and by the time the drive's over, they're not speaking and Holden's one bewildered heap of misery, still trying to get his head around the blunt truths she's hurled at him. She doesn't mention Wes but he's not stupid and he connects the dots.

"Isn't he, like, a bit old for you?" he says as they reach her house. "Same age as your dad?"

"He's nothing like my dad," she hisses indignantly. "And what the fuck does it matter how old he is?"

"Xander says –"

"Xander won't be saying anything soon because I'm gonna rip his tongue out and –"

"Hey," he says sharply. "He just cares about you, that's all."

She sighs. "Holden, thanks for going with me. I had a really good time. And I'm sorry if you thought it was more than it was, but it wasn't." She gives him a kiss that's aimed at his cheek and he moves so it gets a bit closer to his mouth than she's happy with. "I'm just so in love with someone else," she whispers. "And that's not gonna be changing any time soon."

Holden gives her a grin. "But I get to still be your friend, right?" he says with an unexpected gentle irony.

"God, yes," she says fervently. "You've helped me out, like three times now; I owe you."

"Then pay me back with one kiss," he says. "Just to convince me that I might as well give up hope?"

And she's gone down on virtual strangers and not felt this dirty, but she kisses him, gives it all she has, and the sad little nod and smile she gets as they move apart breaks her heart.

She's not sure how she manages it, but she holds back the tears until his car's disappeared.

The house is silent and her bedroom's like this refuge, this place where she's as close to Wesley as she can get right now and Holden's all but forgotten.

She sends him an email to tell him she's back, gets changed into sleep-top and shorts and waits for him to call.

She's getting good at that. At waiting. Wes'd be proud of her.


Chapter Three Hundred and Thirty One

He doesn't call. Of course, he doesn't call because he probably had to stick around after the performance and go for drinks and maybe dinner. Then Giles, it would be Giles because he sounds like a shit stirrer from way back, suggests they go to this quiet little members' only club, all polished mahogany and single malt and him and Olivia have got these smug little smiles on their face and keep suggesting all these bullshit things that Wes and Anne (what kind of a stupid ass name is that anyway?) can do. And Anne is one of those preppy, Ralph Lauren ad blondes and she keeps touching Wes' arm and leaning into him and laughing with this really annoying giggle every time Wes even opens his mouth…

She's so busy torturing herself with how the four of them go to the Hamptons when the weather gets warmer so Anne can run her squinty little eyes all over Wes in a pair of shorts that she doesn't even hear the phone for the first couple of rings and then she's snatching it up and practically growling into it.

"Wes? That you?"

"Who else would it be, Faith?" he says and he sounds amused that she's acting like a crazy woman. "How are you?"

She sinks back onto the pillows with a little sigh. "I'm OK, I guess." And she holds it for a count of three and she can hear the little rush of air as he opens his mouth to say something but she can't help it. "So, did you go to the play with that Anne chick? Was she pretty? Was she blonde? I bet she so was! Did you kiss her when you said goodbye? Did you see her to her door? Gotta say, I…"

"Faith. Stop it," he says softly. "Just stop it. I really didn't expect the third degree."

"Well, what the hell did you expect, Wes?"

"After your last email, I'm not entirely sure," he says waspishly. "I suppose I should feel honoured that you've even switched your phone back on."

And she can feel herself coloring up because, yeah, it's been turned off until about an hour ago and she couldn't even force herself to check the five voicemail messages that were waiting for her.

"I s'pose I needed some time," she mumbles. "Not a dig at you, Wes. Not really. Got stuff to figure out too."

"Really?" He sounds Arctic and frozen and other cold things. "And was your figuring out successful?"

"I'll get back to you on that one," she says trying to sound all light-hearted and sassy but they've only been speaking for, like, one minute and already it's awkward and spiky. "Still love you though, Wes, if that's what's got you all pissed and I still want to be with you but when I tell you that you get pissed too so I'm kinda running out of options on what we can talk about that doesn't involve us getting each other off."

For one second she expects to hear a click and then dead air, not one of his little telephonic sighs. "I'm sorry, Faith." And he's got way better at apologizing than he used to. "I had a rather interminable evening and I was looking forward to speaking to you, only to discover that you're in your most capricious mood yet."

She can't help but smile at that and she lets out the breath she doesn't know she's been holding and curls up on her side. "Hey, that reminds me. Always wanted to ask you what the difference was between capricious and mercurial?"

"Well, when you're being capricious, Faith, I fear for my mental health and when you're being mercurial, I fear for my physical health," he tells her and she'd bet the rest of her stash of British candy that he's wearing a smirk a mile wide.

"You're not funny, Wes," she giggles. "But we could start again. Like, the phone call, not us. Unless…"

He doesn't let her finish that little time bomb of a sentence. "How are you, Faith? Did you have a good evening?"

"I'm pretty A OK, Wes. It was cool to go into the city again but Holden's car smelled kinda ripe. Think something must have crawled into the back and died," she finishes on an aggrieved wail and it's not just because she knows she'll get that little chuckle from him.

"What did you wear?" he asks in his most honey-tinged voice.

"This vintage dress I got yesterday. It's bright red and it's pretty short and tight but it's got long sleeves and it goes all the way up to my neck. Be perfect to wear a collar under, Wes."

"That's very good to know."

"And these bright pink tights and engineer boots that you'd have hated," she continues with glee. "But I put my hair up so my top half looked kinda respectable. Did you wear black tie, Wes?"

"No, I didn't," he exclaims indignantly. "I loathe wearing a bow tie. I always feel like I'm being strangled. And what did you think of the play?"

"Well, we had really good seats and thanks for them, by the way, and yeah I liked the play 'cept Bianca's a scheming little bitch with that whole "being mad she's madly mated" crap. And I thought Petruchio was, like, a total asshole to start with and Katherina… well, man, there's a chick who needs a safety word stat."

Wes gives this soft, little snicker, which makes her wish he was here with her head resting on his chest so she can feel it rumble. "Why did you think he was an arsehole?"

"He didn't love her, just treated her like she was his possession…," she stumbles because she's not good at this stuff but he makes this little encouraging sound and she ploughs on. "Like, he was only going to marry her for the money but then I think he fell in love with her because she wasn't like anyone else and she had balls. And yeah, well, she was a challenge, wasn't she, Wes?"

"And why do you think she was so angry?" he asks her gently.

"Because her father liked Bianca more and OK, so she liked to run her mouth off but I can get that, Wes. Know you can too. How it is to be so frustrated and hurt all the time and no one will ever let you be anything different. And she had no choices but to get hitched to some guy she didn't like because her father told her to. Like, could you imagine if Liam had picked out my boyfriends? That would have sucked!" she finished with a laugh that doesn't sound all that happy and then frowns. "It's not like I'm an expert on Shakespeare though and some of it was hard to follow so I probably got it all wrong."

"It sounds to me as if you followed it perfectly," Wes assures her. "And I had a similar reaction from Olivia and Anne who were at pains to point out how dated and misogynistic the play was. Though I have a theory that Petruchio didn't just love her spirit but understood her insecurities and loved her for them too: "she is a lusty wench, I love her ten times more than 'ere I did," he quotes and she melts a little.

"Holden gave me this whole feminist spiel too and I tried to tell him that sometimes love doesn't make any sense. That when you love someone it changes you: how you think, what you do, shows you where you've been going wrong. Like, well, there's stuff we did, that you asked me to that I would never do with anyone else, wouldn't fucking want to, but with you…" she trails off, not sure exactly where she's going with this.

"I never withheld food, as I recall," he points out lightly but he sounds rattled and once again it's gone from 0 to weird and she doesn't know how to change gears.

"Well, sometimes you wouldn't let me have any dessert…"

"And sometimes I let you have all the ice cream you could eat," he drawls lightly. And then he gives her a treat that's just as sweet as all the Rocky Road in the world. "I wish it had been possible for us to see it together, though I'm sure I'd be covered in bruises from all the poking you'd have given me during the parts that offended you."

"Damn straight. So you never said whether you enjoyed it or not?" she reminds him. "Why was it interminable?"

"Well, our production was rather workmanlike and I rather felt as if I was on display for most of the night," he confesses uneasily.

"So Giles and Olivia kept giving you the eye and nudging each other because they've got mad matchmaking skills?" She can't keep the sour out of her tone but he makes a little affirmative grunt.

"Something like that," he agrees unwillingly. "Anne was pretty, she was charming, we had several very cordial conversations and I'm sure she'd have been agreeable for me to go back to her Park Lane apartment for a night cap but I'm afraid I made myself very unpopular when I insisted on calling it a night after a swift cocktail."

"How pretty was she?" Anne is like this scab she can't stop picking, lifting up the edges of it because she can't leave stuff alone.

"Faith, do you really think any woman I meet now could compare to you?" he asks her sharply. "Do you really think it's that simple? After all that we went through that I'll meet someone else and she'll eclipse what you mean to me? I sat through that play next to Anne, who has the most annoying laugh I've ever heard, and then I had to suffer a very weak vodka tonic and a very predictable conversation about taking a house in the Hamptons next summer, when all I could think about was the pout on your face, and quite possibly tears, if I didn't phone you."

"I wouldn't have cried," she whispers indignantly but all she can think about is that he's not about to dump her so he can take Anne to loads of lame charity balls.

"No, you'd probably have broken several objects and then sent me a venomous email. So would you think it unfair of me if I asked you how things went with your companion for the evening?"

"I still love you, Wes," she splutters. "Holden's sweet though he talks about computers and, like, weird small animals way too much. But he's not you. No one's you. And he's in love with me and I kissed him to say thank you because it's this thing with Xander…"

"What thing with Xander?" And now it's Wes' turn to start sounding like he's got his own shit list.

"It's no biggie. It's just this thing where he keeps trying to set me and Holden up and he keeps telling him that I'll get over you and I'm not and I won't, so Holden gets his hopes up and then I manage to trash them every time. So I had to kiss him tonight because he's done all these sweet things for me and just to, y'know, show him that there was, like, zero sparkage. I'm not going to keep stuff like that from you, Wes. I don't want us to have any more secrets."

She listens to some tumbleweeds blow across the wires before Wes replies. "If you did have feelings for him, Faith, I'd understand. It's not fair of me to expect you…"

"Don't even fucking go there, Wes!" she snaps. "You know how easy it would be just end up with someone likes Holden because he's there, because it would be uncomplicated and it would be what everyone expected? It's not going to fucking happen. But sometimes I wish it would because I love you and all it's got me is stuck in this goddamn holding pattern."

"I don't think it's a holding pattern," he says quietly. "I believe that each time we talk we're moving closer towards the inevitable. It's when, Faith, not if, but not just yet. Does that help?"

And it does. It really does. Because it's the first time he's made it halfway clear that them getting back together is on his to-do list. "This when?" she asks through the huge lump in the back of her throat. "Do you have a ballpark date in mind. Like maybe some time this decade?"

"Definitely some time this decade, Faith but I have to be sure that being with you is something that's right and good for both of us and not just because I can't bear to be without you."

"It's the same difference, isn't it?" she asks him before she can't speak anymore because she's crying really quietly. So quietly that it's just salt water spilling down her cheeks but he knows because he's so fucking sweet that it just about breaks her almost mended heart.

"Please don't cry, my darling girl," he murmurs right into her ear. And he doesn't stop cooing endearments and telling her how much he loves her until her eyelids are doing a really good job of not staying open and she can't stifle the yawn that makes him laugh softly and wish her sweet dreams before he hangs up.


Chapter Three Hundred and Thirty Two

And she's just so fond of, 'it's when, not if' that she thinks she might have that tattooed on her too, across the palm of her hand maybe, so she can keep taking sneaky peeks at it and smiling a goofy, sappy smile.

Well, maybe not... but she's still so happy she can't bear it – which translates into doing some totally insane stuff, like spending an evening packing a suitcase so she can be ready to go whenever he calls her. She folds socks in freaking tissue paper, wraps bottles in bubble wrap, folds and fits until the suitcase's a miracle of tidiness and organization that'd bring tears of joy to Wes' eyes, it really would -  then the next morning realizes she's packed her makeup bag right at the bottom and has to tip everything out in a rush because she's going to be late for work...

Wes is calling her in the evenings, not to give her orders, not even to leave her in a simmering state of pillow-biting arousal, though just hearing him drawl, 'Hello, Faith' kinda takes care of that, but just to chat.

She starts to find out more about his job, teasing details out of him until she can practically take a quiz on the color of the carpet in his office, where the washrooms are, the kind of muffin he has with his morning coffee – 'Oh, Wes, you're kidding me! No way do you eat muffins!'

They're like kids counting down the number of sleeps 'til Santa comes, and she's just one big smile most of the time, until Darla's sighs and sidelong glances are pretty much continuous.

It's not until she's typing a letter that the significance of it being the eighth of December hits. Not that there's anything special about it as such, but God, she's not even thought about what to give Wes for Christmas! She's been, like, super-efficient, and gifts for Darla, her Gran, Xander, and yeah, as he seems to be a fixture, Ted, are already bought and wrapped, but Wesley... shit, she's not got a clue.

If they were living together, with all of New York to shop in, she'd have to practically borrow Santa's sack to put them in because she'd go nuts getting him masses of tiny little pressies; stinkiest cheese ever, a tie with Eeyore on it for his grumpy days that he'd stare at disbelievingly and maybe wear one day with the most adorably serious look on his face – books, candy, anything and everything...

But this year, she's stuck. Until she gets a light bulb moment and then she's scrambling off the bed and going over to see Drusilla and Spike.

They're all curled up like kittens and looking entirely too blissed-out for a weeknight but as she explains what she wants they start nodding and Dru sits up straight, spilling Spike from her lap.

"Ooh, I love it!" she exclaims, clapping her hands together softly. "And of course we can do it."

Spike nods. "Still got the darkroom set up in the basement," he confirms. "And you're not going to want to get your kit off in front of strangers, now are you? But we've seen all you've got, so no need to worry."

Faith narrows her eyes. "It's gonna be artistic," she says. "And I thought Dru was the photographer?"

He gives her a smirk that's too over-the-top to be offensive. "I'll be the one dabbing oil on your bits and bobs to get the reflection just right," he says. "Or turning the lights an inch this way and that." Faith and Drusilla exchange knowing glances and he looks wounded. "You need me! I'm the one who can tell you if it'll knock his socks off; provide the male perspective."

"He can be useful," Drusilla says, raising one slender hand and tapping Spike's arm in reproof. "But we can manage very nicely without him, my dear, if you don't want him there. Now tell me what you had in mind..."


***

The red silk's cool against her knees but Drusilla's turned the heat right up and even naked she's not feeling the urge to shiver. Which is just as well as she's been told to stay absolutely still. Turns out, Spike is useful; as Drusilla wanders around checking light levels, he's fussing with Faith's hair, brushed sleek and soft and trimmed an hour before by Drusilla so that it's falling in a dark curve high up against her winter-pale back.

She's facing a wall, with a swathe of scarlet silk pinned to it and spread out for her to kneel on. Why it matters that it's red when the photograph's going to be in black and white, she doesn't know, but Drusilla tutted sadly when she asked and she shut up after that.

The idea is that all anyone gets to see is her back, and, yeah, her ass, but she's sitting on most of it, kneeling back on her heels like this. Wes'll be able to see the tattoo but not read it, which will just, like, kill him. She plans to have Dru do a close-up of it for when she gets to see him in person though.

Drusilla's finally ready and she starts to take the pictures, cooing commands in an 'obey me or suffer' voice to Spike and practically purring as she talks to Faith.

" – black hair, white skin, red all around – you're like Snow White, my sweet. Very dramatic. Oh, yes, oh this is going to look – Spike, you need to move. Now." Her voice drops down. "It's beautiful, but I want to try something... Close your eyes, Faith. Think of him. Think of him telling you to wait for him like this, calling you from work and telling you to strip and kneel, with your back to the door. Would he do that? Is that the sort of game he'd play?"

She swallows and murmurs something that might be a 'yes', feeling her body get warmer still, pressing her hands down against her thighs.

"So you're waiting, and you've been such a good girl, so patient, so obedient," Dru says, clicking away so that the shutter acts as punctuation because she's talking in a slow, breathless murmur that doesn't seem to pause. "And you're so wet because you know what he's going to do to you when he comes home, and he's told you not to think about anything but that, and he's told you he's going to hurry, because he's missed you, but you know he won't because this is part of the game, this is all of the game, and if he rushes it's not as much fun, now is it?"

Drusilla gets Wesley, Faith thinks, dizzy from the heat of the lights and the images. Totally gets him.

"But all good things must come to an end, indeed they must," Drusilla says. "And you hear his key in the door and you hear it slide and turn, hear the metal grate and grind as he pulls it free, hear the door close." Her voice lilts happily. "And he says your name."

"Faith?"

And it's not him, it's Spike, but her head turns anyway, quickly, instinctively and she smiles over her shoulder.

Click.

"Yes..." says Drusilla quietly. "That's the one." Her voice gets darker. "But you moved, my love, and he'll make you pay for that..."

Click.

Spike swears Wesley will like that smile better, when Faith's lips part and she shivers, but Drusilla stares at him coldly and shakes her head until her dark hair lashes back and forth like a black cat's tail.

"Now lie on your tummy," Drusilla says briskly, "and I'll do the close up of the writing." She runs an appreciative finger over the tattoo. "Oz is such a clever boy, isn't he?"

"Yeah," Faith says. "Wes is gonna love it."

"And that's all that counts," Spike says dryly.

Faith smiles and snuggles her head into the cushion he's given her. "Not always, but mostly, yeah."

Drusilla's hand moves lower. "I could take one after you'd been spanked," she offers. "Would he like that?"

Faith laughs without a blush. "He'd love it – but only if he was the one doing it. Don't think he'd like anyone but him leaving marks on me."

"Pity," Drusilla says regretfully.

It takes a few days for them to develop the pictures and blow them up to poster size then they call her over to see them.

'They're just perfect," Faith says for the twentieth time, staring at them and fighting back a blush now because they might be artistic, but even so - "Perfect. I'm going to send him both and keep the close-up for –" She falters, because he still hasn't said anything more...

"It'll be soon," Drusilla says, leaning in close to the photograph of Faith smiling. "When he sees these, he won't want to wait another minute, I promise."


She gets back home and writes to him, a proper hand-written letter to get tucked inside his Christmas card.

Dear Wes

These are for you, for Christmas, but you can open them now. I had Dru take them of me and there's one more you're not gonna get 'til I can hand-deliver it.

Hope you like them. I do, if that doesn't sound all kinds of vain, as it's me. I wanted you to see me how I look now. My hair's getting longer again but I guess it still looks pretty short to you? It grows fast though.

There are two because in the end I couldn't pick which one I liked the best. Drusilla calls them 'Waiting Ends', which is the one where I'm smiling, and 'Waiting Begins' which is the second one. I know, I know, makes no sense, back-to-front, but it does if you know what she was saying as she took them.

She'd got this whole story going where you'd called me from work and made me wait like this for you until you got home, kneeling naked, back to the door. And, yeah, if you ever did, when you finally walked in I'd look just like that, I guess. We didn't do that much, with us working together, but I know what it was like when I'd be waiting for you to get back from a trip. You'd come through the door and it'd be as if I'd woken up, as if everything when you weren't there didn't matter, didn't count.

And if you're wondering what I'm waiting for in the second one, it's because you'd told me not to move and so, yeah, guess I'm gonna get punished now.

But you know I'd think it was worth it to get to see you a split-second earlier.

I love you, Wes.

Merry Christmas

Yours always,

Faith

xxx



Chapter Three Hundred and Thirty Three


Because she loves Wes, she actually gets up early on Saturday morning (and ten am on a weekend is practically the crack of freakin' dawn) to mail Wes' package and even the pre-Christmas crowds of old people with shopping carts and harassed mothers with push-chairs all set on a collision course with her shins can't dent her good mood, even if they give her some wicked bruises.

She can just imagine Wes getting in from a hard day of doing lawyerly stuff and the doorman guy for his building will hand him her package and he'll go up to his swank apartment, pour himself a vodka tonic and won't be able to take his eyes off her neatly wrapped parcel. And he just can't stop himself. Won't even get halfway down the glass before Kierkegaard be damned, he's ripping away the brown paper and tape and staring at the black and white Faith looking over her shoulder at him. He'll trace the faint smudge of her tattoo. Keep looking from one picture to the next because he can't decide which one he likes best and then he'll phone her to thank her. Well, that's what he's planned. But between her being sweet as sugar candy on the phone and the monochrome promise of her ass, he'll totally cave and she'll be spending Christmas in his arms, in his bed, in fucking New York. Or should that be fucking in his bed in fucking New York?

And she's in such a disgustingly good mood that when Xander phones up she can't even keep to her resolution to stay officially pissed with him over the whole Holden thing and finds herself chirpily agreeing to go to see some band with him that night because his boyfriend ("Faith, if I've been on seven dates and slept with him and he's still returning my calls that makes him my boyfriend, right?") has to work.

She's just stroking on a final coat of red lipstick when her phone rings and her face is aching from another ear-splitting beam as Wes' name flashes up on her caller display.

"Hey you," she trills and winces 'cause she sounds like she's auditioning for a remake of The Stepford Wives. Like, an even lamer version than the one with Nicole Kidman in it.

"Hello, my darling girl," Wes purrs back and she's such a pushover that she knows that if he asked her to she'd totally blow Xander off so she could curl up on her bed and talk to Wes for a couple of hours. Even if it wasn't going to be one of those phone calls that leaves her sore from the feverish movements of her fingers responding to his demands. "I'm going out so I thought I'd give you a call before I left."

Which puts paid to her plans for a little phone sex but she's got half an hour before she needs to meet Xand so she tucks the phone under her ear so she can brush her hair and sits down. "You going to -- what was it? The museum benefit tonight?"

"You're awfully sweet to remember, Faith and yes. The firm's booked a table and I must admit I'm rather hoping to get a sneak preview of their latest exhibit."

"You all black tied up then, Wes?" she asks him and closes her eyes as she sees him all black suit and snowy white shirt. And how she can see her reflection in the polished tips of his black shoes when she kneels in front of him.

"I'm sure I was garrotted in a previous life," he says exasperatedly. "This bloody bow tie has a stranglehold around my poor, defenceless neck."

"If I was there I could kiss it better for you," she suggests with just a smidgeon of dreaminess to her tone. "And then you could tie my hands up with it afterwards."

"Faith…"

"Just saying, Wes. Give you something nice to think about while all those Park Avenue princesses are tweeting in your ear about summer rentals in the fucking Hamptons," she says with a grin because he's giving a little sigh like the Park Avenue princesses work his last nerve, which is just what she wants to hear.

"Well, it's a small price to pay and you've given me such a delightful reason to call you back when I get home so you can explain exactly what you'd like me to do to you once I've restrained you with this damn tie," he drawls. "Will you be in later?"

"I'm going to see a couple of bands with Xander but I'll be back by midnight. Might want to start thinking about what you could do with your belt and my ankles too, Wes."

"I must say, Faith, you sound positively skittish."

That's a new one. Maybe they've overdone the whole mercurial/capricious thing too much. "Well, I posted off your Christmas present today, Wes," she can't resist telling him in her smuggest voice. "And you're gonna totally freak when you see it. In, like, a good way."

He gives a throaty little chuckle. "That sounds intriguing. Dare I ask if it's animal, mineral or vegetable?"

"Nope, but you should probably be relieved that I rethought the whole Eeyore tie idea I had," she giggles, wriggling in delight at his gasp of outrage.

"I don't even know who Eeyore is but…"

"Oh, you so do, Wes! Don't pull that crap on me. Bet you were totally down with all that Winnie the Pooh stuff when you were little and, like, way over-identified with Christopher Robin."

"Absolutely impossible," he intones darkly. "And maddening and capricious and quite possibly mercurial…"

"Whatever. You love it. I'm gonna be late now, so we'll speak later, yeah?"

And it's like the law now that he can't ring off before he's told her that he loves her, so by the time she has to run five blocks in heels because she's so very late now, her smile's so blinding it could probably power all the fairy lights on the Christmas tree perched on the roof of the bar, Xander's standing outside with a grumpy expression on his face as he checks his watch.

Not like Xander's Captain Timekeeping anyway and he gets over it in the time it takes for her to order two vodka and cranberries and a couple of tequila slammers, which they knock back in a count of three.

Xander's like the best drinking buddy in the world. Holds her bag when she has to go to the bathroom to pee and when she comes back because the line's too long, he grabs her hand and pulls her into the guys' with a loud, "Make way, make way, lady with a weak bladder coming through."

The first band are really lame. Like, that whole whiny boy moperock is so over but the headliners actually have melodies and a brass section and she lets Xander spin her round the floor and get into an argument with some dude whose drink she spills.

By the time they collapse on a sticky patch of floor she's that good kind of drunk where her teeth have gone numb and she can't stop giggling.

"… so then Monty makes me tell her that he hasn't eaten anything with sugar in it and, like, ten minutes later she's barging into his office to find him eating his third muffin. And y'know, Xander, I didn't think Mrs Rosenberg knew words like that."

Xander's bug-eyed. "What words? Did she swear?"

"She called him a fucking motherfucker. My ears nearly fell off." And when his mouth gapes open, she nudges him so hard that he spills his drink down his front. "As if, Xand!"

He tries to glare at her as he makes a feeble attempt to mop up the spillage and then gives up. "Faithy, we are not getting this drunk over Christmas because there was that whole thing last year when you fell over in my Mom's azalea patch and flashed my Grandad. His heart hasn't been the same since."

It's getting really hard to focus on Xander's dopey grin unless she really squints her eyes. "Not sure what's happening this year, Xand," she says, leaning against him. "There's the whole Ted deal and I think Mom wants me to meet his folks, which, so not going there and, y'know…"

"Y'know what?" he asks suspiciously and maybe she's not drunk enough for this conversation after all but if she does it quickly and then buys him another tequila shot it might not hurt so much.

"You're gonna get all mad at me but I think I might be spending Christmas with Wes," she blurts out in this rush so there's no gaps between any of the words and he might not even have heard her. But he has because he's giving her a none-too-gentle shove so she's not slumped against him and can get the full force of his scrunched up face likes she's just made him suck on a lemon.

"Spending Christmas with him in New York?" he begins furiously.

"Well, he hasn't asked me yet," she says carefully and she can't hold it in any longer because she's happy and Xander's her best friend and best friends want each other to be happy. "We talk every night on the phone and he's said when not if, which is just such a fucking huge step and like, how much longer can we have these talks where we tell each other every single little thing that happens during the day and how much we love each other and, man, Xand, never thought that you could do it over the phone but one night I came so hard that I kicked the lamp off my nightstand which took a bit of explaining when my Mom…"

She stops because Xander's got his hands clamped over his ears and he's got this pained expression on his face, which she isn't buying for even a single second. "Oh, what, Xand?" she sneers, giving him an enthusiastic punch on the arm. "Like, you and Mr Seven Dates haven't done much worse than get each other off courtesy of Verizon?"

Xander doesn't rise to the bait because he's rising to his feet so he can haul her up so hard that her feet skid on the wet floor.

"When are you going to stop being so fucking stupid?" he screams in her face, tiny drops of spit landing on her cheeks. "He's a sick, twisted fuck who doesn't love you because he doesn't fucking know what it means!"

And they've sung this song so many times that it's kind of funny that she's forgotten the words. Or maybe she's way drunker or way, like fed upper with him and his shitty, small town ideas of what love is because she doesn't chime in with the "he does love me, Xand" refrain but shoves him away from her so violently that he's doing this spastic stagger to stay on his feet.

"Fuck you!" she screams and it's like she's twisted his balls or stamped on his feet or pulled the head off his G I Joe because his face kinda collapses and he's shrinking away from her. "I love him. I'm gonna be with him and if you don't like that then you can just fuck off!"

He doesn't say anything, just walks away from her with his head down and shoulders hunched so he's not even at the door before she's running after him.

"Xand! Xander!" She tugs him round, grabbing at his unwilling, heavy body and physically turning him round so she can see the tears spilling down his face so now it's her turn to shrink away from him. "I didn't mean it. Look, we've both had too much to drink and even if you don't get it… I love him. I can't be happy without him and you have to, Xand… you have to be cool with that because you're, like, my best friend and I'm not going to choose between you."

And he just gives her this tiny, little smile that makes something in her chest crack ever so slightly that she has to press her hand against her heart. "You've already chosen, Faith," he says dully. "Don't know why we're even kidding ourselves. You've chosen him and he's gonna hurt you and fuck you up a million times worse then he did last spring and you're still too fucking dumb to see it."

He stands statue still as she cups his hot face in her hands. "I can't keep doing this, Xand," she implores him. "I love you, that's never going to change but maybe I have and you need to start dealing with that."

For a moment she thinks she's finally broken through because he lets her hug him and she feels his lips press against her forehead. But then his hands bite into her arms as he slowly and deliberately pushes her away.

"Fuck you, Faith," he bites out and pushes the door open so he can walk away without a backward glance.


Chapter Three Hundred and Thirty Four

She gets home and she can't remember how exactly, because she's going from angry to sad to, oh God, I wanna hurl, and there's no room in there for navigating the half-empty streets and looking left, then right, then left again.

But her feet know the way and it's a mercifully short time before she's in her room, clothes discarded, in the dark, face-down and sobbing on the bed.

It's a different sort of pain to losing Wesley. There's no room in her heart for hope that Xander will ever see the light because she knows him too well. He's stubborn, yeah, just like Wes – like her, if it comes to that – but he's inflexible too, and somehow, for all his determination, Wes isn't. Only got to remember him knocking back a vodka milkshake, eating Chinese from the trash or buying a freaking widescreen TV to know when it comes to her he's all kinds of bendy.

But not Xander.

He's got it stuck in his head that Wes is the Big Bad Wolf and that was true even before Wesley left. Was true from the first time he saw the bruises on her skin, wrapping around her wrists the way Wesley's fingers used to do.

Xander's too used to bruises on her meaning Liam, meaning tears, meaning hurt, and she gets that, she really does... but she's losing patience with him.

Because, fuck, how many times does she have to spell it out? And why the fuck should she anyway?

The phone rings as she crests a wave of righteous anger and she forgets that Wes had promised to call because right now it's Xander who's got center-stage in her head and wouldn't he like that...

"You can fuck off," she says fiercely. "And you're gonna have to apologize crawling on your fucking bended knees –"

"Faith?"

The pained astonishment in Wesley's voice leaves her open-mouthed with horror. "Oh God, Wes. Not you! Shit ... I thought you were Xander."

"Who owes you an apology? Interesting. Tell me more."

And there's the faintest tinge of amusement there that tells her he's slightly drunk but she's well past that state herself into well and truly slammed so she's less discreet than she should be.

"He's a prat. And a pillock. And – tell me more funny English words that start with 'p' that mean Xander."

"I'll email you a list of suitable adjectives and nouns from A to Z my sweet, but not now." His voice sharpens. "Although I'm still waiting to hear what exactly Mr Harris has done to merit your evident disapproval."

"See, now when you're drunk you get all precise and fussy," she marvels. "How do you do? that?"

"It takes practice," he says. "I'm still waiting."

She's all set to launch into a 'he said and then I said, and then he said' spiel when it occurs to her, in an alcoholically-inspired burst of cunning clarity, that she can't. If Wes knows she's counting on being with him at Christmas, it'll jinx it and she'll be lucky to be there for the Easter bunny, let alone Santa.

So she starts to cry instead, and that's easy and it means Wes doesn't expect her to talk much, so she gets away with a snuffled précis that comes out like, "Told me to fuck off. Said I was dumb. Fucking dumb. I'm not dumb am I, Wes? You don't think I'm –"

"No." His voice is dangerously close to anger and she stops talking. "I don't. Enlighten me, Faith; what precisely was it that led him to this erroneous conclusion?"

"You. Me," she says softly, and it's not a lie. Stripped down that's all of it. Xander can see her with Holden and smile because he knows she doesn't and won't ever love him, but Wesley? Different story. Oh, whole different story... "He thinks this – us getting – oh God, can I say getting back together, or is that just gonna piss you off? I'm so fucking drunk I don't know what to say. Tell me, Wes. Tell me."

"Exactly what he said will do nicely," Wesley suggests politely, but it's his fucking scary voice. "Do share his thoughts about us getting back together, Faith."

She frowns. "He's just worried –"

"I'm sure he is," Wesley interrupts. "But somehow, I'm having trouble believing it's entirely about your well-being these days."

She's just about to defend him when she reconsiders. Fuck it.

"Wes? Tell me what you wanna do to him?" she asks, curling up in bed and hiccupping unexpectedly.

"I did call to tell you what I wanted to do you you," he says gently.

"More of a blood-lust mood right now," she confesses. "I mean, I still love him and all, but shit, he told me to fuck off right in front of everyone." She pushes up her sleeve and stares at the dim bruises left by Xander's final touch. "And my arm's all red," she discovers, talking more to herself.

"I beg your pardon?"

Quiet voice. Oh fuck.

"It's fine. I'm fine. Look, Wes, fine means about to puke if I'm gonna be honest. Why don't we call it a night and –"

"Did he –" Wesley takes a slow breath. "Did he dare to put his fucking hands on you?"

She stares at the phone and gives it a tiny shake. "Did you just swear? Because you never –"

"Did he fucking hurt you?" Wesley growls.

And this is just beyond freaky and she might have wanted Wes all protective and indignant but not like this, not sounding as Xander's life expectancy would be three minutes and counting if they were in the same room together.

"No! As if!"

"Then – just for curiosity's sake – why is your arm red?" he asks levelly.

"Knocked it against a wall," she improvises.

"Faith, were you to be close enough for me to touch, you do realize what that little lie would have earned you?"

It's pretty fucking clear from his chilly tone that it wouldn't have been one of those fun spankings that qualify as foreplay, with Wesley's hand spending just about as long slipping between her thighs to tease her as it does smacking down on the curve of her ass. No. Not one of those.

"I'm sorry!" she wails and fuck she wishes she could stop hiccupping because it's so hard to sound persuasive and dignified when every third word is punctuated with one. "Wes, he didn't hurt me. It's nothing. He just grabbed my arms and pushed me away. He was mad at me. He's allowed to –"

"Allowed? To hurt you? No one is allowed to do that, Faith. No one."

"Not even you?" she asks in a tiny quaver of a voice because he's not swearing anymore and he's not shouting but he's fucking furious and it's leaving her heart thudding wildly in unreasoned panic.

"Especially not me," he says without hesitating. "Not unless you allow it."

"He's like, he's close, Wes," she says softly. "Not much of a personal bubble with us. Really isn't that I'm bothered about. It's the whole Xander walking off deal that's got me sad, not what he did or said. He just – he doesn't get it. Us. Never will." She sighs. "Bet he never even read that book..."

There's a snort of something that sounds like laughter. "Tell me you're not trying to educate Xander in the finer points of sadomasochism, Faith."

"I totally am," she says, relieved that the storm's over. "Lent him 'Screw the Roses' and told him I wanted a book report, 2,000 words minimum, by Friday."

Wes chuckles again but he sounds serious when he tells her, "I applaud your zeal, but I don't think it will enlighten him; more confirm his belief that I've corrupted you."

"Well, that's fucking bullshit," she says firmly. "You know that, right?" When she's answered by silence she sighs. "God, you two are the only ones in the world who, like, think I was this innocent, naive little virgin or something."

"I don't think I ever saw you quite in that light," Wesley drawls.

"No?" She cuddles into her pillows. "How do you see me now, Wes? Now I'm naked with that tie of yours around my wrists? Do you wanna, like, rescue me? Or do you want to –"

"I want to –" He makes a frustrated sound. "I'm not sure I'm quite in the mood for this, Faith."

"You're not gonna let Xander get to you, are you?" she says, because she's drunk enough to be all over the place emotionally and right now she's getting all kinds of aroused. "You still wearing that tie, Wes? Really want to see you dressed up some day, even if you hate it."

"I do hate it," he says petulantly. "And I took that bloody tie off the moment I came in."

"Pick it up," she says, her voice breathy. "Look at it and think of everything you could do to me with it..."

"Such as?" he asks and she can hear him walk and guesses he's going to his bedroom. There're the muffled thuds of shoes being kicked off and she's fairly sure... yeah, definitely a zipper.

"Want to take a moment to get comfortable, Wes?" she asks archly.

"I asked you a question," he reminds her.

"What? Oh, yeah..." She runs her tongue along her lips, tasting the red she'd painted them with. "Is it long enough to gag me with?"

"Yes, but why would I want to?" he asks. "Not only do I have a certain fondness for the appreciative little sounds you make – and the not-so-appreciative ones have a charm of their own – but gagged, you couldn't use your mouth to please me, now could you?"

"I miss doing that," she says dreamily. "Not just going down on you, though, God, yes, I miss that a lot, but kissing you."

"Do you?"

He sounds wistful now and she abandons her half-assed attempts to seduce him and settles for sincerity. "Yeah, I really do. It took you so fucking long to do that, d'you remember?"

"I – well –"

"Your bathroom, that first time I went there," she reminds him. "I jumped you and started plastering kisses all over your face and you turned me and put my back against the wall and you kissed me. You'd spanked me, whipped me, shaved me, watched me come. I'd gone down on you and you'd had your tongue in my cunt and on my clit... but you hadn't kissed me."

"Most remiss of me," he whispers, sounding shaken at the recital.

"Worth waiting for," she sighs. "I fell in love with your kisses, Wes. Totally love them, you know?"

"If you were to appear here in front of me," he says, "it's the first thing I'd do."

"Kiss me?"

"For the longest time I could manage it without being compelled to do... other things," he assures her.

"How long are we talking, Wes?" she says, feeling a smile tug at her lips.

"I think - yes, I'm positive I could make it last a good thirty seconds."

She snorts. "Man, that's pathetic! Thought you were all iron-control man."

"Where you're concerned, I'm starting to think I'm more like..."

"Marshmallow?" she offers brightly. "No use to me like that, Wes. Kinda like you hard, you know?"

"I think we're at cross-purposes here," he purrs. "Did you think the kiss would end so I could fuck you, Faith?"

"Well, yeah," she says indignantly, because it's been fucking months...

"I have a rather lengthy list of your misdemeanors that will need to be dealt with before I can indulge myself in that way," he says.

"This list," she says hollowly. "It's, like, metaphorical, right?"

"I think it's time you went to sleep," he says smoothly. "Don't worry about Xander; I'm sure the excessive amount of alcohol you both undoubtedly consumed played its part. By tomorrow he'll be suitably contrite."

She yawns. "Hope so. Hey, this didn't turn out like we planned, did it? Sorry 'bout that..."

"You so often disrupt my plans," he says tenderly. "And somehow I rarely seem to mind, simply because it's you."

"Love you, Wes," she murmurs.

"I love you, too" he says, and she slides into sleep with that in her head, not 'fuck you, Faith'.

Chapter Three Hundred and Thirty Five

When she wakes up the next morning, she's definitely moved on to cursing herself for forgetting to pop two aspirin and down a glass of water before falling asleep -- her surefire way of avoiding a hangover -- because yeah, she's really got the mother of all hangovers.

The kind of hangover that's exacerbated by the squawking of her cell phone at 10:30am. A way-too-chipper Dru is on the other end, demanding to know just exactly where she is, and isn't dear Faith just so lucky that there's an hour wait at their favorite hole-in-the-wall Mexican joint, and hadn't she better be getting there soon, or Spike will be really cross, and wouldn't that just be too awful?

She mumbles something completely incoherent but slightly affirmative into the phone and rolls out of bed and straight to the shower.




Spike and Dru don't push her when she picks sullenly at her breakfast and tells them she's not upset about Wes.

"It's just Xander..." she says, after downing two cups of coffee and half a plate of huevos mexicanos. The whole story comes tumbling out in an incoherent rush, and earns more than its fair share of cocked eyebrows from Spike and disapproving coos from Dru.

"Happens that way sometimes, love. You outgrow your mates. Painful for everyone involved..." Spike cuts off 'cause she's given him the most aggrieved look like, ever.

"I know. I just... Well, I just never thought it'd go down like this between us."

"Of course you couldn't, dear." Dru pats her hand. "Men are such ciphers and yet so sadly predictable. It's what makes them so delightful. And so frustrating."

"Hey, that's what you said the last time I left wet towels wadded up in the bathtub. Don't recycle that line to explain away that stupid prig!" Spike's all smiles, but there's something a little bitter behind his words.

"Oh, shut up, Spike! Faith needs cheering-up, not a dose of your self-righteous whining." She kisses him gently on the cheek, and in a second, all is forgiven and that sends a pang of jealousy right through Faith, though she’s immediately protesting loudly and full of smiles again too when Dru announces: "Now then, who's ready to do some Christmas shopping?"




Of course, her shopping's all taken care of, and she suspects they'd planned this outing as a way to scope out what kind of present she'd like, especially when they giggle and whisper and shoot her pointed and deliberate looks as they examine some item or another, like a retro-ironic belt buckle that read, in red script, "Big Mamma's" or a t-shirt with 'No Loitering' strategically screen printed across the bust. And, as a bonus, being dragged from shop to shop along the town's one trendy avenue is extremely efficient at making her forget all about more pressing matters, from the fight with Xander to what to read Wes that evening, 'cause Sunday's kind of snuck up on her this week.

And she's thrilled when she spots a set of vintage jet and silver cufflinks in a case at an eclectic and classy junk store that aren't nearly as expensive as she'd expected. They’re just the perfect birthday gift for Wes. He’d said it was between Christmas and New Year’s…

"Hope you're not thinking of those for me, then," Spike says in her ear, sneaking up behind her.

"Never seen you in French cuffs, Spike, so, uh, not really," she laughs, wiggling out of his hug and turning to examine the old-fashioned tie bars instead.

"Thought not." He winks. "You feeling a little better, then? About Xander?"

"Suppose so," she sighs, though she's suddenly taken aback by the fact that her cell hasn't buzzed with a text or a voicemail from him. It's not like she was really expecting it, as she knows his pointed silence isn't just petulant stewing this time.

"He'll call you when he's ready." Spike says, as if reading her mind and nodding at the cell phone sticking out of her handbag.

"Not sure if I'm ready, so that's just fine by me."

Spike doesn’t look convinced, though. She turns back to the jewelry case to avoid his pointed look and flags down the clerk. “I’ll take these,” she says, sliding the cufflinks across the counter. “And, could you wrap them, please?”




It’s possibly the most subdued Sunday call ever, since they’re both nursing residual hangovers that late brunches and lazy afternoons couldn’t entirely erase. There’s no mention of Xander, from either of them, but there’s little quiet gaps in the conversation, and she’s never been more grateful to just know he’s at the other end of the line.

She reads him the last few chapters of A Room With a View, trying not to sigh too heavily after reading: “Then they spoke of other things -- the desultory talk of those who have been fighting to reach one another, and whose reward is to rest quietly in each other's arms.” And she manages to muddle through most of the Italian in the last chapter especially without too much trouble, though he does softly correct her pronunciation a few times.

“Didn’t spoil the ending for you, did I?” she asks, shutting the book and picturing her and Wes and the perfect view of Florence and not leaving the hotel room for days and days…

“Oh no, I’ve seen the film, of course,” he teases, because she knows full well he’s read the book before, she’d seen a copy in a carefully culled pile stacked on the bottom shelf of his bedside table.

“Oh, of course! How silly of me not to realize that,” she plays along. “So, how’s your week shaping up? Tons of meetings? Big important case?”

“All that and more, I’m sure. It would seem that every attorney on staff is attempting to wrap up their cases before the Christmas holiday, and I’m no exception.”

“Yeah, I know. Even Monty’s schedule for next week looks pretty insane.”

“I don’t mind though, being busy helps keep my mind…”

“…off other things?” She interrupts, finishing his sentence. “Yeah, I know. Mine too.” She pauses, unsure of where exactly this conversation is headed. “So, if you’re clearing things up, must mean you’ve got big plans for Christmas…?” As soon as the words have trailed out of her mouth, she’s desperately wishing to pull them back in. Was that too pushy? Too nosy? Too desperate?

He gives her a soft little laugh. “The holidays are always busy and it always seems there’s something popping up at the last minute, doesn’t it? I thought it best to make sure my schedule was clear, just in case.” There’s a rather pregnant pause that she can’t fill because her mouth’s hanging open in shock. That couldn’t possibly be a hint of … “Giles and Olivia had mentioned something about skiing in Vermont for the weekend, for instance. But we don’t really have any concrete plans yet,” he continues smoothly.

Perhaps she’d just imagined it. Yeah, that was it. He wasn’t really dropping any hints, she was just reading too much into what he was saying. Right?

“That sounds nice,” she says, but it comes out all squeaky and slightly sullen. “We’re just doing the usual family thing, you know…”

“I’m sure that will be lovely as well. Especially since Ted seems to be quite the culinary artist.”

“Hey, I’m all for a man who knows his way around the kitchen. Pretty big improvement over the kind who only knows his way to the liquor cabinet.” She sighs. “Is it too much to hope that Xander will…God, I don’t know. Come around? It won’t feel like Christmas without him, it really won’t.”

“I wish I had more soothing words for you, but you really mustn’t let Xander…”

“I know, Wes. Really do. Already got this pep talk from Spike and Dru today, even. Just, still kind of stings a little, y'know?” She steamrolls over his sputtered reply as he tries to interrupt. “Not physically, Wes. In other ways.”

“I know what you meant, dearest Faith. Now, I think we should both get to bed…”

And she can’t exactly argue with that suggestion because her eyes are getting heavy and in the back of her mind, she’s already playing out this really sweet and dreamy and completely impossible fantasy that she’ll be able to hand him those pretty cufflinks for his birthday -- in person.

Chapter Three Hundred and Thirty Six

Monday is one of those sucky days that should be taken off the calendar.

Before she's even got to work, she's managed to catch the sleeve of her favourite polka dot blouse on the chipped side of her dressing table, tearing it so hard that she'll never be able to wear it again. And OK, it's just a little something she picked up at a yard sale for a dollar but damn, it's got memories and all of them Wes-shaped. It had survived about half a dozen spankings, not to mention Wes' mouth furiously attacking her nipples through it and as she hunts through her closet for something else to wear, she's ridiculously upset.

Then she snaps her heel clean in half on a jagged piece of sidewalk and the barista at her favorite coffee shop is too busy perving on the new waitress to remember the caramel in her double latte and by the time she gets to the office she's ten minutes late and Monty's vibrating with nerves and too much sugar because he's due in court.

The minute she's managed to hustle him out of the door, she's back at her computer and telling her tale of woe to someone who cares.



Hey Wes

I'm having the worst morning. Tore the sleeve on my white polka dot blouse and it's, like, ruined beyond repair. Then I broke the heel on my suede 'fuck me' shoes and the stupid ass geek at The Java Joint made me a double caramel latte without the freakin' caramel.
Plus I get to the office and Monty is bouncing off the walls from too much sugar.
Write me something that'll make me smile.

Love

Faith x



And her email pings like one second later, which is too quick even for Wes' superior multi-tasking skills and she's staring in disbelief at an Out Of Office auto reply thingy telling her that Mr Wyndam-Pryce is in court all day and that any urgent correspondence should be directed to his assistant, Ms Anya Jenkins. And she doesn't know who the fuck Ms Anya Jenkins is or, like, why Wes has never mentioned her before but she upgrades her bad mood to a full-on existential crisis that doesn't get any better when she tries him on his cell at lunchtime to have it go straight to voicemail and she's got no choice but to hang up instead of leaving some whiny, 'nobody loves me' message.

The only thing that goes right is bumping into Darla and Ted all spiffed up for a night line-dancing going out as she's coming in. Like, could they be any more white trash? But at least she's got the house to herself so she can eat ice cream for dinner and dance around in her underwear to The Polyphonic Spree until Wes calls her.

She's just settling in with a family-sized pack of Fritos and an OC marathon when some fucker starts leaning on the doorbell. And just like every other time that there's a ring on the doorbell she has to tell her heart to stop pounding because it's not gonna be Wes all ready to whisk her off to some place else. Not this time anyway. Because standing on the stoop, shoulders hunched inside his battered leather jacket and looking like his whole world has turned to broken biscuit is Xander.

It takes some doing to school her features into complete blankness when inside she's torn between ripping him a new one and just dragging him inside and hugging him and telling him that he's a stupid asshole but she still loves him.

"Xand," she says in the icy, controlled voice she learnt at Wes' knee, or bent over it anyhow. "What do you want?"

And she never really gets a chance to find out because he's crying. Proper crying with snot and his fists balled into his eyes and she's tugging him through the door and pushing him on to the couch so she can sit down next to him and let him get the shoulder of her favorite American Apparel t-shirt all soggy.

"Did that bastard break up with you, Xand?" she asks indignantly, when the sobs have muted down to a few quite hiccups, because she's allowed to get mad at him and hate him but she's got, like, privileges after 14 years of being his best friend.

He shakes his head and she pushes a lock of hair off his sweaty forehead. "So what's with the waterworks then? Is this about the other night 'cause yeah, you just about destroyed me but I guess I told you to fuck off first and that wasn't as bad as the argument we had in 7th grade when you…"

"I'm so fucking sorry, Faith," he chokes out. "Got drunk last night, like multi-colored, surround sound drunk and I was so angry with you and him and… it's no excuse and you're going to leave and now I know I'll never see you again because I'm so fucking stupid…"

She doesn't know what he's done and knowing Xander it could be anything and she can't even focus on the little rash of goose bumps breaking out on every inch of her skin because he's rummaging in his shirt pocket and pulling out a couple of sheets of neatly folded paper.

"What did you do?"

And she knows already but he's spluttering out, "I sent him this", even as she's snatching the paper out of his nerveless hands and running, not walking, to her room to read it.



Listen to me, you fucking, sick, pervert

Faith's told me that you're getting back together and I'm just letting you know that I'm gonna do anything I can to make sure that never happen. Googled your email address, bet I can google your boss' email addresses just as easily and tell them what kind of freak they have working for them. How he's, like, meant to be all justicey and fighting for the powers of good when actually he gets off on hurting little girls.

She's 19! And you're old enough to be her father. You're just like that bastard. You enjoy hurting her and leaving bruises and fucking her up. 'Cause she is totally fucked up. Gave me this dumbass book to read on other pain freaks but I know some shit too. Like, this whole thing with you is this cycle of abuse she's in 'cause of what Liam did to her.

It's not just you, though you've managed to finish what he started and ruin every chance Faith's gonna have of a normal life. Like, she's had this three way with a guy and a girl so it's not like she needs you to get off. Bet she never told you about that, huh? And she's been going out on dates with this friend of mine and he loves her and he's kind and he's funny and he has, like, a really cool vibe and they could be perfect for each other but she's still hung up on you 'cause you've got her thinking that she's like this total little bondage groupie.

Just fuck off and leave her alone. Did it last time, didn't you? Wrote your chickenshit little letter and left everyone else to pick up the pieces and now you're back because you can't find anyone else who's like as stupid and trusting and vulnerable and sweet as Faith.

I know you. You know what you're like too. And she'll be in New York without people who love her there so you can do what the fuck you like to her. So she's just all covered in bruises and stuck in your apartment all day and too scared to leave you 'cause you've got her so screwed up that she thinks she deserved to be treated like a piece of shit.

She was doing great until you showed up again with all your bullshit presents and phone calls. Got a great job, new friends and a guy who's ready to fucking worship the ground she walks on if she wasn't so hung up on a fucking jerk like you. So I'm telling you now to just back the fuck off.

And if you don't, I'm gonna fuck your shit up. Gonna hurt you and I fucking promise you, man, it's not such fucking fun when you’re on the end of it.

Nobody gives a fuck about you, except Faith. And give it another six months and she won't either. You'd be doing everyone a great favor, if you'd just fuck off and die!



She's sitting on the floor and kinda laughing because Xand sounds like he's 12 or something but she's kinda crying too because it's just all so fucked up. There's so many thoughts crashing around in her skull that she can't even begin to start untangling them. The loudest one is telling her that Wes is going to disappear again. Fuck it! He already has with his auto replies and his voicemail and she was so close. So fucking close to being happy, being complete, getting everything she ever wanted which began and ended with Wes and it's all gone to shit.

And it hurts to read what Xander's written about her because he's her best friend and he doesn't know her at all. Thinks that she's nothing more than a victim of Liam, of Wes, that she gets off on pain because it's been bred into her with every blow from Liam's fists. That he doesn’t see his friend any more; just sees a freak

She picks up the other piece of paper from the floor where it's fallen and she's crying now. No kinda about it because through the blur of tears she can make out Wes' email address in the top line.



Thank you.



Two words. Takes two words for Wes to come to the conclusion that Xander knows what's best for her. Two words to give up on them. Two words to make sure that nothing's ever going to feel good again and she looks up to see Xander white faced and trembling at her door.

"Just go home, Xand. I don't even wanna fucking look at you right now," she sobs.

He takes a step forward and she looks up and he's backing away. "I'm sorry, Faithy. You got to believe me and hey, I can write and say I'm sorry. I can fix this. You have to let me fix this. You have to, Faith…"

"Go away," she grits out. "I can't… I just need you not to be here. Please."

And when he's still standing there, she gets up and slams the door in his face and stays with her face pressed against it until she hears him walk down the hall and into the street.



It's not even sunk in yet because she can still walk and go to the bathroom to throw up, before cleaning her teeth and splashing her face with cold water and chain smoking five cigarettes right down to the butt and leaving 20 messages on Wes' voicemail that say, well, variations on "I love you" and "don't do this to me again" and "please don't break my heart because I can't put it back together again any more."

Eventually she's so cried out that her eyes are aching and scratchy and all she wants to do is crawl into bed, pull the covers over her head and just fucking die. Because she's got nothing now. But even as she thinks that, she realizes that it also means that she's got nothing left to lose.

That thought has her stumbling over to her desk and collapsing on to the chair so she can start writing. 120 words per minute and every single one of them has to matter.



Wes

I love you. I could write it out a million times. I love you. I love you. I love you. And it's the kind of love that's in the books I've read to you. Great, romantic, passionate love, that sweeps everything away because it's absolute and important and huge.

That's how it feels to me. It makes me so fucking happy. Makes me feel sad too sometimes that I can love you so much and really I don't have the words to describe it. You're good with words but all I can do is show you, time and time again, and it's hard when we're not together. I worry that you'll forget exactly how much I love you.

I know how I feel. But I still don't know how you feel. Not really. Guess I thought I did but I was wrong because how can you turn your back on me, on us, how can you fuck up the rest of our lives because of some dumb email that Xander wrote because he was drunk and he's stupid and he doesn't understand? And what do you write back?

Thank you. Thank you? For fucking what, Wes? For reminding you that unless you're feeling like a martyr, you're not really living? For pointing out that poor, little Faith is so fucking screwed up that she doesn't know what she wants and oh gee, I should just keep away from her?

Yeah, newsflash, Xander thinks it's sordid and shameful what we do, what we did. And I can't just keep telling you and him all the reasons why it wasn't and why I loved it and I need it and I miss it. But you know what I realize? That's not all we were. Not all we are. Not all we could be.

And I'm sitting here and trying to explain about why I love you and it's:

• Being safe and snuggled up in your arms while the rest of the world passes by outside.
• And it's the way we used to do the crossword together and you'd always let me do the easy ones first and never get that mad that I filled the answers in in pen and got some of them wrong.
• It's all the delicious meals you used to make me – I have dreams about your roast chicken – and you'd feed me and, I don't know, like nourish me so I'd be healthy because you cared about me.
• And reading Jane Austen to me in silly voices.
• Being so fucking sweet when I had period pains and buying me chocolate and giving me back rubs.
• Holding me when I had bad dreams and stroking my hair and telling me you loved me until I fell asleep again.
• Giving me stuff that changed my life. Not the presents, but the really important things like getting me to read and showing me that I was worth loving and looking after. You made me feel like I deserved to be treated like that.
• Getting stoned together and the TV and the ice cream and the stinky cheese and you teasing me and pretending you were all pissed and you could never do it for long because you'd start smiling and your smiles would just kill me because they were so fucking beautiful.

And it's a stupid list and it doesn’t even come close to explaining it. If that were all we were, it would be enough. But we were more than that and it's not. I'm getting all, like, not making sense again. But you always tell me how brave I am, Wes. And I'm going to do the bravest thing I've ever done and tell you right now that I wouldn't come back to you, wouldn't want to be with you if this list was all I ever got.

I want the other stuff too. Want your hand on my ass, hitting me, hurting me, giving me that lowdown ache and sting so everything's simple and right and it's just the pain that you give me and then make it all better.

Want you making me wait. Want you tying me up. Want you holding me down. Want you making me cry and scream and beg. Want all the other dark things that we haven't even begun to explore.

But more than that I want your cock in my cunt, my ass and my mouth. Want you fucking me.

There's been too many secrets between us; all this gray and I'm choking on it. I can't do this for much longer. I hate that I'm so fucking scared all the time that I'm going to do or say the wrong thing and get punished with your silence. Out of all the things you've done, your silence is the worst, Wes. Hurts me way more than the switch ever did. And now you've gone quiet again because of some stupid ass email from Xander and Wes… he was just looking out for me. In a really dumb, fuckheaded way but I can't hate him for it.

But this isn't about Xander, Or anyone else. It's about you and me. So, I'm going to give you an out. Let you have a chance to just walk away without looking back. Gonna make it easy for you.

Want everything that you've got to give me, Wes. Want all the shit you've been holding back. I can't live with any less. But if you can, then just fucking tell me and I swear that I'll let you go.

Love always

Faith x




Clicking 'send' feels like the most monumental thing she's ever done in her life. She listens to the computer make the swooshing noise it does when it's pushing something out into the ether before crawling into bed and pulling the pillows over her head.


Chapter Three Hundred and Thirty Seven

She's dragged out of sleep by the insistent chirp of her phone, lying where she'd tossed it after the nineteenth time she'd got Wesley's voicemail message instead of the man himself. It's far enough away that she has to get out of bed to pick it up from the floor and she can hear the creak of Darla's bed as her mother stirs restlessly in her sleep.

Late-night calls are something they've both come to associate with Liam and trouble in the past and it's a hard habit to break.

She reaches for the noisy phone with groping, sleep-clumsy fingers and promises herself that if it's a contrite Xander on the other end she's gonna tell him everything she never got around to saying earlier. Then she catches sight of the bedside clock and fuck, it's 2.14; it's got to be –

"Wes? Wesley? Is that you?"

"Yes, of course it is," he says and this has to be a fucking dream, because she'd fallen asleep on a tear-soaked pillow wondering if he'd even give her the two words Xander had got and here he is calling her sounding absolutely normal, if a little hurried.

"You –" She falls silent, because what can she say? She's said it all in her email, in the increasingly anguished repetition of the plea for him to call her, and now he has, she's got nothing.

"My darling Faith," he says and the urgency's left his voice now as if all he needed was to hear her say his name. "I'm sorry to disturb you so late."

"Doesn't matter," she says thickly, trying to wake up. "Doesn't matter, Wes." She stumbles back into the warmth of the tangled sheets, clutching the phone.

"I couldn't – I just got your messages, your email – I couldn't wait until the morning," he murmurs. "Faith, nothing's changed, nothing. I don't see how you could think for a moment that I'd let Xander's rather obvious threats make a difference to my feelings for you."

She can't let herself feel glad because she's not that brave. "You thanked him," she said, and remembered anger wakes her up better than cold water and bright lights. "You fucking thanked him after all he said about us – about me, and I've been calling you and calling you –"

"I didn't think for a moment that he'd be stupid enough to tell you what he'd done – oh, of course. Remorse set in, did it?" Wesley makes a 'tchah' sound and she can almost see him roll his eyes. "I've been in court all day, Faith and afterwards I was swept off by Rupert to celebrate our victory and it all went on considerably longer than I expected. I'm still not really accustomed to checking for emails and my phone was left in my briefcase and I –"

"It doesn't matter," she says, cutting off his explanation. "Wes – tell me, just fucking tell me."

There's a silence and it seems to last forever until he begins to speak. "I didn't call you straight away, Faith. I heard your phone messages first and I was all set to return them and find out what on earth had distressed you, when it occurred to me that there might be a letter from you waiting for me." He pauses. "I read your email half an hour ago, Faith. It's taken me that long to get to the point where I could call you back without just telling you to come to me, come now. Or to just come and get you myself." She's biting her knuckle now, teeth digging into flesh until she can taste the salt-tang of blood in her mouth, trying to hold back the words, the tears, because she doesn't want to miss anything that he's saying.

"But it's still not time for that yet, Faith, and I won't be pushed into anything by the actions of a hurt, angry boy."

"Wish you would," she manages to say. "Wesley – I meant it. I can't stand this much longer."

"Would it help if I set a limit," he asks, his voice calm and assured as if he can tell how close she is to breaking down. "If I promised that we'd be together by a certain date?"

"How can you?" she asks, still too sleep-dazed to think clearly. "If you can tell me February 17th, you can tell me next Thursday..."

"Why then?" he asks curiously. "The February date, I mean."

She smiles, even though he can't see it. "You tell me," she says.

It takes him two slow breaths, as she starts to let herself believe it's going to be fine, to get it.

"The date you entered my employ," he says. "Of course. Oh, that's perfect, Faith. Very well. No later than that then."

"Hey!" she protests. "Wes, that's two months away!"

"I didn't say it wouldn't be earlier," he points out. "I simply –"

"You're fucking with me," she says flatly, not caring if he gets annoyed with her.

"Perhaps," he says and there's a note in his voice she hasn't heard for a long time. "Or perhaps now this is just part of the game. If I said it was, Faith, if I promised you that I knew exactly what I was doing, would you play?"

"Do I have a choice?" she counters but there's a stirring of excitement that makes it come out as a challenge he can't help but recognize.

"You have the same choice as always, Faith," he says smoothly. "Say your safe word and it stops. Whatever I'm doing to you, it stops."

"What would you do if I did?" she asks. "If I said it now, tonight. Would you let me come to you?"

"Yes."

"Then – " She stops, seeing the trap. "You really can be a total fucking bastard, Wes, you know that?"

"You've said that before," he reminds her, "many times, but have I ever not made it worth your while to wait?"

The memories of a hundred bone-melting orgasms won't allow her to disagree. "No..."

"It's your choice, Faith," he says gently. "As it's always been."

"You know I won't say it for this," she says. "But I totally fucking should, Wes, because being apart like this, it's fucking killing me, you know?"

"I do know," he says with a fervent assurance. "As I feel exactly the same way, how could I not?"

"Then why – no, forget it," she says with a resigned sigh. "I trust you, Wes."

"I love you so very much," he says with devastating simplicity. "Reading Xander's email left me quite shaken. It wasn't that I thought he'd carry out his threats – I really do hope you believe me when I say that was never a consideration – but for a moment I began to doubt my ability to keep you safe."

"As if! Wes, that's stupid-"

"No. He made some good points," he corrects her. "Would you - when you come here – would it –" He sighs and starts over. "I want you to open an account," he says. "I'll deposit a sum more than sufficient for you to buy a ticket home, keep yourself –"

"No!" She's sitting bolt-upright in bed now. "I've got a savings account already – been putting some aside, but I don't need that, Wes. I don't want you to mention it again."

"Faith –" He's sounding pained now but she's not giving way.

"Relationships don't come with safety nets, Wes," she says. "And you don't go into them planning for what's gonna happen when they end."

"I just want –"

"You do that and I'm not coming," she says firmly. "You choose now, Wes. You fucking choose."

He gives a chuckle, conceding defeat. "You've given me none," he says dryly. "I don't think you realize quite what I'd do, what I'd give, or give up, to have you with me again."

"Tell me?" she says, and it's a question not a plea, nor a command. "Wes, I've had a fucking horrible night. I need you to tell me."

He exhales and his voice is shaking as he murmurs her name. "Faith ... there isn't anything more important to me than you. Anything, or anyone. I love you too much to be wise, too deeply to be anything but your slave."

"Haven't you got that the wrong way 'round?" she says, feeling her body flush with heat as if he's there beside her, his hand running over her skin, waking it, arousing her, making her ache with wanting him.

"I really haven't," he says. "I'm going to let you go back to sleep now, Faith."

"Don't think I can, Wes," she says, though the yawn that follows that isn't convincing. "Feel all kinds of worked-up. Kinda like Christmas Eve, you know?"

"I want you to go to sleep," he says firmly. "Faith, I really can't have you going to work tomorrow and performing at a less-than-adequate level for your employer because you've had insufficient sleep. Are you lying down?"

"Yes," she says drowsily, snuggling back. "I'm all tucked in."

"Close your eyes."

"You gonna sing me a lullaby, Wes?"

"I'm not, no," he says sounding amused. "But I could tell you a story..."

"This the kind with audience participation?" she says, with her fingers already working their way down between her legs, tracing the bump of her clit and feeling the wetness he's coaxed from her with just a few words.

"If you like," he says indulgently. His voice sharpens. "It's dark? Your eyes are closed?"

"Yes, Wesley," she says.

"Good girl." He pauses. "Although it occurs to me –"

"What?"

"You've fallen into some very bad habits while we've been apart, Faith. I told you to go to sleep and you're arguing with me."

"I'm not!" she whispers indignantly. "Wesley, I want my story-"

"No, you don't," he whispers back. "That's not really what you want, Faith, is it?"

She catches her breath sharply and hears him smile, yes, she so fucking does.

"You're being so willful," he says dreamily and he's tired too, she can tell and she wonders if he's in bed too, naked in the darkness. "So very insubordinate and demanding. I think we both know where this is leading, Faith, don't you? To an addressing of your bad behavior until you're properly repentant. It's going to take some time to regain lost ground, but I think – yes, I think it's time to begin again in earnest. Were you to be here, you know I'd tip you over my knee. I miss the weight of you across my lap, you know. You'd feel so warm and real, after years of dreaming, and even though I couldn't always see your face – did you ever wonder why I used to insist that your hair be tied back at work, Faith? It was to give myself the pleasure of seeing your face flush and the way the tears trickled and fell as I spanked you."

Her fingers are rubbing at her clit now, feverish and frantic and she must have voiced the moan that's echoing in her head because he whispers, "Slowly, Faith – or I'll make you place your hands a long way from where they are now. I'm already jealous of them for touching you there, where my fingers should be, my mouth. Where was I? Oh, yes. The charming way you reacted when I was spanking you. I'm not sure how aware you were of what you were doing. At the beginning, I imagine you were; that you were listening as I spoke to you, lectured you on whatever you'd done to deserve punishment – and of course, so often, it was nothing more than my need that placed you there, nothing more than me giving into the temptation you presented. If I ever think of myself as weak, Faith, I'll remember how many times I let you walk away to type up the letters I'd dictated with half my mind lost in a fantasy of fucking you, instead of ordering you to stay, to strip, to come to me."

"Wesley..." she groans, because she can't listen to this and stay silent. "Wish you had, wish you'd fucked me every time..."

"My sweet Faith," he purrs. "So eager, always. And once again you've distracted me. I really do think I'll have to tell you not to interrupt me again."

"Yes, Wesley," she says.

"That counts," he tells her mildly. "So. I'd watch you and gradually you'd lose your inhibitions. Your body would squirm, your eyes would squeeze closed and you'd make these sounds – God, Faith, I can hear them now... You'd say my name, over and over, and if you'd tried – and I don't think by then you were capable of unstudied speech – I don't think you could've said anything that would have moved me more than those repetitions of my name. You made it sound like –"

"Like I was praying," she says, not caring that she's not supposed to be talking. "Praying you wouldn't stop, that <i>this</i> time your hand hit me wouldn't be the last one... and I'd want you to stop because I'd want you to fuck me, but it was part of it somehow and I used to feel so close to you then..."

"I had to make myself stop," he admits. "Partly because I'd be so hard I couldn't wait, but because I could see what I was doing to you and I didn't want to –"

"Yes, you did," she says. "Tell me, Wes. Tell me."

She thinks she's pushed him too far, but she doesn't care. Here, in the silent house, with the night wrapping around her as it is around him, with his voice soft in her ear, she wants honesty from him because she deserves it.

"I wanted to hurt you," he says finally and there's a dark resolve there now and no shame or hesitation. "Wanted to see your arse bruised and burning so beautifully. And I will do, Faith. You needn't fear I'll be merciful with you when you come to me."

And it's the oddest fucking thing to say maybe but it's what tips her over so she's coming with his name on her lips, moaning and jerking against her insistent fingers and he listens in appreciative silence before sighing.

"Go to sleep, Faith," he says gently.

"Wes...?" she says as sleep rushes in to claim her, forcing the words past her sleep-numbed lips. "Why did you thank him?"

"Xander?" He clears his throat. "Partly because I was genuinely grateful for his concern, however misplaced or motivated and partly –"

"Yeah?" she yawns.

"I wanted to piss him off," he says a little smugly. "Did it work, do you think?"

She's still grinning as she falls asleep.

Chapter Three Hundred and Thirty Eight

She wakes up in the morning with a muggy, aching head from the ocean of tears she'd cried the night before. But then she feels the stickiness between her legs, sees the phone lying next to her on the pillow and she stretches out languidly allowing herself a small, satisfied smile because it's not if, it's not even when any more. She's got a date. And yeah, two months seems like several fucking lifetimes to get through but she can wait. He's managed to train her to do that at least.

But as she wanders back from the bathroom, she sees the crumpled pieces of paper lying on the floor when she left them and she's crying again. Not for her and Wes this time because she has an absolute certainty that though he's gonna make her cry plenty, they'll be happy tears. Tears because it would be just like him to make her wait until 11.59pm on February 17th and even if he doesn't, she's gonna be weeping buckets when he finally gets his hand on her ass and gives her some payback.

So, no not tears for her and Wes but tears for her and Xander because they've torn apart from each other now and there isn't glue enough in the world to stick them back together.  And then she hears Darla moving about in the kitchen and she's set on a collision course right into her arms.

"Faithy, baby, what's the matter?" Darla says in the split second before she collapses sobbing on her shoulder.

And it's hard to choke out the words through a head full of snot and tears but Darla's stroking her back and pushing her hair away from her hot, sticky face.

"And it's not like I won't speak to him, I can't," she finishes finally, rounding it off with a volley of sneezes that has Darla backing away nervously.

"He was just looking out for you, sweetie," she coos. "In a dumbass guy way. Bet he'll be back this evening with some ice cream and a CD that makes your ears hurt when you listen to it."

"But he doesn't get me anymore," Faith wails, snagging a piece of paper towel so she can blow her nose. "Like, I've changed and he can't change with me and he's getting left behind and I can't slow down… I just can't."

She looks up through blurry, tear-soaked eyes to see Darla watching her with a thoughtful expression on her face that's so still, so quiet that it's almost a shock.

"Are you going to be here for Christmas," she asks softly. "Or do you think you'll want to spend it in New York?"

She shrugs, then sighs heavily because ain't that the $64,000 question. "I don't know. I hope so… would you be pissed at me if I wasn't here?"

Darla's reaching for a tumbler from the cupboard above the sink but she turns so Faith can see her try to paste on a bright smile.

"Maybe a little, honey," she gulps. "Be nice to have one good Christmas with you that doesn't end up with the police coming round or…"

"… a visit to the ER, yeah, I know."

"I don't know, Faithy, seems like a pretty whacked out plan to get out of Christmas Eve dinner at your gran's house with the glazed ham and that jello salad," Darla shudders at the memory and then allows herself a smug smile. "Least I didn't inherit the way she can't cook for shit."

And she tries to laugh because, like, ironic much but turns out she wants to sneeze much more and, maybe have coughing fit while she's at it.



She feels really guilty about having to call in sick. Actually, she kinda does. Because she loves Monty in a totally not inappropriate way and he's way busy with the Christmas rush of acrimonious divorces and bankruptcy hearings but he gasps in horror when she croaks down the phone at him and even threatens to send Mrs Monty round with chicken soup.

Just before, she crawls back into bed she quickly sends an email to Wes because he'd want to know that she's all poorly. And she lets herself wish that it was, like, February 19th because he'd coddle her and cuddle her and probably lug the bigass TV into the bedroom so she could watch Lifetime.



Hey Wes

Not in work today. Got this stinking cold and way more snot than any girl should have. You still love me, even after that charming visual? You'd better.

Speak to you later

Faith x

She's dozing fitfully and trying to summon up the energy to stagger into the lounge so she can watch TV when her phone, which is buried somewhere under the covers begins to chirp, which makes her wince even as she starts digging around for it.

She knows it's him but she still manages to croak, "Wes?" before she starts hacking up one of her lungs.

"You sound absolutely dreadful," he says, sounding gratifyingly worried. "Have you been to see a doctor?"

"No… hang on," she yelps and grabs for the tissues so she can she cut off a sneeze before it gets going. "Took some Advil and my Mom's coming home at lunchtime with some OJ."

"I still think you should see someone," he states with a absolute certainty, like she needs a second opinion to be told she's got a cold. "Are you running a fever? How long have you felt like this? You should have said something last night. Have you got a sore throat?"

In the background she can hear a man calling his name with a good-natured impatience and practically hear Wesley's teeth grind.

"Stop fussing, Wes. I'll be OK. Just need to sweat it out," she assures him and then ruins it by chasing the tickle in her throat.

"I have no doubt that you brought this on yourself by running about without a coat on," he intones darkly before hissing in annoyance. "Bloody hell…., yes Doyle, I'll be there in a moment! –" He clears his throat. "This is impossible. I'll call you later, but is there anything I can do –"

And she doesn't even have to think about that one. Not even for a second. "Yeah, you can jump on a plane and be here to make me hot drinks and give me back rubs and bring the TV into the bedroom."

The man's still jawing on in the background but doesn't seem like Wes gives a fuck because he chuckles. "I forgot that being ill makes you even more demanding than you normally are, Faith. I have to go but I do hope you'll feel better by February 17th because I do have rather a lot of elaborate plans that I'd hate to have to postpone because of…"

"Hey, Wes, you said it could be sooner!" she protests indignantly and then pauses for a second because she can feel a cough coming right on cue. "Can't believe that you're tormenting me when I'm all ill and stuff."

"Doyle, I said I'll be there in a minute," he snaps and then like he's flicked a switch, his voice changes so it's warm and caring and just a little bit dark. "My poor little Faith. I'll speak to you tonight, even though we'll have to take a raincheck on the little entertainment I'd devised with the able assistance of Mr Bunny. I trust he's not indisposed too?"

Mr Bunny has been unceremoniously shoved into the back of a drawer for a good few months but she's not telling him that. "Now you come to mention it, Wes, he has been feeling kinda poorly."

"What a pity," he drawls and then she can hear a rustle and the snap of something that sounds like his briefcase. "I really have to go, Faith. Try and get some sleep and I'll speak to you later."

Chapter Three Hundred and Thirty Nine

Tuesday goes by in a haze, and even Wesley calling her that night and being totally sweet with all sorts of anxious questions, dire threats about how she hadn't better be smoking while she's like this, and, just before he hangs up, a promise that if he catches her cold he's adding it to that hypothetical list of her sins he swears he's keeping, doesn't really register. Her head and throat ache, her nose is running and she's not even gonna think about what she looks like with the Rudolph nose and the flattened, sweat-damp hair.

But whether it was his stern admonition that she get better or Darla making up for all the colds she didn't coddle and pouring sticky-sweet honey-lemon drinks and Advil down Faith's throat every chance she gets, she wakes up late on Wednesday morning and feels halfway-human again. She's still liable to sneeze explosively when she least expects it, and her voice is husky even when she's not trying to sound seductive, but her head's cleared a little and she manages to drag herself to the sofa.

She's drifting between sleep and soaps when the doorbell rings. Cursing because curiosity won't let her leave it unanswered, but she's so not ready for visitors, she staggers to the door, pushing her hair behind her ears and tugging at the waistband of the sweatpants she's looking so totally glam in.

She opens the door and is greeted by a smiling delivery man and a clipboard shoved under her nose.

"Sign here,"

She scribbles something that's vaguely like her signature, her eyes locked on the flowers he's holding out.

"Who –"

"There's a card," the delivery man says helpfully, backing away because it's too close to Christmas for him to want to get sneezed on by crazy bed-head lady. "Hope you're feeling better soon."

"Yeah, thanks," she murmurs, shutting the door and making her way back to the couch. She sets the flowers down on the coffee table and stares at them. Not a huge, bigger than she is, monstrosity, not a cheap assortment of the usual flowers... and she's eliminated Xander and Holden right there – though it might be Monty.... but really, as her questing fingers clutch eagerly at the envelope tucked discreetly into the foliage, it's just got to be Wes.

Because it's a severely simple arrangement of blue iris in a rectangular planter, all the same height, slim green stems supporting delicate, deep blue flowers and the combination of order and beauty remind her of his garden.

She reaches out to touch them, brushing her fingers across the cool petals, and then opens the envelope.

Darling Faith.

I trust you've obeyed my final order and got better. I'll call you later to make sure you have.

Love
Wes

She imagines the flower service repeating that dictated message back to him with a doubtful frown and snickers to herself.

When he calls her that evening she's well enough that she's already decided to go into work the next day and she's taken a bath. All the dozing has left her feeling strangely alert so that when he's listened indulgently to her thanks for the flowers and exhausted his enquiries about her state of health, she's not ready to let him go as he suggests.

"No, Wes. So not sleepy. Unless you've, like, got somewhere you've got to be?"

And it wasn't an attempt to pry and he must get that because he just says, "No," and he's all set to start one of their rambling conversations that can cover anything from the proper way to slice bread and butter to make soldiers to dunk in a soft-boiled egg (it's an English thing and she just about died of the cuteness when he told her how he used to knock holes in the eggshell to stop witches using them for boats as a child, and still does it without thinking even now) to the color of the sea lapping against the tropical island they're going to visit some day, although that's more her fantasy than his, as he keeps telling her horror stories about crabs that bite your toes and trying to make her swap it for a cottage in Scotland next to his favorite salmon-river. Before he does more than take a breath, she's asking casually,

"So, what's this Anya like then, Wes?"

"I'm sorry?" He makes a good attempt to sound baffled, not wary, but he's not fooling her.

"When I tried to get hold of you a few days ago, I got this message saying anything urgent had to go through Ms Anya Jenkins and –"

"Yes," he drawls, giving nothing away. "That's very probable."

"Wesley!" she wails. "She's, like, your new me and I want to know what she's like! Stop teasing me!"

"She most certainly is not the new you," he says firmly, "any more than Harmony was." He hesitates and then adds, "Though she's considerably more efficient than Harmony..."

"Oh, she is, is she?" Faith mutters, hating her already. "Bet she knew how to spell your name right away, didn't she?"

"Well, yes, but it's written on the door, so –"

"And I bet she types, like, way faster than me, because she doesn't get the break-her-nails typewriter the way I did."

"I've no complaints about her speed, it's true, but, Faith –"

"She's old, yeah?" she says hopefully. "Kinda sweet and keeps pissing you off telling you about her granddaughters?"

He coughs. "No. She doesn't do that."

She thinks she's gonna scream but she's not sure her lacerated throat could take it.

"How old is she then?"

He gives a long-suffering sigh. "Faith, you're not being very sensible about this. I have to work with someone and she was assigned to me by Rupert." He pauses and then adds reflectively, "I don't think it endeared me to her, as she was hoping she'd report to Rupert after his former secretary left to have a baby, but she's taken me under her wing to a certain extent –"

Her indignant hiss is about all she can manage before she starts coughing. "Wes – you – oh God, that hurts!"

"Stop talking," he orders her, the amusement gone. "Faith, as you're being so insistent, Anya is about 25, attractive, blonde – though that seems to change quite frequently – and totally obsessed with Rupert, although he seems not to be aware of that. Which doesn't mean he isn't, of course. She's very good indeed at what she does, bullies me unmercifully, and I find her reminiscent of my Aunt Mary which means I'm not in the least inclined to –"

"Spank her?"

There's a horrified silence and then he starts to splutter. "Faith – you – as if I would ever –"

"Did with me," she points out unanswerably.

"That was quite different!"

"Why?"

"Because it was!" he snaps and she starts to grin.

"Do you want to though, Wes? When she makes mistakes?"

"She doesn't make any," he says dryly, sounding suddenly calm. "And if she did I might feel tempted to point them out, with a little more emphasis than strictly necessary, to repay her for her frankness in detailing my errors as I got to grips with the accepted way of doing things in this office, but I'd far sooner spank you, and believe me, after this conversation my hand's itching."

She gives a contented sigh because Anya sounds so not his type and Rupert deserves her after pushing Anne at Wes like that. "Yeah? Well, maybe you should get me where you can reach me then, Wes."

"Perhaps I should," he murmurs. "Possibly we could reschedule that final date." Her heart's barely had time to start beating faster when he says thoughtfully, "Valentine's Day is a little trite perhaps, but –"

"Three days earlier?" she yelps. "That's it?"

"I haven't actually said I will," he reminds her. "And now, as you seem to be recovered, I think we should address your unseemly curiosity –"

"Think I'm feeling kinda sleepy now, Wes," she says hurriedly, because he doesn't sound as if he's got anything pleasant in mind.

"Really. How fortuitous."

"Yeah. Really is." she says hopefully.

"Very well, I'll allow you to get some much-needed rest, but I think you should set your alarm half an hour earlier," he purrs. "As you're doubtless a little rusty after this time away from your desk –"

"Only been two days!"

"-it might be beneficial to prepare for your return."

He won't say another word, apart from telling her to check her email in the morning, and when she does, already preparing to pout, she finds a quotation:

Sleep, that knits up the ravell'd sleave of care.

and the bland instruction that she's to type it out a hundred times, and that cut and paste really isn't an option.

Chapter Three Hundred and Forty

So, of course she totally cuts and pastes the quotation. Because she loves obeying his orders, but she loves disobeying them and getting what's coming to her even more.

And the list that he keeps banging on about is taking on practically mythological proportions and there's a hell of a lot of bad girl stuff she can get up to from here 'til fucking February 14th. Even if she behaved all demure and shit like a debutante at her first cotillion, he'd still think of ways to make her ass sting every day for a month. Good times, man, good times…

After listening patiently to Monty's frantic enquiries about her health, which are almost as comprehensive as Wes', she gets a chance to send Wes an email with her lines attached and, oh dear, would you just look at that lonely, little 'v' just sitting forlornly in the middle of the page so he'll know that she was "ctrl c"ing and "ctrl v"ing all over the place? Like, there would be no point in being disobedient if he didn't know about it.

She's got a mountain of work to climb after her sick days but her thoughts are someplace else. Mostly on refreshing her gmail page every five seconds and trying to decide on what outfit she's going to wear when she gets her marching orders to come to Gotham in February.

Unless he tells her to wear one of her black work ensembles, she's narrowed it down to either her new red dress or maybe this green fitted top she's seen at her favorite vintage store which has, like, a gazillion hooks down the back which Wes'd have a world of fun undoing. But it's gonna be cold in New York in February. Hell, there might even be snow.

She's halfway through her Manhattan shopping list when he finally replies and she's sighing happily as she reads:



Oh, my willful, disobedient, conniving little Faith

I can only assume that your willingness to cut and paste and your lack of good judgment in allowing me to discover this contravention of my orders means that you'll take your punishment with a good grace.

And while we're on the subject, I'd like to know exactly how many cigarettes you smoked while you were ill, even though I expressly forbade it.

I must warn you that the list of your misdemeanors is currently running at a scarcely believable three pages.

Wes x



She saunters out to lunch with a shit-eating grin on her face and can barely force down her miso soup before she's skipping back to work so she can compose a sassy email that will continue to bring the wrath of Wes down on her still-a-little-poorly head.



Dear Wes

Guess I'm busted! But in my defence, I have been ill. Like, really ill. It could have been, like bronchial pneumonia or something and all that typing was making my eyes hurt.

Oh yeah, and I smoked five cigarettes on Tuesday and seven on Wednesday but they totally got rid of the tickle in my throat. They were medicinal cigarettes.

So should I look into getting my poor, defenceless, pert and lily white ass Scotchguarded before I come to New York for Christmas I mean, in January, OK, February. But, like, I may have totally gone off the rails by then. You're gonna have to take a month off work, Wes, to get me back on the straight and narrow.

Lots of love

Faith x

BTW: This list? It's open to negotiation, right?




Dear Faith

This list? It's open to negotiation, right?

Do you even have to ask? Absolutely, unequivocally not. But thank you for your candid correspondence. I've now added a further five misdemeanors to your running total, though you'll be gratified (or your arse will) to hear that I decided upon reflection to count the cigarettes collectively rather than singularly.

I fear that I'm becoming rather too kind hearted in my old age.

Much love

Wes x


She's practically howling when she reads that. Half in delight and half in outrage and she's already hitting reply:



Yo Wes

Stop being so mean to me when I'm ill! I got so, like, totally overwrought by your email that I'm going to have to go and smoke a cigarette. Maybe two.

Wish you were here right now to call me into your office, bend me over your desk, lift up my skirt, pull down my panties and… shit! Sorry, Wes, gotta go…

F x

And she doesn't think Wes has much on that afternoon because even when she's actually trying to do some work for Monty, which mostly involves writing out Happy Holidays cards in a more readable version of her usual scrawl, he's bouncing emails back to her promising all sorts of dire and delicious things. And she hasn't even got the heart to call him on totally frittering away office time because she has this little picture in her head of the hard-faced, not naturally blonde Anya who she likes to think has the beginnings of a hunchback and maybe a little moustache which she has to get waxed, glaring at Wes from the outer office and getting all huffy when Wes shouts at her for interrupting his very important business, which is sending her flirty, dirty emails because she's his favorite ever secretary. Accept no fucking substitutes, Ms Anya Jenkins.

But by the time she gets home, she's pretty much back to feeling crappy and after Darla's version of a recuperative meal which involves Tater Tots and Rice A Roni, she's tucked up in bed with the latest issue of Vogue so she can find out what the rich girls in New York are wearing this season and then scope out H&M to see if she can afford the budget version.

She's just Post-it-ing a pair of kickass boots when her phone goes and she's grinning as Wes' name flashes up on her display.

"Monty is totally going to call you tomorrow about distracting me when I'm meant to be working," she says by way of greeting and she's expecting him to see her snark and raise it by twenty but instead he gives this tiny, little sigh that's so soft and gentle that it starts a correspondent flutter in her heart.

"Faith," he breathes and right on cue, even under three layers her nipples are hardening. "I came home to find your Christmas present."

She sits bolt upright, Vogue falling to the floor with a thud. "So… you opened it, right? Did you like them?"

"No," he says baldly but before she can bawl her eyes out and honest to goodness, she can already feel the tears prickling, he corrects her. "I loved them… God, Faith, have you any idea…?"

Those prickly tears of upset have transformed into something else entirely and are already spilling out of her eyes because that longing -- no, that fucking yearning in his voice is enough to make her hang up the phone right then, pack a suitcase, and take the goddamn Greyhound to New York -- even if that meant it would take two whole days to reach him, squashed in a stuffy coach with the Clampetts and their squalling babies and a roving pack of junkies on the road to nowhere.

“I'm glad...” she croaks, not very successfully swallowing the lump in her throat and following that up with a great big sniffle as she gropes blindly for the kleenex box on the nightstand. “You had me scared for a minute there, Wes. Thought you were pissed or...”

“How could I be, my darling girl?” His voice is so low and gravelly that it makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end and every possible inch of her aches for his touch. “This is ... this is truly the loveliest gift I've ever received.”

She doesn't know what to say to that, her cheeks flushing as she dabs the tears away. “It was nothing, really...” she finally replies, trailing off as she tilts her head back from the phone to blow her nose in the most dainty way possible.

“I shouldn't think you'd want me adding that lie to your list of transgressions,” he laughs softly. “This most certainly isn't nothing, Faith. Though I must admit, there's plenty here to ensure that perhaps I will need to take you up on that previous suggestion of taking a whole month off work to mete out the punishments due you at this point.”

“Oh yeah?” she purrs, stretching out in the bed and settling back into a comfortable position propped up on a pillow. And she's really pleased to hear a breath catch in his throat 'cause she knows that means he's beyond turned on, that he's hard, and that he's thinking up ways right now somewhere in that big brain of his to get her off with the magic combination of just his voice and her fingers. Which, in all honesty, wouldn't be too hard, really, after being deprived of the regular schedule of naughty phone calls since she's been laid up for a few days. “Anything particular you have in mind?”

“I'd hate to overexcite you; you seem to have a touch of that cold still.” The words are brisk, but she can hear the sparkle of teasing behind them.

“Oh, no. I'm good as new, practically. Right as rain, even.”

“No doubt you'd say as much no matter what your true condition.” There's a rustle of paper against fabric on the other end of the line, followed by what she can only describe as a plaintive sigh as he murmurs, “Oh, your hair, Faith. Your beautiful hair...”

“Hey, Wes, it's still beautiful. And a hell of lot more easy to take care of now!”

“Of course, of course it is.” Another slither of paper fills the dead air, and she tries to imagine his fingertips hovering over her real flesh, and not just her photographic image. “You just look so... You look like a different person, Faith.”

“I'm not, you know. I'm still me...” She feels a little ridiculous saying that, but it's like she needs to, just to let him know for sure.

“That difference, it's not necessarily a bad thing.” It's almost as if he hadn't heard her at all. “You probably haven't noticed the little changes – they're in your eyes, in your poise -- and they're even more evident to me than the major ones. But your smile...” There's total silence as his words trail off this time. “It's just the same. I've missed it.”

And his voice is so full of melancholy that it's nearly breaking her heart all over again. “You read the letter too, right? You haven't just been drooling over the pictures?”
she asks lightly, trying to brighten the mood a little. “There's a story that goes with...”

“Yes, of course I read it,” he says, all in a rush. "Quite a pretty little scenario. And I take it that you posed deliberately so I can't make out exactly what's on your back?”

“You would be right in thinking that, sir,” she says, with mock-seriousness. “You'll have to wait to read it all in person.”

“And then redden your arse immediately after. Because no matter how pretty you look in these photos, Faith, you really have pushed the limits of disobedience, haven't you?”

She's not ready for that inflection, 'cause it seems like weeks, months maybe since she's heard it properly. There's not really a question mark at the end of that sentence, and it leaves her no room to argue or put up a protest. And her nipples, hard since the beginning of the conversation, start to ache and she can't help but reach down under the waistband of her pajama pants and give her clit a slight nudge. Of course, she isn't surprised to discover that she's beyond wet, and God, she'd give anything to have him there right now, waiting to lap at those juices, to slide his tongue across her clit, to make her come with his fingers deep inside her cunt and her ass...

“Where is your hand, Faith?”

She snatches it back with a disgruntled little noise. “What are you, Wes, a clairvoyant?”

“You forget the phone amplifies every sound, every breath. I'd be severely remiss if I didn't immediately recognize the little noises you make when your mind and your hands start to wander.”

“Damn, nothing gets past you, does it?”

“Generally, no,” he says with a laugh before switching back to his husky tone. “Where's your vibrator, Faith?”

She should have known he'd take this route, just to drive her even further up the wall. “In the dresser.”

“Put the phone down and retrieve it. Then remove all your nightclothes and get back in bed.”

And really, again, there's no room for argument or comment so she just obeys, and she's even a little wobbly in the knees when she stands up, the kind of feeling that had just become a distant memory. But she's finished the tasks in no time and splays out on top of the covers. “All done, Wes.”

“Very good,” he drawls, and dammit, if she wasn't turned on before, she's positively incandescent with need now. “Now then, turn it on the lowest setting.” She gives the base a little twist and Mr. Bunny perks right up with a gentle hum and Wes gives a little noise of approval. “And place the tip just barely inside your cunt, not all the way, now...”

It's all she can do not to come just from the gentle pulsating motion pressed lightly inside and she doesn't bother to muffle the tangled moan of frustration and pleasure as her fingers wander up to slip up and over her clit.

“Gently now, Faith...” he says, his breathing as irregular and ragged as her own.

Before she can stop herself, she's speaking. “Are you jerking yourself off, Wes? Don't you wish that's my mouth on your cock and not just your hand?”

“Yes, I do. And I'm wishing I was running my hands over your beautiful tattoo and the hot, red flesh of your ass while you do it. Because make no mistake, Faith. I will make sure reparations are made for each of my orders you've so willfully flaunted.”

Those few words are nearly enough to send her just over the edge, but he stops her. “Switch it off now.” And over her muffled curses and moans of displeasure, he continues, “And slide it all the way in and back out again, ten times. Slowly. I know you must be wet enough for this not to be an issue...” he rasps in her ear. “And count off, please, Faith.”

The first three strokes are much too quick. “Slower...” he admonishes after each – until after the fourth he mutters thickly, “That's good. Very good. Continue just like that...” And soon the numbers are connected by a string of incoherent murmurings as her hips buck against her hand and her thumb drags against her clit with each thrust.

And on the tenth one he doesn't even need to tell her to come; he just says her name and she's seeing stars.

 
Chapter Three Hundred and Forty One

And damn if that orgasm isn’t as beneficial as a daily dose of Emergen-C, ‘cause when the alarm goes off the next morning Faith practically bounds out of bed. Which is completely fucking unheard of. She even forgoes her morning cigarette in favor of some orange juice before she runs out the door, leaving Darla’s chipper “Have a good day, honey” in the dust.

It’s not just that the achy-head-stuffy-fever is gone, or that she’s feeling really well-rested for the first time in days (another side benefit of a really good orgasm). No, she’s propelled by the merest promise that she’s going to see him soon. By the memory of the way he said, “You look like a different person, Faith,” his voice lingering on her name with a quiet, slightly impenetrable air of reverence that will always and forever sound new to her. She’s smiling this secret smile to herself and feeling so fucking cherished again. That’s more than enough to keep her floating several inches above the sidewalk as she makes her way to the local purveyor of overpriced caffeinated sludge. She’s so goddamn blissed-out she barely notices when they call out her caramel double latte and really doesn’t notice the light pressure of a hand on her shoulder. Momentarily startled, she almost spills her $3.50’s worth of precious cargo.

“Faith.” She spins around to come face-to-face with an impeccable, power-suited Lilah. Did that woman go anywhere without her armor? Probably not.

“Jesus, Lilah, I didn’t expect to–” Not a good tack, Faithy. Pause. Start again. “I mean, um, hi.” She forces out a weak smile before realizing that she actually has Lilah to thank for her current state of sickening happiness. Christ, she thinks, if the world got any weirder she was gonna have to start believing in miracles.

Lilah, ever an expert in the fine art of mirroring, smiles one of her wolfish, slightly predatory grins before gesturing towards a nearby empty table. “Care to join me?”

That’s a loaded question if there ever was one, but there’s only one polite answer and Faith sits down. “Just for a minute. Monty’s expecting me at nine.”

She waves her hand dismissively. “Don’t worry about Monty. I told him you might be a few minutes late.”

Faith narrows her eyes, immediately distrustful. She definitely doesn’t want to think about Lilah’s possible ulterior motives for contriving this little tête-à-tête. She resolves to let Lilah talk and gauge things from there.

Lilah leans back, deceptively casual, sipping slowly at her cooling coffee. Not a word yet, but she’s watching Faith intently. Faith sips at her coffee, knowing damn well that Lilah’s all coiled up and ready to strike –she’s just waiting for the right moment. Yeah, well, she knows from waiting, and if Lilah thinks she can get at her now she’s got another fucking think coming.

“Monty tells me very good things, Faith.” And she manages not to sound condescending when she says it.

“We’re working very well together, Lilah. Thank you.” Which translates neatly as: not gonna play that game, Lilah, but thanks anyway.

“He also tells me that a certain mutual acquaintance of ours has been phoning the office during business hours. Not to talk shop, though. Seems he wants to talk to you.” Lilah even manages to school her features into some vague semblance of surprise. “Things going well there too, Faith?”

Mum’s the fucking word, Faith thinks, offering only a flicker of a smile in return for Lilah’s feint.

“Thought so.” Lilah sets her coffee down and leans in towards Faith, as though offering something in strictest confidence. “I misjudged you, Faith. I thought you were an eager little gold-digging trollop who’d somehow gotten Wes by the balls. Didn’t think there was anything lasting there.”

“Look, Lilah, you don’t have to–”

Lilah puts her hand on her arm, her grip firm. “I’m giving you what passes for my blessing, Faith, don’t question it.”

Her first instinct is to bristle; there’s a flash of anger but she quells it. And, considering what happened the last time, she’s not especially comfortable with Lilah touching her. Faith snatches her arm away. “Thank you,” she says, her voice quiet but resolute.

“Don’t mention it. I just wanted you to know that I’m through trying to make Wes’ –and by extension, your– life miserable. It never would have worked between us, anyway. We’re too goddamn similar. I knew it the second I put the ring on my finger. Too bad we both stuck around long enough to fuck one another up royally. But hey, the five unbillable hours of our honeymoon were pretty fucking memorable.” Lilah’s frosty reserve drops away for the briefest of moments and her features soften. Faith can see the faint echo of how pretty she was before circumstance hardened her. She almost feels sorry for her –almost. But not really because Lilah really fucking dished it out before having her little change of heart. Lilah sighs, still wandering down memory lane: “When Wes is devoted, he’s deliciously single-minded about it.”

Despite herself, Faith laughs. “That’s for fucking sure.”

She snaps back to herself at that. “I bet he loves it when you swear. He may have changed, but I bet he’s still got that Madonna/whore thing going. That’s in his DNA.”

“And I bet that drove you crazy.”

“Yeah, it did. But you know, we just weren’t suited to one another. Both partners can’t be in the driver's seat, wrestling for control. Because there’s going to be a spectacular flame-out at the first curve in the road.”

For a woman with such a finely tuned mind, Lilah could be remarkably slow on the uptake. But then, Wes took his time figuring this shit out too. It was becoming clear to Faith that self-reflection didn’t come easily to either one of them. Once again, Faith felt like the mature one. It was a decidedly odd, but satisfying, feeling.

Lilah continues, words tumbling out quickly, without their usual sharpness. “He really loves you, you know. I didn’t think the bastard was capable of it, but then, he does keep finding new ways to surprise me.” Lilah turns sharply away from her, blinking furiously and brushing her hair back with this little nervous gesture. Once she regains her composure, her voice resumes its cool and crisp timbre. “You should go. Get the fuck out of here. You don’t belong.”

“And you do?” She’s surprised to hear indignation in her voice.

Lilah turns towards her again, folding her arms protectively over her chest and sighing. “Maybe not, but I’ve been consigned. My own little purgatory. I get to suffer for my sins in this little backwater. You –well, you’ve paid enough.”

Faith shifts uncomfortably, not really sure what to say, and puts down her empty coffee cup. “I really should go.” Monty may not be counting the minutes, but she is.

Lilah smiles. “You really should. Take care of yourself.”

“Thanks.” She turns to go, but she hears her name again. Lilah’s getting up, tossing her coffee cup with practiced ease into the bin. “Take care of him, too.”

“But I’m not with him yet.”

“You will be.”

“You really think so?”

Lilah just nods assent. Faith rushes out the door, not bothering to look back.

Chapter Three Hundred and Forty Two

Of course Wes is on the phone within ten minutes of her getting in to the office and she tells him about Lilah. Not to piss him off because they're several planets beyond that now. But more, like, well it might give him some peace. Help him to draw a line through Lilah's name and mark her file closed.

She gives him a headlines only highlight of their coffee klatch and it's hard to hear his sighs and intakes of breath over the hum of her computer and Monty babbling away on the phone in the next room, but she definitely hears his soft laugh before he says lightly, "I must remember to send her a thank you card. You'll have to remind me."

"Thank you for what?" she asks snippily. "Those five unbillable hours of your honeymoon?"

"Oh, come now, Faith," he purrs out a warning. "What's in the past is past and surely you can't be jealous of the fact that I'd like to thank my incomparable ex wife for reuniting us, though I'm not entirely sure that those were her intentions when she gave you my contact details."

"Well, I guess," she says doubtfully and he laughs again.

"Really, Faith, I don't know whether to be flattered by these little displays of jealousy or to add them to the quite gargantuan list of your misdemeanours."

And then he rings off just as she's working up to a really crushing retort.

Seems like nothing can dent his good mood, not even the epic hissy fit she has the next day on the phone when he tells her that he's calling a moratorium on their late night calls with benefits.

"You've got be fucking kidding me!" she snarls down the line at him and the smug little chuckle he gives her in reply has her gnashing her teeth so hard that she swears she just took the top layer off her back molars.

"I have something very special planned for when we speak on Christmas Day," he informs her, and she's surprised he can't hear the way her heart plummets like a shopping cart sinking to the bottom of a lake, because yeah, she'd kinda been hoping that this whole February stuff was just smoke and mirrors bullshit and she was gonna be in his Christmas stocking on December 25th. Or under his tree. OK, she was a little shaky on the details but there'd been this whole slowly unwrapping her scenario that had got her through every single boring task Monty had wanted her to do this week. And now, not so much.

"Fine," she says, just a little less snappier than she actually feels because she's has, like, poise now. "Not exactly sure that I'm gonna be taking any calls that day but I'll get back to you."

"Oh, Faith," he coos sorrowfully. "Good things come to she who waits. Surely you haven't forgotten that little lesson."

And even though she's in a mood with him because, hell, she's allowed even though he never made any promises about Christmas, she tries to snap out of it. It helps that he's so fucking sweet through the next few days of phone calls and emails that she manages to haul herself back from the brink of the mother of all snits, which even had Darla threatening to sell her presents on eBay if she didn't snap out of it.

The email she finds waiting for her on the Tuesday before Christmas is a case in point.



My darling girl

This may be my last email to you as I believe that the redoubtable Ms Jenkins may poison my Earl Grey before the end of the day. I thought that a copy of How To Win Friends And Influence People was a highly appropriate gift for her but, alas, she had other ideas.

You'll wear something nice to my funeral, I trust?

Thankfully I have to spend most of the day in court so I may yet escape her considerable wrath. I'll speak to you tonight.

Much love

Wes x


And she's so planning to take him to task on boss/secretary etiquette, especially when she's pretty damn certain that he'd never buy Anya inappropriate clothes like he did her. But when she gets home there's a package waiting on her bed. She checks it carefully to make sure there's no small print about waiting until Christmas before she opens it and then she's tearing into it and unearthing a small box that looks all kinds of familiar.

The rubies sparkle dully as she sees them through tear-blurred eyes and she furiously scrubs at her face with the back of her hand so she can check to see that the watch hasn't suffered any scratches on its journey from pawn shop to New York and back to her wrist.

It feels cool against her skin, like his fingers, and even as she searches the debris of paper for the small card, she's aware of the weight of it, how the platinum shines as it catches the light.

The card is brief and to the point.

My dearest, darling Faith

I hope that this gift doesn't upset you or remind you of unhappier times, which was never my intention. I simply wanted to return this to you, its rightful owner, and I hope you'll forgive me my sentimentality in wanting quite desperately for you to always wear the first present I ever bought you.

Needless to say, if you even entertain the idea of selling it again my displeasure will know no bounds.

Love always

Wes x

It's not really that surprising that she spends most of that night's phone call vacillating between ardent declarations of how much she loves him and floods of tears at why they're not together. A state of being which started the day she went with Liam to the pawn shop.

"Faith, please," he begs her after 20 minutes of her at her most fucking mercurial. "You're starting to verge on hysterical."

"Just love you so much," she sobs. "And I love the watch and I never told you how sorry I was about having to sell it… didn't want to but…"

"I know," he says tenderly. But after five more minutes he's stern and resolute. "I want you to stop crying now, Faith. It's getting extremely tiresome, not to mention upsetting. Put down the phone and go and wash your face," he adds in his wrath of God voice and by the time she's back on the line with just a few post-weeping hiccups, he's back to being maddeningly adorable.

The next day she spends most of her time out with Monty delivering Mrs Monty's home-made muffin baskets to their best clients even though Monty's at pains to point out that being Jewish, they don't really celebrate Christmas but it's a good excuse to shut the office until the New Year.

She's still laughing at the bemused expression on Monty's face when she tried to explain to him the concept of Chrismukkah as she unlocks the front door to find Darla buried under a mound of wrapping paper.

"Faithy!" she squeaks indignantly, trying to hide a bigass bag from Bed, Bath And Beyond without too much success. "You're not meant to be home this early."

"Monty let me have the rest of the afternoon off," Faith says with a shrug and peers at the pile of bags and boxes that Darla's draped over like a human shield. "You need a hand with any of that?"

She can't help but grin at Darla's scowl. "You go to your room right this second, young lady and you don’t come out until I tell you to, 'cause it's not too late to take these back."
"You sure you don't need my help, Mom? I've got mad sticky tape skillz."

Darla flushes and Faith can see she's trying to bite back some snark but instead she reins it in and smiles smugly. "You don't go to your room, then you can't open the present that's sitting on your bed. The one with the New York postmark."

She's out of the door before Darla's even finished her last sentence and is decimating the brown paper before she's even closed her mouth. This time it's a square flat box and she's thinking necklace to go with the watch, even though it's a little on the large size. Turns out she was almost right because when she lifts the lid, there's a black leather strap nestled on pink velvet, silver buckle gleaming dully and as she lifts it up and holds it to her face so she can inhale the rich, dusty smell, the small, metal tab digs into her cheek. Etched onto it are the initials, WWP.

This time, the card reads:

My beloved Olympia

I know this will fit perfectly as you'll find out because I expect you to wear it for an hour every evening. I'd like you to put it on at 8.55pm just before I call you.

Yours Wes x

PS: I toyed with the notion of having a pink one made but I couldn't resist the quite delightful vision of the black leather against your beautiful neck.

She attaches the collar to her neck just as he instructed and she's wet before she's even finished buckling it into place. When he phones five minutes later, she doesn't even say hello before she's begging him to let her bring herself off while he listens.

"Faith, correct me if I'm wrong but I do believe I was quite adamant that there was to be a cessation of these types of calls until Christmas," he barks, the bite to his voice making the words crisper than usual.

"But I'm so wet," she begs plaintively. "And it hurts, Wes."

"Good," he intones with satisfaction. But then he relents. Kind of. And he tells her to strip off her clothes and spends the next hour telling her to describe how the collar feels around her neck, what she'd like him to do to her while she's wearing it and just when she's sure that his next command will be to plunge her fingers into her sopping cunt, he rings off with a chuckle that's an eighth of an inch away from pure, fucking evil. And it serves him right that she comes, like, three times after he hangs up, shaking her head constantly so she can feel the leather shifting against her skin and reliving her collar fantasy in glorious technicolour and imagining how much better it's going to be when they're together and she's over his lap with his hand warming her ass as she bites the collar between her teeth.

She's not really surprised when she gets to work the next day to see his email. In fact, she'd been counting on it.


Dear Faith

How many times did you come last night? Please inform me at your earliest convenience so I can update my records.

Yours faithfully

Wesley Wyndam-Pryce Esq.





Her earliest convenience is a good couple of hours later. And it's because Monty's already halfway out of the door with a list of instructions on what she needs to do before she closes up the office until January 4th really it is, but mostly it's because it doesn't do him any harm to wait. See how he likes it.



Dear Mr Wyndam-Pryce Esq.

I came three times. And each time I thought about you.

Yours faithfully

F x



She's waiting for an outraged email in reply when the bell above the front door jangles and she looks up to see a courier (thank God, it's not Holden) come in clutching an envelope. As she signs for it, she's wondering just what sad sack loser has no life that they have to send important legal documents the day before Christmas Eve and she's half tempted to just shove it into Monty's in tray and not worry about it until she catches sight of her name and the senders' address and then she can't hustle the courier out of the door fast enough.

"Yeah, yeah, Happy Holidays, whatever," she mutters under her breath as she snags a nail yanking it open.

It's a piece of really heavy card and someone using a Selectric, if she's not very much mistaken, has typed a poem on it.


Love Sonnet LXVI by Pablo Neruda

I do not love you - except because I love you;
I go from loving to not loving you,
from waiting to not waiting for you
my heart moves from the cold into

the fire. I love you only because it's you
I love; I hate you no end, and hating you
bend to you, and the measure of my changing love for you
is that I do not see you but love you

blindly. Maybe the January light will consume
my heart with its cruel
ray, stealing my key to true

calm. In this part of the story I am the one who
dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you,
because I love you, Love, in fire and in blood.






Her fingers trace every word like she's touching his mouth as he sounds them out. And she's stuck on the third line for the longest time. "From waiting to not waiting for you," she whispers.

She doesn't know how long she sits there. It's long enough to have memorized the poem and she's just about to pick up the phone and tell him she's coming and he can just fucking well deal with it when the bell jangles again and the courier's striding in with another manila envelope.

"Give it to me," she demands imperiously, already holding out her hand and although he looks like a fully paid up member of the local biker gang, she's sounding deranged and desperate enough that he shoves it at her and doesn't let the door hit him in the ass on his way out.

There's no card this time, just four sheets of linen bond that she hasn't seen since May with a post-it note attached, which reads in Wes' brown inked writing, "Of course, this will have to be completely renegotiated. As you can see, I've already started making notes."

She stares at the contract in confusion. She'd lost her copy in the move and, yeah, it's one of the things that she was going to reinstate when they got back together but it looks like he's beaten her to it. He's already scribbled in the margins all sorts of exciting notes like, "The party of the second part is to wear her collar for one hour every day and all weekend. Subject to the whims of the party of the first part." And, "the party of the second part is to say her safe word at least once a week." Oh, and her particular favorite, "in the unlikely event that the party of the second part is obedient she's still to receive at least one disciplinary session every week."

There's all kinds of things she wants added and taken away too. It will be way after February before they've negotiated a compromise agreement, she thinks happily as she reaches for the phone and dials his direct line.

It's picked up on the third ring.

"Wes? You're unfuckingbelievable!" she hisses only to hear a frosty cough that doesn't sound the least bit like Wes.

"This is the office of Mr Wyndam-Pryce. How may I direct your call?" says this officious little bitch who can only answer to the name of Ms Anya Jenkins.

"I'd like to speak to Wesley," Faith spits out and then adds an unwilling "please" on as an afterthought.

"I'm afraid Mr Wyndam-Pryce has asked me to hold all his calls until later this afternoon," comes back the tetchy reply. "Would you like to leave a message?" And I definitely won't pass it on.

"Is he in the office? 'Cause if he is, he'll definitely speak to me. Can you tell him that it's Faith?"

There's an impatient little sigh. "Miss, would you like to leave a message?"

"No, I'd like to talk to Wes, like, now!" she growls back. "Tell him it's totally important."

"Are you likely to die in the next hour?"

"N-no…"

"And have you got a man holding a gun to your head and threatening to kill you unless Mr Wyndam-Pryce listens to his demands?"

"Well, no but…"

"Or do you need to take an injunction out this afternoon preventing your abusive, ex-husband from gaining access to your children over the holiday period?"

"Listen to me, you…"

"Well in that case, missy, you'll have to wait for Mr Wyndam-Pryce to ring you when he has an appropriate slot. Thank you for calling and happy holidays!"

Faith's left listening to the ring tone as she holds the phone away from her ear and stares at it in disbelief.

Then she's typing faster than she's ever done in her life.



Hey Wes

Your secretary is a bitch on wheels! She just fucking cut me off!

CALL ME NOW!

Faith x

PS: Loved the poem. Loved it so fucking much.

PPS: Got the contract too. I think we'll have to meet in person to discuss the metric assload of renegotiating that needs to happen because you seem to be on crack.

PPS: I love you.




Of course, the bastard doesn't reply. And she can just see him in his fancy corner office reading her email and smirking to himself as he turns off his cell because he's not answering that either.

By the time the courier turns up again in an hour, on the hour, because she's seeing a pattern emerging here, she's watered all the plants, put Monty's email on Out Of Office Assistant, set up his voicemail and is pacing the carpet in front of her desk.

"You got another envelope?" she yelps at him.

"Y-yeah. Just got to have your signature, miss," he answers nervously as she advances towards him."

She snatches it from him and glares at him. "You got anything else that you're planning to deliver in say, oooh, like an hour from now?"

But he's already halfway out of the door, muttering something about company policy and she thinks she might have to get a paper bag to place over her mouth before she starts hyperventilating instead of opening the third manila envelope.

And if she wasn't on the verge of losing all her supply of oxygen before, she is now. Her hearts pounding, her blood is racing through her veins at twice the speed it should and her hands are trembling so hard that the papers flutter in her grip.



The List Of Faith's Misdemeanors – May to December 2004

1. 14th May 2004

Burnt $17,000 (approximation) of legal reference books belonging to Wesley Wyndam-Pryce and assorted documents.



There's pages upon pages of it. A diary of the time they've been apart measured out in her words ("Screamed at me in an extremely querulous fashion for not allowing you to come") and her deeds ("cut your hair despite my clear and precise instructions that this was absolutely forbidden.") She's not even surprised by the last sheet of paper, which has a note to her scrawled on it.



Dear Faith

I'd appreciate it if you could type this up as a table, leaving a box so I can fill in each penalty. I was going to add them to the list but I believe an element of surprise is vital when addressing your extreme disobedience. Rest assured that where possible, the punishment will fit the crime.

Please add your latest insurrections though they will be subject to my corrections.

I expect you to email me the completed document as an attachment before 5pm today.

Thanking you in advance

Wes x



As she pulls up a blank document on her screen, she tries to ignore the clamoring voices in her head that insist that this isn't just Wes' whacked out notion of what stocking filler should be. That he's got another motive besides making her so fucking turned on that all she can feel is the insistent pulse between her legs. That there's no point in having a contract and a list and a fucking poem that's etched on her heart, unless he's going to make good on all of it way before February.

She's halfway through the list when the courier comes back with a package this time. Just to be unpredictable. And she's feeling pretty capricious herself because this time she gives him a sweet smile and a cookie from the tin that Monty left.

And it's just as well he took a big handful and left her nothing but crumbs because Wes' next surprise in his plan to drive her fucking insane is a box of Orange KitKats. Overnighted all the way from the mother country, his note informs her, just "to keep your energy levels up while you beaver away industriously."

Five Orange KitKats later which don't taste so yummy when they're competing with the metallic tang of expectation in her mouth and she's typing the last box on her tabulated, absolutely fucking perfect document.


23rd December

12.31 pm: Sent Wes a rude email about what a fucking bitch his new, way inferior secretary is and implied that he was on drugs.



She spellchecks the document with a beatific smile on her face and is just about to send it off when the courier's back. And this time she's going to ask him out for drinks, she really is.

"Miss, if you promise not to shout at me again, I can tell you this is the last item to be delivered to your office today," he blurts out before she can even open her mouth.

"I so was not going to shout at you," she protests, having to force herself not to rip the envelope out of his shaking hands. "I'm just working on this really big… thing and… well, yeah, so hand it over, dude."

And then he's happy holidaying her and man, she just wishes he'd get his butt out of there so she can discover for herself the last piece of Wes', like, completely Machiavellian masterplan.

There's another list of instructions, one of the Polaroids he took of her wearing nothing but a snarl and what looks like a bird's nest on her hair, which he's written "I love you" on and then there's one other thing. The thing that makes her rest her head on her desk and burst into tears when her brain finally kicks into gear and she realises what it is.

They're not like the other tears she's shed since May. She guesses that they're happy tears but they still hurt, they still make her ribs ache and her eyes sore but once she's done with them and she's sending the email, five minutes late and with a hastily typed last box added to the document, she feels clean and new as she picks up her bag and jacket, turns off the lights and locks the door behind her.

Part Fourteen

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