"Come, come, Faith. You helped make me what I am today. I should think that would please you."

She squinted. Please her? What was pleasing about a man who'd started out as the biggest wuss in Wussington and ended up a scarily short time later crazy as a shithouse rat? Crazy like she used to be, with the sudden moves that punctured people?

He was one fucking far-gone desperado, and he was giving her the credit.

Which was just just great. And, yeah, okay, not without justice.

She'd learned a lot lately about justice; knew it when she saw it.

She tossed her head. "That's not what this is about."

"No? I thought it was. I thought you put yourself in my power because—"

"Because I figure I owe you."

He walked slowly around the chair. She tried to keep him in sight, but she could only turn her head so far. He stopped behind her. Not touching, but talking to the back of her head. "Did you learn these charming trust games in prison? Do they make you do group therapy there, Faith? It's scarcely imaginable, the idea of you talking about your feelings."

She didn't answer. She'd given him carte blanche, but somehow that didn't include, in her mind, submitting to this weirdo interrogation. She'd figured he'd take his revenge on her—however that was going to be, as long as it was physical—and that would be that. Shit would feel cleared out, maybe she'd dream less often about that time she tortured him, and she'd be on her way down the road to the next crisis in Sunnyhell.

The air conditioning was turned up high in here, which probably accounted for why her nipples were so hard. The way he had her arms cuffed together behind the chairback thrust them out, too.

The chill didn't account for how Wesley was sweating. She could smell him even when he stood behind her. Rank, the stink of old fear.

She could smell herself too, the way she was bound to the chair with her thighs splayed, ankles caught back. Completely exposed—after he told her to strip, Wesley made her pull her hair into a braid so she wouldn't even have that much to hide behind. It was an order that boded well for this little exercise. He was taking control, he was going to get his own back. She wanted him to. Wes was a big boy now, she wanted him off her overloaded conscience.

That was twenty minutes ago. Twenty minutes sat here on this hard wooden chair in the middle of the room, naked and opened and waiting for what Wesley was going to dish out.

And he'd dished nothing yet, nothing but this bitter monologue about how he'd changed, how he barely knew himself anymore. How everything was just royally fucked and hopeless, meaning gone out of the world but he still had to carry on as if it did mean something. Frequent mentions of someone named Lilah who was dead—she'd met a Lilah in LA that other time but it couldn't be the same chick, Wes wouldn't talk this way about her.

He just talked and talked.

Oh, he'd showed her a few things. There was a cigarette lighter he'd waved around in front of her, but he'd brought the flame no nearer to her breasts than a few inches. A knife, ditto. He'd even pressed the flat of the cold blade to her face, to her chest, talking all the time, but that was all. Hadn't touched her nipples or her gaping cunt, even with his fingers; hadn't so much as looked at them.

She'd gone into this feeling a little apprehensive—after all, she'd seen what kind of rabid wolverine he'd turned into since their last face-to-face. Gone into it out of her new, weird sense of justice—but now her fear wasn't of what he'd do to her—though he talked torture like a pro, parrotting her own shit about sharp, blunt, hot, loud.

But not so much. Now she was afraid he wouldn't do anything. All tied up and he'd take her no-place, because he was the one who was tied. So many knots inside his proper English head, full of trap-doors jerry-rigged all wrong, so some door in there could fly open and let him stab some pathetic junkie in the shoulder as soon as look at her, and another could spring that wild insistence that she should've let Angelus throttle him to death. But the door that would open up to this chance at payback: that one was jammed shut.

Torture-us interruptus, was what this was.

"What do you owe me?"

Jeezus, was he gonna do nothing but jaw? "We settled this already, Wes. Owe you a crack at me. So, c'mon. Do ... do what you wanna do."

"What should I want to do? In your estimation?"

Talk me to death?

He came back into view, moving slowly, almost strolling. He, of course, was fully dressed, even wearing his jacket. The knife was still in his hands; he held it by tip and point, hefting it thoughtfully. He'd shown her—it was the most exciting part of this whole wash-out so far—that it was honed enough to cut silk almost without pressure. She'd imagined, after that little demo, that in another few minutes he'd use it on her body. Cut curlicues into her tits, her belly, some way that would scar and leave his signature on her. Her clit kinda plumped up at the thought.

But the only thing he was in danger of cutting at the moment was maybe his finger, if he wasn't careful.

"Do what you feel, man. I'm here for you. That's what this is for."

"So you say. You think that will make me feel better about you. Or perhaps make you feel better about yourself."

He'd shackled her to the chair willingly enough. Eagerly, she'd thought. And he'd proved, since he came to the prison, that there was nearly nothing he wasn't up to. But he still wasn't making a move.

"What gives?" It came out whinier than she'd intended. Wes stopped his slow pacing and faced her. His eyes were red, dark-encircled. Like he hadn't slept for days—lifetimes, maybe. Drowning pools, those eyes. Faith looked into them, and knew he wasn't going to do anything, if she sat here all night. He'd pace and talk about this shit she couldn't follow, all bleak and pent-up and miserable. But that would be all.

Being stuck, that was maybe the worst kind of desperation.

The chair fell to pieces beneath her with a couple of sharp cracks when she flexed fast and hard. The cuffs that bound her wrist to wrist didn't give way, but she was suddenly free to stand, and with enough play in the chain between her ankles to take a small step towards him. Startled, Wesley stood frozen.

Tiny steps weren't her style, though. She leapt at him. The knife fell from his hands as they came up half to ward, half to catch. Connecting with a thwap, they went down hard together, sprawling on the rug. Wes was still for a second, the breath knocked out of him. Wriggling, the cloth of his jacket rough against her belly and bare breasts, Faith inched her way up his body towards his face. Caught his mouth, already open in an O of surprise, with hers. Her hands curled into the sweaty hollow of her lower back, she had to balance with her splayed knees to stay on top of him. His beard stubble was both soft and sharp, like fiberglas that could cut you. His mouth was warm and wet—somehow this surprised her. She'd expected clammy.

Once he was over the initial shock, he kissed back.

Thought caught up to instinct, and Faith knew she'd guessed right. She'd never considered kissing Wesley—except maybe as something that only the very very lame would ever want to do.

He needed to be kissed, though. Not in a sharp, hot, blunt, loud way, either. She didn't bear down, didn't bite or rummage with her tongue. Didn't kiss him like Faith at all really. But like the kisses she'd seen in movies, soft sips.

This made Wesley groan.

Vivid flashes of memory, of the ravaged defiant face she'd screamed into, his strangely accepting patience as she'd inflicted pain, drawn blood—he'd been, what was the word—spartan? No ... like that ... stoic. That was it. He'd been stoic, but not silent. He'd cried out, but he was brave.

She'd found that kind of disappointing at the time. But not since.

He grasped her by the shoulders. For a second she thought he might shove her off. But he only pulled her up another half an inch, lifting his head a little to change the angle.

Damn, he was a good kisser. Who'd've guessed?

Who'd've guessed that kissing—just kissing—Wesley Wyndam-Pryce would make her so excited? This was quite the new experience. Her whole body was alight—cunt throbbing. She rubbed herself against him as best she could. She should've hated the restriction, unable to seize hold of what she wanted. But she didn't.

Wes pulled his mouth away. "I'll let you up—"

"No."

He frowned. No way she could say he was pretty, not now. All ravaged and red-eyed, yet the sight of him, his intensity, worked her up.

"C'mon, Wes." She was raspy, even for her. Coated in a sheen of sweat. Cunt pulsing. "Want, take, have."

He chuckled. "That's what you believe in, isn't it? Even now. Faith, Faith, Faith. La Philosophe Dans Le Boudoir. Your worldview, crude but effective."

What the hell was he talking about now? How could he still be so cool? She'd felt the bulge in his trousers. "Effective, yeah. Like this, anyhow." Surging against him, she stopped his mouth again with her own. How could he miss this? This was—she wasn't sure what it was anymore, it was turning into different things, making her feel things she didn't expect, didn't have names for. She didn't want him to ruin it. It seemed like he understood it too, but then—

Wesley rolled her over. His weight and her own rested on her doubled-back arms, but it was all right, he was kissing her like he'd almost drowned and she was the fresh fresh air. He made a sound like a sob, held her head in his hands in a way that made her feel what she wasn't used to feeling: yielding. Almost still. She had her eyes screwed shut, yet she was seeing him, he was seeing her. He lay between her splayed thighs. She could've broken the leg shackle with a little effort, but instead she just pulled her ankles up. She didn't want to be free because she didn't want to take over. He was finally getting into it, using her.

They gasped and kissed and gasped. He let go of her head; she felt his hand between their bellies; he rose up a little, working at his fly; the band of his wristwatch caught in her pubic hair. His cock was thicker than she'd expected. Slender though he was, she bore the full weight of him in awkward places. She'd be bruised where bone met bone through thin skin. But she liked that too.

He fucked her in hard short strokes, like he never wanted to withdraw too far. Her feet were sort of in the way, but he didn't seem to notice. His clothes against her bare skin were at once irritating and inciting. The restriction of arms and legs was almost unbearably intense; she stirred and pumped, but he was the one in control. When he pinched her nipple, she bucked.

"Faith ... you'd never have given yourself to me before—"

Why did that make tears come to her eyes. "You didn't want me—" She blinked. Where did that come from?

"You don't really want me now. This—" He didn't say what he thought this was. Dragged her hips up, thrusting hard at a new angle. The harsh line of his zipper a cold touch on her labia as he moved.

He ground against her, pushing, hitting her clit just so, so her thighs trembled and spasmed. His face was buried in her neck.

"Does it hurt? Does it?"

"Christ, Wes. Is it supposed to?" She didn't know what he really meant. She was just a stupid girl with super-powers, she didn't know what to do with another person's suffering. She had little impulses, once in a while, but ... they just embarrassed her. "Nah, man. It's good. It's so good. Fuck ... fuck me ...."

Wes pulled his head up then, looked at her. "Men you fuck—you despise them after, don't you? That's the other part of your philosophy."

"Huh?"

"There'll be no change, then, in this case."

"Shit—! Wes—!" She couldn't believe how much this bothered her. The knife, the knife was what he was supposed to cut her with.

"I knew you would despise me before I ever saw you. I knew because you're—"

"No! Hey ...."

He pinched her breast again. "Shut up. Shut up and listen to your watcher for once, you maddening girl."

The catch in his voice sent needles through her. She couldn't pretend not to cry, not when she didn't have so much as a lock of hair to conceal herself behind.

"From the very first, you never had a moment's caring for anyone but yourself."

"Listen, Wes, I know, I was—"

"To you, I wasn't even a man. Was I? You ... saw me for just what I was. You never pretended not to. The others ... but not you."

That's when she pulled the shackles apart. Yanking her arms out from beneath her, breaking her ankles free, the chain whipping away. She wrapped her arms firmly around him. "Go on. Talk if you want. Gonna hold you, though."

He froze. Wide-eyed, but not looking at her. Staring through. His whole body trembled.

"Aww, Jeez. Wesley. Don't. Don't ..." There were no words for what she meant. His whole body was tense in her embrace. A sick, nauseous sensation started in the pit of her stomach, spreading up through her. She wasn't sure at first what it was, because it wasn't about her. It was for him. He was so fucked up, this wasn't really helping him, and she desperately wanted to help him but what did she know about helping? She wasn't like that.

Never part, like he said, of her philosophy.

Drawing her knees up, she crossed her ankles around his hips. "Go slow, Wes. Just ... y'know, do what you feel. Take what you need."

"You hate me."

"Nah, man." She wished he was naked too, so she could stroke his back. Instead she put a hand in his hair, guided his mouth back to hers. Kissed him like she'd never kissed anyone before, as if kisses could really say something. Say things she'd never known she could mean. Things that probably wouldn't last this night, but they were true right then, and he needed to know it, to feel it.

"I almost believe you."

Little by little, he began to move again. Slower this time, which suited her too.

He groaned into her mouth. She remembered a dog she'd known as a kid, who sounded like that when she rubbed his belly. All helpless and grateful, his little paws paddling the air.

"Hey, Wes." She whispered. Afraid to disturb this ... this ... thing.

"What do you want, Faith?"

He somehow managed to sound stern, even now. Even as she served him a languorous grinding ride, patience she didn't know she had making space in her mind to really feel him, the contour of his cock filling her, the way he was seated in the basket of her pelvis. She liked this, liked holding him. It was better than getting off. Usually she was in such a rush for that, but right now she didn't care if she ever came, or if he did. Just so they could go on doing this.

Go on being close.

"Could you ... I dunno ...."

"What?"

"Forget it."

"What?"

She should shut her trap. Wasn't it enough that they were fucking like two people who weren't Faith and Wesley? Shouldn't muck it up by trying to say things that Faith wouldn't ever say.

But he was waiting.

Shit. "Just sayin' ... this doesn't have to mean ... it doesn't have to mean you forgive me."

The thubbing of his heart reached her, matched by the pulsing of his cock inside her, his taut legs trembling hard against her splayed thighs. So still, so tense, he might levitate at any moment.

She thought maybe the air would explode now, and she wanted to bite off her own tongue.

On a deep breath, Wes started fucking her again.

"I'm afraid it's too late," he said, "for that."