Secretary: Part Nine

Chapter Two Hundred and Forty Four

Faith’s reasonably sure that Wes is none too happy with Darla’s tone but she can see him biting back a comment, choosing discretion over valor. He blanches for the briefest second, but recovers quickly. “Of course,” he says, nodding solemnly to Faith before leaving the room. She’s relieved. She’s got enough to deal with without a pissing contest between a distraught Darla and a protective Wes.

She grabs Darla by the shoulders and forces her to look in the eyes. Darla’s are red-rimmed from crying, her face puffy and tear-streaked, but her gaze is steady and Faith doesn’t smell the familiar sharp, medicinal tang of cheap booze. That’s a good sign —Darla hasn’t gone on one of her patented therapeutic benders yet.

Faith slips her arms protectively around Darla, which again feels weird and awkward and shouldn’t this be the other way around? In response, Darla’s hand clutches at Faith’s, desperately, and Faith can’t help but squeeze back with all the feeling she has. “Mom, please tell me what happened. I need to know… Start from the beginning.”

Darla just heaves this heavy sigh that has modulations of relief and sadness and bottled-up rage and everything in between. There’s an entire lifetime of grief let loose with that one sigh. Like, she’s spent all these years waiting for the other shoe to drop and now she doesn’t know how to fucking deal. For a second Faith can feel old anger surfacing, ‘cause, fuck, the two of them spent most of their marriage (and plenty of time thereafter) in this tiresome drunken holding-pattern of co-dependence. Good times, yo, good fucking times. No wonder juvie was practically a walk in the park, in comparison.

‘Cause, yeah, her whole life’s Liam’s been this toxic force but for better or for worse, he’s shaped it. Made her strong and adaptable because she was used to his bluster and bullshit and learned far too young to insulate herself from his abuse. Not to mention his charm –that was the ace up his sleeve, his fall-back when things got a little out of control. His charm was the most toxic thing of all. It sure as hell kept Darla coming back for more after all the shit that went down between them.

But she puts that aside, because Darla’s been trying so hard to make amends. Now that she’s made good on her promises for once, Faith wants to be there for her.

She tries again, softening her tone of voice. “Please, Mom, I want to hear it from you and not…” The paramedics? The police? She’s not sure at this point.

Faith always thought Liam had nine lives, maybe more. Thought the bastard would die in his sleep or something totally peaceful and totally lacking in poetic justice.

So, yeah, “nearly” isn’t close enough. But that’s an awful thought and she tries to focus on the explanation that Darla’s on the edge of sputtering out, slowly but surely.

Darla just stares straight ahead and starts mumbling in this uninflected monotone, like she doesn’t have the energy for anything else. “I knew he was gonna do this eventually, he’s so reckless. Always driving like a fucking maniac, the fucking bastard. I kept telling him, but he never fucking listened to me.”

Yeah, there’s plenty of anger to go around, Faith thinks ruefully.

“He’d had a little bit to drink, I think— a little bit.” She laughs this totally hysterical laugh that sounds more like a strangled sob and maybe it’s both. Faith knows the feeling. She just pulls Darla close and tells her it’s going to be all right.

Darla starts sobbing again. “I’m so sorry, honey, I never meant— I wanted us to be a real family, y’know? I know you don’t believe me, but…”

Faith unwinds herself from her mother’s grasp and looks at her for what seems like the first time. She feels like the grown-up one and it’s weirdly liberating. “As long as you’re not chasing your words down with cheap vodka, I believe you.”

Darla smiles faintly and rests her head exhaustedly on her daughter’s shoulder. “Why do we always have these talks when something awful’s happened? Why can’t we just —talk, y’know?”

And Faith’s smoothing Darla’s hair back and just whispers, “I know, I know,” over and over until she can feel the tears sliding slowly down her cheeks.

Chapter Two Hundred and Forty Five

A shadow at the door brings her head up and she sees Wesley through a blur of tears. Blinking them away she gives him a little shake of the head and he looks from her to Darla and frowns with an indecision that’s not like him. There’s a brief flash of anger as she wonders if he’s going to remind her she’s on the clock, but then he disappears and comes back in with a tray.

Coffee, hot and strong.

He sets it down, produces a handkerchief and hands it to Darla, who gives him a startled look and, driven by instinct, begins to tidy herself up, her antagonism washed away by her crying jag. Even with the tear-soaked eyes, she’s still looking a hell of a lot better than Faith’s seen her for years and it’s surprising how much of a, well, a relief that is.

“I don’t wish to intrude,” Wesley says, stirring sugar into Darla’s cup and putting it into her hand so that she raises it to her lips without thinking, “but I take it there’s been some sort of car accident?”

“You were listening?” Darla snaps, with a flicker of resentment. “You always spy on my daughter?”

Wesley sidesteps that one. “If you drink that, I’ll take you both wherever you need to go. Is –” There’s a pause, as if Wesley can’t decide what to call Liam and she’s distantly curious about what he’ll go with but he settles for ‘he’. “Has he been admitted to Vincent Memorial?”

Darla nods, a fresh gush of tears spilling down her face. “Yes. They had to; he can’t pay, but he was so hurt – the police said –”

“Please don’t worry about that,” Wesley said, and Faith knows he doesn’t mean to be anything but kind, but Darla rounds on him.

“I’ll worry if I want to, mister! My husband, lying there, dying and you’re telling me not to worry, telling me you’ll pay. Is that it? You’re fucking my baby and so we all get to benefit?”

“Mom!” Faith reaches out and wraps her hand around Wesley’s wrist, holding on as he goes still, face closing down. “Save the outraged parent act for later, and for Christ’s sake tell me what the hell happened.”

The lack of sympathy calms Darla down for some reason. With one last, defiant sniffle into Wesley’s handkerchief, she takes a deep breath.

“He was in his car. This early in the morning, that means he never went to bed.” Her eyes go to Faith. “You know.”

Yeah. She knows. Memories of tiptoeing around the house all day, bored out of her brain because Liam’s sleeping off a bender and came home with the milkman, as he calls it, even though Faith doesn’t know what one of those is. Milk comes from the store, doesn’t it? And he’s snoring so loud there’s no escaping it, but the tiniest bit of noise, a cartoon on the TV, and he’ll explode from his bedroom, sour-breathed and violent, fists swinging, mouthing obscenities she learned before she knew her ABCs.

“So, he was weaving about, and the cops started to follow him. Guess he had a tail light out, too, and Lord knows that heap he drives is a deathtrap... so they flashed him and –” Darla’s forehead wrinkles in puzzled thought. “I don’t get it. He’s been pulled over before and he just sweet talks them, or gets a ticket he’ll throw away before they’ve got back in their car. Half of them remember him from school and they’ll cut him a break –”

Because making a winning touchdown twenty years ago is so fucking clever. Yeah.

“But he took off. Just put his foot down and they had to chase him. He was doing sixty along Main; school kids everywhere, rush hour... came to that set of lights on Franklin and went through them on red.” Darla gives a long gusty sigh and takes a sip from her coffee, hand shaking a little. “Thank God no one else was involved.”

“But what happened?” Faith hisses. Somehow, her grip of Wesley has changed to him holding her hand and his fingers tighten a little in warning. She tries to stay calm. “Did he, like, drive into something?” She pictures the place Darla’s talking about; sharp bend, lights and – “Oh God. Did he hit the factory wall?”

Darla nods slowly. “Lost control trying to miss a truck heading straight for him and ploughed right into it.” She gives them a wobbly smile. “After they laid him off, he always said he’d die before he went back there. Guess he did his best.” The smile slips off her face. “He’s in a coma, Faith. They say he won’t wake up.”

And it’s just so funny that he did that. Put a hole in the wall, ten foot high and solid brick, that surrounded Wilkins Manufacturing. He’d hated that place; he’d worked there for years, and, for once, it wasn’t his fault he’d lost his job, they’d just been cutting back, and she remembered being mortified one night when she’d been with him and he’d stopped and unzipped and pissed on that wall, finishing with a satisfied grunt as she walked away, cheeks burning, hoping no one had seen –

“Faith!” She realizes that she’s laughing, and Wesley’s looking concerned, and Darla’s looking affronted, and oh, fuck, she can’t handle this, but she’s got to.

“We should go to the hospital,” she says abruptly.

Wesley nods. “I think so. If –Liam’s not able to talk, I imagine the police won’t bother you, Darla; it’s not as if you can shed any light on this, after all. If you’d like me to deal with them? I might be able to take care of some of the procedure?”

He says it a little doubtfully, as if he’s expecting her to bite his head off again, but she nods heavily and gets to her feet. “It doesn’t matter now, does it?” she murmurs. “Whatever he’s done, it’s all behind him now. Hours, Faith. They don’t expect him to have more than...”

“Mom...” Faith’s helpless in the face of her mother’s grief.

And she wishes she could share it, just a little, but she can’t.

Chapter Two Hundred and Forty Six

The drive to the hospital is accomplished in silence. Darla sits in the back and sniffs into Wes' hankie every now and again and even though her world is meant to have collapsed, because isn't that what it's meant to feel like when your father is lying in intensive care with a death sentence hanging over his head, she's more pissed off that both of Wes' hands are gripping the steering wheel and he's not resting his palm on her knee.

And she keeps having more of these whacked out, inappropriate thoughts as she sits in the waiting room, book-ended by Darla and Wes. Like, why can't Darla get up and have a pee instead of sitting there and banging on about how she "told him a million times to get that damn tail light fixed?" Because then she could turn to Wes and he'd take her in his arms and stroke her hair and tell her that everything would be all right. It would be, if he said so.

As it is, he's careful to leave a couple of inches of space between them, probably so Darla doesn't get any more cracks in about how he's been violating her little girl. But like magnets or something, she can feel herself leaning nearer and nearer to him, until her shoulder bumps his and finally he turns his head and looks at her.

"Faith, are you sure you're OK?" he asks her quietly, his smile gentle but his eyes on Darla who's, like, so listening to this little exchange.

"Yeah," she says and she doesn't know why her voice sounds so shaky. She tries again. "Yeah, I'm fine."

And then she guesses that he doesn't really give a fuck what Darla thinks about him because he's wrapping his arm round her, pulling her close so he can kiss the top of her head.

"I know this waiting can be interminable and hospitals are never the most cheery of places," he murmurs and Darla's sniffing again, less in a sobby way and more, like, she thinks he's a pretentious bastard who uses too many big words.

"Do you think we'll have to go and see him?" she asks because that's what's really starting to freak her out. The thought that there's meant to be this big, dramatic, deathbed scene and he'll open his eyes just before he croaks and beg forgiveness and they'll have to say that everything's frosty cool even though he was a worthless bastard who made their lives utter misery. "Like, if he's really fucked up then he's not gonna be allowed any visitors, right?"

Darla gives this frantic little moan. "Shit! I need to call Father Gilroy to give him the last rites."

Wes' arm tightens round her shoulders in a warning but she's already snorting. "Yeah, 'cause he's already got a fucking lot reserved upstairs for him and his immortal soul."

Darla's hand is this ghostly white blur that doesn't seem real until it connects with her cheek. "He's your fucking father!" she screams. "You should show some goddamn respect!"

"Why? And why the fuck are you pretending that you give a shit about him?" She rubs a cold hand against the stinging mark on her face, feels Wes tense against her and waits for Darla to say her next line but Wes is leaning across, practically shielding her from view as he shoves her out of the way and she knows before he even starts speaking exactly how cold and clipped his voice is going to be.

"I appreciate that emotions are running rather high," he says icily and she can't see his face but Darla inching back frantically to escape from his gaze is all she needs to know. "But please be assured that if you lift a hand to Faith again then I'm taking her home immediately. And I believe that an apology is in order."

Darla opens and shouts her mouth a few times and Faith knows there's plenty she wants to say, especially with the way her eyebrows shot up when Wes called her on the whole face-slapping thing. But then she kind of hunches in on herself and grabs Faith's hand with icy fingers. "I'm sorry, baby," she whispers just before she bursts into tears again and Faith has to pull herself out of Wes' hold just in time to have Darla collapse into her arms.

It's actually a relief when Wes' cell phone starts ringing and he has to go outside to answer it, the evil glares from Darla and the receptionist following him across the waiting room.

"We need to get Father Gilroy," Darla's choking out like a stuck record. "And I need to talk to someone cause they've just stuck us out here and he's all on his own and I don't want him to go like that, Faithy. Thinking that he's on his own, that we didn't care."

"It's all right, Mom," she says mechanically, rubbing soothing circles on Darla's back. "They'll come and get us in a minute."

But they sit there while the minutes feel like they've become hours and she's bored to tears with the nicotine yellow walls and the weird drunk guy sitting opposite her who keeps dribbling and smells like he hasn't had a bath in days.

She sees Wes out of the corner of her eye, standing by the entrance and when he catches sight of her, he waves and makes a beckoning gesture with his hand.

"I'll just be a sec," she murmurs at Darla, pleased to be able to shrug her off, get to her feet and run, not walk, over to Wes.

"I don't want be here," she implores him as soon as he's in hearing distance and then, at last, with another two steps his arms are around her. "I don't want to see him 'cause I'm gonna fucking lose it completely."

"Shhh, shhh," he's whispering into her hair, stroking the back of her neck. "I know, Faith, but your mother needs you."

"Just hold me," she begs and his arms are tight round her waist again so she can rest her head on his shoulder. "Oh, Christ, this is fucking horrible."

She tries to cling to him but he gently disentangles her and takes hold of her upper arms so he can give her a little shake. "You're going to be fine," he says firmly. "But you have to be strong and brave and then this will all be over. Only happy stories, remember?"

And she's nodding her head and mumbling, "I guess," but it's more to get one of his approving smiles than because she means it.

"I have to go," he continues, rubbing his thumb over her bottom lip to smooth away her pout. "I need to sort out a few matters… for your mother."

"But you're coming back, right? 'Cause I don't want to have to see him and I want to stay with you…"

"Of course, of course," he assures her hurriedly, fingers tracing over the mark that's Darla's left on her cheek. And he's still wearing that small smile but it's starting to look forced, starting to appear more like a grimace. "I'll keep my phone switched on and you're to call me if you need anything."

"But you won't be long, will you?" And she's clutching on to him again so he has to pry her loose, trying to distract her with the sweet little kiss he presses against her lips.

"Really, Faith, I'll be back as soon as I can," he promises and he's already out of the doors before she can persuade him to not go, so she has no other option but to walk back to Darla who's standing there talking to a doctor and looking like her whole world has turned to broken biscuit.

She's taking tiny steps, walking slower than she's ever done in her life but she's at Darla's side in an instant, holding her up as the doctor attempts to explain what's happening backed by a constant soundtrack of "no, no, no" and "I refuse to accept that."

It's just snatches of phrases she's heard on ER. "…not viable to operate… massive internal bleeding… organ failure… DNR…" and she's tuning out, trying to think about normal stuff like what Wes is going to make for dinner and whether they're really going to take Friday off when she realizes that Darla and the doctor are looking at her expectantly.

"What? Huh?"

"Faith, baby," Darla's smiling blurrily through her tears, trying on a stiff upper lip that's wobbling alarmingly. "The doctor says we can go in and sit with him now."

Chapter Two Hundred and Forty Seven

The big hospital-white swinging doors that lead to the ICU loom large and she's not at all certain she can make the walk there, much less put her arms out and shove 'em open once she reaches them. 'Cause with Wes gone she feels so tiny and powerless in the bustling hallway, precariously leaning out of the way to avoid an orderly rushing by with a squeaking, wobbly gurney.

Still, brooding won't postpone the inevitable and Darla's cold hands clinging to her forearms drags up some primal protective instinct she thought had been quashed by years of neglect and insults and stinging cheeks reddened by too many slaps for her mouthy attitude.

“Faithy, we need to...” It's Darla who looks small and defenseless now, her hair mussed and eyes saucer-wide and red-rimmed.

“I know Mom, I know. Just gimme a sec, okay?” She can't help but purposefully tuck her hair behind her ears and straighten her skirt, which is all askew and rumpled from hours of sitting in those uncomfortable waiting room chairs. “Maybe you should go on ahead and I'll call the rectory, see if they can send Father Gilroy over?” Anything to put off seeing what she knows is waiting behind those damn swinging doors.

Darla looks horrified at the suggestion. “No, Faithy. No, stay with me. I need you!”

Any other time, she would have rolled her eyes at Darla's plaintive tone, mostly 'cause it was usually a big manipulative put-on, the only way she knew how to get what she wanted. But Faith can't ignore the unexpected pang of sympathy in her gut that's currently at odds with the urge to turn the other way and hustle the two of them right out of the hospital and turn their backs on the drunken asshole who, in less than half an hour, would only exist in a string of painful memories, if the doctor was to be believed.

“Yeah, okay. We can do this.” she says, reaching down and grabbing Darla's hand a little too tightly.



She was expecting him to look smaller, 'cause she'd heard people always looked smaller in hospital beds, right? People teetering on the verge of death shrank down to a more manageable size, she'd supposed. But not Liam.

Darla's surprised too, because she lets out a little gasp of surprise; her hand, still clinging to Wes' handkerchief, flying up to muffle the sound. It wouldn't have disturbed Liam, though, even if he were just asleep and not in a coma, over the whirring and beeping and hissing racket of the countless machines hooked up to his near-motionless body .

“I thought they...” Faith manages to stutter out after the shock had worn off. In spite of the large gash across his forehead, he looks like he's just sleeping off another one of his benders. He certainly doesn't look on the verge of death.

“No, Faith, weren't you listening? They won't do it until the priest gets here.”

And as if on cue, there's a small cough behind them. Yanking her hand out of Faith's, Darla flings herself on her poor, unsuspecting parish priest, a surprisingly young fellow with a bright shock of red hair. Of course she'd wanted this one, and not old, doddering Father Jurecki. Young and Irish? Of course.

“Nice of you to come, Father,” Faith manages to choke out, mightily impressed at the new level of Darla's histrionics as the poor fellow shepherds her to the chair next to the bed.

“Yes, a, uh, Mr. Wyndam-Pryce phoned and said I should come over as soon as possible...”

“Oh, Faith, that was so good of your Wesley, wasn't it? He's just so reliable and responsible...” Darla's voice dribbles off into a new wail when the EKG lets out a loud squawk before settling back into a more even string of beeps. “Oh, Father, my Liam tried, he did. He may not have been the best husband and father in the world, but Lord knows he tried.”

Luckily the tiny snort that Faith can't hold in is drowned out by the squeaking tread of the ICU nurse, who's picked the perfect moment to bustle in, a flimsy sign hanging from her index finger with the letters DNR inked on it in permanent marker, still fresh enough to drag a trail of noxious fumes in her wake. She tacks it up in the blank wall space above the bed, which sets Darla off wailing again, and turns her back to the tearful tableau, all business.

“Are y'all ready?” she says in a soft voice that doesn't match her brusque body language, and it takes Faith a moment to realize the nurse is speaking to her and not Darla.

And just like that, she's crying, unable to tear her gaze from Liam's puffed face, afraid all this new racket will just be the thing that will rouse him from the coma, but that's sure not gonna happen 'cause here's the nurse is asking her to decide if now is the time to let him go, let it all go, let it all end. Just like that.

“Yes,” she croaks out, and everything's silent except for the persistent drone of the life support equipment; even Darla stops keening and sniffling 'cause she's nodding in agreement.



Faith didn't think that they actually unplugged anything when they unhooked someone from life support, but that's kind of what happens. The head nurse removes the oxygen line, and the IV and the feeding tube and a bunch of other things she's not sure of the function of before leaving them without a word, her shoes squeaking all the way out into the hall.

Father Gilroy's already making the sign of the cross, and she finds herself involuntarily and hastily running her hand in the same motion, kissing her thumb at the end of the circuit, the way the old Irish nuns had demanded.

“Per istam sanctam unctionem, indulgeat tibi Dominus quidquid deliquisti, Amen.”

Liam would have appreciated the young priest going with the Latin; she wishes desperately Wes were here to translate what's just been said, his arms wrapped 'round her and voice low and comforting in her ear. There's a splash of holy water and the pungent scent of the myrrh cuts right through the sterile hospital smell, and then the three of them are mumbling the Our Father, as quietly and quickly as they can and still be respectful about it.



She doesn't remember when she ended up sitting on the frigid linoleum at Darla's feet, their hands wrapped together, but there she is, the cold seeping through her wool skirt, watching the blip of the EKG slow down in infinitesimal increments as time drags on. Father Gilroy has long since begged off, and they've been waiting for hours now-- three long, dragging, anti-climactic hours as Liam tenaciously hangs on, refusing to go until he's spent every last one of his allotted seconds on this earth. Even Darla's wrung every last tear out, it seems, and they both sit there, stock-still and silent. And Faith can’t help making wagers in her head. In twenty minutes, she thinks. Definitely twenty minutes. And twenty-one minutes later, there they sit, his chest still rising and falling shallowly. Over and over, it went like this, time on an infinite loop of twenty minute increments until finally the EKG was practically a flat line.

Struggling to her feet and dragging Faith up with her, Darla leans in to kiss Liam on the forehead one last time, elbowing Faith to do the same. “Give your father a kiss goodbye, honey.” Seeing Faith's obvious hesitation, she adds, in a low whisper, “He can't hurt you now, baby. Can't hurt us anymore.”

Which is why it's kind of creepy that his eyes pop open and the EKG flatlines just as she's leaning in to barely brush her lips over his still-clammy forehead.

Chapter Two Hundred and Forty Eight

She jerks back, mouth open on a startled cry her throat’s too dry with shock to make. No. No fucking way is he... then she looks into his eyes and knows she’s safe. They’re empty, and if peaceful means you’ve stopped fighting, then, yeah, he looks peaceful.

But empty works too.

And she wants to wipe away the memory of his flesh against her mouth but she knows how it’ll look to Darla, so she endures it for three long seconds before she breaks and scrubs at her lips feeling as if she wants to spit, throw up, anything just to get rid of the sensation of cool, damp, dead flesh.

“Let’s go,” she says, sounding desperate even to her own ears. “Mom, let’s go.”

Darla nods, tears drying on her face, shocked into silence by the finality of it all.

A nurse is hovering at the door, a stretcher waiting. She steps back and lets them file past her and when Faith glances back, there’s a sheet drawn up neatly over Liam’s head and suddenly he’s just a body, pushing the covering into an odd, lumpy shape. Nothing more than that.

There’s a stack of paperwork to go through but Wesley’s helped there too, having spent some of the endless waiting time in signing forms to cover the expenses – and considering Liam barely had time to warm the sheets before dying, there’s a staggering bill to pay. With that seen to, it doesn’t come down to much and though each time Darla signs her name, she makes this little moaning sound, Faith manages to get through it without starting to cry. Darla signs for a bag with Liam’s clothes in it – fuck, now that’s creepy - and she doesn’t know why Darla clutches it so tightly when she tossed everything he left at the house into the trash with a tight-lipped smile on her face.

She’s still not thinking beyond the next moment, so all her attention is focused on getting out rather than where they’ll go when they do. They turn left through some doors, and then there’s a long walk down a corridor with an old man in a wheelchair watching them as they get closer, reaching out and grabbing at Faith -“Have you come to take me home?”- and then she freezes, disorientated and lost, surrounded by walls that are closing in, really closing in, and she’s going to faint, she knows she is and she’s almost looking forward to that slide into darkness, but she thinks Liam might be in it, waiting for her, and it’s enough to snap her out of it.

“Honey? There’s a coffee shop in here; we could get something?” Darla says. “You’ve gone so pale.”

“I just want to get out of here,” she says, shaking off Darla’s hand. “I can’t fucking breathe.”

And the panic’s coming back and she needs Wesley so much and he’s gone and she knows she can’t leave Darla, knows she can’t go back to work, like this is a normal day. But she wishes she could.

Then someone calls her name, and just for a second, she thinks it’s him and she spins around and it isn’t Wes, but it’s Xander, breathing fast, as if he’s been running, looking as if he’s just woken up. He hugs Darla first because she throws herself at him, a fresh audience bringing out more tears, more lamentations, but he’s looking at Faith over her shoulder and she gives him a smile because if she can’t have Wes, Xander’s the next best thing.

Even if, technically, she’s not speaking to him, but that doesn’t seem to matter now.

With Xander there, the maze of corridors become a sixty second walk, and then they’re out in the sunshine and she’s suddenly starving because it’s way past lunch and floaty with a dizzy relief she’s too euphoric to feel guilty about. Liam’s dead. Everything’s fine.

“How did you know what happened?” she asks Xander, as he helps them into a cab and gives Darla’s address. “Was it Wes?”

Xander shakes his head. “My mom. She heard about it on the local news.” He leans over the front seat. “She tried to call you, Darla, but you’d gone. She phoned the hospital and they wouldn’t say how Liam was, but they told her you were both there.”

“It was on the news?” Faith asks.

“Car chase on Main? Oh, yes.” Xander shakes his head. “For this town, that’s big news.”

“I hate this place,” she mutters.

“Well, you’ll be leaving soon,” Xander says. “That’s still happening, is it?”

Darla gives a little gasp, but she can feel her lips set like stone. “Yeah. I’m so outta here. Soon as fucking possible.”

“Faith – I need you,” Darla whispers.

“I’ll be here for another month at least,” Faith says. “Don’t worry about it.”

And she can tell she’s not heard the last of it, but they drive past the accident scene right then – of course they do, because the taxi driver’s a fucking ghoul and he slows right down to eyeball the rubble and the hole in the wall, with the splintered sparkle of glass across the road – and Darla’s reduced to a series of, ‘Oh God, Oh God’s that lasts until they get home.

Except it’s not home anymore. It’s a small house that’s still a mess, though the new and improved Darla’s gone so far as to put a plant outside the door, red petals limp because it needs water, and it’s not connected to her, not really.

So she feels more of a visitor than Xander, though it’s only been, what, six, seven weeks, since she moved out? He’s the one who puts on the kettle and leads Darla over to her chair – no one sits in the one Liam used, even though his ass hasn’t settled against the worn, faux-leather in months, even though it’s the best seat to watch the TV from. It’s so much his chair, she wonders if they’ll bury it with him, beer stains, cigarette burns and all...

And she wants to smoke, but she doesn’t think she should leave Xander in the awkward, grief-filled silence. It’s not until Darla fumbles in a purse for lighter and ciggies and lights up, that she realizes she can smoke indoors if she wants to, without Wesley’s disapproval. Doesn’t stop her feeling guilty though as she sucks in a long, long drag and sighs as it hits her.

There’s a knock at the door and she glances at Darla, who’s struggling to her feet. “I’ll get it.” The door sticks, as it’s always done, and she gives it the automatic tug and lift that frees it.

She’d expected it to be someone with food, and so it is; Mrs. Calter, from two doors down, clutching a foil container that’s just got to be chicken casserole with chips on top, because it’s what she always brings when babies are born, people die, or there’s a disaster.

Wasn’t expecting her to be peering up at two cops, shiny buttons, grim faces, guns at their hips, standing behind her.

“Faith? I brought this for your momma. Poor Darla... He’s passed on, then?” There’s an avid curiosity in her faded blue eyes as she hold out the dish. Faith takes it automatically, and stands there holding it as the tallest police officer says, “We’d like you to come with us, please, Miss. Just a few questions...”

And her hands are slowly heating up as the warmth from the dish seeps into them, but the rest of her is icy cold.

“Questions? I wasn’t there. No one was. What do you want?”

Mrs. Calter clucks sympathetically and Faith shoves the dish at her. “Look, this isn’t a good time, right? Thanks, but can you come back later?”

“Well, I –”

“Faith? What’s the matter, sweetie?”

Darla appears, company voice on, getting ready to star as the bereaved widow, hair fluffed just enough to look better, fresh hanky at the ready. Her weak, brave smile falters when she sees the cops.

“Can’t this wait?” she says plaintively. “My husband just passed away. Whatever he did, it can’t matter now. He’s dead, God rest his soul.”

They know that! Faith wants to scream, but she can only swallow, rubbing her palms against her dress until they’re stinging.

“It’s not about the accident, ma’am,” the tall one says. “Not exactly.” His eyes go to Faith. “Miss? You can collect your coat and purse, but we’re going to have to take you with us now.”

Xander shoulders past Darla. “What’s going on? Where the hell do you think you’re taking her?”

“I don’t think we’re taking her anywhere, son,” the policeman drawls. “I know we are. Little matter of suspected fraud, embezzlement and forgery.”

And Xander’s eyes go wide with shock as the pennies drop in a cascade of clinking copper, and he and Darla are asking questions, as Mrs. Calter backs away, torn between wanting to get every detail and the desire to hurry up and down the street spreading the juicy news that’s so going to make up for not being the one to hear about Liam’s accident first, but Faith’s not asking anything as she steps back into the front room and picks up her things.

She should have known. Liam. Her fucking father might be dead, but it’s not over. He’s going to drag her down with him. She’s got a vast emptiness where her mind used to be, so she’s not thinking how they know, or what they know, just accepting that they do, that her sins have found her out, just like the nuns always said they would, but she never believed them.

Then there’s this little spark of hope, white heat hot against the cold black night in her head.

Wes.

He’ll have to know now and that’s not how she wanted him to find out, but he’ll fix it. He’ll whisk her away and he’ll be angry, oh he’s gonna be so very angry, but it won’t matter, because he loves her, and it’ll be fine. She clings to that and it lets her start to think again.

“I have to call someone,” she says as they take her arm. “My – my lawyer.”

“You can do that at the station,” she’s told as they urge her towards the waiting cruiser.

“No, you don’t understand. He can sort this out, he’ll come.” She’s starting to babble now, though Darla’s caught on to what’s happened and she’s collapsed in Xander’s arms, howling loud enough to make the policemen wince. “Mr. Wyndam-Pryce. I can call him right now, if you’ll just let me –”

Her purse, with her phone it in, is taken from her and tossed in the front seat and her hands are cuffed. There’s a faint, nasty smile in the policeman’s eyes, though his voice stays polite.

“Wyndam-Pryce? Might want to get a new lawyer, Miss.”

Chapter Two Hundred and Forty Nine

And she remembers this. The crackle of the two-way radio and the two cops in front laughing and joking like this is a normal day and there's nothing more important to talk about than the fishing trip they've got planned for the weekend. There's a metal grille separating her from them and she stares at this one spot right in the center where the frame has buckled slightly 'cause no way in hell is she looking out of the window at the passers by peering in to get a look at a genuine, real-life criminal.

She's trying to think; trying to get herself a plan but all she can see are a series of freeze-frames in front of her eyes; Liam shrouded on the stretcher; the page of blank checks and Wes. Oh God, Wes.

The only thing that's holding her together, keeping her stiff and upright so that he'd smile approvingly, is the thought that when they get to the police station he'll be there. Because he has to be there. Not just because of the legal shitstorm that's brewing but because he has to be there, to sort it all out, make things better.

He's going to be fucking furious. Christ, she's not going to be able to sit down until they get to New York but there'll be this little room at the police station like there was last time. And really bad coffee and donuts and she'll tell him and it's way too late to be confessing but when she explains about why she did it, how she was protecting him…

She blinks in surprise as the door's tugged open and she's asked to get out of the car. Hadn't even realized they'd pulled into the station parking lot and now she's clambering out and it's hard when you're cuffed and wearing nose-bleed high stilettos and fuck, she can't stop shaking even though the sun is fierce and there's not a single cloud in the sky.

It doesn't take long to process her and they take the cuffs off her so she can sign her name on the inventory form and the personal detail form. Even manages a smile when they get through because then she can see Wes.

But they're already leading her down this corridor that smells like school and they're not going into the little room with the coffee and donuts, and the nice social worker who gives you tissues when you start crying but down these stones steps and there are cells. Like she's found herself in an episode of Murder One and she's pushed into one of them with a metal bed and a fucking can in it. The door slams shut behind her with this resounding, metallic thud and then there's the sound of the key scraping in the lock. And it wasn't like this the last time.

In the end, it's just too much effort to think about any of it. And she just curls up on the hard, thin mattress, pulls the itchy wool blanket right over her head and stays there being really careful not to breathe too loud until she hears the door clicking open.

She's so sure that Wes is going to be standing there with his most pissy expression stuck to his face so for a moment she just stares at the cop with a frown.

"I'm taking you up for questioning," he grunts at her.

"I need to make a phone call," she says, staggering to her feet. "I need to call my lawyer."

"Yeah, yeah, you can do that upstairs."

They give her a list of court-appointed lawyers which she ignores as she dials Wes' cell phone number with fingers that don't want to co-operate. It rings and rings, which doesn't make any sense, like nothing's made sense for the last five hours. 'Cause he said that she should call if she needed anything and she needs him now. And then it stops mid-ring and clicks straight through to the automated voicemail and she opens her mouth to speak and nothing will come out.

She can feel the cop glaring daggers at her through the glass panel in the door and she forces her mouth to start working. "Wes, it's me. I'm at the police station and I don't know what they've told you… I just need you here. And I'll try and explain what's been going on… I was gonna tell you but…I'm really sorry. I'm so sorry and will you please come and get me and take me home? Everything is so fucking messed right now and I need to see you, so just… just... See you soon, 'kay?"


It's really obvious that the two detectives questioning her think that she's some fucking dumb bimbo.

They go through the tired, old rigmarole about a lawyer again and she insists that Wes is her lawyer and that they have to wait until he gets there because he's going to sort out everything.

"Are you refusing to have legal counsel present, Miss?" Detective Park asks her for, like, the 20th time so she's rolling her eyes and pursing her lips.

"Mr. Wyndam-Pryce is my lawyer," she repeats in this flat voice. And the other one, the blonde woman, Lockley or something, leans right into her face, which is such an invasion of her personal space that it isn't even funny.

"Faith, you're here because we've got a pretty watertight case against you for embezzling Mr. Wyndam-Pryce out of $2000 by forging his signature on business checks that didn't walk out of that office by themselves, which is why he can't be your lawyer. Throw in a little conspiracy to commit fraud and you're looking at fifteen to twenty years so I strongly advise you to call another number on that list."

"Wes is my lawyer."

"OK, Faith," Park says after they've exchanged "can you believe how fucking stupid this chick is?" looks. "You're going to have sign a letter saying you've refused legal counsel."

Liam was never going to win any prizes in the Father of The Year contest but the only thing he ever gave her, apart from a stubborn streak a mile wide, was four life lessons.

1. Anyone she meets in a nightclub after 12 am is up to no good.
2. How to mix the perfect vodka martini
3. How to cheat at five card stud.
4. And when you're being questioned by the police, you don't give them jackshit.

And once she's signed the fucking form; they're firing questions at her and she's staring at the little red light on the tape machine and keeping her mouth shut tighter than a steel trap. 'Cause they've read her her rights and she's got the right to remain well and fucking truly silent.

"You've given Mr. Wyndam-Pryce's address as your place of residence, Faith. Are you having sexual relations with him?

"When did you first meet Peter Harper?"

"Whose idea was it, Faith? Did you go to your father or did he come to you?"

"Pretty cold, isn't it, Faith? You spend all day with this guy, go home with him, sleep with him, and all the time you're helping your father rob him blind."

"So Peter Harper reckons it was all your idea, said that you were gonna split the money three ways. What did you spend it on, Faith? And we're going to need times, places, receipts."

"We've pulled your record – not the first time you've paid us a visit, is it? And I really should tell you that prison isn't like juvie. Pretty girl like you shouldn't have any trouble making friends though. So, anything you want to tell us, Faith?"

In the end, it's easy to say nothing. Doesn't seem like they know about the photos and no fucking way is she going to enlighten them. Man, that's what got her into this freaking mess in the first place and she's not going to put Wes through that now.

She tunes them in and out, squirreling away the information that she needs, even though she hasn't got a clue what to actually do with it. Wes'll know, though he's taking his fucking sweet time getting here.

Seems like they went round to Liam's place after the accident and found that Peter guy climbing in through the window to get the rest of the checks. Turns out he's on parole for forging 'scripts for methadone and he couldn't open his fat mouth fast enough to land her in it

It goes on for hours and in the end she's so damn tired that she just leans over and rests her head on her folded arms and shuts her eyes.

"Faith, this whole silent routine isn't doing you any favors," Lockley says to her gently. "If I was you, I'd be talking loud and long and trying to convince us that you're innocent. Stupid but innocent. C'mon, Faith, everyone knows what your father's like."

"Was like," she croaks out and they look just as surprised as her that she's finally managed to speak. "Was like," she says again. "Not is. 'Cause he's dead."

And finally they get a clue that she's having a really bad day. A metric assload of a really bad day and they stop re-enacting the Spanish Inquisition and go into a little huddle in the corner.

When they turn around, she gives a little sigh of relief because she's so tired and she just wants to go home. Even if it means going back to Darla's, which is never going to seem like home again. And she can't help drifting off into this little fantasy that after Wes has got her out of here and taken a hour or three to work off his anger that they'll curl up in bed together and…

She looks up as Park says her name.

"What? Can I go home now?"

"I'm formally charging you with one count of embezzlement, one count of conspiracy to commit fraud and one count of theft. You'll remain in custody over night until your bail hearing, which is set for tomorrow morning at 9am."

Chapter Two Hundred and Fifty

It’s just about the longest night ever.

All she can hear —over and over like a mantra in her head— are her father’s alcohol-fuelled predictions about her and they’re all starting to sound like the absolute truth. Like, she really is this stupid cunt who’s totally deserving of everything she’s got coming to her. The cell is sticky hot and it’s impossible to get comfortable on the tiny pallet and she’s positive she can hear the admitting officers’ laughter ringing out from down the hall. She wishes she’d paid more attention to any one of Wes’ approximately three-hundred copies of Dante’s Inferno but she’s pretty fucking sure this would be her ninth circle.

When she finally falls into this fitful, intermittent sleep, she’s there, in court. She’s totally alone, and everything is dark except there’s this bright spotlight on her and this stern, faceless judge staring her down. He’s looming over the proceedings like a Colossus until the shadow falls away and he’s wearing Wes’ face and the anger she sees there is frightening and unknowable.

She jerks awake, gasping and shaken. Wishes she could light a fucking cigarette or something but the smoke alarm would probably go off and then Park and Lockley would have her ass for that just for the sheer fun of it.

She can’t help thinking about the bail hearing. They don’t have any hard proof, right? They can’t hold her on —what’s it called? Circumstantial evidence?

God, where the fuck could Wes be? He’d said… Yeah, he’d said, but maybe this was his equivalent of going out for cigarettes. Time for a clean break. ‘Cause, yeah, she was a good fuck —but really? Not good for much else.

If she could smoke, she’d be inhaling the whole pack.

Instead, everything she’s bottled up all night starts to spill out, tears rolling unheeded down her cheeks until she starts to sob and she flops face-down on the scratchy, thin pillow in an attempt to muffle her cries. Mostly out of self-preservation because she doesn’t want the good detectives to hear. But the truth is that no one’s listening and no one cares. Her tears are met with resounding, unsettling silence.

There must be some kind-of catharsis in that because she drifts back to sleep afterwards and doesn’t wake up again until there’s a sharp rap on the bars of her cell.

“Get up.”

Chapter Two Hundred and Fifty One

Turns out that someone's been in and left her some clothes and for one heart-stopping moment, she feels almost giddy with relief that Wes hasn't given up on her. Then the neat bundle of clothes, stinking of cheap fabric conditioner, is pushed into her arms on the way to the shower block and before she even catches sight of that shiny TK Maxx skirt that she wore to her interview and the pale blue, itchy twin-set she wore on her first day on the job, she realizes it must have been Darla or Xander.

And even though she gets showered with some butch bull dyke of a cop standing over here to make sure she hasn't got a what? A file? A skeleton key? A gun hidden up her snatch, it feels good to scrub herself squeaky clean and get changed into something that isn't a corset, a tight black dress and fuck-me heels. Because, like, if there was a book on what to wear to your arraignment hearing, they wouldn't figure too heavily.

As it is, she looks like she's on her way to a fancy dress party as a nice girl. She gets taken back to her cell and ignores the plate of congealed bacon and eggs that's suddenly appeared, in favor of gulping down the cup of lukewarm coffee in two mouthfuls and wishing for the gazillionth time she could have a cigarette.

Secretly, she's starting to feel impressed with how calm she's being. She's not scared, she's not worried; she's not even having to fight gnawing waves of rage in her stomach. But as she's cuffed again and led out to the parking lot, she realizes that numb and calm aren't the same things. She's not feeling anything because she's empty inside.

"I got nothing," she mumbles to herself, feeling the weight of the cop's hand on her hair, pushing her head down as she climbs in to the back of the car.

Her new-found Zen state gets her through a tearful reunion with Darla and Xander who are waiting for her by the back entrance to the courthouse.

"Faithy, baby, are you OK?" Darla's eyes are so bloodshot from crying that they're a vivid splash of color against the bed-sheet white of her skin. "Everything's gonna be fine, sweetie."

"Yeah, it's all gonna be cool," Xander echoes, staring at her like he's just seen a ghost.

Then they're both waiting for her to say something and she can't think of a single word that will do so she just shrugs and gives them a lop-sided smile.

"Is there anything you need, Faith?" Xander asks in a worried voice and she knows the answer to this, but he ain't coming. So she goes for her second choice.

"I'd fucking kill for a cigarette," she says quietly, then she's being led away, down more corridors and steps, to another room with a thick metal door. This time the walls are painted a dirty gray color instead of bile green and she appreciates the change in scenery.

Doesn't exactly appreciate the fresh-faced Lilah junior who comes in a minute later with a bright smile and a clipboard. What's a girl got to do to get some peace and a packet of Marlboros in this place?

"I'm Eve," she says, holding out her hand and it takes her a moment to realize that she's meant to shake it. "I'm your lawyer."

"Well, that's kinda freaky," she giggles, slumping down on a hard, wooden chair. "'Cause there was this whole thing where I refused legal counsel and unless you wanna be paid, like, sometime in 2020 then…"

"You don't need to worry about that," Eve assures her quickly, casting a suspicious look at the other chair and then down at her expensive skirt before gingerly sitting down. "I've been appointed by the court and you qualify for legal aid. Now why don't we have a little chat and you can tell me exactly what happened?"

"I can't say anything until I've spoken to Wes," she sighs 'cause she's fed up with people asking her stuff and then not listening.

"That's Mr. Wyndam-Pryce," Eve replies, looking down at her clipboard. "That's a good place to start. So, was your relationship just a professional one because you've given his address as your place of residence?"

And this chick is so fucking pushy with her encouraging smiles and her fancy, leather-bound jotter but the open page stays snowy white because all she can choke out are a million different variations on the same, tired, old theme.

"Where's Wes?"

"I need to speak to Wes."

"Have you spoken to him? On a scale of one to ten, how pissed with me is he?"

Even little Miss Congeniality gets tired of it in the end, closing the notebook with an annoyed snap and sigh.

"Look, Faith, you need to help me to help you. Big picture: they haven't got much of a case against you, other than the fact that you supplied the checks. They're far more interested in your friend, Peter Harper. The DA's office have already implied they're willing to consider a plea bargain. Then there's the extenuating circumstances. I've pulled some of your old files from Child Protection and if you were to tell me that your father pressurized you into helping him… if he threatened you with physical violence…"

It's like her brain was removed during the night and replaced with something sludgy. Because this is all kind of making sense and it's like there's this path that she can walk down and she can see it in her head. There's leaves and branches making everything dark so she can’t see where to put her feet but right at the end, the sun is shining… but it's never that simple and every time she tries to concentrate on that little patch of sunlight, she sees Wes standing there and blocking her view.

And for someone who's always been good at lying, all of a sudden it's gotten really hard to say the lines she's been given to save her sorry ass.

Because it's her ass that's put her right here. "Yeah, Eve, see my Dad found out that Wes liked to spank me until I was begging for his cock. There were photos and shit and my Wes is a pretty big deal in this town…"

That would go down like a fucking lead balloon.

"When can I go home?" she asks because that, at least, isn't a lie. As it is, it leads to this long explanation about the arraignment and negotiating with the judge to post bail at a figure that Darla can afford if she puts her car up as collateral.

Thanks to all the legal training she's got on the job, she can nod along in all the right places, even though moving her head requires a lot of effort.

"So they read out the charges and I plead guilty or not guilty or whatever… what? Now what?"

Because Eve is looking as shifty as a little princess with the finest legal training that Daddy can buy can look.

"The judge has agreed to waive the formal arraignment hearing so the charges aren't read out in court, because, well…"

There's something wet dripping on her hand and she realizes she's started crying. "Because of Wes. Because he doesn't want people knowing that he's been fucking me," she spits out. "I know what you're thinking! That I'm some cock-happy little tramp and that I fucked him and fucked him over at the same time. I love him and he loved me…"

And when Eve takes her tear-soaked hand, she squeezes her fingers. "I don't know what to do to make things better. I've got to talk to him. You get that, right?"

She's pretty sure that this didn't come up at law school but Eve's nodding her head and has upped the wattage on the encouraging smiles. "We're going to get your bail set, persuade the judge that you're a low risk to skip town, and then you can go home."

"You promise?"

"I just need you to change your address on this form so your primary residence isn't…"

Isn't with the guy you've cheated and lied and stolen from.

And in the end, signing her name on the form with shaking hands so her signature looks like some funky kind of hieroglyphics isn't that hard.



They don't take her into a court but lead her straight into the judge's chambers. And it's so much like Wes' office with the highly polished table and the musty smell of yellowing paper and old books that she sways and is grateful for Eve's hand nudging the small of her back so she can carry on walking.

The prosecutor from the DA's office is this good-looking black guy but his gaze as he looks at her is as sharp as his suit.

And the judge looks so fucking judge-like, like he's been imported straight from the set of some black and white, 1950's courtroom drama that she wants to roll her eyes and tell someone to cut it the fuck out. He doesn't even look at her, like she's too white trash to even register on his holier than thou radar, just umms and ahs his way down her charge sheet, mumbling to himself as he goes.

"Do you understand the charges against you?" he asks in a bored voice, like he strongly suspects her of being mentally deficient.

"Yeah. Yes. Sir." And tagging ‘sir’ onto the end almost brings her out in an attack of the giggles, but he's already moving on.

"And do you plead guilty or not guilty?"

Which is like the $64,000 question. Technically she's guilty. She's so fucking guilty that it makes her want to puke. And yeah, she did all the things that they say she's done but not for any of the reasons that they think and she's not sure what she's meant to say.

For one second she's tempted to just say, "Guilty as charged," so they can take her downstairs and lock her up and throw away the key but then Eve pinches her thigh under the cover of the table and she squeaks, "Not guilty," before she's even realized it.

The judge gives her a malevolent glare as she fidgets and rubs her leg but then no-one's looking at her or even that interested as they talk about her.

She listens to them banging on about this girl called Faith like they're talking about someone else. Eve's good. Like, Wes-lite good. And she plays dirty, pouring on the angst about how her dear old Daddy had a history of physical violence towards his only child and anyway, he's lying dead on a slab somewhere and how she'll be such a comfort to her poor, bereaved mother with the alcohol dependency and the two beans that she can barely rub together.

It'd probably be more help if she didn't have the feeling that Eve and Charles Gunn were fucking like bunnies and that all the snapping and snarling and questions about whether she has a valid passport or a driving license weren't just their wacky, Law and Order version of foreplay.

"What's she going to do?" Eve finally asks, throwing up her hands exasperatedly. "She hasn't even got enough money to buy a ticket for the Greyhound."

"I think the $2000 she stole could buy her plenty of ticket."

"Objection! That's supposition," Eve snarls. "I move that bail be set as low as possible so Faith can be with her family at such a difficult time."

Now she's getting the feeling that the judge really doesn't like her. Probably something to do with the fact that she's wronged a member of the legal profession and she'd bet her last dollar, which is pretty much a moot point, that he's shared a glass of port and some stinky cheese with Wes at a Rotary Club dinner. Which is probably why he gives her a disdainful look like she's just peed on his rug and barks, "Bail set at $5000."

There's more legal mumbo jumbo but she blanks it out and tries to think of a way to make her cell look more homely. Darla could just about scrape together $5 and that would be a stretch, never mind five big ones.

"Faith?" Eve's standing up now and looking at her with one of those sympathetic glances which are beginning to royally get on her nerves. "We can go now."

And she waits just long enough to get out of the door before she's railing on her.

"You promised! You said he'd set it low. How the fuck am I meant to get my hands on $5000? What do you want me to do? Knock off the nearest 7 Eleven?"

Eve is hurrying her down the hall, probably so she can hand her over to the nearest cop and go and fuck her Harvard-trained bastard of a boyfriend in the nearest bathroom stall.

"Faith, you need to calm down before we post bail."

"Are you, like, retarded? I haven't got $5000. The car ain't worth jackshit. So how the fuck am I going to post bail?"

"It's already taken care of," says a voice behind her and she blinks once, twice and then she's rooted to the spot because she can't turn round. Can't even look at him but she can feel him looming behind her and her body's so well-trained, so fucking conditioned that every inch of her is straining to move.

"Mr. Wyndam-Pryce agreed to pay your bail when I spoke to him earlier," Eve admits unwillingly. Then she's side-stepping away and says to Wes: "It's on the condition that she stays in the family home. The judge was really particular about that."

"I don't foresee that being an issue," Wes agrees in a voice that's etched in ice. "However, I don't recall there being any legal precedent that prevents me from driving my… secretary to her former place of residence to pick up a few personal items."

"Well, no… but… it's just this is a very delicate…"

"Good, I didn’t think so."

She's still standing there with her back to him, eyes tightly shut and when she feels his hand on her shoulder, she can't help the shudder that racks her body.

"Wes…"

Chapter Two Hundred and Fifty Two

His hand tightens but it’s slipping away so fast, she’s not sure if she imagined it. She’s looking at Wesley reflected in Eve’s face, seeing Eve’s eyes widen, pink tongue giving a nervous lick to carefully painted lips, seeing her swallow and step back.

Wes must be looking so fucking scary right now and he’s close enough that if she turns and reaches out, she’ll have him in her arms, but somehow she doesn’t think he’ll let that happen.

Eve clears her throat, gives them both a smile that’s more of a grimace and says, “Faith? I’ll be in touch. I have your mother’s phone number and you gave me your cell –”

“Are you done?”

Wesley’s voice is the ultimate in bored impatience and Eve flushes. “Yes. I guess I am.” She gives Faith a ‘what the hell do you see in him?’ kind of look and spins around, high heels clacking as she hurries away, and yeah, she’s headed back to see the judge by the look of it.

Which means she has to turn and look at Wes and it’s the hardest thing imaginable. Kissing Liam’s dead body gets knocked off the top spot just like that. He’s moved back enough that she gets the whole picture and it knocks the breath out of her.

First glance and he’s looking pretty spiffy. Good-looking, well-dressed man, obviously successful, in his element here at the courthouse. But it’s like one of those, ‘what’s wrong with this picture?’ quizzes because as she stares at him, a dozen details leap up and down screaming for attention.

Like the way he’s wearing the suit from yesterday, which would be just about allowable if it wasn’t for the fact it had had hospital coffee spilled on it, thanks to an overly dramatic gesture from a cup-holding Darla.

And same shirt, same tie – which has been loosened and then shoved up and re-tightened over a still unfastened top button.

He’s slept in his clothes. Or not slept at all.

She’s at his tie, but she still hasn’t looked up to his face. When she does, there’s no air left anywhere because put him next to Liam and you’d be hard pressed to decide who looked the most corpse-like. He’s shaved, yes, but not very well. There’s a thin line of dried blood on his neck, and a nick on his chin.

His eyes are the worst. His lips are thinned-out and grim, but his eyes are worse. Empty, like Liam’s. No fight left, no emotion – then she says his name again, whispering it, and they flare to life, burning with an angry distaste, as if he’s looking at something disgusting, something vile, that sends her stumbling back a step.

“I don’t have much time. Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

He’s walking away before she can reply, and following him, once her feet start moving, is straight out of a nightmare, because he’s always just far enough ahead that she can’t catch up, and people are giving her curious looks as she stumbles along the corridors behind him. Guess the fact that she’s crying and looks like shit has something to do with that, but she doesn’t give a fuck what they think.

When she gets to the car park he’s already in his car and the engine’s running. She’s barely seated when he takes off in a screech of rubber that makes her wince. There’s no way she can hold back the tears that are seeping out of her hot, swollen eyes and she gives up and lets them run over her face and drip-splash down. The silence in the car is unbreakable. Every time she even thinks about saying something, her throat closes and she doesn’t think it’ll come out right anyway so she sits and cries and Wes drives like a man with a death-wish and doesn’t say a single, solitary thing.

When she realizes that there’s going to be no proffered crisp handkerchief, she opens her purse and drags out a crumpled tissue that’s about as much use as a postage stamp would have been, but at least she’s able to blow her nose. Her head’s aching; there’s a steady throb of pain pressing against her eyes, and she’s starving and nauseous and grubby. She sees her cigarettes in there too and wants one so desperately she’s biting her lip not to ask him to pull over, let her get out, but she’s not stupid.

Well, yes, she is. But not that stupid.

The silence starts to hurt her ears and she’s made up her mind to break it and fuck the consequences, because she can’t stand it, not one more fucking second of it, but they’re – no. Not home. They’re at Wesley’s house and she doesn’t waste time waiting for him to come around and open the car door for her.

In the day that she’s been gone, it’s as subtly changed as he is. The air’s stale and, no surprise, there’s an empty bottle of whiskey on the counter, alcohol competing with the acrid smell of over-heated coffee because when he left, he forgot to switch off the coffeemaker and it’s busy turning an inch of coffee into sludge.

She walks over and flicks the switch to ‘off’ and he turns on her with a savage, “Leave it.” She has the feeling that when he gets chance, he’s gonna have to scrub the switch with bleach, or maybe just toss the whole thing out now she’s contaminated it, and she feels anger stir in her, because fuck it it’s been a hell of a twenty-four hours and if he’d just yell at her she’d know where they were...

“Wesley, look,” she begins, and she’s not going to say something lame like, ‘I can explain everything’ but she doesn’t get the chance to say anything because he steps back and nods towards the stairs.

“I’d like you to go to your room,” he says and he’s got his voice back under control again.

The walk over to him is six steps and halfway there she looks at him and she can’t look away. He’s giving her this indifferent stare, but there’s a tension to his jaw and his hands, hanging by his side, are shaking slightly.

When she gets level with him, she pauses and he freezes her with a glance. “To your room,” he says, separating each word and making it pretty fucking clear he’s off limits.

She walks up the stairs and makes sure she doesn’t rest her hand on the banister rail. Be a shame if he had to, like, burn it, or something.

And she knows this anger she’s whipping up is false comfort; that it’s giving her a warmth as transient as the flickering flames that licked around the paper she used to burn, but without it she’s got nothing and she takes strength from it until she gets to her room and sees the open suitcase on the bed.

He couldn’t have known the judge would make her leave, but he’s all ready to send her packing and that’s just so fucking hurtful.

She turns and stares at him. “Wesley – this is just until this gets sorted out, right? I can come back afterwards –”

He gives her an incredulous look as if she’s just asked him to pledge allegiance to the flag, or something. “I really don’t think so, do you?”

And that’s all she needs, because he’s talking, he’s said something, and the words flood out of her, the way the tears did.

“Wes, God, Wes, I’ve been wanting to tell you, I was going to tell you, I swear it –”

He walks past her to the chest-of-drawers and pulls out the top drawer. As she watches, he scoops up an armful of lace and satin and turns towards the bed and the waiting suitcase.

“You don’t know how hard it’s been not to say; what I’ve gone through.”

No. That sounds like whining. Wes hates it when she whines. He’s dumped her stuff in the suitcase, unfolded, and he’s on the second drawer now and it’s as if he’s alone in the room. She tries to get between him and the suitcase but he looks through her, standing with his hands full of T-shirts, waiting for her to move. Which she does because he’s looking, well, fucking unpredictable what with the grim, thin lips and the wild eyes.

“Look, ignoring me like this isn’t fair, Wes. It isn’t fucking fair.” And the hell with not whining, that’s her fucking new life he’s dismantling as he goes back and forth like a fucking robot, clearing out drawers and closet as if he’s been programmed to get rid of every trace of her.

He sweeps her dress, her pretty plum-colored dress, off its hanger and forms it into a tight ball, before throwing it contemptuously across the room so that it lands on the heap of clothing and then slides, crumpled, to the floor. It’s too much. She’s not used to silent fights like this and it’s unnerving her, scaring her – With an inarticulate moan, she goes over to him, grabbing at his arms and finding the strength to hold him in place. He won’t look at her; just stares over her shoulder, his eyes remote again.

“Wesley, listen. Please?” She’ll beg him if she has to, but she’ll save that for later, the last resort because something’s telling her this isn’t the time to appeal to anything but the lawyer. The Wesley who loves her isn’t anywhere and she doesn’t know where to start looking.

“I took the checks – took them and gave them to Liam.” He doesn’t react to that. Well, she guesses he’s worked that out... “But you don’t know why. He’d got – he’d taken, oh fuck, Wes, he’d –”

His hand comes up and he touches her for the first time since they came into the house, shoving her away so hard she’s only saved from falling by the wall at her back. As she stares at him, he reaches into his jacket and pulls out some photographs.

With the same flick of the wrist he’d used with her dress, he throws them at her and she watches them spin through the air, flashing in front of her horrified eyes and falling in slow-motion to the floor.

“I know.” Wesley’s lips peel back in a smile. “Such a pity he died before I had chance to compliment him on his efforts.”

“You –”

She can’t form the question, but he answers it anyway, and he must’ve wanted to talk because he’s spitting out words as if they’ve been piling up behind his gritted teeth and he can’t get them out fast enough.

“Found them, yes. In his effects. Stole them, but I don’t think that’s really an issue is it?” He’s still smiling. “His clothes were handed to me as I was leaving the hospital, after a rather disturbing phone call from the police. I thought it best to go through them, and no one objected. Why should they?” He tilts his head and stares at her. “So much you think I don’t know, that I do; so much I know, you don’t. It’s rather amusing, really.”

And he’s not making any fucking sense here, or maybe it’s just that she can’t think straight, and he’s walking over to her and slamming his hands against the wall on either side of her head so that she can’t move, can’t escape, and he’s telling her things, terrible things.

“- tried to cash it, but too impatient, too greedy. The bank wouldn’t do it, called me. You remember that day, don’t you, Faith? You looked so relieved when I lied to you; did I look like that, too? When I asked if all was well and you said, ‘Yes’, when I asked if there was anything you wanted to tell me and you said, ‘No’? Did I?” His voice is getting more intense with every word but he’s barely talking above a whisper. “You never really trusted me, did you? Wise of you perhaps in some things, but this? Oh, you stupid, silly little girl...” His eyes are gleaming now and he starts to laugh, a hollow, scary fucking giggle that’s killing her to hear. “I could have dealt with him; did you really think I couldn’t?”

“Not just him,” she whispers. “Lilah. She was involved too...” And for a second she thinks she’s reached him, because he stops laughing and steps back, but it’s not going to be that easy.

He gives her a cold implacable glare and nods at the scattered photographs. “Pick them up.”

And as she goes to her knees, fingers reaching out blindly because she can’t bear to look at what she’s touching, she hears her suitcase snap closed.


Chapter Two Hundred and Fifty Three

Her hands are full of shiny paper and she can't look at the Faith and Wes captured in all their sordid glory because she's going to be sick if she does. Gonna lean over and throw up the bile she can feel gurgling in her stomach. Because they were happy then and it was all a lie. He wouldn't… he couldn't be like this, so hateful, so fucking unwilling to do anything to save them if he really loved her.

She raises her head and forces herself to look at him but his face is a death mask and he's yanking the suitcase off the bed with this savage jerky movement so unlike his usual grace.

"Get downstairs now," he spits at her, kicking the closed door with one foot so it swings free and smashes against the door-frame.

It makes her wince and then she can't move, just stares at the nap in the carpet and wishes that the ringing in her ears would stop. Doesn't even hear him reach her side with angry strides, until the cruel bite of his fingers presses down on her upper arm and he's hauling her to her feet.

"I said, get downstairs," he hisses and he's yanking her so fast and furiously that she doesn't think she touches the ground as he keeps her in a grip so tight that it's going to leave bruises and as he negotiates the stairs in a tearing hurry she's knocking into the banisters with every step.

She stumbles down the last two stairs, jarring her ankle with a pained little cry, which makes him pull her upright and then drag her down the corridor to the kitchen.

Her purse is where she left it on the kitchen table and he lets her go, quickly, like she's got a terminal case of cooties and is upending her bag and spilling out the contents before she has time to stop and marvel at what the fuck he's doing.

"Wes…?” Her voice is high-pitched and quavery like she's aged 60 years over night.

He ignores her. Too busy rifling through old receipts, bits of make-up, until he finds what he's looking for and opens up her savings book.

"You made a withdrawal for $731.27 on April 21st," he says flatly. "Did you give him the money?"

"Yeah, but…"

He's leafing back through the book, which details every deposit of birthday money, Christmas money and the monthly twenty dollars or so that she used to get from her Grandmother.

"And so you gave him the rather paltry amount that was your life savings. How very touching," he sneers but he seems calmer. Calm enough that she approaches him warily because he's still scaring the fuck out of her.

"Look, Wes, see I tried…. I thought I could fix it…" she begins, hands stretched out in front of her in this fatal gesture of pleading.

"21st April," he repeats. "Four weeks ago. So you've been lying to me for four weeks. I never credited you with being such a skilled actress."

And she decides quickly that the calm is just a façade and he's slowly and carefully working up to the next explosion, which comes when his hands curl around a tatty scrap of yellow paper.

"Ah, no, my mistake," he says smoothly, way too smoothly for her liking, when he's holding the ticket from the pawn shop aloft like it's some kind of Holy Grail. "19th April, when you sold the watch I bought you for a mere fraction of what I originally paid for it. Really, Faith, they must have seen you coming a mile away."

"I'm sorry," she mumbles helplessly because no other words seem able to cover it and even the ones she's chosen seem woefully inadequate.

He bares his teeth in a parody of a smile. "Well, at least I can rest assured that you weren't actually a willing accomplice. Funny how that doesn't actually offer much comfort."

She shakes her head incredulously, unable to believe what she's hearing. "How could you think that I'd do that to you? That any of this was what I wanted? C'mon Wes, please…"

"It's really rather amusing," he continues in this dull voice like he doesn't think it’s any such thing. "That you could credit me with such little intelligence. I knew you didn't have the watch and I actually imagined that you'd lost it and because it meant so much to you, you refrained from confessing."

"It did mean a lot to me! I didn't want to sell it but he said that him and Lilah, that there was an affidavit that he'd sign saying that you'd been fucking me when I was a minor and I panicked…" The words are spilling out and she's trying to hold them back so they're not this frenzy of incoherence. "I wanted to tell you, Wes. Honestly! And it just got harder and harder because I kept leaving it and then there was all this stuff between us and I guess I just thought I could hold him off until we left town… I was trying to protect you!"

And she thinks this is a good sign. That he's letting her try to explain and if he'd just lift his head from the debris from her purse and look at her, really look at her, he'll know.

But her words are bouncing off him like water on oilskin and he holds up a crumpled photo that she'd shoved into a side pocket, smoothes it out so she can see them curled up on his chair, kissing. "Well, I can see why you had such a sentimental attachment to this little snapshot. And they say, the camera never lies…"

Suddenly there isn't a table between them because she's skidded across the floor so she can grab the photo from him, curl her arms round her scattered possessions. "Stop it! Stop going through my stuff and stop saying things 'cause you're fucking angry and you want to hurt me!"

"And right on cue we have the histrionics," he comments in a bored voice, snatching the photo back and holding it away from her grasping hands, staring at it like he's only read about it in books.

"I'm warning you, Wes," she tells him tearfully, trying to choke back the sobs as he evades all her attempts to get the photo back. "You say stuff and then you can't take it back. Not ever!"

His hand is back on her shoulder so he can keep her at arm's length but then he moves quickly, kicking out a chair and shoving her down on it.

"Who's seen the photos?" he barks at her, pulling the chair sideways and resting his hands on the back so she can't get away from him, can't look anywhere but the blazing blue of his eyes as he glares contemptuously at her.

"I don't know." And it's true. She really doesn't know anything when he's looking at her like he wishes she'd dig a hole and crawl into it.

"Who's seen the photos?"

"My da… Liam." Her hand brushes his arm as she reaches up to massage her throbbing temples and he flinches away. "That Peter Harper guy, he was in the bar and… I don't know, maybe Lilah."

"Lilah." He rolls her name round on his tongue with a sour expression. "Well, the redoubtable Ms Morgan is easy enough to deal with if she wants to keep her license."

And he says it with such bitter satisfaction that even though the view from where she's sitting is making her head spin and her stomach roll with wave after wave of big, sick-making fear, she's glad, at least, that she's not his ex-wife.

Then as suddenly as if someone's flicked a switch, he lets go of the chair and walks round the table so he can sit down.

"Peter Harper," he says thoughtfully and his whole bearing has changed. He's still taut but it's the kind of tension she's seen before when he's wrangling over a particularly thorny legal point, and with his attention not fixed on her, she lets herself take a few ragged breaths.

"Has anyone asked you about the photos? Have they come up at all?"

"N-no. They're more interested in making out, like, I'm some kind of criminal mastermind," she says and then she smiles because he's smiling and she can't help it.

"How very misguided of them," he says pleasantly and there's a dig in there somewhere but she lets it go. "Carry on."

"Well, he's said that it was mine and Dad's idea and that… that… I was using you to get the money," she adds unwillingly. "And you know that's not true, Wes. You know that, right? I wouldn't do that to you."

"It's really rather Kafkaesque," he mutters to himself. "I imagine Mr. Harper's hesitation in mentioning them to the police stems from his willingness to implicate you as some dime store Lolita…"

"Hey, I'm not…"

"Shut up, Faith!" he snarls at her, slamming his hand down on the table so she cowers back.

"Thank you," he adds politely. "I really can't think straight with your incessant bleating. Now, there's always the possibility that you could have been a willing party to the photos, but then they'd add conspiracy to blackmail to his charge sheet, which I'm sure he doesn't want. I suppose it's a low enough risk that we needn't concern ourselves with it. Now has Eve given you any indications as to where her defence strategy may lie?"

He's gone to this other place. She can see his mind whirring, shifting into gear and sifting through any one of a number of possibilities so he's not even looking at her as anything other than a case that needs to be solved, filed away in one of the manila folders and tied with a pretty, pink ribbon.

"She asked me about my dad, whether he forced me to go along with it… like if he threatened me," she supplies shakily.

"That's very good," he says, warmly enough that it penetrates the deep freeze of her stiff limbs. "Now what aren’t you telling me?"

It's just as well she's not a spy. 'Cause they wouldn’t even have to use electrodes or any of the other stuff she's seen on Alias. Nope. All they'd have to do is wheel in Wes and get him to drop his voice a couple of octaves and stare at her like she's the center of his universe.

"She pulled up… I was on the Child Protection Register," she admits unwillingly. "When I was younger. I broke a couple of ribs… there was this thing, this fight and Mom had to take me to hospital and she… I mean, Eve, she said that if he'd threatened to hurt me unless I went along with it, that it might help."

"How fortuitous then that I called the police that night your devoted father made us a visit." He grins so the sleepless night slips away from his face and he's leaning towards her eagerly. "Now this is what your story's going to be. You need to listen very carefully, Faith…"

It must take an hour for him to perfect this bogus version of events about Liam beating the shit out of her and promising to burn the house down to the ground, with Darla and her in it, unless she stole the checks.

She feels like she's already in court, sworn on the bible and all that shit as he grills her again and again. Even letting her have a glass of water and a cigarette to keep her flagging energy levels up, while he relentlessly prods and probes until he's convinced that she's not going to fuck up.

"I think that covers every eventuality," he sighs finally, by which time she's almost managed to convince herself that it really did happen just the way he said.

Her hand creeps out to the cigarette packet and she snakes another one out and quickly lights it before he can protest.

This silence has settled over them. He's sitting there with his head in his hands and she's smoking the cigarette right down in long, nervous inhalations until she can't bear it.

"I wish I'd told you before, Wes," she says quickly. "I knew you'd have an answer but I didn't want you to have to get involved and then it was too late. It was all messed up and I couldn't un-mess it, y'know."

He lifts his head slowly like he's only just remembered that she' s still there. Her heart sinks as she sees the almost murderous anger flashing back in his eyes. But his voice is steady and cool. "Let's not labor under any illusions, Faith," he drawls. "My main priority in this whole sordid little affair is salvaging my own reputation and ensuring that nothing jeopardizes my new job. I'm sure you'd agree with me when I say that I want nothing more than to escape this hideous little town."

She's nodding frantically, clinging on to what he's saying. "Yeah, yeah. I know what you mean. And when we’re in New York, I'm gonna make it up to you."

And she's so fucking stupid. Even more stupid than she thought. Because she walked right into this one because he's smirking and moving in for the kill as he delivers the punchline. "You really must be more delusional than I imagined if you think that I ever want to see you again," he says, making each word count, each word hit her like a bullet. "I'm very sorry, Faith, but you're going to have to find yourself another meal ticket. It shouldn't be hard. After all, a girl with your not inconsiderable talents shouldn't have any trouble making ends meet."

"What the fuck did you just say?"

"It was my poetic way of calling you a whore," he explains with a casual wave of his hand. "But then overestimating your intelligence has been a recurring theme of late, hasn't it?"

They both move at the same time, a stereophonic crashing of chairs on to the floor because she's gonna fucking kill him and it seems like he had much the same idea because as her hands strike out ready to claw at his eyes, smash the smug smile off his face, his hands are already pinning her arms still so he can shake her so hard that she swears her teeth rattle.

"I'm sorry, do you have a problem with that?" he's screaming into her furious face, leaving tiny droplets of spittle sticking to her skin. "A month, Faith! A fucking month of being in my house, my life, my bed and lying to me every second of every day."

"Fuck you, you fucking prick!" She's trying to wrench herself out of his death grip, kicking at his shins. "I did it because I loved you. Made myself fucking ill over it and all you can do is call me a whore. Well, if I was a whore, then you fucking loved it!"

"And were you lying then? When you let me fuck you, have your arse, have you anywhere and anyway I wanted? And even that wasn't enough, was it, you malicious little bitch? Did you find it funny, Faith, just how easy it was to get me to bare my soul, to trust you with my secrets?"

And really it's not that surprising that it's her betrayal that's hurt him the most. Not the money she took but the tiny pieces of his heart that he let her see.

So she's not trying to get at him now. Not like that. Her arms flail uselessly in his grasp and all she can do is stretch out her hands so she can touch him. "Wes, God, no, Wes… It wasn't like that…"

But he's gone to this place where she can't touch him. He can only touch her with hands so cruel that her bones are threatening to give way under the savage strength of his fingers. "Really, Faith, if I'd known you were only in it for the money, there's any number of perversions we could have tried," he tells her quietly, whispering the words in her ear so it makes a mockery of all the other things he whispered to her in the dark of the night when she was the only person who mattered to him. "I wonder what you'd have let me get away with to assuage your guilt. It's a pity that we never explored some of my wilder fantasies, maybe called a discreet little agency I know and you could have picked up some tips from one of your colleagues…"

He's too busy cutting into her to notice that she's worked one of her hands free. But he notices it plenty when she manages to punch him in the face, the ferocity of the blow not lessened by the fact that she's backed up against the sink and can hardly move. But then he's got both hands clutched to his face and she can twist out from under him so she can beat her fists against his back.

"You're a fucking pervert! I'm 18!" Like, that's some newsflash. "I'm fucking 18, you bastard. I bet you loved that, didn't you? That you’d found some dumb little girl who'd let you play all your fucking, sick games. Dressing me up, hitting me, not allowed to move, not allowed to speak, because it's the only way you can fucking get it up!"

There's this red mist clouding over her vision so she doesn’t even see that he's straightened up, just feels the flat of his hand striking her cheek so hard that she's knocked off balance, careering into one of the over-turned chairs and falling face down on the floor.

It shocks them both into silence. She lies there for a moment, the cool lino under her hands and then tentatively puts her weight on them, bites back a moan at the shooting pain in her wrist, and pushes herself up on to her knees.

"Faith," he croaks out and she can’t even look at him because she told him, she fucking told him about things you say that you can't take back. "Faith, for God's sake…"

But she's crawling over to her cheap suitcase, awkwardly snapping open the lock with one hand and starts pulling out all the pretty things he bought her.

"It was never about the money," she says and she doesn't know why she's even bothering because it doesn't matter any more. Instead she concentrates on making a neat little pile of clothes on the floor, the pink shoes resting on top. Then she hauls herself up, with one hand clutching the table and sweeps the contents of her purse into the open case. "Maybe you could sell this stuff to replace some of the money I owe you."

She forces herself to look at him and he's standing there with one eye reddening up beautifully, his arms hanging limp by his sides like he's forgotten how to use his body. He looks so lost and frightened and she starts crying because she never thought, in all her worse case scenarios, that they'd get this broken.

"Are you hurt?"

"More than you'll ever know."

"I'm so sorry."

"It's not enough."

"Which just means we weren't enough."

And this whole stilted conversation is like a reversible jacket because when it comes down to it, they've both hurt each other too much to keep throwing accusations and punches at each other.

It ends with them sitting at opposite ends of the table, ice packs clutching bruised flesh that doesn't hurt half as much as the wounds that can't be seen, while they wait for the cab that will take her down the hill, back to the wrong side of the wrong side of town and as far away from him as possible.

By the time they hear the tooting of a car horn, her head's ready to burst. She scrambles to her feet and picks up her case in her uninjured hand.

"I'll walk you to the door," he says softly, like she's just another client who's come to him for legal advice.

"'Kay."

And when they get into the hall, she wants to say something that's really deep and profound so that when he thinks of her in the future, he remembers it, rather than all the shit she's dragged him through. Wants to touch him and move him with her words so he thinks about her every day for the rest of his life.

"This really sucks, Wes," is all she manages to come up with and he smiles faintly.

"Yes, it really does." Then he grimaces like he hates that she can still charm him and his face tightens up as he picks an envelope up off the hall table.

"I've paid you up until the end of the month," he says with the permafrost back in his voice. "I'm sure you'll appreciate that under the circumstances I can't give you a reference."

She stares at him for a minute, her mouth gaping open until she shuts it with an audible snap and calmly takes the envelope from him. Girl's got her pride, yeah, but a girl's also got nothing to live on until she finds another job.

It's so pathetic that it's not even true, but as the cab drives her back into town, she's fiercely glad that once she was out of the door, she never turned around to steal one last look at him.

Chapter Two Hundred and Fifty Four

Wesley’s taken care of the cab fare and so when it draws up outside her house she’s got nothing to do but walk to the door, with the handle of her case biting into her palm and a million eyes burning holes in her back as the neighbors peek from behind pulled-back curtains.

Because she’s back, tail between her legs, just like they all expected. Just like they all wanted, because they’ve been saying she was worthless for so long, it wouldn’t do for her to prove them wrong, now would it?

She keeps her head up high, shoulders back, and, yeah, thanks for the lectures, Wes, because she’s not slouching. No fucking way.

Then the door closes behind her and she slides to the floor and she can’t move another step.

The house is silent and she guesses there’s too much fun being had gossiping to waste time on comforting Darla. Oh, they’ll have come in droves yesterday, drawn by not one, but two scandals, but today Darla’s being left to deal with her loss alone.

And when she appears in the doorway of the front room, a glass in her hand, fingers curled protectively, automatically around a brimming glass of vodka, Faith sees just how she’s dealing.

Guess they’ve both lost their second chances.

“He threw you out, didn’t he?” Darla asks, not unkindly.

“They made him,” she says, stumbling over the half-truth. “The court. Said I had to-” The suitcase pressing hard against her knee makes the lie impossible. “Yeah. He kicked me out.”

“Oh, honey...” And if Darla offers her some home-spun wisdom, some cliché straight out of the pages of one of the magazines she reads so earnestly, she’ll give in to the need to scream and hammer her fists against something she can break, she’ll take matches and burn, baby, burn until the world’s in ashes.

But Darla, for once, just cuts to the heart of it. “He’s a bastard and you deserve better, Faith. Come and have a drink with me and the hell with the lot of them.”

And she turns and sways back into the living room, a procession of one, and Faith shrugs, gets up, and follows her.

“Seems quiet around here,” she says, after she’s poured herself a vodka and topped it up with week-old flat coke because no way is she ever drinking vodka milkshakes again.

Darla snorts. “Threw the whole lot of them out the door,” she says.

“Why?”

Darla gives her a side-long look and then goes with the truth. “They were bad-mouthing you, honey. Wasn’t having that, so I set them straight.” She gives an emphatic nod and Faith gapes at her in shock.

Not because, for the first time ever, Darla’s stuck up for her instead of being the one moaning about what a worthless daughter she’s got, though the tiny flicker of warmth she gets from that’s pretty welcome. No; she’s realizing that when Wes asked her who’d seen the pictures, she’d told him the literal truth, but if he’d phrased it just a little bit differently, if he’d asked her who knew about them, she’d have had to add Darla and Xander to the list.

She tries to think of his reaction to that and cringes.

“Mom – when you say you set them straight, you didn’t – oh fuck, what did you say?”

And the small bit of comfort from coming home to a welcome of any kind evaporates as she pictures Darla telling them all about Wes’ little ways and – oh God. “Mom? Please? Tell me exactly what you said?”

“You sound like him,” Darla sniffs. “Always with the questions. I didn’t tell them about – you know – the photographs.” She sighs and takes a long gulp from her glass. “That’d reflect badly on your father and I wasn’t having them start in on him, as well.”

Why the hell not? she wants to yell, but she keeps it buttoned. She knows Darla when she’s like this. Volatile doesn’t come close to describing her.

“No, I just told them that he was no better than he should be, for all his airs and graces, and that you were well rid of him.”

“You mustn’t – ever- say anything about the photographs,” she says urgently. “Darla – Mom – are you listening? Not ever, to anyone. It gets out and –” She can’t find words to describe how bad it’ll be and she starts to cry. “Mom, promise me, swear on Dad’s grave, you won’t!”

“He’s not buried yet,” Darla points out, sounding, for a moment, so totally sober, sane and reasonable that it dries Faith’s tears. They stare at each other and start to laugh, tiny giggles that build and swell until they’re both in tears again, helpless and spluttering at a joke that wasn’t funny to start with and isn’t now, but they can’t fucking help it.

And they just have to toast getting the laughter under control, and from there it’s an easy step to getting drunk, or, in Darla’s case, even drunker.

“You fell in love with Liam when you met him, didn’t you?” Faith asks. “Sixteen and you knew...”

“Oh lord, you should’ve seen him! You’d have fallen for him yourself, Faith.”

“Really fucking wouldn’t,” Faith says, trying to swallow without lifting her head off the cushion and missing her mouth entirely. “Because, eww.”

“Language,” her mother says automatically. “That’s no way to speak of your father.”

“What; I should say I’d want to fuck him instead?” Faith shakes her head. “I’ve seen the yearbook; I know he was a hunk. Just hard to remember that when all he ever did was treat me like shit.”

“He wanted a son,” Darla says. “When I couldn’t – after you I just wasn’t able – it changed him. A man wants a son.”

“He wouldn’t have wanted one like Xander,” she says bitterly, remembering the all-mighty row when Liam found out Xander was gay and wanted to ban him from the house – like Xander would’ve set foot in it after Liam had called him a faggot right in front of Mrs Harris. “And he wouldn’t have wanted one who grew up strong enough to tell him what a fucking asshole he was. He just liked the idea of it, that’s all.”

“Maybe,” Darla sighs. “But for all his faults, he was the only one for me.”

And that’s kinda scary, because if like mother, like daughter holds true then she’s met the only man she’ll ever love; met him and lost him in a few short months, and at 18, that’s got to be depressing.

So she drinks to her life being ruined and somehow, the few gulps send her into a comfortable haze where she can see just how it’s going to be; how Wes will calm down and see that she’s been a fucking heroine, trying to save him, how he’ll be –

“Overcome with remorse,” she whispers thickly. “Yeah...”

“What’s that?” Darla asks.

“Wes. He’s gonna realize what a slime he’s been – no, not a slime, because, yeah, he got fucked and he’s got every right to be mad, but he’s gonna come here, right here, an, and, he’s going to knock on the door, and there’ll be flowers and shit and he’ll tell me he –”

“-loves you, and it’ll never happen again, and, oh Faith, don’t do it. Don’t be like me.” And Darla’s struggling up out of her chair and coming to sit beside her on the couch, smoothing Faith’s hair back off her face. “See this bruise?” A lacquered nail taps against her cheek. “Want to know how many Liam gave me? No; you don’t know about all of them. I had plenty. You think he won’t do it again? Think again. Better yet, don’t give him the chance.”

“I hit him first,” she whispers.

“And why did you do that?”

She closes her eyes. “He called me a whore,” she admits.

“And you slapped him?”

“No. I punched him so hard his eye was black before I left,” she says, and there’s a bit of pride in the admission.

Darla reaches over and grabs a cigarette and times the first long exhalation with a terse, “Next time go for his balls, honey. Then he won’t be in any fit state to hit you back.”

“I don’t want to hurt him again, Mom.” She’s weeping now, the comforting pretense that it’ll all be fine torn from her, because nothing could make it right, not ever. “I want him back, I want Wes. I can’t do it without him, any of it. I want Wes.”

And there’s nothing left but disbelieving grief and despair because she had him, two days ago, she had him, Wes, her Wes, had him curled up beside her, touching her face with gentle hands, kissing, yes, kissing just where his hand had struck her, she’s sure he did. Had him caring, had him loving her.

Then she remembers that since Thursday he’s known that Liam was caught trying to cash one of his checks and she’s sitting up and hurling her drink across the room because damn, he’s such a sneaky fucking bastard.

“Faith –”

“No! I can’t stand this! I don’t know what happened, but he lied to me, too. He’s known for days, for fucking days and not said anything...”

And the lamp in the corner’s a twin of the one in the hotel room he took her to and she can hear him whispering to her –

"Is there something you want to tell me, Faith?"

"Is there something you need to tell me?"

"I want you to tell me if there's anything I should know."

Three times. Three fucking times. And just how many chances do you get?

Chapter Two Hundred and Fifty Five

But that’s like a complicated zen koan that could take an entire lifetime to parse out. And anyway, she’s starting to get too pleasantly drunk to contemplate anything really so she just pours herself some more vodka and settles back down on the couch.

Darla puts her arm around her and keeps smoothing her hair back in this calming, very regular motion. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. For everything.”

Faith doesn’t say anything, just rests her head on Darla’s shoulder, something she hasn’t done for years. Longer than she can remember, anyway. She’s not sure when they became mother and daughter again, but it’s welcome, and needed, because God knows how she’d make it through this day and the next without Darla’s support, however drunken it may be. Between that and the vodka banishing the bad thoughts and easing the knot in her stomach, she finds herself drifting off to sleep —the first real, satisfying sleep she’s had in days.

She’s awakened by the doorbell. She has no idea how long she’s been out, but dark has already settled over the room. For a brief moment she’s completely disoriented —thinks she’s in Wes’ house with the curtains drawn, that she’ll roll over and throw her arm out and he’ll be there. But as her eyes adjust to the light she can see Darla still asleep next to her, fingers curled around a nearly-empty glass which is tipping alarmingly. Faith intercepts it, places it lightly on the coffee table so as not to wake her. The doorbell rings again, and it’s all she can do not to snarl, “Fuck off!” in the general direction of the door. Whoever it is, she doesn’t want to see them. Unless it’s Wes with a look of contrition and a dozen fucking roses but she might as well wish for a fucking pony while she’s at it.

She hauls herself unsteadily to her feet, feeling the twinge in her wrist as she puts her weight on it. “Fuck,” she mutters under her breath, and when she looks down she can tell it looks swollen up. Nothing she can do about it now so she just keeps moving towards the door, feeling uncannily like she’s swimming through quicksand. Her head is already pounding and hadn’t she made a solemn vow to never drink vodka again? ‘Cause now would be a perfect time to renew that one in perpetuity.

She makes it there, finally, and when she peeks through the little peephole, she sees Xander standing there with a bouquet of flowers and a worried expression.

She opens the door and greets Xander with a buoyant hello that has forced cheer written all over it. He peers carefully at her, taking in the mark on her cheek and her unsteady gait.

“Have you been drinking?”

She rolls her eyes, then looks away, a little guiltily. “Well, Darla started it.”

Xander’s look of worry deepens. It’s not an expression she’s used to seeing happy-go-lucky Xander wear too often, this mix of concern and protectiveness, and in her fragile state she almost can’t bear it. “That makes it even worse, Faith.”

“Xander, it’s okay. It’s, like, a temporary thing. She’s having a little lapse.” She waves her hand dismissively, trying to keep things light or she’s going to have a serious meltdown. “We’re all having a little lapse. It’s the fucking season for it.”

“I think I should take you upstairs, Faith…” He starts to guide her towards the stairs but she’s resistant.

“Don’t want to go upstairs. I know!” she says brightly. “We should go out. Let’s get out of here, Xander.” Her voice is shrill and a little desperate.

“Upstairs,” he says with greater conviction and she finds herself being ushered up to her room.

It’s chaos up there —she hasn’t had the heart to unpack anything so her clothes are just strewn on the floor, her posters rolled and propped against the wall. Xander sits her down on the bed and sprawls out next to her. He fishes a cigarette out of his shirt pocket and gets another for her. He lights them both before passing one over to her. She inhales the smoke with incredible single-mindedness, like it’s the last cigarette on earth.

“Tell me what happened.”

“Don’t wanna talk about it, Xander.” She practically exhales a plume of smoke in his face.

He frowns. “Sweetie, you can tell me anything you want to tell me. I can’t make you.” He nudges her shoulder with his and gives her his most ingratiating smile. “But you know I’m here for you, right? And I’ll sit here chain-smoking away until you’re ready.”

She looks at him imploringly. Like she’s torn between silence and letting the whole awful story spill out unheeded.

He looks over to her. “I know, Faith. I know. I mean, I didn’t like him but I know how much you loved—“

“Not loved.” She sighs heavily, takes another drag. Lets her head rest heavily on Xander’s shoulder, because her body feels heavy and she doesn’t have any energy left. Everything is such a chore all of a sudden.

Xander runs his finger lightly along the mark on her cheek. “This is new. He hit you, didn’t he? And I don’t mean that in a fun kinky way either.”

She shrugs. “Yeah, well, I hit him first.” The cigarette is sobering her up, fast, and she’s starting to remember everything again with an awful kind of clarity. The knot in her stomach is back.

Xander looks shocked, but covers it well. “You did? I mean, you did. Should have gone for the balls. Much more direct.”

She can’t help but laugh. “That’s what Darla said.”

“I’d love to fucking kick his ass.”

“Don’t be stupid and macho, Xander. And anyway, you’re not the white knight. You’re like the—“ She screws up her face in concentration, then winces. “Court jester?”

“Thanks a fucking lot, Faith. I’m also an expert at inserting my foot into my mouth. It goes over really well at parties.” He takes her hand. “Faith, you know I’m just trying to help, in my own confused, clumsy, but hopefully charming way?”

“I know, I know. I’m just… I don’t mean to take it out on you but I’m really fucked up right now.”

“I was totally serious about kicking his ass.”

“And again, I have to say—no. Your heart’s in the right place, but that’s not going to do anyone any good. Besides, I think he’s hurting enough right now. That, and I did give him a pretty good shiner.”

“I still say you should have gone for the balls.”

“Xander.”

“What? Just offering you some friendly, completely unbiased advice.”

“Uh-huh. Unbiased my ass.”

“I just wanted you to be happy with him. I didn’t mean to be such a fucking jerk about it, but again, I seem to have an uncanny knack.” He looks her right in the eyes, totally serious for once. “Believe me when I tell you that I didn’t want it to end like this. Never.”

She stubs out the cigarette in the overflowing ashtray and sighs into his chest. “What am I gonna do, Xander? Everything’s so fucking wrong. I don’t even know where to start fixing it.”

By way of response, he just wraps his arms around her and lets her unburden herself.

Chapter Two Hundred and Fifty Six

She's never cried that hard, not ever. Not even the time that Liam ran over her new bike with his rusty, beat up Crown Vic; not any of the times stupid Buffy Summers had mocked her, tripped her in the halls, tipped her lunch tray to the floor with a cruel laugh. No, Wes was hers -- he wasn't part of the cast of people fate or destiny or whatever had pre-assigned to her life. She'd found him, she'd made him her very own, and yeah, it's cheap and clichéd but there's a big aching hole in her heart she knows will never be filled by anyone else. She knows she's gone beyond hysterical, running through all these thoughts, but she kind of doesn't care. It feels good to get it out and Xander's a freakin' prince, really. He doesn't complain that she's snotting all over one of his favorite shirts or anything – 'cause she totally is.

When her sobs decline to intermittent sniffles and finally silence, she worms her way out of his arms and starts picking fiercely at a hangnail, ripping it so far past the quick that blood starts to seep out from her torn flesh. He grabs her wrists, pulling her hands apart, and that turns her stomach to ice because no one's ever done that but Wes, and the sense memory is almost too much to process when it's Xander's hands and not his. She yanks her hands away with a glare, leaving poor Xander completely befuddled.

“Hey, I know you're completely devastated that your life's turned into a plot of a cheap melodrama, but self-mutilation is not the way to go, Faith.”

That brings on a whole new slew of tears, the laughing-but-not-laughing, choking kind as she watches the trickle of blood start to coagulate before she sticks her finger in her mouth, sucking the wound -- the blood tart and metallic on her tongue, the ripped skin stinging with a nagging, tingling throb.

“So, how about we order a pizza before you develop an unhealthy appetite for blood?” Xander says, his glibness unable to hide that he has no idea what to do for her, but hey, food's always a good start.



They'd tucked the groggy and still mostly drunk Darla to bed before the delivery guy arrived so they could take over the living room. Since then, they've decimated half the molten, cheesy pizza, with MTV2 on in the background, in silence.

“Oh for fuck's sake!” Finally getting some decent, if cheap, food in her stomach is helping the whole thought process thing go a little more smoothly – too smoothly in fact.

Xander carefully finishes chewing a mouthful of pizza. “What?”

“The funeral.” By the way his mouth gapes in a weird combination of shock and astonishment, she can tell he'd kind of forgotten about that pesky little detail too. “Is anyone planning my goddamn father's funeral?”

“Uh, looks like that might be you, Faithy.” And he looks genuinely sorry about it too.

“Yeah. Well, I guess that's something to keep my mind off the fact that I'm going on trial for embezzlement and that my fucking gourmand of a boyfriend would rather eat a whole bag of Doritos and drink a six-pack of Bud Light than ever see me again.”

“Should I be worried that you just used an SAT word as an insult? Maybe it's best it's over between you guys, 'cause your vocabulary's kind of creepy now.”

And yeah, at that moment, she's really glad Xander's back on her side. Just to make sure he knows it, she punches him playfully in the arm and calls him a dick.



Turns out she doesn't even have to call up the morgue and see what the deal was with Liam's body – the phone rings at 8:15 on the dot and it's the coroner's office, asking if any arrangements have been made for transport to a funeral home. Faith's got half a mind to agree to the pauper's grave option when they mention it, but they also mention they have the facilities to do a cremation, if she'd like. No fancy urn or anything. Just a boxful of ashes, which sounds like the perfect lasting tribute for him. They'd need to have a closed casket funeral anyway, and what's the difference between an expensive metal casket or a stupid vase on a pedestal in the long run? And then, after the requisite rosary and funeral mass, they could drive to the coast and sprinkle his ashes in the warm sea and there'd never be a pesky plot to visit on his birthday or the anniversary of his death or ever. She really likes that idea, the swirling currents carrying him back up to Ireland and as far away from her as possible.

Surprisingly, Darla agrees, if for no other reason than they just don't have the money for anything elaborate, even though the Knights of Columbus from the church are calling to ask if she'll want an honor guard at the funeral and the Roncalli Society are calling too, asking if she'd like them to arrange a potluck luncheon in the church hall after the service.



It's too much to think that Wes would be at the funeral, she knows that. But she can't help craning her neck every half-minute nearly to see if he's slipped into the back of the nearly-full church. Squashed in between Xander and Darla on the front pew makes that kind of difficult. She's wearing the only appropriate black items in her wardrobe, a skirt and blouse he'd bought her that she'd missed when she tossed everything else out of her suitcase. They'd been tangled up with her black Ramones tee and a cheap black skirt she used to wear clubbing.

“I don't think he's coming, honey,” Darla whispers, patting her on the arm in an approximation of a soothing gesture.

“I know. I know.” She's resigned herself to that fact already, but she can't help but keep looking, and she almost jumps out of her seat when she catches sight of a lanky man in a perfectly cut, black suit, but when he turns around its just some muckity-muck from the factory, representing the management. It's not Wes.

And it never will be, she thinks, knowing that's the cold hard reality now. It's been three days. Three days and complete radio silence, except for the dry, impersonal documents Holden's hand-delivered to her every morning. Between planning the funeral and endless, frustrating phone calls from Eve, she hasn't had much time for any more reflection. Except when she's lying in bed at night, the creaking house settling around her, her hands tentatively sneaking under the covers, brushing over her breasts or lightly fingering her clit. But there's no there there, even though there's a nagging part of her body addicted to that routine of thrice-daily (or more) orgasms. Her brain rejects the prospect of any physical arousal, filling her sparse fantasies, teasingly, with happy flashes of memory that rapidly and inevitably spiral into flashbacks of that last fight, of him raising his hand against her in anger, not to bring them both pleasure.

The thought of that is enough to send her crying again, and she's not sure if she should be thankful or horrified when her reverie is interrupted by the honking organ of the processional hymn and the service begins.

Chapter Two Hundred and Fifty Seven

She tunes it all out, standing and sitting when everyone else does, even rousing from her apathy to find herself crying as she sings because it’s ‘Abide With Me’ and that always gets her, because it’s the one thing she can remember from her Granddad’s funeral, when she was five and the world was a bigger, scarier place without him there to sneak her peppermints during Mass and tell her she’s his princess.

Darla’s beside her, swaying slightly, but not from vodka. The hangover she’d had when she woke up on Wednesday morning and one look in the mirror at her face, smeared with mascara, had been enough to put her back on the wagon.

“I’m not going to do it, Faith,” she’d declared, tipping the inch of vodka they’d left un-drunk down the sink in a dramatic gesture of renunciation. “This job; the way I’ve been feeling about myself... I’m not going to lose it because of Liam. He ruined my life when he was alive; he’s not going to do it now he’s dead. God rest his soul.”

“That’s the spirit,” Faith had said dully, watching the final drops spill out and wondering how long Darla would stick to it.

The priest’s doing his best with Liam’s life, trying to spread the truth - drunken, violent wastrel- thinly so it’ll get lost amongst the platitudes. When he gets to the ‘loving husband and father’ part, she flinches, gripping onto her hymn book and waiting for the thunderbolt. But seems like priests can get away with lying or maybe God just doesn’t care, because Liam’s not his problem, after all.

No. He’s hers. Still fucking up her life, even if Darla’s doing a good job of wriggling free from his grip.


When it’s finally over, she lets the church empty of the crowd of Liam’s drinking buddies, the curious neighbors, and a scattering of relatives who’d been nowhere when they were needed, but today were out in force, before getting to her feet to follow Darla down the aisle.


She sees him then, sitting at the back, wearing a dark suit and a dark-red tie that proclaims he’s not a mourner. No. He wouldn’t be, would he? There’s something dream-like about it because he’s so far away from her and she’s walking so slowly that he never seems to get any closer.

Why Wesley’s come to Liam’s funeral, she doesn’t know. To make sure the bastard’s well and truly dead? Maybe. She’s got a feeling it’s the motive of a lot of the people who turned up. If it’s to see her – she can’t think of what there is to say. Not here. Not today.

When he stands, giving her a fleeting look and what might be a nod, though the inclination of his head is so slight she’s not sure, she stops dead, her hand going out to hold onto the polished wood of the pew beside her. His face is still bruised where her fist struck him and though he’s as pulled-together as it gets, crisp, just-out-of-the box perfection, his eyes are tired and his face is pale.

He looks as fucked-up as she does and she’s glad about that, with a fierce, unholy satisfaction. She wants him to suffer, wants this to be as hard on him as it is on her. Looks like it is.

And at the same time, she wants to go to him, hold him, cradle him to her and tell him it’ll be fine, it’ll all be fine, because she’s never seen him look lonelier. She’s got Darla and she’s got Xander, who’s starting to yawn when she tells him for the twentieth time how if she’d just said this instead of that, Wes would’ve understood, would’ve forgiven her, but who’s still right there for her, and Wes? Wes has no-one.

Wes just had her.

She wouldn’t have known what to say to him here, with the incense hanging in the air like the breath of God she’d always thought it was, and the heavy, waiting silence of an empty church, but she still starts to hurry forward as he turns abruptly, leaving the pew and beginning to walk towards the double doors where the sun’s doing its best to reach into the dim, eternal dusk of the church.

She might have found the words to stop him if Xander hadn’t appeared at the doorway, looking for her.

He and Wesley exchange a look that even from yards away she can see is full of mutual loathing. Liam’d probably think a fight at his funeral was just the rousing send-off he deserved, but he doesn’t get it. Xander says something, low-voiced and emphatic, and Wesley’s head jerks back. He turns away without speaking and by the time she reaches the door, on legs that are shaking in time with her hands, he’s lost in the sea of people trying to get to the church hall so they can made inroads on the food at the wake and then make a hasty exit.

“Xander!” she croaks, her throat so dry it hurts to speak. “What did you say? What did you say to him?”

He gives her a cautious glance. “Well, it was pretty spur-of-the-moment, and the location wasn’t ideal, but I went with the classic.”

“Stop fucking about and tell me!” she hisses, feeling her heart beating in an unsteady rhythm.

He gives her a patient look. “Faith, I told him to fuck off. You want the exact words?” He reaches out and moves Faith so that she’s standing where Wesley was. “I looked that stupid, abusive dickhead in the eyes and said – Yes, Father, we’re going there right now.”

Faith cringes and turns to meet Father Gilroy’s eyes, grave but with a distant twinkle in them. “Your mother’s looking for you, Faith,” he says. “And Xander, perhaps you could remember that we’re all God’s children and ask yourself what your mother would do if she caught you talking that way.”

Seeing Xander reduced to a stuttering, blushing state of extreme embarrassment shouldn’t cheer her up as much as it does.


They bring home enough left-overs to feed them for a week – except by then Faith’s pretty sure she won’t want to see jello again in her life. Darla’s full of chatter about how Cousin Sandra’s got a scholarship and Uncle Danny’s taken up golf and really, seeing her so bright almost makes the three hours of hell she’s just gone through worthwhile.

Almost.

She’s never felt like she belonged; not in this town, not in this life, but she’s never felt that she didn’t belong in this family until today. The looks she got... speculative, nosy, grubby fucking looks from people who might not know all the details but know Faith’s been having an affair with an older man, living in sin, like half of them don’t have daughters who got married with bumps showing under the white satin. She drifts from group to group, hearing the conversations break off as she gets near; watching the heads bump together as she goes by and the chatter begins again.

She spends the last hour on the steps outside, smoking and staring at a perfect blue sky and wishing it would rain.

Darla runs out of stuff to say and goes to lie down, resting for the ordeal of going back into work the next day, because her boss rang to say he’d covered for her all week but if she wasn’t there on Saturday she could forget about coming in on Monday.

Faith’s left sitting, staring at a television she doesn’t want to watch, in limbo, because although there’s stuff she should be doing – and unpacking and starting to look for a job are starting to move onto the ‘urgent’ part of the to-do list – she can’t really do it now. She just buried – sort of – her father and it doesn’t feel right doing anything but sit around feeling sad. Which is easy, even though Liam’s death isn’t what’s making her feel that way. Unless she thinks about how nice it would’ve been if he’d died a month ago. That’s enough to bring a lump to her throat right there...

Seeing Wesley hasn’t done anything to help her deal. She misses him with a bone-deep sense of loss that’s painful. She keeps forgetting for brief snatches of time and then remembers with a jolt that leaves her breathless with the pain of it all, as fresh as if she hasn’t had days to get used to it.

She’s brooding over every memory she’s got, all those snapshot moments she’s locked away but never thought she’d need, and they’re all Wesley staring at her looking adorable, looking dazzled, looking at her as if he loves her and it’s un-fucking-bearable. She’d do anything to get him back and she’d do it in a heartbeat if she could only work out what it was she needed to do to fix this sorry, fucking mess.

The phone rings and sends her stumbling over to pick it up. It’s Darla’s, not hers, so it’s probably just Eve, who’s due to come around on Monday for a real heart-to-heart but who seems to be losing interest as Faith’s not spilling anything juicy.

“Hello?” And she’s biting back the words, ‘This is Mr. Wyndam-Pryce’s office, how may I help you?’ but maybe she did say them and there’s this weird echo or something because a high, giggly voice is repeating them back to her.

“This is Mr. Wyndam-Pryce’s office calling.”

“What? Who is this?”

There’s a squeak that goes off the scale. “Faith! It is you! You’ll never guess who this is!”

Faith rolls her eyes. Never in a million years, except there’s only one girl who manages to make exclamation points audible. “Hi, Harmony.”

“You guessed! That’s just so awesome. I never would’ve recognized you though, if I didn’t, like, know you lived there. Have you got a cold or something?”

“Something, yeah. What’s going on?”

And just to prove that, yeah, life can always get that little bit shittier, she has to endure another shrill burst of laughter before Harmony says, “Silly! I told you. I’m Mr. Wyndam-Pryce’s secretary. Well, I’m temping for him until he leaves.”

She wonders, with a detached, distant clarity, if Harmony can hear her heart breaking but no, the stupid bitch is babbling on as if she hadn’t just left Faith – who’d fucking stood up for her that time the rumor went around that Harmony had head lice and no-one would sit next to her – gutted and bleeding.

“You’re – you’ve got my job?” she whispers. “Wes has replaced me?”

There’s a pause. “Well, duh,” Harmony says, and her voice is sharper now, with the fluffy sweetness bare in spots, showing the chilled-steel Faith always knew was underneath. “You did, like, steal from him and he’s got a stack of paperwork to get through before he moves.”

Stop saying that! she screams silently. Stop telling me he’s going because I can’t fucking stand it.

“Get him to fill you in on the concept of ‘innocent until proved guilty’,” she manages to say. “And if there’s room left in that pinhead of yours, he can explain all about slander too.”

There’s a longer pause that means Harmony didn’t get it and is filing everything she’s said in the ‘never think of again’ folder.

“Yes. Well.” The sweet, charming smarm is back. “I’m calling to just ask for a teensy bit of help actually.”

Faith nods, settling back against the couch. “I bet you are,” she says with just a hint of relish, remembering her first days with Wes. “Broken a nail on the typewriter yet?”

“Two!” Harmony wails. “Why doesn’t he have a computer anyway? What kind of weirdo is he?”

Got an hour or two, Harmony? “Yeah, it sucks, but you’ll get used to it. Just make sure you put the carbon in the right way ‘round.”

“That’s the black papery stuff, right? Because it’s all over my top! It’d better be washable.”

Faith sighs in mock sympathy. “’Fraid not.”

Harmony actually fucking sniffles. “He’s so mean,” she whispers, dropping her voice as if Wes can hear her, which is probably a good habit to get into given the uncanny way he usually can. “He snaps at me like all the time and he stares at me as if –”

“Has he mentioned me?” she interrupts, and it’s so fucking lame she can’t believe it, it’s so utterly fucking desperate to be asking Harmony, of all people, to tell her about Wes, but she has to know.

“He says anything of yours I come across has to go in this box he’s put in the corner. He’s sending it to you and you’re not to come in and he won’t take calls from you, or letters, or –” Harmony’s voice changes from a confiding gabble to a panicked squeak again. “Yes, uh, sir, right away!”

And Faith heard it too; Wesley’s voice as he leans out of his office and yells for coffee, clipped tones a little more ragged than she’s used to.

“I have to go,” Harmony said. “Oh shoot, I never got to ask you about this funny filing system he’s got; is it English or something?”

“The alphabet you mean? Dunno.”

“Silly!” Harmony’s voice is sounding a little tense. “I mean, there’s files all over the place; it looks like someone just threw them around or something...”

Faith’s eyes narrow. She’d left the office looking just fine. If it’s messed-up now, Wes did it, not her. Huh. No wonder Harmony’s freaking.

“And I’m afraid to ask – how does he take his coffee again?”

She’s so tempted but she goes with the truth. “Black, no sugar. Sometimes he adds milk, but he’ll tell you if he wants it.”

“And you must know how to get him in a good mood, right?”

“What?” She’s swallowing a giggle now, though God knows, it’s not really funny.

“Well, he wasn’t always this grouchy, was he?”

Wes with his head in the freezer at the cottage, grinning with delight as he found the ice-cream....

“No.”

“So how do I, you know, turn his frown upside down?” Harmony asks with a titter.

And this is one answer she’s not going to change as she obsessively re-writes the past few weeks in her head, because he’s put Harmony in her place and he’s throwing out all her stuff and she fucking hates him, yes, she does.

“Remember that really gross thing Billy Peterson wanted you to do before he invited you to his party?”

“Eww. Yes.”

“Works every time, but don’t try it when he’s on the phone. And Harmony?” Faith smiles sweetly at the phone. “Better swallow this time.”

Chapter Two Hundred and Fifty Eight


And there's this routine she gets into after that. Well, mostly it involves getting into bed and staying there. Which isn't difficult, thanks to her new diet of vodka and sleeping pills.

As well as the Tupperware containers of truly gross tuna casserole that people brought round as an excuse to pry into the grubby corners of her life, they also brought booze. Bottles upon bottles of cheap whiskey and vodka. And the minute she hears Darla leave for work on Saturday morning, she liberates a bottle of vodka from where it's been stashed in the basement (telling herself that she's only doing it to put temptation out of Darla's way because she's all fucking heart) and takes it back to bed with her.

Well, the weekend just flies by after that. She burrows down under the sheets which give off this musty sour smell from her own clammy flesh and obliterates everything out of her mind with the sickly sting of the vodka washing down the pills that she's snuck out of Darla's bedroom.

'Cause there's only so many times that girl can have the same old conversations that she never had in real life. The conversation she should have had with Wes a month ago. The conversations she should have had every fucking time he asked her what was wrong.

She wonders if she should pray. That if she prayed hard enough and made a deal with God to be a good girl who ate all her greens and kept herself chaste and pure that he'd turn back the clock so none of this shit had ever happened and her and Wes were just getting to the good stuff and could stay there.

Then when the pills are wearing off and she's trying hard not to wake up, she remembers that she hates him now. She hates him because he's a stone cold motherfucking bastard who's got Harmony Kendall under strict instructions to not put through her calls and then she's wide awake and grinding her teeth and she has to get out of bed for more booze and it starts all over again.

Darla pokes her head round the door a couple of times but seems almost relieved when Faith manages to croak that she thinks she's gone down with something and she's probably contagious. And if being a fucking stupid cunt is catching, then yeah, she probably is.

But Monday morning, Darla's not quite so gullible. She comes sweeping in with a perky, "C'mon, Faithy, up and at 'em" which almost threatens to perforate her eardrums and pulls back the drapes with a deafening swish.

"Go away, I'm sick."

"It's called a hangover, sweetie," Darla says dryly and then gives a startled gasp as Faith emerges from under the covers to glare at her. Which actually requires way too much effort and hurts as her eyes meet Mr. Sun for the first time in 60 hours. "Jesus, Faith, you look like shit."

"Feel like shit too, thanks for asking," she mumbles, pulling the pillow over her aching head, only to have it snatched out of her hands by Darla.

"You got your lawyer coming over today and I am not having that woman tell people that you come from a dirty home," Darla starts furiously. "I know what everyone's saying and we are better than that. I want you up, I want this bed stripped and those boxes unpacked before I leave for work. You've got half an hour, girly!"

"I can't."

"Yes, you fucking can!"

And Darla's right, she can. Or rather she can lie in bed, until Darla gets a glass of cold water from the kitchen and throws it in her face so she's spluttering and spitting but slowly getting out of bed because even fucking damp patches bring back the most bittersweet of memories.

"C'mon, Faith, 'cause next time it's gonna be a bucket."

And by the time Darla leaves with a cheery goodbye (and she really needs to check her bedside table because she has to be on fucking Prozac), Faith's pale and shaky but showered and dressed.

Unpacking brings fresh floods of tears even though she was pretty sure that there was absolutely no water left in her body. Everything seems to reek of him, whether he bought it or not. The green T-shirt from the time he fucked her over the desk. The lace thong she was wearing the first time he brought her off with his fingers. And it's not like it was just sex and that's all she's missing. When she finds a red sharpie buried in a tangle of socks, she's bawling fit to bust.

Bawling so hard that she doesn't hear the doorbell first time round.

Hears it plenty on the second peal because who ever it is is leaning on the bell. And for a second, her heart leaps because it's going to be him. Going to be Wes fucking begging her to take him back. But who the fuck is she kidding?

She moves through the lounge which is looking as neat and clean as it can possibly look after Darla's health and efficiency over-drive and opens the door to find Eve standing there with a bright smile plastered all over her pretty face.

"Hi, Faith, how are you?" she enquires and Faith wonders whether there's some perky bug infected the whole town overnight.

"I feel like crap," she mumbles, holding the door open as Eve trips over the threshold in her expensive slingbacks and sweeps an eye that misses nothing over the lounge. Cause all the hovering and dusting in the world can't hide the chipped furniture and the stains and dents on the walls where bottles, glasses and occasionally her and Darla have been thrown.

"Um, do you want a drink? I think we've got some coffee and if you like tuna casserole then, man, you've come to the right house."

"No, I'm good, thanks," Eve assures her hastily and waits for Faith to fling herself down on the couch, which squeaks in protest, before sitting next to her so she can take Faith's cold hand in her own.

"Really, Faith, how are you?"

And considering that Eve's phone calls last week were increasingly tetchy, this whole concern over her wellbeing is a little suspect.

"I'm fine," she says tonelessly, turning her head away from Eve's earnestly furrowed brow which is a mistake because now Eve's gasping at the bird's eye view of the bruise on her cheek. It's turned a fetching shade of purple with little dots of yellow here and there over the weekend and really adds to the whole white trash girl gone bad look she's currently working.

"So I have good news. I spoke to Charles… I mean, Mr. Gunn, and the DA's office are willing to cut a deal," Eve says in a rush like she's been rehearsing the speech on her way over. "If you plead guilty to stealing the checks, they're going to drop the other charges and I think we can persuade them to suspend your sentence. But you'd have to be willing to testify that Peter Harper and your father planned the whole thing."

She looks at Faith expectantly like she should be turning cartwheels and waving her pom-poms at the news. Not leaning back on the couch cushions and rubbing the bridge of her nose, which is another habit she got off Wes which she needs to lose stat.

"Whatever." Yeah, she knows that she should be getting more excited or, like worried –worried would be really good – about this but all she can think about is the hole in her chest where her heart used to be.

And the whole Princess Perky routine was just an act because Eve loses the smile in an instant and she's gripping Faith's arm just above the dingy bandage she's got round her wrist and she doesn't look quite so pretty when her face is all twisted up like that.

"Look, Faith, you've got to start getting over yourself," she hisses. "I have got a whole bunch of people way nastier than you riding my ass about this case. And Ms Morgan has promised me that I'm going to be do nothing but filing for the next five years if I don't get you off, so you'd better drop the attitude and…"

Oh, she's dropped the attitude. Dropped it right down the back of the couch and is staring at Eve in disbelief.

"Ms fucking Morgan? Lilah? What the fuck has she got to do with it and in what freaky hell dimension does she not want me to get sent to the big house?"

Eve's leaning in closer now, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I know. It's beyond unethical with her being Mr. Wyndam-Pryce's ex-wife but, well, I shouldn't be telling you this…"

"Shouldn't be telling me what?" she demands and she's practically straddling Eve and pushing her into the arm of the couch.

And it's so obvious that Eve is dying to tell her, dying to tell anyone, because she doesn’t even have to threaten to pull her hair before she's spilling it all out in bite sized pieces.

"Mr. Wyndam-Pryce stormed in on Friday morning, no appointment, just strode into her office and slammed the door. They were at it for half an hour and she's screaming at him and he's all snarling and being really British. Then he storms out again and he didn’t even look in my direction but I still nearly peed my pants and then she comes out and I have had her on my back for practically every minute since then wanting to know what I'm doing to make sure you get off. She's not even satisfied with the DA's deal."

"Wes went to see Lilah? What did he say about me?" God, she sounds so fucking High School.

"I don't know, Faith, but whatever it was, I haven’t see Lilah so rattled since, well, like ever."

"I don't fucking believe him…" Because she wishes that she could still believe that he's her white knight, wrapping her up in his arms and keeping her safe from the monsters under the bed, but he's just trying to save his own neck.

"See, it's like this, Faith. I do not fail. I never fail. I was a straight A valedictorian in High School, I never turned in a paper and got less than 95% all the way through law school. I win my cases, and this one is not going to be an exception, so I don't know what went on between you and Mr. Wyndam-Pryce but you had better start helping me to help you because I am not letting a bitch like Lilah Morgan fuck up my career because of you. Now start talking."

And there had been this story she was working on during her enforced bed rest. Which involved the photos and Wes spanking her every time she looked at him funny, all designed to fuck his shit well and truly up but even as she opens her mouth, she knows that a) when she tries to do anything herself it goes horribly wrong and b) she doesn’t hate him that much. Doesn't hate him at all.

Instead she's got his story all ready and it's tumbling out word perfect. Even better than word perfect because if she gets it right, maybe she'll get a prize. Maybe she'll get him back.

"And he hit me, right in front of Wes… and I couldn't tell Mom because she's still in love with him and if she knew that he was saying that he was gonna hurt her… he was so mad that I was working and that I was giving her housekeeping, it's this whole thing with the alimony…"

Eve is scribbling it all down. In fact, it looks like she's about to start having multiple orgasms there and then.

"This is great," she squeaks. "And the checks?"

She hits her cue perfectly. "He kept asking for them but I wouldn't give them to him, I couldn’t do that to Wes. But I had to go and meet because he was threatening to burn the house down and I thought I could reason with him but that Peter guy was there too and I went to the john and it was so stupid – I know I shouldn’t have had the checkbook with me but Wes was away and I didn't like to leave them in the office - and they must have got it out of my bag. I didn’t even realize they'd taken a sheet out of it, I swear and then I was too scared to tell anyone. I never thought that he'd be able to cash them, that's the God's honest truth."

Even Wes would be impressed with the little choking sob she ends up on. As it is, the Oscar's already hers and she'd just like to thank the Academy and…

Except Eve is reading her notes back and looking like the day she's going to become the youngest woman to ever be elected to the Supreme Court or whatever is a long way off.

"Are you sure this is what happened?" she asks, with way too much suspicion for Faith's liking.

"I just said, didn't I?"

"So are there any witnesses to this?"

"Wes saw my dad hit me," she reminds her with a glare. "And then there's my Dad but, oh darn it, he's dead. Maybe you can get him to testify from beyond the grave."

And where Eve comes from all girls love their Daddies because they don't drink and steal and cheat on their Mommies so she gives a guilty start and fingers her pad nervously.

"I'm sorry, Faith," she says contritely. "This is going to make a big difference; it would just help if I could get some corroboration on a few bits of your story."

"Yeah, well isn't that, like, your job?" she points out and then she remembers that actually she's meant to be an honest but not very smart girl who's found herself in this shitty situation through no fault of her own. "I'm sorry, it's just all this is really freaking me out and I just want it to be over, y'know?"

"I know," Eve says and she's getting a hand pat so it must have worked. Or maybe not, because she's leaning in again, eyes gleaming with curiosity. "So, just tell me one thing, because I'm dying to know. What the hell did you and Lilah see in him?"

Chapter Two Hundred and Fifty Nine

And it’s so very tempting to channel Xander and make with the flip answer: ‘What, besides the ten-inch dick?’ but it’d be tacky (and, yeah, just a bit of an exaggeration), so she gives a noncommittal shrug instead.

“No, I’m serious,” Eve persists. “I mean – no offence, but you and Lilah have got about one thing in common, no, two; you’re female and you’ve got dark hair. That’s it.”

Dark hair. Faith wonders what color Fred’s was and if she looked like either of them. And she thinks of Harmony’s long, blonde hair and goes off into this little daydream where Wes is on the phone to the temp agency, spelling out his requirements for the perfect secretary, starting with, ‘must not be brunette’.

“Faith?” Eve’s giving her a look that’s edging over to annoyed, as if she hates the idea that her curiosity will have to go unsatisfied.

“You tell me,” Faith counters, leaning back and relaxing now they’re done with the tricky stuff. “You’ve seen him; what do you think of him?”

“He scares the shit out of me,” Eve answers, and it’s so unexpectedly honest that Faith gapes at her before laughing.

“Yeah. That’s Wes.” Faith bites her lip. Yeah. It was. He could be scary. He was so focused that he didn’t realize how that made him seem. To Wes, there was an objective, and whether it was destroying Lilah in court, slicing peppers into identical strips or making Faith come just when he wanted her to, and not a moment sooner, he didn’t see – didn’t let there be obstacles.

“But he’s good-looking,” Eve offers. “For an older man.”

Faith raises her eyebrows and drawls, “An older man?” Fuck, forget Xander; that was pure Wes. Maybe she was, like, possessed or something. “He wears me out. He’s like, good to go, 24/7.”

Eve gives a gasping little shudder, almost wriggling in delight. “Really? Because from little comments, Lilah’s made, he, ah, wasn’t entirely – but she’s still so obsessed with him that it doesn’t really –”

“You this incoherent in court?” Faith snaps, tiring of the game. “Look, Wes isn’t your type. You don’t get it, fine. I do. And I’m not gonna discuss it.”

She feels grubby now and she doesn’t look up as Eve, all business again, gathers together her papers.

“Right. Well, I think this has been a very productive session, don’t you?”

“Sure,” Faith says dully.

“And I can do a lot with this.” Eve taps her long fingernails against her briefcase. “It’ll make all the difference, I’m sure.”

You can shove it up your ass, for all I care, Faith thinks bitterly. It’s all lies, but I guess that’s not important.

Eve swishes away, letting herself out because Faith is slumped on the couch and refusing to move.

And she’s left with a day to fill, and nothing to fill it with.

It makes her realize just how structured her life had become. Wesley had pretty much controlled everything about her; what she wore, what she ate, when she got up, when she went to bed, when she came, when she didn’t, when she –

She used to do all this herself. In three months, he’s changed her life with an uncompromising hand. Yeah. Literally. She sighs and lies back. No bruises on her ass, even if her face is marked. No spankings, no teasing, no fucking, no sucking. No Wes.

She’s really not getting over that any time soon, is she?

The need to see him is unbearable. She wants to go to his office, barge right past Harmony – and God, it’d be just perfect if that bitch tried to stop her because punching her out would be, like, the perfect foreplay- and slam the office door behind her. Wes’d look up, all puzzled and angry, and she’d start to strip and watch his eyes darken and narrow. He’d order her over to the desk and she’d feel the cool wood start to warm against her skin as his hand –

Her body begins to respond for the first time in days, melting and tingling, so she shoves her jeans down and slips a hand inside her thong. The skin she’d kept smooth for him is prickled with hair now, catching at her fingers. She remembers the look the prison guard had given her bare snatch in the showers, appraising and contemptuous, and shudders, losing the edge of her arousal. Then she thinks of his hands on her and sighs, snuggling back and losing herself in memories.

She’s been masturbating for ten minutes when she gives up, slippery skin aching but not the right way, teeth on edge because fuck she needs to come, and she can if she wants to, there’s no one to stop her – and that’s why she can’t.

Dizzy from hunger and vodka, she sits up, dragging her zip into place. Maybe he’ll have the same problem, she thinks. Maybe right now, right this fucking minute, he’s sitting in his office, hard as a rock, or in the bathroom off his office jerking off, thinking of her...

“Get out of my head,” she whispers. “Get out of my fucking head.”

The clock tells her it’s eleven and she’s spurred into action. Shower first, and though her hands are trembling too much to make a good job of it, she shaves until she’s smooth again, just the way he likes it. She dries her hair and gets dressed in something that’s not trying too hard but isn’t in your face slut either; black jeans and a dark-red silk shirt.

Then she heads over to the diner. He might have plastered ‘Keep out’ signs all over his office, and she knows without trying that he’s changed the entry codes on the house... but he doesn’t own the fucking town, and if she wants to sit and wait for him to come in for his chicken and lettuce and tomato on rye, no mayo, she can.


Pushing open the door with a hand that’s shaking, feeling her empty stomach churn with nerves and hunger, she’s all but ready to weep when she sees the chairs at the counter, the ones where they sat and shared a root-beer float. It’s as if everywhere’s full of ghosts that only she can see; shadowy Wes and Faith’s wandering around in a blissful world where all that matters is that they’re together.

She orders a coke and a salad and retreats to a corner table, far back in the room, not letting herself admit that it’s so he won’t see her if he glances in from the street.

The minutes stretch like elastic, pulled out taut as she waits and then snapping back with a vicious twang every time the door opens. It’s not him. It’s never him.

And when Harmony walks in, gives Faith a disdainful look and orders for Wesley in a loud, clear voice, tagging on, “He’d come himself but he’s, like, really busy,” she knows Wes expected this, knew she’d do it, was making sure this road to him was closed too.

And she could hang around the office car park to get a glimpse of him climbing into his car but that’d be so very pathetic. She’s better than that.

And if she says it often enough, maybe it’ll stop being a lie.




Part Ten

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