The characters used herein are the property of Joss Whedon, David Greenwalt, 
20th Century Fox, Mutant Enemy and various other corporate entities; they are 
used without permission, intent of infringement or expectation of profit. I 
do not use character-death, relationship or other spoilers in my headers; you 
read the story, you take your chances. Great thanks go out to Rheanna, 
Corinna and everyone at the Angel Fanfic Workshop for the beta-reading and 
advice.

This story takes place approximately a year and a half in the future -- i.e., 
the winter of 2003-2004. What you need to know to start with: In this version 
of events, ATS' third season ended a little differently. BTVS' sixth season 
ended VERY differently. Then Faith got out of jail, and events unfolded from 
there. The precise ways in which things are different will gradually become 
clear as you go along. 

Rating: R

Archive: Wherever you like, but please let me know

Summary: "'She will tell us all she knows, all she has done. And we will make 
our judgments accordingly. So you see -- Faith has nothing to fear but the 
truth.' Like that ain't enough to be afraid of."

********************
THE UNINVITED GUEST
by Yahtzee
Yahtzee63@aol.com
********************

Chapter One: The Self-Esteem Poster Child

I got a theory that you can tell a whole lot about a person by seeing what 
they're like at breakfast. Later in the day, you got your outfit on, your 
face on; you're acting the way you think you oughta act. That don't 
necessarily have a lot to do with the way you want to act, deep down.

First thing in the morning, though, you're too damn grumpy for all that. Guys 
are still scratching themselves, and girls don't have their makeup on yet, 
and what you see is pretty much what you get. (That is, unless you're one of 
those mutant-freak morning people, but in the evil-slaying business, I don't 
tend to run into a bunch of those.)

That's how come I started taking Fred for breakfast dates, way back about -- 
damn, two years ago now. The first couple of times, I thought I'd be able to 
find out what she was really like. Then I found out, and I didn't ever want 
to stop having breakfast with her. You gotta respect a girl who'll order the 
chimichanga omelet AND the blueberry pancakes, polish 'em off and then ask 
you if you're gonna eat your toast. You also gotta respect a girl who's got 
her head on straight at 7 a.m. when she didn't go to bed until 3, or who's in 
a good mood regardless of how badly we all got pounded the night before. 

For a second, I remember how she looked on those mornings -- no makeup, plain 
T-shirt, her hair pulled back or braided up any old way. I feel just a little 
bit like I did back then, and for a minute, I'm not sitting in a beat-up 
diner in Chicago watching the snow fall. I'm back in L.A., palm trees and 
sunshine, and Fred's with me.

So, yeah, I miss Fred at breakfast. But other than that, I don't miss her at 
all. 

Ain't that I didn't love her. I did, in a big, bad, whipped kinda way. Ain't 
that I don't wish her well. I hope she's doing great. But those few months me 
and Fred were together -- they don't seem to have a whole lot to do with the 
rest of my life. It's like some dream I had or something, where I turned into 
this guy who wanted to go to movies with women wearing corsets. 

Like I said, I was whipped. 

And damn, being whipped was FUN. Guys make fun of other guys for it, but what 
they're really sayin' is, "He's gettin' laid, and I ain't." I say, get 
yourself whipped as often as you can. It's worth doing all kinds of 
embarrassing shit to feel like that.

But that feeling don't last, and at the end of the day, you have to be with 
someone who's like you. Someone who understands your life. Even the parts you 
don't like.

And even right now, at breakfast -- the one time when I do kinda miss Fred 
and the way that girl woke up cute, ready to pack away a double-skillet 
hungry-man meal without blinking an eye -- I know the girl sitting across the 
booth understands me in a way Fred never did, never could. 

I just wish I understood her. 

First thing in the morning, she looks -- pretty much the same way she does 
any other time of day. Sometimes she'll eat, but most mornings she just 
drinks black coffee. That don't tell me much, which makes sense, because she 
don't tell me much, period.

Whatever else she is, Faith's her own woman.

****

It was about 4 a.m., I figure. I know I was dead-flat-out asleep, and there 
ain't many hours of the day or night I can count on getting a chance to 
sleep. 4 a.m. -- that's usually safe, though. Close enough to sunrise to get 
the demons and vamps off the streets, early enough that most any human with 
sense is asleep.

Of course, that group don't include Faith.

I heard pounding on the door, and the first thought I had was, the world's 
ending. Then I thought, naw. World was ending, they'd call. I hoped my 
landlord wasn't getting nasty about the rent, which was due way too long ago. 
"Who is it?" I yelled, stumbling toward the doorway and banging my knee on 
the table.

"It's Faith!" she yelled. "Get out here!"

She hadn't ever come to my apartment before. I'd thought about it often 
enough, though. Usually, the scenario in my mind was a little smoother than 
this, but, whatever. 

I opened the door and looked at her. She looked like hell, even by Slayer 
standards. Her hair was yanked back, her clothes all dirty -- bloody, too, 
but that was pretty much the way she always looked. What was weird was that 
she'd been crying. "You okay?" I said.

"No," she said. "I gotta get the hell out of here."

"Here meaning my apartment?" I said, wondering why she came here in the first 
place.

"No. I mean Los Angeles. I gotta go, like, now." She grabbed my hand. I don't 
know that we'd ever touched before. Not that it mattered, anyway. But it 
mattered right then. It was like I'd been asleep -- not just a couple minutes 
ago, but my whole life, and the second she touched me, I woke up. "I want you 
to come with me. I need you. I -- I ain't gonna make it, if you're not there."

I looked down at her. "You ain't comin' back, are you?"

"No," she said.

Angel Investigations. Angel and Cordy and Connor and Wes. Fred. I put all 
that on one side of the scales, put Faith and the way she was looking at me 
on the other. I called it. 

I said, "Gimme five to pack."

****

"I was looking at the St. Louis paper," I tell her. "You know, we could make 
some serious money at casino work."

"Dealing blackjack?" Faith smiles slowly. "Who the hell would trust me to 
deal cards?"

"Nobody who knew any better," I say. "But I figure, some fresh new I.D.s and 
an innocent look on your face, and we're home free."

Like I knew she would, Faith starts laughing. "An innocent look. On my face."

"Worth a shot." It feels good to laugh with her -- don't happen that often. 
And she's already getting quiet again, going to that place inside herself 
where she spends most of her time. "Hey," I say softly. "Who's your man?"

"Same guy who's picking up the tab for breakfast, I figure." She doesn't look 
back at me, but she smiles just the littlest bit as she says it. Now, that 
may not sound all warm and sentimental, but you gotta understand a few things 
about Faith. She ain't real big on answering direct questions, least not with 
a direct answer. So if you can't deal with not getting an answer, you're best 
off not asking. Me, I can deal with whatever answer she wants to give me. 

Other stuff you gotta understand: She's carrying that weight around with her, 
all day, every day. Shit, I used to think I had problems; I'm the self-esteem 
poster child compared to this girl. She was screwed up before she became the 
Slayer, then she went through a serious dark spell that earned her some jail 
time and some wounds that ain't gonna heal. 

And then she got outta jail, and thought she had her head on straight, and 
came on back to Angel Investigations to make it up to everybody and maybe do 
some good in the world. And she was doing it, too, before that Buffy got 
there. I swear to God, it was all kinda working out before then. That was 
when it got fucked up beyond repair. When Buffy showed up.

But I gotta get ahold of myself, before I start speakin' ill of the dead. 

*****

"You sure you're okay?"

Cordelia looked over at me and smiled what had to be the single fakest, least 
convincing smile of all time. I still cannot believe that girl was gonna be 
an actress. "Gunn, I'm okay. Why does everybody keep asking me that?"

"Because you're mopin' around all the time." I shook my head and went behind 
the counter; it was a slow day at A.I., one of the first slow ones in a 
while, and I would've liked to enjoy it. But Cordelia was walking around with 
this permanent black cloud over her head. 

"I don't mope," Cordelia said firmly. 

"Not like some people," I said. "You don't wear black and brood in your room. 
But you ain't your bright, shiny self, neither. We're down to 40-watt 
Cordelia. So what's up with that?"

I figured she'd just shut me up again. She'd been doing that for weeks at 
that point. But instead she was quiet, thinking over what I said. I was 
surprised, but I didn't say anything else. No point in pushing my luck. 
Finally she said, "I'm doing some -- second-guessing."

Shoulda seen that coming, I thought. I nodded and said, "Yeah, me too. But if 
Angel wants Connor back in the hotel, I guess we gotta go with it. Angel's 
the one who spent a month at the bottom of the ocean. If he can forgive and 
forget, we can -- well, not trust the kid for a second. But I guess we gotta 
let him back in the door."

Cordelia stared at me like I was speaking Farsi all of a sudden. "Connor?"

"Yeah. Damien. Mr. Troclon." I narrowed my eyes. "I'm thinking we ain't on 
the same page."

"Not really." Her voice was flat. I wasn't sure what to be more nervous 
about: the fact that Cordelia didn't seem to mind having the hellspawn back 
in the house, or the fact that something else was seriously wrong. 

I waited. When she didn't say anything else, I figured I'd struck out again, 
and I took some files back to Angel's office. As soon as I stepped in there, 
I heard the door swing open. Client, I thought; then I heard Cordelia say, 
"This must be my lucky day."

"Hey, Cordy." A woman's voice. Southie accent. Said hey like she was 
apologizing, and like she didn't apologize much.

I stuck my head outta the office and saw her for the first time. I oughta 
remember what she was wearing, what she did with her hair, something like 
that. But all I could see were the eyes -- dark and dangerous, but so 
beautiful you just didn't care. 

Shoulda realized right then I was in trouble. But things were still going 
okay for me and Fred at that point, so all I thought was, "hottie." 

Cordelia didn't introduce me, and the Southie didn't introduce herself. They 
kept looking at each other in what appeared to be a major stare-off. After a 
second, Cordelia said, "Either the American justice system is even more 
screwed-up than I thought, or some amazingly misguided person sent you a cake 
with a file inside."

"You were right the first time. I made parole."

"Parole?" Cordelia's jaw dropped a little. "You can get paroled for murder 
after two and a half years?"

Murder. I knew I was staring at her now, and I could tell she'd noticed me 
staring. I'd like to say that she looked less hot to me at that point, but I 
can't. Like I say, I really shoulda realized I was in trouble.

"I didn't get convicted of murder."

Cordelia actually laughed. "So much for new-and-improved Faith, who confessed 
all her sins."

The woman -- Faith -- wanted to get seriously pissed off, I could tell. But 
she kept her voice steady. "I told 'em the whole story. Funny thing, though: 
If you tell the cops you killed a guy to help the mayor of a small town turn 
into a giant demon snake, offed another one because you thought he was one of 
the vampires it's your sacred duty to slay -- they kinda don't buy it. You 
get a psych counselor, not a murder rap."

"So they only got you on the beatings," Cordy said, folding her arms across 
her chest. Beatings? I kept staring at Faith wondering just how screwed-up 
her story got.

"That and evading arrest." Faith shifted her weight from foot to foot. 
"Listen, we don't want to be talking to each other --"

"Wow. I see that laser-sharp perception is still intact."

" -- so let's cut to it, okay?"

"You want to see Angel." 

Faith ducked her head a little. Very quietly, she said, "I want to see 
Wesley."

And here I'd been thinking the conversation couldn't get more uncomfortable. 
So wrong. Faith stared at Cordelia, then looked straight at me for the first 
time. "What?"

"Wesley's no longer with the firm," I said. "And I'm Charles Gunn. Call me 
Gunn."

"You got it, Chuck." I half wanted to punch her, but the other half -- well, 
let's say that's about when I started to realize I was in trouble. "What 
happened to Wesley?"

"He left. We don't discuss it," Cordelia said. "And if we don't talk about it 
with each other, we're sure as hell not gonna talk about it with you."

Faith didn't have a quick answer for that, and the way she looked right then 
-- that was when I realized that she was younger than I'd thought. And I 
didn't know how somebody could look that young after two years in jail. 
Finally she said, "Then I guess I just gotta apologize to you. I'm sorry, 
Cordy. I hit you, and I scared you, and I was way outta line. I was screwed 
up. It's not an excuse," she added quickly. "That's just how it was. And I'm 
sorry."

"Not bad," Cordelia said. She was a little calmer, but there was still a 
major chill in the air. "With two years to rehearse, I think I could've come 
up with something better. But hey. You did your best."

Faith was gettin' pissed off for real by this time, and I could tell. But you 
gotta give her credit; she didn't snap. "I just wanted you to know. If Wes 
ain't around -- can you tell me where he is, anyway?"

"I don't think he wants --" Cordelia stopped short right there, and you could 
see her brain working: Did she want to protect Wesley or give him a little 
more hell, courtesy of Faith showing up on his doorstep?

We'll never know. Because that was when Angel showed up at the top of the 
stairs. "Faith?"

"Angel." Her face lit up; you'd never of dreamed the girl could smile like 
that. Right that second I thought maybe Faith was in love with Angel, and 
that was why Cordy was so hacked. Which shows how much I know.

"It was today? I thought was going to be another few months." Angel was 
smiling when he came down the steps. The way he talked and moved was almost 
like normal; he was getting a lot closer to shaking off that month in the 
box. "I would've come to the hearing, if I'd known."

Cordelia was giving Angel the razor stare of death. "And you were gonna 
mention this when?"

"I'm sorry," he said. That was all there was to it, but the apology worked 
better than it had coming from Faith. Angel leaned against the counter -- he 
didn't have his strength back yet -- and Cordelia lay one hand across his 
arm. 

Faith raised an eyebrow, but all she said was, "Probably a good thing you 
missed it. Vampires don't make great character references, last I heard."

Angel grinned. The mood in the room was a whole lot better, until he said, 
"So, where are you living?"

"Don't know," Faith said, and Cordelia's face fell, and I knew we were in for 
a ride. I just didn't know how wild it was gonna get.

*****

We pay our ticket and head out into the Chicago winter, a shock of cold that 
wakes me up better than the diner's coffee did. I pull my cap down further on 
my head and cross my arms in front of me. L.A. don't prepare you for this 
sub-zero shit.

Faith gives me her best wise-ass grin. She grew up in Boston, which ain't as 
cold as Chicago, but at least involved snow from time to time. "How's the 
hothouse flower?"

"I don't care if you give me hell about being a wimp with the cold," I tell 
her. "But you gotta find a way to do it without calling me a flower."

"St. Louis oughta be warm enough for you, Petunia." 

"So, you like the idea of dealing blackjack."

"I was thinking of being a showgirl," she said. "Whaddaya think? Glitter 
g-string and some pasties?"

"I had a dream 'bout that once," I answer, and she grins again. "But I don't 
think they got showgirls there. That's just Vegas and Atlantic City."

Faith tugs her parka around her and screws up her mouth, thinking. "Atlantic 
City," she repeats. It's worth thinking about it. Vegas, of course, is way 
too close to L.A.

But maybe that's the secret -- get closer to them, instead of running away. 
Get so close they'd never dream we'd dare. Then again, they know me, and they 
sure know Faith. They know there ain't much we don't dare.

So I'm thinking about that, and Faith's thinking -- whatever it is she 
thinks, locked up in that head of hers -- as we make our way through Rogers 
Park. The snow is piled up on either side of the concrete, a couple feet high 
on the curbs. On TV, they show you pretty snow, all fluffy and white. But the 
real thing don't quite live up to the image, after about day two. It's more 
gray than anything else, and some icy chunks are solid black. So much dirt in 
the world.

"I wouldn't mind Jersey," Faith says. She's smiling as she says it, and she 
locks one of her arms with mine. "At least we could get some decent pizza and 
hot dogs." 

"Oooh, don't let the locals hear you knockin' the pizza."

"We don't have to decide right off," she says, with a little half-shrug that 
she uses to show she doesn't care. It always means she cares a lot. Jersey's 
what she wants. "But we can think about it, okay?"

"Okay," I say. Faith smiles again. Every time we run, she gets like this for 
a few days -- kinda excited about all the possibilities. If there's any thing 
I love most about her, it's this. The fact that, after all she's been 
through, she's still hoping there's something better on the other side.

It's moments like these that I know she didn't kill Buffy.

I mean, couldn't have happened. I know they had some bad blood in the past, 
but they were doing okay. At least, Faith was. Buffy, now --

And there I go again. I gotta try to be fair about this. Buffy was not what 
you'd call the most pleasant person in the world, so far as I knew her. But I 
only knew her after she came to Los Angeles, and everybody else agreed that 
she wasn't quite the same after all that went down. 

I'm still not real clear on the details, because Buffy wasn't big on talking 
about it, not that you could blame her. But apparently some witch friend of 
hers, somebody else Cordy went to high school with, got a serious case of 
evil and started doing some bad magic mojo. And Buffy's Watcher came back to 
help her, and another friend of theirs went out to talk to the witch on a 
verge of a nervous breakdown, but it didn't do no good. They stopped her, but 
they didn't stop her until too late.

I know the witch died, and the Watcher, and the friend who went to deal with 
the witch, and somebody who was Buffy's sister, except she wasn't -- I still 
don't quite understand that part --

Well, it was a big deal, if you knew these people. 

What happened didn't just mess Buffy up; Cordy and Angel and even Wesley were 
all kinds of strange for a while. But Buffy was the one who had to see it 
all. So I ought not to judge how she was acting, at least not be so harsh 
about it.

It's just that Buffy went off the rails and got herself killed, and they want 
to pin it on Faith. They wanted to lock her up in whatever weird-ass medieval 
jail the Council of Watchers has for Slayers. Just when Faith was getting her 
life back together, those guys wanted to lock her up again for something she 
didn't do.

And I know she didn't do it. I KNOW it. I mean, I ain't ever asked her. First 
off, that would be pretty damn insulting, and second, she'd probably kick my 
butt even for thinking of it. And besides, like I said -- she's not real big 
on direct questions. 

I'm not saying I don't ever want to ask. Sometimes, late at night, when she 
thinks I'm asleep, she goes in the bathroom and turns on the taps and cries 
like -- you heard it, it would break your heart. So I know she feels, well, 
guilty. I figure that's because she got there too late to save her. That's 
all that is. But if I asked her about it, maybe then she could at least open 
up and talk some. Maybe she'd hurt less if she could just talk about it.

Still, I don't need answers. I know my girl. Faith didn't kill Buffy. 

***

"How'd patrol go?" I said, like I really needed to ask. Faith was covered in 
grime, blood and grease. And she was smiling. 

"Fan- fuckin'-tastic," she said, hopping up on the counter. "I gave 'em hell 
tonight, huh, Wes?"

"Hell was given," Wesley said as he took off his jacket and folded it over a 
chair. He even smiled a little bit when he said it, and for the first time in 
about forever, I started to relax and smile back at the guy. Things were 
definitely still not right in that quarter -- especially with him and Angel, 
like that's a surprise -- but Faith said she wanted a Watcher, and she didn't 
want some goon the Council kept on a leash, and that meant Wesley. 

Given their history -- Cordy filled me in on the details -- I was surprised 
she asked for him. But we were all more surprised when he said yes. We didn't 
ever give him shit about lying to us and taking Connor, and he didn't give us 
shit about whatever he thought we did wrong. We didn't talk about it at all. 
He and Angel didn't hang around in the same room together if they could avoid 
it, but other than that -- well, it wasn't that much different. We kinda went 
back to the way things were. Plus Faith. And then Buffy. But still mostly the 
same idea, and a hell of a lot closer than I thought we'd ever get again.

Who said denial is a bad way to cope?

"How'd you guys do?" Faith said. She had a little edge to her voice when she 
said it; ever since we started dividing up into patrolling teams, there was 
some competition in the air. "You're lookin' kinda down in the mouth. Struck 
out?"

"We did fine," I said, which was true. The reason I was looking down was 
because Fred and I had just had one hell of a fight. About Faith, actually -- 
nothing had happened there, not yet, but Fred always did have an eye for that 
kind of thing. Girl was almost psychic sometimes. Just in case Faith was 
psychic too, I explained. "Fred's out gettin' herself some tacos. Connor went 
with. Wonder how the kid's gonna like his first encounter with hot sauce?"

Wesley looked around the lobby. "But then, where's Cordelia?"

Before I could answer, the front door swung open. Buffy and Angel -- the 
third patrol team -- came in. They looked totally wrung out. The usual.

Faith smiled. They were in one of their getting-along phases right then. 
"Hey, B. Your slayage count for the night?"

"Very slayey." Buffy smiled. I never did see that girl's smile reach her 
eyes. Not even that time when -- well, never mind. "We found some Hevreth 
demons on Melrose."

"They were financing their operation with a celebrity-autograph business," 
Angel said. "If you've paid a lot for any signed photos lately, you should 
ask for your money back."

"So the entire demon underworld makes spare change by sitting around signing 
'Jennifer Lopez' over and over." I thought about that for a second. "Yeah, 
makes sense."

"You never did say where Cordelia is," Wesley said. Angel didn't acknowledge 
Wesley -- he never did -- but he turned toward me, suddenly intent.

"She's fine," I said. "I mean, she's gonna be fine."

Angel gripped my arm way too tight. "What happened?"

"Take it easy, cowboy." Faith removed his hand from my jacket. "Cordy okay?"

"She got tossed off a fire escape by a vamp." As Angel's eyes went wide, I 
said quickly, "Like I said, she's gonna be fine. Girl can hover now, you 
know? She just didn't do it quite fast enough. Bruised herself up. Nothing 
major. She's upstairs takin' a load off."

Angel ran to the steps, but just as he started to go up, he paused and looked 
back at Buffy. It was like he was asking permission -- no, more like he was 
trying to figure out if he should ask permission. Buffy didn't say anything. 
One second more and then he was halfway up the stairs. We all watched him go. 

Buffy spoke next. She didn't talk about Cordy, which didn't surprise me. 
"Brought you a present."

Faith held her hand to her chest, mock-surprised. "For moi? And it ain't even 
my birthday." 

"I found it in the demons' lair," Buffy said. "Beneath a bunch of glossies of 
David Hasselhoff. Who's buying David Hasselhoff autographs anymore?"

"Good question," Wesley said. "Of course, Knight Rider's a classic, but -- I 
mean, what is it you found?"

Buffy pulled out the knife, and Faith's eyes went wide. This thing -- this 
was no ordinary knife. Curved blade made out of gold or something at least as 
shiny. Hilt with jewels in every color, catching the light as Buffy turned it 
before Faith's eyes. "B -- that's a thing of beauty," Faith sighed.

"Reminded me of you," Buffy said. Faith just stared at her, dark eyes wide, 
as she took the knife in her hands. Buffy almost looked shy, but she was 
happy. Faith loved it, and Buffy loved that. They looked beautiful like that, 
sitting together in the lobby, lit up with excitement and the colors of the 
jewels. Like they belonged together. 

Like I said, at first they got along.

***

We're walking toward the El stop; we don't have a lot of shopping to do, so 
this is gonna be winter-Sunday-morning standard. We'll go back home -- it 
ain't much, like HUD housing ever is, but it's all right. We'll take turns 
reading the Sunday paper and watching whatever sports are on TV. Nap in the 
afternoon. And at sundown, we patrol.

I look at Faith, still so damn young, and I think of the others in L.A. I can 
feel myself getting mad. Do you think they realize that? That she still 
patrols? That she's still the Slayer, no matter what they do?

Probably not. They probably think she's still out getting drunk and getting 
laid. They never did want to give her a lot of credit, not even Angel. And 
sure as hell not Connor, or Fred, or Cordelia --

Okay, I was just thinking about Cordelia, and that's why I think I see her 
walking toward me.

No, Cordelia's walking toward me. Faith and I stop short. Cordy does too. For 
a minute, all we do is stare. Cordelia's hair is longer. No gloves. She's 
wearing a thick coat like nothing I've ever seen on her. Of course, I never 
saw her in Chicago. In winter. She's only here for one reason.

For a long time we just stand there, three lone figures in a world of white. 
The snow keeps falling like nothing's happened. 

Cordelia says, slowly, "I'm not alone. You should just come with us. Don't 
fight it."

"Bullshit," Faith says. I got nothing to add to that.

"Don't make this harder than it already is," Cordelia says. She's blinking 
kinda fast, and I realize she's trying not to cry. You'd never know it from 
her voice.

The adrenaline's hitting my bloodstream now. My heart's pounding, and I'm 
ready to fight or run. Probably both. "Yeah, I realize how hard this is for 
YOU," I say. 

"Charles, don't." I turn around to see Fred standing behind us. She's got a 
crossbow aimed right at me. Her tone's awful nice for somebody who could 
shoot me dead any second. But she's shaking too much for me not to know this 
is getting under her skin. "You're gonna get your say, okay? But the 
important thing right now is makin' sure nobody gets hurt."

"Funny, you guys doin' this during the day," Faith says. "Angel not in on 
this party?" 

"If you try to escape underground, you'll find out," Cordelia says. 

I hear tires crunching on the salt-crusted roads. I half-turn to see the 
vehicle; it's not exactly a humvee, but it's got heavy enough armor to make 
sure Faith can't get out. Or me neither. I can't see who's driving, but 
probably I don't know them. Probably Watchers. 

Sure enough, as it pulls up, Wesley hops out the back. He looks bad. This is 
bugging him worse than it does Cordy or even Fred. "Faith," he says. "Please. 
We don't want violence."

Faith gives him a big ol' grin as her hands ball into fists. "It's a little 
late for that, isn't it?"

And BAM, Faith's slamming into Fred. I see Fred falling, see that the 
crossbow is already in Faith's hands as she turns. I don't wait to see what 
else she's doing; I just get my head down, run hard and tackle Cordelia with 
all my strength. 

We fall to the sidewalk, and I feel the ice cutting into my skin. Cordelia 
tries to get her hands on my face -- if her bare skin touches mine, she can 
do her demon shit, and I'm not about to go into the light just now, thanks. I 
punch her in the face as hard as I can -- harder than I ever hit a human 
being before, and Cordelia doesn't even scream. She just goes limp on the 
pavement, and I see the blood. Oh, hell.

I hear a crunch and look up to see Wesley flat against the armored truck, 
where Faith apparently just threw him. Fred's struggling to her feet outside 
the liquor store while the other Watchers pile out of the truck. Faith starts 
running like hell, and I follow her. We might be a match for any three of 
them, but toss five Watchers into the mix, and the odds change.

Faith ain't running as fast as she can, and that could only be to let me 
catch up. She's still got the crossbow, though I don't think she shot 
anybody. Oh, God, I hope she didn't shoot Fred -- "Run!" I scream. Don't 
matter if they get me -- in the end, there ain't that much they want to do to 
me. It's Faith who's got to get away.

"The El!" she shouts. Sure enough, I can hear it -- rattling on the rails. 
We're close to the stop, and if we could just get on the train, maybe we 
could lose 'em on the red line --

We turn and start running up the steps. I can hear the Watchers behind us, 
but way behind us. And the train's pulling in right now. We might just make 
this happen. I feel myself starting to smile, and then I see Cordy's blood on 
my gloves, and all I want is to get the hell outta here.

Faith and I get to the top, turn the corner, go for the train -- the doors 
are open --

And there's Connor.

"Oh, shit," I say. Faith doesn't say anything, just shoulders the crossbow 
and fires. Fast as light, Connor ducks the arrow. I've seen him do it a 
hundred times, and it never stops freakin' me out.

People on the train are shouting and pointing as the doors slide shut. Faith 
throws the crossbow aside. It's pretty much worthless now. "Okay, junior," 
she snarls. "I always did want to see what you were made of."

"Of my father," Connor says, and he charges her. He punches high -- she 
blocks him -- he twists -- she stumbles --

I grab up the crossbow; maybe the son of a bitch, and I mean that literal, 
can't duck if he's fighting. But they're moving fast now, and there's no 
moment when I could hit Connor and be sure I wouldn't hit Faith. 

Faith gets him hard on the jaw, but he just takes the blow, spins around, 
slams his fist into her ribs. She cries out in pain, and I want to kill him 
-- especially when he smiles and shoves her away.

"You will be thrown down the wall," he says. "To the dogs."

I heard that story, thanks to the African Methodist Episcopal Church. I put 
the crossbow in his face, more to stop his grinning than from the idea I 
could actually be fast enough to hurt him. I ask, "What the hell have Bible 
verses got to do with killin' my girlfriend?" 

"Everything," Connor says. 

He slaps the crossbow out of my hands so hard it burns through the bloody 
gloves. I punch him once, harder even than I did Cordy, and he barely even 
flinches. And then I see his fist flying out to punch me --

Oh, God, I can't see, I can't stand, I feel myself falling and it's hurting 
and I'm on my back and run, Faith, run if you can.

Instead I hear her screaming. Maybe it's pain. Maybe it's fear. Maybe it's 
just pure rage. Because I feel the hands closing on my arms, and I know it's 
the Watchers. They're on us. They've got us.

I ran away with Faith because she thought I could keep her safe. I told her I 
could keep her safe. And I lied. 

"Charles?" I open my eyes and see Fred. She's kneeling above me. Her face is 
already turning purple from the bruises. She holds my hands so gently I 
almost don't notice the cuffs. "It's all right. I promise, it's gonna be all 
right."

"They're gonna drag Faith off to jail, maybe to die, because of something she 
didn't do. What is all right about this?"

Fred shakes her head. "All we want is the truth."

"Like hell you do," I say. They don't want the truth. Nobody does. 


Chapter Two: The Glue

Fred's got her arm around my waist, and I'm half-draped over her shoulders. 
"Hang on, Cordy," she says as we make our way through Union Station. The 
grubby, very unwashed people waiting for their trains stare at us -- and I 
realize that, with bruises on our faces and blood on our clothes, we are 
actually the scariest-looking people around, even in this crowd. This is not 
going in the life album of great moments, that's for sure. Fred whispers, 
"Almost there. Once we get to the train, we can rest. The Council sprang for 
a couple of sleeper cars."

"Sleep sounds great," I say. Two days on a train do NOT sound great, but they 
beat the alternative, which involves nailing Angel into a shipping crate, 
which would bring up some mega-awful memories. I'm making my own mega-awful 
memories here, of course. My ears are still ringing, and my face hurts, and 
my mouth still tastes like blood. I know Faith's got Gunn under her spell, 
but I don't care. That guy is in some serious trouble, just as soon as I can 
stand without assistance. So, might be a while.

As a general rule, I try not to have regrets. They're totally useless, they 
weigh you down, and I personally believe they have a lot to do with wrinkles. 
But it's moments like this that I have to wonder:

I gave up heaven for this?

****

"That's the test, isn't it?" I stared at Skip, frozen in time, surrounded by 
light. He nodded, and I knew. I had a really simple choice. The Powers, and 
my mission, and a celestial reward that involved heaven and redemption and 
calorie-free chocolate-chip ice cream. (You see God your way, I see Him mine.)

Or: Angel. Obstinate and secretive and brave and hopeful, the man I knew and 
the man I didn't know. Staying by his side, no matter what. Loving him. 

At first it looked like a pretty clear-cut choice, you know? Love is selfish, 
and a mission is selfless, and I hadn't spent three years in Los Angeles 
working and fighting and going without sleep or money or new clothes just to 
go back to being selfish. I'd spent a lot of time and energy making myself 
into the brand-new, better-person Cordelia Chase -- someone as different from 
the selfish, materialistic, old-style Cordelia Chase as possible. The Powers 
were trusting me to give the right answer -- and there might not be anybody 
else, on heaven or earth, who'd trust me to do that.

But just as I was opening my mouth to say it -- to give up this world, this 
life and Angel forever -- I thought about Angel. About the way he was 
standing at the seashore, waiting for me. I knew what he felt, what he hoped. 
And I imagined him standing there, waiting and waiting for me, and the way he 
would feel the moment he realized I would never come.

And I couldn't do it. The one time in my life I needed to be bigger than 
myself -- I couldn't do it.

"No," I said. "I'm sorry, Skip. But the Powers -- we do enough for them 
already, okay? I'm not doing this. I'm not leaving Angel."

Skip looked at me very strangely. "I'm sorry, I mighta zoned out there, but 
did you say no?"

"Right," I said. "No. I can't do it. I'm sorry, but I --"

"You're sorry?" Skip stood up straight, and those weird blades in his back 
scraped against each other, and all of a sudden I remembered how scary he 
looked the first time I saw him. "The Powers give you abilities the average 
DC Comics hero would envy, save your butt on average of about once a month, 
and explain your chance to be a fundamental part of the good of the entire 
world, and all you've got to say is, Sorry, I've got a date?"

"See, it sounds all shallow if you say 'date,'" I protested weakly. "How 
about, um, umm -- true love!" I brightened up and smiled. "I can't be 
destined to leave my true love, right?"

Skip stepped forward and glared down at me. His eyes were flashing this weird 
color. Angel said he met Skip in hell, and really, you do have to wonder how 
somebody gets a job in hell in the first place --

"You don't know anything about destiny, Cordelia Chase," Skip said. "And if 
you think Angel would like you better as the clingy girlfriend than he did as 
the hero, you don't know anything about true love, either."

"Harsh much?" I wanted to be mad at Skip. But the fact is, he was starting to 
scare the shit out of me. He spoke for the Powers, and he was so angry --

"Have it your way," Skip said. "Don't get me wrong, Cordelia. I like you. 
You've still got a lot to offer. But you let the team down."

"I'm sorry," I repeated. Then I winced; what if that just made Skip blow up 
again?

But it didn't. He just smiled at me a little sadly. Then he said, "You aren't 
yet. But you will be."

And then time snapped back into place, and I saw my jeep get dashed into a 
jillion pieces. Which told me something about the Powers then and there.

****

"Where are Gunn and Faith?" I ask as we stumble through the passenger car. 
Surely they're not gonna drive that armored car all the way to L.A. 

"They've got them locked up in a freight car," Fred says. "Apparently it's 
not real hard to bribe the folks at Amtrak."

"Bureaucrats take kickbacks? My faith in the world is shot. Please tell me 
we're almost to the sleeper car. Hurling is still not out of the question."

"We're there right now." Fred steers me through a door, and we're in a little 
sleeper compartment. It's about the size of a file cabinet, but it's got a 
closet, a shower, a pull-out bed, even a teeny wet bar. I find a washcloth, 
find the ice, and make myself an oh-so-attractive nose pack while Fred pulls 
out the bed and shuts the curtains good and tight. 

I tug off my coat and lie down on the bunk. It's not what you'd call a 
feather mattress, but it feels like heaven right now. "Thanks, Fred." I look 
at her as squarely as I can, with one eye swollen. "Are you okay? Seeing Gunn 
-- it wasn't too tough for you, was it?"

"Yeah," she says. She hesitates at the door. "I mean, yeah, I'm okay, and no, 
it wasn't too bad. I'm just so glad nobody got hurt." Then she stares at my 
face, and I stare at hers, and we both start laughing. "You know what I mean. 
Do you need anything else?"

"Nah. Go get yourself comfortable," I tell her. "As comfy as possible, 
anyway."

"There's nothing wrong with me that some aspirin wouldn't fix. Some aspirin 
and a good night's rest. Plus maybe some wine coolers." Fred shakes her head. 
"I'll drop by later."

I raise my free hand and wave as she goes out. Then I go back to holding the 
ice pack on my nose and staring at the ceiling. 

It feels so weird. We've been after them for almost a year; sometimes it 
seemed like that was all our lives were about. Chasing Faith and Gunn. 
Chasing Faith, really; Gunn was just the sucker along for the ride. But we 
weren't gonna rest, not for a day, not for a second, until we caught them. 
Angel and the Council let Faith get away with a hell of a lot, but there was 
no way they'd let her walk away from this --

For a moment I remember Buffy's body, lying limp on those steps. She hadn't 
been dead long when I knelt down by her. I touched her hair, and when I 
pulled back there was warm blood on my fingers -- 

Well, I guess it's time to stop brooding about it. We did what we set out to 
do. We caught Faith. Maybe now we can all rest. Maybe Angel can rest. 

I hear quick, heavy footsteps in the hallway, and I look toward the door. 
Angel comes dashing in, blanket wrapped around him. The other passengers know 
where to find the freaks, that's for sure. As he shuts the door behind us, he 
lets the blanket drop. It's kinda dark in here, but I know he can see me. 
"Cordy," he says. "You're hurt."

"Nothing major," I say. I sound all stuffy. "So how were the Chicago sewers?"

"Those are pretty much the same wherever you go." He strips off his coat, his 
hat, his gloves; Angel doesn't need protection from the cold, but they 
probably helped him with the light. Gingerly he lifts the ice pack from my 
face, checks out my nose. "I don't think it's broken," he says softly. "But I 
know it has to hurt."

"Really, it's not so bad." I feel myself softening as he looks down at me, so 
concerned, so focused. Then I get kinda worried that it seems worthwhile, 
getting smacked in the face, for him to look at me this way. But it doesn't 
seem to matter as he leans over and gently, so gently, kisses me. I'm so 
chilled from the Chicago winter that his lips don't feel cold against mine, 
for once. It's nice. Better than nice.

The train starts moving with a jerk, then begins to rattle slightly as we 
pick up speed. Angel sits beside me on the bunk, rubbing my shoulder. He's 
still being kind and attentive, but I can already feel that focus slipping 
away, being reclaimed by old ghosts. My heart sinks. I thought this was going 
to get us past that. I thought now, maybe, he could let the guilt go, start 
to get over it. 

I say, "We did it. We caught them."

"I never thought we would," Angel says quietly. 

Way to believe in the team. But I answer only, "We got the person responsible 
for Buffy's death. The one who's REALLY responsible." Meaning, not the 
ex-boyfriend whose only failing was not holding her hand 24/7. "Angel, if 
Buffy knew, I think she'd be proud of you."

"If Buffy knew." Angel looks more distant than before; he says her name so 
rarely, but in my heart, I know how often he thinks of her. He shakes it off 
quickly, though, and smiles down at me again. "Let's get to bed," he says.

He strips off his own clothes quickly, until he's down to boxer shorts. Then 
he starts undressing me, but he's still moving fast. Just being efficient. I 
couldn't really have a wild erotic encounter right now, what with the fact 
that my head weighs 8000 pounds. But I just wish he were tempted. Because 
then I'd know that this errand did its job. Besides the whole justice thing, 
of course. I haven't lost sight of that. I just -- don't want to be lost 
sight of either.

Our little cabin is so dark, and it's rocking back and forth gently as we 
travel over the tracks; there's no sound in the room except the rickety-rack 
of the wheels. Angel unbuttons my shirt, slips it off my shoulders. Then his 
hands move to my bra, big fingers that still know how to snap the clasp free 
in an instant. I watch his face as his hands brush against my bare breasts. I 
can feel how gentle he's being, and I see the love in his eyes. But it's -- 
calm. He doesn't want anything from me. And I don't remember how to get what 
I want from him. 

We used to have so much passion. So much need. But that was before Buffy 
died. Since then, it's like something in him died too.

Angel and I get tucked in together, and he throws one arm across me. As 
screwed up as we both have to be after this morning, really, we do both just 
want to crash; I rest my head against his shoulder and let myself relax. It 
feels good, just to lie this close to him. Maybe I ought to just be grateful 
for what I've got. 

Even if I do remember when I had so much more.

***

A month, I thought in despair. He's been down there a month. I got to the 
seashore in time to see Connor and Justine taking off with him, figured out 
what they were doing in no time flat, and it still took a month to find him. 
Dredging the ocean floor just isn't quick. 

I'd insisted that Gunn and Fred let me do this alone. I knew Angel -- or what 
was left of Angel -- wouldn't be strong enough to do me harm. And Angel's 
pride affects him so much; I knew he'd want as few people to see him like 
this -- like whatever he was now -- as possible. That's what I told them, 
anyway. In reality, I felt like I had to be the one to save Angel. Because if 
I saved him, saved the Powers' champion, that would prove I'd done the right 
thing. And they wouldn't be angry and punish me -- or the people I loved.

The basement was cold and dark, and even though I'd spent jillions of hours 
down there, right then it seemed forbidding. And how much worse had it been 
for Angel? So much colder. So much darker. I cleared my throat and called to 
him. "Angel. Angel?"

No response, yet again. I'd called to him ever since the moment we hauled him 
up, and he'd never spoken. The box thumped once, but it had been doing that 
-- rocking back and forth, with the hollow echo of the body inside -- ever 
since we pulled it up. It lay in the center of the basement, still gleaming 
wetly in the faint light. There was a dark square that might have been a 
window, before it was gummed over with sludge and seaweed. I picked up the 
crowbar, which was comforting and heavy, ideal for breaking open the box, and 
if necessary, for other things. 

I stepped forward, holding my breath -- Powers, I thought, please let him be 
all right. Don't punish me through him. Anything else, but not this.

Carefully, I wedged the crowbar between the lid and the box and started to 
pry. As the wood creaked in protest, the thumping inside got stronger. 
"That's right," I whispered. "See, it's over. All over. I'm here." Very 
reassuring words from a lady with a crowbar. 

The lid finally split -- not fully, but partly -- and that's when he howled. 
I don't mean yelled, I mean howled. Like, Oz howling. I started doing the one 
thing I'd promised myself I wouldn't do: I started to cry. Angel was like an 
animal in there, like something not human -- or even less human --

Then the thrashing inside the box got stronger, and I heard something give 
way with a twang of metal. And through the sludge-darkened glass smashed 
Angel's hand. 

I clapped my own hand to my mouth not to scream. Angel's hand was thin and 
bony, and he had fingernails like talons. But that wasn't the worst. The 
worst was that he cut his hand on the glass, and blood started streaming down 
his arm, and he yanked his hand back in and then I could hear this desperate 
sucking sound.

All at once I couldn't take it anymore. I started going crazy on that lid, 
prying and hacking and pulling; I didn't give a rat's ass what happened after 
the lid came off, even what happened to me. I wanted Angel out of there, that 
instant.

I got to the last corner before the lid exploded off the box with a crash. I 
looked down and saw --

Mud. Sand. Shells. Seaweed. And pulling himself out of the sludge -- this 
skinny, ghostly creature. His clothes were sodden rags that fell away from 
his thin body. His hands were like claws. His face was a vampire's, and he 
stared with yellow eyes that didn't know me at all.

Angel was the monster he'd always believed himself to be. And that was the 
moment I knew I loved him beyond any doubt, beyond any help. Because I didn't 
want to run away. It took all my strength not to run to him and take him in 
my arms.

Well, strength and good ol' fashioned will-to-live. Hopelessly in love, but 
still not stupid, thanks for asking.

He lurched at me, sensing only a living creature with blood he could drink. 
But he was weak and slow, and I dodged him easily as he stumbled out of the 
box. Quickly, I went to the Igloo cooler Fred had prepared; I pulled out the 
first of plenty of Tupperware containers of blood and tossed it to him. 
"Drink," I said. Somehow I thought he might remember that word longer than 
any other. "Angel, drink that."

So very unnecessary. He scrabbled at the lid, tugged it open and started 
gulping it down desperately. Blood ran down his chin, and I could see his 
tongue flick out to wash the container clean. Then he ran his fingers along 
his cheeks and throat, scooping up the blood he'd spilled and sucking it off.

I tossed him another one. Then another. Then another. He grew a little less 
desperate as he went, but not much; he just got calm enough to stop spilling 
as much. The weirdest part? Watching his body change before my eyes; I swear 
to God, the guy gained 30 pounds back in about ten minutes. Muscles pulsed 
and swelled beneath slack skin, filling out, taking shape. His skin went from 
really, really pale to just regular pale. His hands started looking like 
hands again as the talons sank back into his flesh. 

And I could tell just by the way he stood, the way he caught the containers 
-- Angel was getting his strength back. Which was why I was getting kinda 
anxious for him to recognize me.

After pint eight -- that's one person -- he finally paused. He looked at me 
unsteadily, squinting in the darkness; I held my breath, hoping for some sign 
that he knew who I was. Failing that, I'd settle for a sign that he knew who 
he was.

He tried to speak, but just made this weird croak. Then he coughed and said, 
in a weak, raspy voice, "Water."

I hesitated. "That's right. You were trapped underwater. But that's over now."

He shook his head and repeated, "Water." Oh, now I know he's gone crazy, I 
thought. He had nothing but water for a solid month, and the first thing he 
does is ask for more?

Wait. No. Angel had salt water. He wants water to drink. "Water," I 
whispered. "Okay, Angel. Hang on." I grabbed one of the Tupperware containers 
and went to the little sink in the corner. My hands were almost shaking too 
much to turn the faucet on, but I managed it. "Here you --"

I turned around and ran smack into Angel. I nearly did scream that time, but 
he just grabbed the water and drank it as desperately as he did the blood. I 
should have backed away, but I couldn't. His vampire face was finally fading, 
and even if he still looked wretched -- for the first time, I could look at 
him and really see Angel. I'd thought I would never see him again. 

He emptied the container, and I took it from him. "Do you want more?" I asked.

He looked down at me. Really looked, I mean. It seemed like his eyes were 
focusing, and I saw what looked like -- oh, please let it be -- recognition. 

Hesitantly, he whispered, "Cordelia?"

"Yes! Yes, Angel, it's me, it's Cordy, I'm here." I could feel the biggest 
smile spreading across my face. I knew I wasn't making any sense, but it 
didn't matter. Angel was okay. He was going to be okay. "We found you. We 
looked and we looked and we finally found you, and now you're safe --"

Angel grabbed me and kissed me. Hard. 

I opened my mouth -- maybe to gasp in shock, because it was that surprising. 
But Angel slid his tongue between my lips, kissed me deep and long. He tasted 
like salt. He tasted like blood. And I didn't care, because it was Angel, in 
my arms, here with me. I grabbed him tight, hugged him to me, hoped the 
warmth of my body would sink into his skin. It was just like every dream I'd 
had for a month now, just the way I wanted him to come home. 

Just when I felt myself getting swoony, Angel pulled away a little and looked 
down at me. "Cordelia?" he whispered again.

"That's right," I said, running my hands through his wet hair. "It's 
Cordelia. I'm here. And --" I'd finally get the chance to do what I stayed on 
Earth to do. To say what I told the Powers I had to say. "Angel, I love you."

"I love you too," he said, so simply that I felt my chest ache. Like he'd 
split me in two, opened me up. "But -- but --"

"But what?" 

"Is this another dream?" Angel's face was uncertain and frightened. "I had 
dreams -- dreams inside dreams -- bad ones and worse ones and good ones that 
would turn bad when I knew they weren't real. And they wouldn't stop. They 
never stopped."

"Listen to me," I said, taking his chin in my hands. "They stopped. They're 
done. It's over, Angel. This is real." I kissed him again, quickly. "I'm 
real."

"I dreamed of you." His hands were roaming over my body now, like he was 
trying to memorize the way I felt, in case he never got to feel it again. I 
started trembling as he caressed my breasts, my belly, my back. "I dreamed of 
you, telling you that I loved you. And in the dreams you loved me too."

"I do. I do love you. I love you so much, Angel. The Powers --" I don't know 
what I was thinking, telling him right then, when he could hardly understand 
what was real and what wasn't. But I'd been carrying it around for a month, 
alone, and I was so desperate to lay the weight down. "The Powers asked me to 
leave you. They wanted me to go up and help them. I swear to God. They must 
have some serious staffing shortages, huh?" I was trembling, my words 
spilling out until they hardly made any sense even to me, but I couldn't 
stop. "But I wouldn't leave you, Angel. I told them that I would never leave 
you. Not even for the Powers. Not even to go to heaven."

We started kissing again, more gently now. Angel's body was shaking, and I 
realized he was either laughing or crying. Maybe both. "It's not a dream," he 
whispered. "It's not a dream."

Thank you, Powers, I thought. Thank you for letting me go. Thank you for not 
punishing me.

At the time, I was too happy to wonder if the punishment came later.

****

I wake up, startled by some noise; I lift my head from the pillow to listen, 
but there's nothing else. Maybe it was a dream.

No. Somebody's knocking on the door. "Just a minute!" I call. I glance over 
at Angel, who is only now opening his eyes. "What happened to super vamp 
hearing?" I ask him. 

"I guess I was sleeping really deeply," he says, sitting up. He tosses me his 
undershirt as he takes up his own sweater. 

"You were sleeping well," I say proudly, like he got a merit badge or 
something. "No wonder you can finally rest easy." See, I just knew catching 
Faith would help! Even if Angel hasn't subconsciously let go of his bags of 
Buffy guilt, it must be better deep inside. 

"Are you not decent yet?" Wesley's voice is dryer than usual, no kidding. But 
he's kinda making a joke with Angel, which is a good sign. Better sign: 
Angel's the one who goes to the door and lets Wesley in. I think we have 
actual civility here. 

"So, how's it going out there?" I ask. "Are we talking pleasant cross-country 
journey or murder on the Orient Express?"

"It's as pleasant as being a jailer gets," Wesley says. He would obviously 
like to sit down, but there's no place except the little bunk Angel and I 
just crawled out of. "Faith's actually being fairly calm and cooperative --"

"Did they drug her?" Angel interjects.

"Fair assumption, but no," Wesley says. "I'm inclined to think she's biding 
her time until she has a better opportunity for escape than she has at 
present."

"And it's our job to make sure she doesn't get one," I add.

Wesley nods. "However, not everyone's behaving as well as Faith."

"Connor -- is he acting up?" Angel says, like Connor would be stealing from 
the snack cart or something. 

"Believe it or not, Fred somehow talked him into playing I Spy," Wesley said. 
"Apparently it's new to him."

"Makes sense," I said with a shrug. "I mean, how do you play that in hell? 'I 
spy -- fire!' 'I spy -- more fire!'" 

"Cordelia," Angel says firmly. Whoops. Gotta watch the hell jokes. "What is 
the problem, then?"

"It's Gunn." Wesley was the first of us to call him Charles, but he hasn't 
done that in years. "He's venting his rather considerable temper on anyone 
who comes near the cell car. Faith's making little effort to calm him. 
They've not been able to get any food through."

"It's only been, what, a couple of hours?" I say. "Faith and Gunn aren't 
starving yet. Give 'em time to get hungry, and he'll simmer down."

"He's locked up back in there with her?" Angel says. He shifts on his feet. 
"Is that necessary?"

"Are you serious?" Wesley says, staring at him.

"Gunn didn't kill -- I mean, Gunn didn't do it," Angel says. "He's been 
helping Faith hide but that's just because he loves her."

"How very understanding you are when it suits you," Wesley says, voice silky. 
Uh-oh. Civility over.

But Angel, for once, doesn't fly off the handle or go into forbidding sulk 
mode. He just meets Wesley's eyes. "I try to learn from my mistakes."

Holy shit -- did we just get an apology here? 

My eyes are wide as I stare at them both. It wasn't quite an apology, but 
it's as close as Wesley's likely to get. And it looks like Wesley might -- 
just -- accept. He's relaxing a little, nodding at Angel. "Gunn can't be set 
entirely free. There's no saying what he might do to rescue Faith. But 
perhaps we could -- mitigate things for him."

"How do we do that?" I ask. I'm trying not to grin at both of them. But I 
can't resist slipping my arm through Angel's, giving his hand a little 
squeeze. He doesn't acknowledge it. 

"We've plenty of skilled magic-users on board," Wesley says, referring to the 
kajillion Watchers who helped us track down Faith and Gunn. "Perhaps there's 
a means of magically handcuffing him -- preventing him from violence. I shall 
speak to the Watchers."

"Thanks," Angel says. Wesley just gives him a quick nod and goes. I turn to 
Angel; I want to hug him, start talking about what just happened -- I mean, 
this is huge. But Angel's not really looking at me. He's kinda looking into 
the distance, not that there is any distance, seeing as how we're in a train 
car. 

I know the look, though. He's worn it just about every day for the year since 
Buffy died.

It's too soon to expect it all to change, I tell myself as I close my eyes 
and try to gather my composure. Healing is going to take time. And doesn't 
that sound all confident and wise? It's almost like I knew what the hell I 
was talking about.

"I'm gonna walk around the train some," I tell him. "Get some snacks, maybe 
do the I Spy game with Fred and Connor."

Angel manages a little smile for me. "Watch him, will you?"

"Of course." We kiss each other before I go out the door, but that's just a 
matter of habit, at this point.

I shouldn't think that way. I mean, I know Angel loves me. I know that as 
deeply as I know anything in the world. He's never been anything but gentle 
and good to me. He doesn't open up to me much, but that's still more than he 
opens up to anyone else, and anytime I need to talk, he's ready to listen. 
And the sex -- okay, it's not SEX sex, what with the cursage, but trust me, 
it's close enough -- is just unimaginable. I spent a lot of time imagining, 
and I had dreamed up a pretty impressive skill set for Angel, and I didn't 
even come close to realizing how good it was gonna be.

And the thing is, it didn't change when Buffy moved to L.A. That is, when we 
moved her to L.A.

****

"Okay," I said, looking around the bare bones of what was still -- for 
another five minutes or so -- Buffy's room. "You're sure that's everything?"

She nodded absently. She was looking at a patch on the wall that was less 
faded from the sun; I thought that was where her bulletin board used to be. I 
couldn't quite remember. 

Buffy waited forever to call us after -- after it all happened. Angel had 
been out of the box for about two months, and Faith had been living with us 
for about a month. Wesley was working as Faith's Watcher again, and I was 
pretty sure the whole sitch was going to blow up in everybody's face pretty 
soon, but it hadn't. Not yet.

Then Buffy called. Told us that virtually everybody I knew in high school was 
dead, and Willow did it. Willow. Sweet, geeky little Willow, who could hack 
into the Pentagon but never figure out what to do with her hair. I couldn't 
believe it. Still can't, I guess.

It's not like I had missed them all that much, to tell you the truth. I mean, 
I feel pretty sorry for anybody who'd have to look back on Sunnydale High as 
the golden years. But knowing that they were gone ripped something out of me 
all the same. I liked knowing that if something really serious was going 
down, Giles was on the case. Or being able to call Willow and ask her just 
what the hell 'defragging' was, anyway. And Xander -- it was like all the 
stupid, jerky stuff he ever did or said to me melted away, and all I could 
think about was the boy who'd been my first love.

They were my past, and they were gone, and they'd done as much for the Powers 
as I ever did, and if the Powers would let them all get killed while they 
were trying to do the right thing -- what would they do to someone who'd done 
the wrong thing?

Nothing seemed safe anymore, after Buffy called us. Nothing will ever really 
seem safe again.

Buffy didn't call us until three months later. What did she do in Sunnydale, 
all alone, for three months, with that kind of devastation? I knew she had to 
be hurting so badly. Maybe that was why -- if you're hurting badly enough, 
sometimes you feel like you can't make decisions. Like you can't even move.

But when she was ready, she telephoned and announced that she needed 
someplace to go, and in a hurry, since they were foreclosing on the house. 
Los Angeles was the only possible port of call. Back at the Hyperion, Fred 
was getting a room ready. Wesley and Faith were patrolling, and probably 
panicking over which one of them Buffy would have snarkier comments for. And 
Angel and I were moving Buffy out. Together.

"The new people are moving in day after tomorrow," Buffy said. "I really 
ought to clean up more."

"It's plenty clean!" I said, smiling brightly at her through the thin haze of 
dust. "You've done a great job."

She looked over at me tiredly, and I realized how I had to look to her -- 
this grinning idiot who was so gosh-darned happy that Buffy was moving out of 
her home forever. The bitch she remembered from high school, the one who 
never took anything seriously enough, the girl who could get through a 
werewolf attack and just gripe about the damage to her car. Who'd want that 
person hanging around anytime, much less a moment like this? And Buffy didn't 
know the worst of it yet.

Gunn poked his head through the door. Poor man. When he sold his soul for a 
truck, did he not realize it would just result in a purgatory of helping 
people move? "We gotcha loaded up. Any other boxes?"

"Nah," Buffy said. "The Goodwill people will pick up the rest tomorrow." She 
picked up her duffel bag and took a deep breath. She didn't even move like 
herself, anymore; her body was slightly hunched over, like she'd just got 
punched. Or maybe like she was trying to protect herself from another blow. 
"Let's go." 

Angel was standing at the bottom of the stairs looking up. Buffy's chin 
lifted a little as she saw him and their eyes met. I could feel my rib cage 
contract with jealousy and fear. Buffy and Angel. Major love story. Was I 
being crazy to think it would end with me?

Buffy went out the front door, but Angel hung back. I hung back with him. As 
soon as she was a few steps away, I whispered, "We have to tell her." Because 
once we told her, that would make it real, official. That would prove Angel 
loved me, and not her anymore, and the very fact that I could think like that 
when Buffy was hurting like hell made me know that the old Queen C of 
Sunnydale High was still alive and well in my heart, despite my many attempts 
to evict.

Angel didn't have to ask what it was we had to tell her. "I just don't want 
to upset her," he said. "Upset her more, I mean."

"I know. I know. It's just that -- if we lie to her, Angel, that's the worst 
of all." Lying to me would also be bad. That was kinda the unspoken 
corollary. 

"We won't lie," Angel promised. He took my hands in his, gave me That Look, 
the one that always makes me melt like chocolate in sunshine. 

I stepped closer to him. "Whenever you're ready," I said. "If you need some 
time -- I mean, if you want to think about things --" I hated saying that, 
hated even thinking it, but I wasn't trying to get him on a leash. You know? 
If he still loved Buffy, I was better off finding out ASAP, the sooner to 
begin the weeping-and-Oreo binge. Maybe that was going to be the Powers' 
punishment for throwing them aside for love -- letting me be thrown aside for 
love in return.

"Cordy," Angel whispered. He touched the side of my face with his fingertips 
-- so gentle -- and of course, that was the moment Buffy walked back in the 
door.

She stared at us. We stared at her. 

"You," Buffy said. She meant it in the plural.

"Us," Angel said. "It's --" He looked at me as if he expected me to come up 
with the words. I couldn't do anything but stare back at him, because the 
only words I had handy were, Oh, crap, which didn't quite seem like the 
thing. Finally he said, "It's been leading up to this for a while now."

"Figures," Buffy said. She laughed -- one short sound. I didn't like it. But 
what the hell was I gonna say? Because even though Angel was NOT Buffy's 
property, and he fell for me fair and square, right then I felt guilty as 
hell. Buffy had lost so much, and we just told her she'd lost one more thing. 
She didn't look at us long; instead, she glanced around her house. I mean, 
the house. It wasn't really hers any longer.

Angel spoke to her gently. "Do you want a minute alone?"

"I've been alone enough," she said. Angel's hand felt cold in mine as we 
walked out.

****

As I buy some M&Ms from the snack cart, I think about how that first night at 
Sunnydale really kinda set the stage for everything that came after. That's 
how we always acted toward each other, the six months she was in Los Angeles. 
Buffy was in pain. Angel was desperate to reassure me but still take care of 
her. And I was the one running around trying to make everything okay. Want to 
go clothes shopping, Buffy? Want me to make you some tea? Basically, I did 
everything except give her a pedicure to show just how gosh-darned guilty I 
felt for taking Angel away from her. He was the last person she had left, and 
he was mine.

I tried really hard to be good. I didn't always make it.

Fred and Connor are hanging out in one of the restaurant cars. Fred gives me 
a big grin when I walk up, but Connor doesn't pay much attention -- that is, 
until I hold out the M&Ms. His eyes light up. (Turns out there wasn't any 
chocolate in the hell dimension. I'm not surprised.) "Thanks, Cordelia," he 
says, holding out his hand. Technically, he's off; I haven't given him any 
yet. But I encourage the manners where I can.

"You're welcome," I say. "And the green ones are lucky." Connor frowns down 
at them as I smile at Fred. Her face still looks a little scary, but she's 
covered up the worst of it with makeup. "How's it going?"

"So far, so good," Fred said. "I'm worried about Charles."

"We're gonna let him out," I tell her, and she beams. God, that girl still 
loves him so much. How could he have been so stupid as to throw her away -- 
and for a skank like Faith? Once you work through Faith's obvious charms, 
which would have to take a couple of weeks, max, I don't think there's a 
whole lot left there.

"I'm so relieved," Fred sighs. "I knew you guys wouldn't stay mad at him 
forever."

"He helped Faith," Connor says. He's glowering at us with a scowl that's so 
perfectly, 100% Angel that it has the opposite effect than the one he's going 
for: I have to fight not to smile. "How can you let him go?"

"He's gonna be monitored," I reassure him. It sounds really convincing. Maybe 
I'll start believing it myself. "He won't be able to do anything violent. 
Gunn's probably going to do a lot of yelling, but that's it."

"It is not a question of what he will do," Connor says. "It is what he has 
already done."

"Charles doesn't think Faith did it," Fred says quietly. "When people are in 
-- when they care about somebody, they don't always see straight."

"That is not an excuse." 

God, Connor is such a hard-ass. I exhale, count to five inside my head and 
then say, "Connor, we have enough crimes to punish here. Seven members of the 
Brotherhood of Amesace are dead, and they may have been weirdo cult loonies, 
but they were humans, so their lives matter. And Buffy's dead, and she was 
the Slayer and -- and her life mattered a lot. Compared to that, Gunn driving 
the getaway car for his girlfriend is pretty small potatoes."

Connor stares. Fred adds, "'Small potatoes' means 'not important.' Or 
sometimes it means 'new potatoes,' but not here."

"Then I don't agree," Connor says. "But I'll obey the rule."

He slouches off, all teenage put-upon, to get himself a soda. Fred smiles 
after him and shakes her head. "He's giving us attitude," she says, "but you 
got through to him. I can tell."

I didn't see any sign of it, but then again, Fred's sometimes better at 
reading those kind of clues than I am. "Connor might be right to give us some 
'tude," I say. "Gunn might go seriously feral on us, you know?"

"Then we'll just sic you on him," Fred says.

"You're siccing me on people? What, am I Lassie again?" It feels good to 
laugh. 

Fred's laughing with me. "It's true. You are. You're the glue, Cordy."

Glue gets invisible as it dries. All of a sudden, I don't feel much like 
laughing anymore. "I'm gonna go back to Angel," I tell her. "I want to make 
sure he's dealing okay."

Fred nods like she understands as I get up and go. I have to resist the urge 
to ask her to explain it to me.

Angel loves me. He didn't love Buffy anymore, at least not romantically. He 
let Faith back into our lives, which he shouldn't have done, but still, he 
couldn't have known that decision would wind up getting Buffy killed. The 
blame belongs to Faith. Nobody else. And now that we've caught Faith -- now 
that he can get some justice for Buffy -- he should be okay again. That's how 
I've told myself it would work for a whole year now.

Yet when I go back into our cabin, Angel's back in bed. Alone in the dark. I 
don't have to ask what he's thinking. 

He looks up at me, his eyes dark, and I can tell that he wants to talk to me. 
He wants so bad to tell me everything, and I need to hear it -- no matter 
what it is, I could take it. But I know by now that he won't tell me. 

What he does do is lift up the blanket, inviting me back to bed. I'm not at 
all tired, but I slip off my clothes and climb in beside him. I wrap my arms 
around Angel's chest, and he nestles his face into the curve of my neck. 

I should fight for him. If I felt like I deserved to be happy, I would fight 
for him. But that feeling's been draining out of me ever since the day I 
turned down heaven. To think I spent so long being scared that the Powers 
were going to punish me with some big apocalypse, some big 
thunder-and-lightning catastrophe. They're more efficient than that. They 
know how to wear someone down, until she's just a shadow.

I stayed here to be with Angel, and the Powers fixed it so that I can lie in 
bed with him and we can still be a million miles apart.

"I love you," Angel says, his lips brushing against my neck, and it still has 
the power to bring tears to my eyes.

"I love you too," I say. The first time we told each other that, it was 
because I had brought him back to life, back into the light. 

Now we tell each other that as we lie alone together, shut off from the 
world, enclosed in the dark.

Chapter Three: The Scholar Of Mistakes

"The origins of the Slayer's power have never been certain." I needn't turn 
my head away from the train window to know that it's Cornish speaking. Wise, 
measured, but as always, a bit too earnest for his own good. I used to think 
we were much alike. "And I've always wondered why we put so much trust in 
what we cannot understand."

"High time you considered that." Ramsay sets down his tea quickly, so that it 
rattles on the saucer, and he coughs liquidly into his kerchief. In a younger 
man, it would be uncouth. "We can never forget the darkness at the heart of 
every Slayer, or the power it wields over them all. But remember -- the 
Slayer has been humanity's protector for centuries. How can we not trust that 
power?"

"You don't trust every helpful magic, though, do you?" I turn at that and see 
that Vambrace's mouth is puckered in a tart little smile. She thinks she's 
helping me out, and I'm sure I'm supposed to be grateful. "Take, for instance 
-- Angel. Years of endeavor for our side of the fight, and it's all 
Wyndham-Price can do to keep you lot from staking him."

"Angel deserves to be more fully theorized than he has been to date." Oh, 
God, spare us from Revelstoke. Any Watcher before a deconstructionist 
Watcher. "The 'vampire with a soul' is the third term that destabilizes the 
human/demon binary, of course --"

"Enough of that," Ramsay says. "We are not academics today. Our prey is not 
obscure fact or philosophical truth, but a person, and she is in our grasp. 
And we must prepare for that task which lies ahead."

"And what task is that?" It's the first time I've spoken to them in a few 
hours, and they look at me in some surprise. "You must mete out justice for 
the murders of eight people, including another Slayer. We can't go near a 
court of law with this. So how precisely do you propose to judge Faith?"

"There's a procedure," Cornish says with an elegant shrug. "We're not meant 
to question it. But I know you'll be shocked to hear that it hasn't been 
altered since the 10th century."

I want to ask more; they're being deliberately coy about the procedure, 
teasing me with the information, trying to get me to beg. It's just one more 
reminder that I am not a real Watcher anymore. 

Vambrace tucks her dark hair behind her ears and draws out a leather-bound 
journal. No Palm Pilots in the Watchers Council yet, I see. "I think this 
would be a good time to raise an objection I've had for some time."

I sit up a little straighter in my seat. "You have a question about the 
charges against Faith?"

"That's it precisely." She folds her hands in front of her and says, "The 
murder of Buffy Summers is of course reprehensible. But Faith is charged with 
seven other murders as well, and I question --"

"What? That seven dead people are not a loss?" Ramsay lifts his bushy white 
eyebrows, preparing for battle.

"The term 'people" can of course --"

"Oh, shut UP, Revelstoke," Vambrace huffs. "These people were members of the 
Brotherhood of Amesace, a cult whose practices are unvaryingly unpleasant. 
The highest form of their rituals demands human sacrifice."

"There's no sign they'd ever harmed a person," Cornish interjects. "I've read 
Wyndham-Price's report; shame about the dogs, but we're not PETA, now, are 
we? The fact is, there are pockets of Amesace followers all over the world, 
and we've never run across more than a handful who were more than pretenders. 
Just amateurs who found Amesace's book in an old shop and thought it would be 
fun to dress up in robes from time to time."

I remember the first night we found one of the dogs. A silly, fluffy little 
thing; I imagine its owner put bows in its hair. Alive, it would have been 
something for Faith to laugh at and mock. But she knelt by its dead body, saw 
how its killers had taken their time, and she shook. I was moved, too, and 
ashamed to admit it, though I do not know if I was more ashamed of feeling 
compassion for the little dog or for Faith.

"I grant you, most of the Brotherhood are amateurs," Vambrace continues 
resolutely. "But there are those few who are genuinely connected to Amesace's 
magic, and have tapped into the darkest of powers. They represent the most 
grave danger. A danger that a Slayer would be duty-bound to confront."

Ramsay shakes his head slowly. "This is all theory, Vambrace. Correct so far 
as it goes. But the fact remains -- these Amesace were not of the dangerous 
breed. Wyndham-Price did the search. And was there anything incriminating? At 
all?"

"Nothing," I said. "A handful of items in a closet -- robes, a few 
'sacramental' candles that I suspect were purchased at Pier One. But the 
items that would have signified the cult's danger --" I know listing them is 
a schoolboy's impulse, a sign that these people still have power over me, and 
yet I cannot stop. "-- braids of human hair, bones carved with runes, bronze 
chalices -- were all absent. They weren't dangerous. There was no need for 
Faith to do what she did to those people."

They died because I failed with Faith. Because I dared to be a Watcher again 
and failed a thousand times more spectacularly than I did before. Seven 
stupid playacting teenagers dead by Faith's hand. That redefines my failure, 
don't you think? 

But no. Buffy's death does that.

Apparently, for once, I'm to be granted the last word on the subject. No more 
is said about the Brotherhood; Faith will remain charged with eight murders. 
Meanwhile, the subject drifts to other things: Revelstoke wants to discuss 
the semiotics of "amateur," Vambrace is coordinating plans for what she calls 
a "post-trial referendum" but sounds suspiciously like a cocktail party to 
celebrate the coming conviction, Cornish is assuring me that he'll find the 
handcuff spell for Gunn, and Ramsay looks as though he may doze over his tea. 

I look out the window again; it's a brilliant, sunny afternoon as we cross 
the plains. There's less snow here, just a dusting, and yet the world has a 
snowy stillness to it. The main thing I hear is the clacking of the train 
rails, and all at once it seems to me that they are bearing me back into the 
past. 

Because I've been traveling back in time for a while now, really. I was an 
apprentice Watcher, uncertain and eager. Then I was a Watcher, overly proud 
and destined to fail. Then I was a rogue and a loner, though not nearly so 
much as I dared pretend. Finally, I was a member of Angel Investigations and 
a loved and trusted friend. Or so I thought.

Then I was a rogue and a loner again, and I did it right that time. Then I 
was a Watcher again, and I failed on a far grander scale. And now I am back 
with the Council again, surrounded by my betters, expected to learn from 
their example.

I try to put all those times together, all the people I've been, all the 
things I've done. Wearing leather trousers and riding a motorbike through 
Southern California. Fencing with the late Rupert Giles and being trounced. 
Having sex with a woman I despised, only to flinch from the acid burn of 
truth between us. Talking over the meaning of life with Angel as he folded 
his baby's laundry. And so much more besides.

The acts don't fit together. They don't assemble into one complete, logical, 
understandable man.

And yet they all belong to me.

****

I opened the door to see Angel standing there. I was more surprised than I 
ought to have been. Hadn't I been expecting this all along?

I calculated the distance to my crossbow -- too far -- and to my axe -- just 
close enough. This was more to steel my resolve than anything else, as I 
didn't even try to shut the door. No need. "If you're planning on barging in, 
you'll discover that you've been uninvited," I said, by way of greeting. 

"If I were planning on barging in, I wouldn't have knocked," Angel said. His 
tone of voice was -- reasonable. No more, no less. And that alone was enough 
to confuse me.

I'd thought about this confrontation a hundred times. More. Sometimes, Angel 
came to scream at me some more, to attack again. He jumped out from behind 
corners, was lurking in dark alleyways. I always had a weapon at the ready, a 
stinging comment that would slice into his soul the moment before my stake 
slammed into his heart.

Other times, Angel came to say that he was sorry, that he'd been wrong. He 
admitted that he needed me, that they were lost without me. His speeches on 
the subject were very fine, very sweet to hear. But the endings then were 
less definite. Sometimes I turned him away coldly, because he deserved that. 
Sometimes I went back, because he deserved that. Sometimes I couldn't imagine 
what I would say at all.

But I never prepared myself for this -- Angel standing in the door, 
apparently as free from rage as he was from guilt. He'd done the one thing I 
never allowed him to do in my wishful fantasies: He'd caught me off-guard.

Still, my lines were well-enough rehearsed not to fail me. "I take it then 
that you aren't here to kill me."

Angel's eyes narrowed slightly at that, betraying -- what? Remorse? Anger? I 
did not know. "I never intended to kill you."

It was too ridiculous even to laugh. "Really. Funny how I missed that, when 
the pillow was being held over my face."

"If I wanted you dead, you'd be dead." Angel smiled, and I saw more of 
Angelus in him in that moment than I did when he attacked. "I didn't want to 
kill you, Wesley. I wanted to scare you. I know how to kill somebody so that 
it takes a long time. A longer time than you'd think it could. But there's no 
death that lasts as long as fear. Play your cards right, and fear can last 
forever." His eyes flickered in the rough direction of my crossbow; he 
couldn't see it from where he was, but I knew he'd seen me look for it. I 
hated him then.

"So you're here for vague threats. Disappointing. You may tarnish your 
reputation for inventive cruelty. The inventive part, I mean." 

Angel closed his eyes and took a deep breath; as Angel never needs to 
breathe, it's usually a sign of emotion. When he opened his eyes again, he 
was calm. "We could go on like this forever. It's useless. I'm here to ask 
you something."

This was a little more like it; the grappling didn't feel useless to me. "Are 
things not running so smoothly at Angel Investigations? You're not able to 
manage with the able help of, oh, Gunn's swordfighting skills, or Cordelia's 
knowledge of Aramaic?"

"We manage well enough," Angel said, some of that calm gone. "We have to hire 
people to do translations. But at least the people we've hired don't make 
mistakes." 

Mistakes. It was all a mistake. It was all for nothing. 

He tilted his head slightly, studying me as a bird of prey might. "How are 
things running here, Wes? I guess you're out every night, righting wrongs, 
saving souls." I didn't answer. I couldn't. I knew he could see the stubble 
on my chin and the wrinkles in the clothes I'd been wearing for two days. I 
wondered if he could smell Lilah on me, then realized, of course he could. 
Angel's eyes narrowed. "Funny we haven't run into you on patrol."

All at once, I knew that I was going to have to get rid of him. I needed to 
-- vomit. Or collapse. Or scream. But I couldn't let him go yet, not until 
Angel saw that he did not hold the sole ownership of pain. "I'm not 
interested in what you have to ask me, Angel. I'm not interested in you or 
your gang of sycophants, any more than you are interested in me. But before 
you go, I want to ask you something." I stared into his eyes. They'd changed 
-- the anger was gone -- but the shame I sought wasn't there. "How do you -- 
you, so deep in sin -- how dare you condemn anyone? How dare you beg the 
Powers for forgiveness when you won't grant it?"

"I haven't been asked to forgive," Angel said, very quietly. 

He puts a pillow over my face and shrieks about my death, and he wants an 
apology? Bastard. "We had a mission, Angel. We had responsibilities that were 
greater than your fate or mine -- or even Connor's, whatever destiny he may 
have. Oh, yes, I know he's back. I saw you two." Angel had gotten back what 
he had lost, and I never would. I straightened up and continued, "Forgiveness 
was a part of that mission. It was a part of our most sacred duty. If you've 
forgotten that, then there's no hope for your redemption. You're only 
postponing the day you go back to hell."

I ought to have slammed the door right then, but Angel did the last thing I 
expected him to do. He smiled. As I stared at him, he said, "I'm glad you 
said that. It makes this a lot easier."

I glanced back at the crossbow and didn't care if he saw me. "What's that?"

"It turns out you are interested in what I have to ask you, Wes." Angel's 
eyes were gleaming with a sardonic joy, and yet one that had nothing of 
Angelus in it. "Since you're the expert on forgiveness and redemption and 
duty, I guess you'll be glad to forgive Faith. She's out of jail, and she 
needs a Watcher again. That's more important than our problems, isn't it?" 
Angel grinned. "She's lucky you're such a forgiving guy."

Shit.

****

The company of Watchers begins to pall after a while, even for other 
Watchers, so I begin browsing about through the train cars, looking for 
better companions. 

The sun is still in the sky, at least for another hour or so, and I know I 
shan't see Angel. Though I know nobody around us suspects this, I find his 
company less onerous than most of those who surround me. We take our digs at 
each other, but in the past year this has settled into more a matter of form 
than anything else. Cordelia smiles and pats our shoulders when she sees that 
we're able to speak civilly; she has no idea that I've accepted him, or that 
I despise her.

Cordelia, of all people -- she couldn't speak for me? Couldn't use her powers 
of persuasion on my behalf? She holds the whip hand over Angel, and she 
employs it freely, but she did not bother to do so for me. She and I were 
friends when he was our enemy, and she forgets it all as soon as he strikes 
her romantic fancy. I was never anything but a loyal and caring friend to 
her, and when I needed her most, she abandoned me. Angel's wrath had been 
more terrible than the others' negligence, but at least he had some excuse, 
however inadequate. I couldn't condone what he'd done to me, but I could 
understand it. I shall never understand what motivated Cordelia's decision to 
abandon me at the first sign of trouble. Some mornings, as she chirps at me 
while drinking her coffee, it's all I can do not to slap her smug, 
sanctimonious face.

Whereas Angel -- well. At first, I knew myself to be more sinned against than 
sinning, but I also knew I had sinned. A certain measure of self-blame is 
bracing; I'd like to talk about that with Angel someday, though I suspect we 
never shall. 

But after Faith's descent -- after Buffy's death -- I know myself to be a 
sinner on a far grander scale. I failed my Slayers again, and the end was 
tragedy beyond anything I had before caused or endured. I couldn't claim the 
moral high ground after that. I hadn't realized how much I needed that high 
ground until I'd lost it forever.

Angel never blamed me. All the little comments he makes -- so casually, as if 
I wouldn't catch that mean-spirited bit about "learning from mistakes" -- 
still refer to the matter of Connor. In this one matter of Buffy's death -- 
so much more my fault than a damned false translation -- he casts no blame. 
The perversity of the man.

Yes, I do sometimes still get angry at him. It is strange how angry we feel 
towards those we have wronged.

"Excuse me?" A young Asian girl is staring up at me, and I realize that I've 
simply come to a halt in the center of the car, making a fool of myself and 
blocking the way in the bargain. I murmur apologies and make my way to the 
restaurant car. 

I see them right away. No matter how much time goes by, Fred will always be 
the first one I see. Connor sits beside her. They each have their feet tucked 
up under them on the seat, and they both look far younger than they are. 
Fred's hair is falling loose from the knot she had it up in this morning; her 
soft curls frame her face, fall in curves that mimic the silver loops in her 
ears. As I walk closer, I hear her saying, "I spy -- a red turtle."

Connor begins searching the car; his eyes travel over me, and I know he 
recognizes me, but he doesn't care. He's just hunting for the red turtle, as 
intently as though he were stalking a demon. His focus unnerves me, at times. 
Finally he smiles. "On the little girl's backpack. In the corner."

"You're way too good at this," Fred says. Then she sees me and grins, hugging 
her knees to her chest. "Wesley! Are you hungry?"

"Famished," I say, and I am surprised to realize it's true. "I don't suppose 
they have much here beyond warmed-over hamburgers."

"The pizza's not bad," Connor offers. 

"Take his advice," Fred says. "I tried the burrito. Big mistake. I mean, I 
don't know why I expected quality Mexican food, or for that matter any good 
ethnic food, on a train, which is owned by a large bureaucracy and designed 
to please the widest array of people, which means any cuisine that relies 
heavily on spices is going to suffer." She hears herself, stops and wrinkles 
her nose. "Did that make sense?"

"Near enough," I say. "And I'll get the pizza." 

By rights, of course, I should be as angry at Fred as I am at Cordelia, or as 
I was at Gunn before he compounded his sins by helping Faith get away. 
However, I am not. I have marshaled logical reasons for this -- Fred spoke 
out when the others didn't, Fred is not a forceful personality and would not 
be able to best them. Of course, what it all boils down to is that I was -- 
and am -- in love with Fred, and rightly or wrongly, it makes a difference.

However, in these two years, I have never seen the slightest evidence that 
she's in love with me. And that makes her company hard to bear for too long. 
But I can allow myself these few moments, now and then. 

"Fred has taught me a new game," Connor says. "It's like a hunting game. It's 
fun."

The fact that he thinks so is evidence of the pitifully small amount of fun 
Connor's had in his life, a subject on which I don't want to dwell. "The 
Council's so bloody cheap," I say. "If they'd chartered us a jet, we could 
have been back in a matter of hours, instead of wasting two days on a train."

"I kinda like it," Fred says, pulling her sweater arms over her fingers. "I 
like seeing the countryside. Besides, I need a couple days to gear up for 
whatever's gonna happen with Faith. And with Charles." Her voice caresses his 
name, and her eyes are liquid with concern. Gunn threw this woman away for 
Faith. After some of the things I've done, I can't claim not to understand 
him, but I can condemn his stupidity along with my own. I've failed to learn 
so much, but I've become a scholar of mistakes. 

She leans forward and puts her hand on mine, an intimate gesture that 
surprises me so much that I almost don't hear what she's saying. "Cordelia 
says you're trying to find a way to get Gunn out of that awful cell car. Some 
kind of spel -- magi -- um --" She tries to think of a way around saying 
"magic spell" in a public place and falls short. "Helpful thingy?"

"The Watchers are working on it," I tell her. "With misgivings, of course, 
but they'll have an answer soon."

"Why do the Watchers want to let him go?" Connor says. "I thought they cared 
about the rules."

"Oh, they do," I tell him. "But they'd rather be guilty of undue mercy than 
of ignorance. They'd prefer to let Gunn out than admit they don't know how to 
do it."

"They shouldn't do that," Connor says, which I expected. But then he adds 
something I didn't expect: "It's not smart, to show people everything you 
know."

Clever boy.

"Charles will be grateful," Fred says. "Of course, he won't show that he's 
grateful, because he never does at first, and he'll walk around all mad and 
puffed up for a while, but wait and see. He'll want to talk it out sooner or 
later." 

It's likely to be later, if at all. But there's no point of trying to 
disabuse Fred of her belief in the man. There's no understanding women's 
choices of whom to love.

****

My patrol with Faith had gone well. We did not argue. She did not act 
inappropriately. A few vampires and one demon were killed. Success.

But those simple words, which could have made an entry in my Watcher's Diary, 
did not capture the experience, I thought as I cut through the Hyperion's 
kitchen. (I might have simply walked out from the lobby, but the some of the 
others were congregated there, and I did not wish to see them.) Patrolling 
with Faith was invariably an experiment in excruciating uncertainty. I 
despised her and, though I tried for duty's sake, I could not always conceal 
it. For her part, she wavered violently between desperate attempts to please 
me and more of her typical attitude. 

We could do our jobs, but we could not do it without suffering the entire 
time. At first, I had been unwilling to consider leaving her for this alone 
-- that would give Angel what he would consider a moral victory, and I'd be 
damned if I would let him have it. 

However, in the past two weeks, a new opportunity had opened up for me. Buffy 
had come to L.A. Another Slayer needed a Watcher -- who was to say that Faith 
deserved my services more than Buffy? No one, that was certain. I imagined 
they would be hard-pressed not to admit that Buffy deserved more of 
everything than Faith. Faith had fallen into the paths of darkness, and I was 
no longer so young and so naive as to deny the Council's wisdom -- once 
fallen, Faith could never be trusted again. Her descent was inevitable, and I 
did not want to be borne down with her.

I thought nothing would shake such thoughts from my head until the moment I 
pushed open the kitchen door. Buffy stood there, locked in his embrace. I did 
not know him, but I knew he was a vampire.

She pushed him away savagely, and I thought for a moment she had heard me. 
But no -- they were too caught up in each other to see me, though I was only 
20 feet away. "I'm not doing this," she breathed. "I can't. It was killing me 
before, and that was before -- I thought it was bad then, but I didn't know. 
I didn't know anything."

Before? This vampire was already her lover, then. Good God. I'd always 
imagined her affair with Angel to be something singular, something romantic, 
however misguided. But apparently she had some sort of bizarre taste for 
vampires, some variant of necrophilia. I was disgusted, but mostly I was 
shocked.

The vampire, for his part, was unwilling to take no for an answer. "But -- 
but it's different now, baby, don't you see?" He had a lower-middle-class 
accent, hair that showed evidence of having been bottle-blond a month or two 
before. A lit cigarette was in one of his hands, and from the jittering of 
its glowing tip, I could tell that he was shaking. "This changes everything."

"Why would I believe you?" Buffy was backing away from him. "You'd do 
anything to have me, Spike. You proved that."

So that was Spike. I'd heard of him, but this was the first time I'd laid 
eyes on him. He looked different than I'd expected, though I couldn't quite 
say how. Spike was Buffy's lover. 

He winced at Buffy's words, but held his hands out in naked pleading. The 
smoke rose from his cigarette as he begged, "I've done my time for that one, 
pet. And for all the others -- I'm paying my debt to society, wearing the 
bloody scarlet letter, all of that. You don't know what it's like --"

"Neither do you," she said. "Because you're faking. You're lying."

"Please, baby. I did this for you. Don't tell me I did it all for nothing."

"If you ARE telling the truth -- " Buffy pulled out her stake, and he 
skittered back. "You're not what I need anymore. Get out of here before I 
make myself some dust."

"I'll go," he said. "I'll do what you want. But I'll be back." A faint smile 
hovered around his lips. "I'll come back night after night, show you I've 
changed."

"Yeah, you never used to hang around alleyways before."

Spike kept backing away, but he was really smiling then, trying to put some 
swagger in his step. "You'll see, baby. Might have to serenade you outside 
your window. A guitar and 'Our Lady of Spain,' how would that suit?"

"Get OUT!" Buffy screamed, and he ran away. But he was laughing as he went. 

After a few moments of silence, she put the stake back in her pocket. Buffy 
ran one hand through her hair, sighing. "I sound like Dawn," she muttered as 
she walked back toward the hotel. Her head lifted slightly, and then she saw 
me. 

We stood very still, staring at one another for a few long moments. I don't 
know how much of my disgust showed on my face, but I suspect it was enough. 
Her face kept changing in the streetlamp's glow -- confusion about how much I 
might have heard, anger that I had eavesdropped, then pure terror. Buffy 
stepped a little closer, her eyes wide, and we stepped into the kitchen 
together. Our little secret. "Don't tell," she said. "You won't tell."

"No," I said. "I won't." I meant it. I thought it would be far more pleasant 
to let Angel find out for himself. 

Her face was pained. "That -- with Spike -- I can explain that --"

"You don't have to." I didn't care to hear her rationalizations.

She mistook my reaction for charity, and she hugged me tightly around the 
waist -- so tightly I thought my ribs might crack. "Thank you," Buffy 
whispered, her voice tremulous. "Thank you."

I didn't stop her from going back into the hotel. I no longer wanted to ask 
her to patrol with me. I wanted her to stay by Angel's side, lure him back 
into her heart, so that it would burn him all the worse when he discovered 
her other vampire lover. I was angrier then.

Many nights after that, I would wait outside the hotel. I saw her often 
enough, strolling in the alleyways, or just gazing down from her window. I 
knew Buffy was looking for Spike, but I did not know whether she was guarding 
against him or hoping he would appear. In neither case did it matter, for he 
never came back again.

In the weeks after that incident, her temper grew worse and worse, her 
remarks more mean-spirited and cutting. Strangely, it seemed the only person 
she ever had a kind word for was Faith, and then only rarely. More often they 
fought, as Buffy began fighting with everyone.

Well, nearly everyone. One afternoon I peered into the workout room, looking 
for Connor, and instead saw Buffy with Gunn. They were laughing and carrying 
on as they sparred, until she backed away from him and slowly peeled off her 
shirt. She wasn't wearing a bra. Gunn didn't look away, but I did. I went 
back upstairs and poured myself a cup of tea with shaking hands.

Even then, at the height of my bitterness, I cared too much for Fred to be 
casual about Gunn's infidelity. I mean, his first infidelity.

****

Fred smiles at me as she picks up her coffee. Connor has left us, to do 
whatever it is he would find amusing on a train. I can think of almost 
nothing to say to her now, and yet I cannot leave her; I am still greedy for 
these moments, when I can have her to myself alone, in whatever sense. "You 
know, I'm feeling a lot better about all of this," she says.

"Resolution is always a comfort," I say.

"Besides, it's not like Faith's up for the death penalty or something," she 
says. Her lipstick is shell-pink, almost too delicate to see against her pale 
skin. But traces of it line the cup she holds in her hands. "She's going to 
Watcher jail, which is some kind of castle, which I realize isn't as plush as 
it sounds, because after all dungeons are part of castles too, but Faith 
won't be in the dungeon part, will she?"

I don't suppose there's any point in mentioning that a manor built in 1710 is 
neither a castle nor likely to be equipped with a dungeon. "No. She'll be 
suitably housed." After her trial, whatever that might be. I wish I knew what 
it will be. 

"So, any part of a castle that's not a dungeon probably beats the heck outta 
San Quentin," Fred says. "And they'll get her help, right, Wes? 
Psychologists? Therapists? A lot of Watchers have degrees like that, don't 
they? I'm not saying Faith didn't do wrong, but -- there was always something 
about her that I felt kinda sorry for. I can't really give it a name, but --" 
She looks off at the horizon, her voice softer now. "-- it was the same thing 
that always kinda made me feel sorry for Buffy. I mean, besides everything 
that happened in Sunnydale. I felt sorry for Buffy because of that, but there 
was something else too, you know? They shared that, whatever it was." 
If only she knew. 

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" 

At first I can't even imagine what Fred is referring to. Then I look out the 
window. The sun is setting; we can't see it, as the train is headed directly 
west at this point, but the sky is turning brilliant shades of orange and 
violet that shine on the snowy ground. "Yes," I say quietly. "I suppose it 
is."

I always wanted to see the world through her eyes, so simple, so beautiful, 
so full of hope. I know now I never will. Add that to the list of failures.

Chapter Four: The Big Bad in Nikes


None of them are watching the sunset. 

The people on this train remain huddled in their seats, peering down at books 
with illicit embraces on the cover, or at laptop computers with frivolous 
"news," or at small electric games they hold in their hands as they pretend 
to be warriors. One old woman is knitting a blanket, which is a useful 
activity. But I do not understand the others.

But then, this is their world, and they have seen sunsets many times. They 
are rich in skies and scenery and beautiful things. I do not envy them; such 
wealth can lead to poverty of the spirit. They fail to appreciate what they 
have.

I do not. My father taught me to be grateful for what we had. Now that I have 
so much more, I am more grateful. I have warm clothing that is clean and does 
not need mending. I have not felt long hours of hunger in more than a year. 
My shoes are well-made and do not let the water in when it rains. And I can 
watch the sun set in a peaceful sky. I should be content. 

But I'm not. The others around me are trapped in their ways, and when I tell 
them they are not effective enough, they will not change, and I think they do 
it sometimes just to displease me. We spend too much time talking, and not 
enough time fighting. And Winifred is with Wesley, and maybe he will ask her 
to eat dinner or go see a movie, and then he will be her boyfriend, and she 
won't spend time with me anymore.

I remind myself that I am too young to court Winifred. My father always said 
that men should choose wives younger than themselves. So what would he think 
of me if he saw me coveting a woman ten years older? If the others knew, they 
would just laugh. So I should try to be glad that she has found someone who 
would suit her, someone who is at least a better man than Gunn. Wesley takes 
our mission seriously, and he doesn't get along well with Angel. That's why I 
like him.

Though I don't mind Angel as much anymore, I guess. He will never take my 
father's place, no matter how hard he tries. But the home I live in, the good 
clothing I wear, even the name I use in this world -- they are all things 
Angel has given me, and I know well how to be grateful. I have seen Angel 
destroy many evil creatures during the time I have lived and worked with him, 
and he does not kill humans, so I think it was the right choice to return.

Those aren't the only reasons I try to be less angry at Angel. I did wrong to 
him, and I don't like thinking about that.

I did not realize all at once that Justine was lying. It took time, more time 
than it should have taken a hunter. She told me what I wanted to believe, and 
this made me weak. I must remember that lesson. 

But my father made me a hunter, and being a hunter means being able to think 
logically about the behavior of other creatures. My father's murder consumed 
me for weeks, and as I became able to control my emotions, I became a hunter 
once more.

I found my father outside. Why would he have gone outside? So long as he 
considered our lodgings a home (something he could do very quickly, at will, 
and I am not sure it was not magic), Angel could not have entered without 
permission. My father was safe indoors. Why go outside? It was a stupid thing 
to do, and my father was not a stupid man. 

His body bore none of the marks of a great struggle - no broken fingers, no 
scratches, no torn clothing. My father was old and feeble, but he was a man 
of great ability, and I cannot believe he would have fallen to Angel without 
fighting. 

When I beheaded my father's corpse to save him from becoming a vampire, I was 
shocked by all the blood that poured into the ground. At the time, I could 
think of little besides seeing my father's head severed from his body, by my 
hand. But later I realized that it was too much blood. If Angel had fed from 
him, my father would not have had so much blood left.

Justine drank too much; drunkenness is a shameful thing, especially in a 
woman, but it can work to a hunter's advantage. I waited until one night when 
she had had even more to drink than usual, and then I confronted her with my 
suspicions. She finally confessed the truth. 

There, at least, I had justice.

I was relieved to learn that Angel was already free. I felt no guilt for my 
action, and I still do not. Angel's crimes deserve far greater punishment 
than that. But I did not wish to act unjustly. My father taught me right from 
wrong, as though they were separate lands, divided by great chasms. It is 
troubling to think that this might not be so. I do not like to think about 
being wrong.

"Connor?" 

I look away from the sunset to see Winifred standing there. She took her hair 
down, and now it falls loose, and she looks beautiful. She is delicate, 
timorous, like a dove. At least, what I think doves are supposed to be like. 
She smiles at me uneasily. "They've got the -- you know -- for Charles." 
Winifred, like the others, will not talk about spells in front of most 
people. "I was going to go be there when they -- you know." She grabs my arm. 
"Come on so we can talk about this."

"Where is Wesley?" I ask as we begin moving into another car.

"Wesley doesn't want to see Charles. He's still got a bug up his butt about 
it." I stare at her, and she laughs a little. "That's a euphemism."

Oh. Good. "But you want to see Charles."

"Well, yeah," she says as she smoothes her hair. "I'm not mad at him. Not 
anymore." 

For my part, I'm mad at Gunn for many things. But I go along with Winifred 
and resolve to be polite when he is released. There was a time when I liked 
Gunn better than any of the others. Except Winifred, of course.

****

"Hey, you there."

I looked up to see Gunn standing in my doorway. I was sharpening my knives -- 
properly, by hand, with a leather strop. "Hey," I said, trying to use his 
terms. I worked on getting the vocabulary right as much as I could. 

Gunn did not like the fact that I was sharpening knives, even though it was a 
useful thing to do. I think Gunn was always a little scared of me, or at 
least he didn't trust me. I liked that about him. It was smart. "You got a 
second?" he said, his hands in the pockets of his jeans.

I felt strange -- the others did not often come to my room, and then they did 
not come to visit. They told me that my dinner was ready, or that it was time 
for patrol. Sometimes Angel wanted to know when I would bring clothes down to 
be laundered; it took me a while to get used to how clean everyone tries to 
be here. But no social visits. I could not think of any reason to say no. 
"Yes," I said. "Sit down."

Gunn sat on the corner of my bed, and I continued my work. He did not insist 
that I look up at him while he spoke. "You know Buffy's been actin' a bit on 
the strange side lately."

I had learned already that it was smart to say as little of what I truly 
thought as possible. I told the truth, just not the entire truth. "She starts 
arguments," I said. "But she fights very well." 

"Yeah, she's got that goin' for her, no doubt," Gunn sighed. "But that's not 
quite what I'm gettin' at." I did look up at him then, trying to understand. 
He was choosing his words very carefully. "If Buffy comes to you -- like, 
say, on patrol, or maybe even, uh, here in your room -- if she says or does 
somethin' that makes you uncomfortable, you can just tell her to get lost, 
right?"

"Buffy would not get lost in the hotel," I said. "She knows her way."

"'Get lost' means leave." Gunn stared at me for a moment longer and shook his 
head. "Hell, you're a teenager. You're surfin' a hormone tsunami. What am I 
sayin'? She's not gonna make you uncomfortable, is she? More likely to make 
you pretty damn comfortable, if you get my drift."

"Drift?" Did he mean sand? I put the knives down. "What is it called when you 
use a word to mean another word?"

"Huh? I guess you'd call that a euphemism."

Euphemism. I memorized the word then and there. "Right. Euphemism. I'm not 
good at those. Say what you mean."

Gunn smiled at that. I hadn't seen him smile much; he looked like a friendly 
person, which I'd never thought about before. "Okay, junior, you asked for 
it." He leaned back on the bed and looked skyward. "I think Buffy's kinda 
hacked -- I mean, not real happy that your dad and Cordelia are together."

When he said "your dad," he meant Angel. I stopped correcting them all about 
that fairly quickly, because I realized they would never learn. "Buffy was 
once Angel's concubine."

"You gotta stop usin' words like that. Anyway, she's been actin' out. Doin' 
stuff she wouldn't normally do. And I don't want you gettin' mixed up in it."

"What stuff?"

Gunn looked at me carefully, then leaned forward. "You gotta promise not to 
tell anybody about this. You gotta keep your mouth shut."

Keeping your mouth shut means not talking. I knew that one. "What happened?"

"Couple nights ago Buffy asked me to spar with her down in the workout room. 
Well, things were goin' along just like usual. Better than usual. We were 
laughin', jokin' around, having a high old time. Until all of a sudden she 
starts doin' this striptease. I mean, she started taking her clothes off."

It took me a moment to recall that nudity is considered improper in this 
dimension. People bathe in private, and if they are nude with another person, 
that means that -- oh. "She wanted to fornicate with you."

"You damn sure don't need euphemisms, do you? Yeah, that was the idea."

Gunn was Winifred's boyfriend. He owed her fidelity. I stared at him. "Did 
you know her carnally?"

"What? Oh. No. No, no, no," Gunn said. He seemed uneasy. "Buffy didn't want 
me; she wanted to get under Angel's skin, is all. That means she wanted to 
hurt him. She didn't say that's what she wanted, but that's what was goin' 
on. We, uh -- the way it ended up, we had a conversation that went up to 
eleven on the awkward dial, and she wound up gettin' dressed while I lit 
outta there. Nothin' happened, not really."

I should have noticed that Gunn did not mention Winifred as a reason not to 
fornicate with Buffy. "Do you think she would do something like that to me?" 
I would not have been surprised. Any woman so debased as to lie with vampires 
--

"I don't know," Gunn said. "Probably not. In three words, you are Statue Tory 
Rape." I knew what rape meant, but I thought it referred to something wicked 
men did to women. "But if she's really runnin' off the rails -- if she really 
wants to hurt Angel bad -- well, you'd be one way. And you don't want to get 
mixed up in that. I realize, at your age, you can't imagine that gettin' some 
booty couldn't be a good thing, but trust me on this. And booty don't mean 
'treasure,' okay?"

"It means lying with a woman," I said. I had heard it in songs. "No, I 
wouldn't do that with Buffy."

"Good. Okay." Gunn studied me for a moment, then smiled again. "This is 
probably all for nothin'. Probably nothin' to it but temporary insanity. 
Buffy probably had a couple pina coladas, got a look at my fine-lookin' body 
and couldn't help herself."

At first I was surprised at his arrogance. Then I realized he was joking. 
They joked like this a lot. The right response would be to insult him in some 
way. "I think she could help herself if she got a look at you." 

I must have done it right. Gunn grinned and laughed. "Oh, now the kid's 
gettin' a mouth on him," he said. "Time to look out."

****

"You motherfuckers think you can chain me up?" Gunn's face is like a battle 
mask, hard with rage, teeth bared. "We on a goddamned slave ship now?"

The Watchers watch him carefully; they are wondering whether or not to do the 
spell. I wonder too. Next to me, Winifred trembles, but she is silent. I wish 
it were proper for me to put an arm around her. But maybe that would only 
make Gunn angrier, and that would frighten her more, and I do not want her 
frightened. 

"Mr. Gunn," said the Watcher named Ramsay, "Your former coworkers asked for 
this as a kindness to you. If you wish to reject their offer --"

"Kindness. Aw, hell, yeah, they know so damn much about kindness, don't they? 
They ain't got any kindness for Faith. You can tell every one of them -- you 
gettin' this, Fred? -- you can tell them --"

"Hey!" Faith's voice silences him. She steps into view; she is already healed 
from our battle, and I find myself wishing we could have fought longer. Faith 
is degenerate and wicked, but she is a worthy opponent. There are so few in 
this dimension. "I need you to do something for me."

She is speaking to Gunn, who looks at her. He is still shaking with rage. 
"What's that, baby? Anything. You name it."

Faith puts her hands on either side of his face. "I want you to go out 
there," she says, with a nod toward us and the rest of the train. "And I want 
you to get me a Milky Way."

Gunn stares at her for a moment, as do we all. "What?" he finally says.

"A Milky Way," Faith repeats. "Chocolate. Caramel. Nougat. I want one. Go get 
it." He stares at her a moment longer, and then he begins to laugh. To my 
surprise, I realize that Winifred is trying to hide her own smile. I don't 
understand what these people find funny. Why is Faith's trivial request funny 
to them?

Even stranger, it seems to calm Gunn down. "One Milky Way, comin' up. You 
want a soda to go with that?"

"I'm guessing the Tweed Patrol ain't gonna let you bring me a Long Island 
Iced Tea," she says. "So -- coffee."

"Black," Gunn says. Faith nods. They kiss briefly, and then Gunn steps toward 
the door and holds his hands out. "Cuff me," he says.

The Watcher called Vambrace reads a few words in a language I do not know, 
and Ramsay crushes a bundle of herbs in a bowl, then lights a candle and lets 
the wax drip into the bowl. A pale blue light twines around Gunn, and he 
shivers, and then it's gone. Vambrace says, "You won't be able to make any 
sudden moves, hostile or not; you'll want someone with you most of the time, 
lest you fall. You wouldn't be able to put your hands out to brace yourself. 
Technically, nothing's stopping you from attacking anyone -- but you won't be 
able to do so effectively, and even a fairly small child will be able to get 
the better of you."

"Deterrent effect in place," Gunn says. "Can we skip the damn lecture?"

"Are you sure the spell worked?" Winifred says.

"I imagine we shall find out as soon as the door's opened," Vambrace says. 
"And blow out that candle, will you, Ramsay? The last thing we need is this 
train stopped on the tracks for a fire alarm."

Gunn comes out, and he does not strike anyone, though he looks as though he 
might like to. But when he looks at Winifred, he smiles at little. She smiles 
back. They are both uncertain, and I realize that I am glad of it. Maybe 
Winifred is finally learning to be cautious.

But no. She gestures backwards. "Restaurant car is that way," she says. "Walk 
you to the snack bar?"

"Yeah, all right," he says. They turn to go, and I move to follow, but 
Winifred glances at me with annoyance. Annoyance, as anyone might feel toward 
a child. As I watch them walk away together, I remind myself that it is good 
to remember our proper relationship. But I still do not care for the feeling 
of being a child to her. I am not a child. I scuff the floor with the heel of 
my shoe. 

The Watchers re-enchant the door to the cell car, and Faith goes off into her 
unseen corner. I imagine Wesley is in no mood for company, if he knows 
Winifred and Gunn are together. To my surprise, I find myself considering 
going to Angel and Cordelia's cabin. He will always trouble me -- his 
inability to know what is right and wrong, his opinions of me that he does 
not speak -- but he tries very hard to be kind to me. It is weak of me, but I 
like that. And Cordelia is funny. She makes me laugh, and Angel too; we get 
along better when it is all three of us.

But with Winifred spending time with Gunn, helping to buy candy for a 
murderess, I realize I do not want company. I want to be alone. And I want to 
be of use.

I walk to a place in the train where two sections join, and I go through the 
door. It is very cold outside, but the discomfort is bracing. It reminds me 
of childhood and of home. I climb the small steel ladder to the top of the 
train. Here, the wind is sharp, and it is a struggle to maintain my balance 
as the train rocks back and forth. I begin to grin. Now, this is a superior 
way to travel.

Am I of use here? In truth, probably not. But I am alone, and I am standing 
guard. Maybe it is unlikely that we would be attacked here, but I am very 
good at standing guard.

****

They always quit patrolling by two or three in the morning. The humans needed 
sleep, and Angel absurdly tried to match his diurnal rhythms to their own. I 
had been raised to rest in the day, when protection was more easily possible, 
and to hunt at night. So sometimes, when they returned to the hotel to eat 
their snacks and tell jokes about their mistakes on patrol -- as if this were 
something to joke about -- I would go up to my room, slip out the window and 
patrol some more. 

Every now and then, Angel would follow me and join in. He said very little, 
just came to my side and fought with me. I did not mind his company then.

But the night I saw Buffy in the alleyway, I was alone. I have wondered what 
would have happened if I had not been.

Minutes after I left my room, as I was walking away, I sensed the presence of 
a vampire heading toward the Hyperion. Not Angel. Another. That was strange; 
the low and vile creatures of this city knew and feared us, and in my time 
there they had never dared arrive and attack us upon our own ground. This was 
brazen, and I did not care for it. I decided to see to the matter before the 
vampire had a chance even to go through the door. It might have startled 
Winifred.

I turned back around the corner and saw the vampire in the back alley. It was 
male, with hair that was both light and dark, and it wore a long dark coat. I 
took note of these things automatically, as a hunter should. I got my stake 
ready and prepared to run the hundred feet or so down the alley toward the 
vampire.

Buffy stepped into the alleyway. She stared at the vampire. It stared at her. 
I felt only disappointment: this would be Buffy's kill, and not my own. 

Then the vampire said, "God, Buffy, I've missed you."

"Can't say the same," she replied. Her lips were thin and white. "Get lost, 
Spike."

It did not get lost. It smiled at her. "Everything's different now, love. I 
-- I did it for you. I changed for you."

I realized that they were lovers. 

I felt the realization like physical shock, and I responded as my father had 
taught me: I ducked into the nearest hiding place (behind a dumpster) and 
tried to control my physical response. But it was hard to contain the 
revulsion I felt.

I knew that Cordelia lay with Angel. But she is part-demon, and Angel -- I 
did not and do not know what he is, but he is not wholly demon. And so their 
union always seemed appropriate to me. They were neither humans nor beasts, 
and so they were fit for no mates but each other. Anyway, I tried not to 
think about it. It seems strange and unnatural, to think about anyone who 
would call himself my father having such relations. 

But Buffy was a Slayer. My father told me of Slayers when I grew up. He 
described them as holy women, maidens and warriors, with the purity of Mary 
and the fierceness of Deborah. Months in the company of Buffy and that hoyden 
Faith had taught me this was not so, but I had never dreamed of anything so 
debased as a Slayer giving herself carnally to a vampire.

When I was calm once more, my hands steady and my breath measured, I peered 
from behind the dumpster again. The vampire was kissing Buffy, and it took 
her some time to resist. A door opened at the corner of the hotel -- somebody 
else was watching -- but I never learned who.

Buffy told the vampire to leave, and for no reason I could imagine, it tried 
to threaten her with singing. She was not afraid, as well she might not have 
been of such a stupid threat. The vampire ran away from her, laughing, and it 
ran toward me. I remained still; motion would alert him to my presence more 
quickly. 

As it got closer, though, it began running more slowly. Its laughter stopped. 
I heard it sniff the air. It was perhaps fifteen feet away. "Hey, you there," 
it said. Its accent was strange to me. "Not a good idea, camping about in 
alleyways. That's like puttin' yourself on the menu." 

I stepped out from behind the dumpster. It shook its head. "You'd just be an 
appetizer, wouldn't you? Get yourself home, squirt." It laughed again. 
"Listen to me, with the warnings. Like a bloody flight attendant."

It was strange for a vampire to warn its prey. I did not care about its 
strangeness. "You will die, fiend," I said, as I got in battle stance.

It skittered back, but it was laughing still harder. "Oooooh, look at the big 
bad in Nikes. Are you Angel's latest hard-luck case?"

I did not expect that. "You know Angel?"

"'Course I know him," it said. "He was the Mr. Miyagi to my Karate Kid. 
Taught me a lot of what I know." It was grinning, and then it seemed to 
remember something unpleasant, and its face fell. "Oh, God, the things he 
taught me."

I stepped closer to it, and its head snapped up as we felt it at the same 
time. I could not describe the sensation -- it was like standing too near 
something very loud, or looking down over a great height. Disorientation and 
discomfort and confusion. But even though I'd never felt it before, I knew 
what the feeling meant. This vampire had something to do with me.

It was staring at me, taken aback by the same sensation. "You," it said. 
"You've something to do with Angel. With Darla, too."

"Darla?" That shocked me more. "You knew my mother?"

Its eyes went wide. "Your MOTHER? Bloody fucking hell!"

And all at once I could not think about the monster that had been my mother, 
or about Angel who is and is not my father, or about this thing that knew me 
without knowing me. I could not bear to be near it any more.

I plunged the stake into it as fast as I could. It was too surprised to react 
in time. It did not say anything as it turned to ashes.

The next day, when I began to try and tell this to Angel, he finally made it 
known to me that Buffy had been his lover. This explained much of the way 
Buffy and Angel behaved toward one another. I was only more disgusted by the 
revelation, though, and so I never did tell Angel about the other vampire, or 
what happened after. It's just as well. If I had wanted an explanation, I 
would not have killed it.

****

"What are you doing up there?"

I look down to see Winifred standing between the cars. She is wrapped in a 
thick coat with a knit hat pulled down over her ears, and in one hand, she 
has my jacket. Winifred was worried that I was cold, and this pleases me 
enough to climb down. We stand between the cars together as I put the jacket 
on. "Are you trying to freeze to death?" she shouts, forgetting that my 
hearing is better than hers. 

"No," I shout back. "I just wanted to be by myself. How did you find me?"

"You're louder than you think up there," she says. "Thumping around on the 
roof like my daddy playing Santa Claus."

I misjudged the thickness of the roof. Embarrassing -- the kind of mistake I 
should be past making. Quickly, I ask, "Where is Gunn?"

"Went back to Faith," she says. She doesn't seem unhappy about it, and she 
doesn't mention that I was loud again. I am relieved. 

I expect Winifred to pull me back inside, but instead she goes to the edge of 
the car. We stand there together, braced by the railing. Her face is framed 
by the deep blue of the heavens, and speckles of ice glitter in her hair. She 
would laugh if I kissed her. I still wish I could kiss her. Snow has begun to 
fall from a few clouds in the sky, but there is a patch in the distance that 
shows stars. Winifred points toward it. "See that?" she says. "That's 
Andromeda."

"Andromeda?" I do not know this word, or why she would be pointing at the 
sky. So for the next several minutes, I stand and listen to her as she tells 
me the legends of the people she sees in the stars. Winifred is always 
patient with the things I don't know. She remembers what it's like to be 
different in the world, not to know all the rules. I don't have to explain 
things to her; Winifred just understands, without words. 

As she gestures at the heavens, she tells me about the princess chained to 
the rocks, and the horse that could fly. And she teaches me the name of 
Orion, who was a hunter, like me.

Chapter Five: The Angel of Vengeance Herself


You don't get a whole lot of proof, in this life, that somebody loves you. 
This is mostly because not that many people love you. Most people don't love 
much of anybody besides themselves. I learned that one early.

Later on I figured out that you don't ask people to prove that they love you. 
Not in the right way, anyway; not any way that actually tells you what's 
true. You ask them to stop the drinking, and they do, at least for a while. 
Don't prove nothing except that all that 12-step higher-power crap works just 
like brainwashing. You ask them to sleep with you and they do it. What's that 
prove, except that somebody's horny?

This last year, though, I finally realized that sometimes you just don't look 
in the right place for the proof. You gotta learn a lot before you can do 
what I'm doing right now -- look down at a styrofoam cup of coffee and smile 
like it was a fuckin' diamond ring.

"They had what they said were omelets," Chuck says as he starts pulling stuff 
out of a paper bag. "Looked like day-glo frisbees to me. So I went with the 
muffin option. You want apple cinnamon or banana nut?"

I don't each much in the mornings, so it's not like it matters. "Apple 
cinnamon," I say, and I musta guessed right, because Chuck grins as he starts 
unwrapping the one he wanted. "You know, I coulda gone for another Milky Way."

"Girl, you keep doin' damage to those candy bars like you did last night, and 
the train ain't gonna be able to pull you no further," he laughs. I flip him 
off, and he grins, and we split the newspaper he bought and eat the rest of 
our breakfast. 

This would be a lot easier if we had a table. Damn Council takes this jail 
thing real serious. They coulda put the containment spell on a nice sleeper 
car, if they gave a shit. But instead me and Chuck get this freight thing 
with a couple of cots that aren't bolted to the floor, which made last night 
an adventure, let me tell ya. It's warm, though, and to tell the truth, if 
you just added an old tv and some pirated cable, it wouldn't suck that much 
worse than our place in Chicago.

And then I remember that -- like it was a million years ago, instead of one 
day -- me and Chuck curled up on our mattress, pretending like this cheap-ass 
comforter we got at the Salvation Army was enough to keep us warm, making out 
before breakfast. Then I remember the night before, when we got kinda wild 
and crazy in the shower and made the neighbors beat on the pipes. Then I 
think about the patrol we had before that -- did some serious slaying, showed 
off some serious moves. I'm a better Slayer now than I ever was back in 
California. Partly this is because I got Chuck with me now. But mostly it's 
because I know I'm the only one. I never was, before. B was always there, so 
I never really had to try on that "one girl in all the world" thing. I was 
kinda surprised how well it fit. 

First time in my life I'm happy is when it all comes crashing down for good. 
First time in my life I'm happy is when Buffy is dead and gone. Figures.

****

"This is the high temple?" Buffy put her hands on her hips. "This is not the 
high anything. This is like a frat house, only without the cleanliness and 
tasteful decor."

"What do you expect from a bunch of wannabes?" I sat down on the sofa, total 
work of beauty in avocado green. These cult jerks had cut out for the night. 
I figured they were probably doing something stupid like buying sacred wine 
in a cardboard box. I didn't want to think that maybe they were after the 
dogs again. I didn't like thinking about the dogs, about the way they had to 
hurt so someone else could feel good. 

I remembered what it was like to think like that, and I didn't want to 
remember it any more than I had to.

B and I were patrolling together that night. We didn't usually do that -- 
usually she hung with Angel, even though it seemed to drag them both down. 
But tonight Angel was off with his creepy kid doing their Batman and Robin 
routine, and Wesley was tooling around with Cordy. So it was just us. Just me 
and Buffy.

Buffy -- she wasn't really the person I remembered anymore. Still smart, 
still funny, still always with her perfect hair and nails and outfits even if 
we were going down to fight demons in the sewer.

But B used to be the platitude queen, all full of goodness and sunshine and 
light, like one of those damn greeting cards that sings every time you open 
it. She was plucky, brave, noble Buffy, and I -- well, I wasn't. I never 
believed all that rainbows-and-roses stuff, even when it came from somebody I 
liked (and looked up to, and wanted, and maybe just a little bit on the side 
loved).

Still, though, when I got outta jail, I was staying on