Fanfiction: Things Manifold
“This is a gig I could get used to.” Faith pushes her hair back from her face and looks up at the sky. The sky is a less than brilliant blue, and the sunlight is filtered through smog, but it’s still as perfect as it gets.
“Yes, such a pity there aren’t more demons preying on surfers.” Wesley is less optimistic about the mission. He refuses to look up at the sky, although he swears he can feel his skin turning red everywhere it’s not covered by blue oxford cloth. Everything’s covered with sweat though, which is about the only part of this entire day that’s been remotely familiar. If he ends up covered in some neon-hued slime as well, then he’ll call it even.
Faith slows her pace when Wes drops down on a bench and pulls out a handkerchief to soak up some of the moisture that’s running off his forehead and into his eyes. He arches his shoulders and the material of his shirt clings to his back. She walks backwards for about five paces, sees he’s not getting up to follow, and reluctantly retraces her steps to slouch down beside him.
“You spend too much time with Angel,” she says shortly. He waits for her to make a joke about sunlight or pale skin but she’s not teasing here. She’s serious, and Wesley’s not in a mood for lectures. Not from her or from anyone else. What he wants to do right now is find this nest of demons, get rid of the menace so the surf is safe for brainless blonde men to frolic about in and get skin cancer, ensuring they can die slowly and in great discomfort like the rest of the world. Not too much to ask, really.
Wesley watches Faith as she attempts to look as if she’s not tuned into his every gesture. She’s waiting for something, an exchange of words that they’ve decided through some unspoken agreement not to have at all. There will be no discussion; there will be no rehashing of old events. That’s a lifetime ago for them both, and Wesley is quite happy to leave it that way.
“Ya know Wes, I’m sorry for that shit I pulled.”
He stands up abruptly. “Can we not do this?”
Faith lets her head drop back against the bench, eyes closed tight as the sun bakes into her lids and turns everything brilliant red, flashes of yellow and green when she sighs and stands up to come after him. The heat feels strange, the sun stranger still, and maybe that’s what’s brought about her need to make this into the afternoon confessional. Out of her element and floundering for some way to get back that tight control she feels in the night, in the darkness.
She pushes sweaty hair back from her face again, and catches up to Wes with long strides, keeping pace for another ten minutes or so before she says anything at all. She turns over the words ‘I’m sorry’ about twenty times and can’t come up with anything better, and she’s never been much good at it anyway. Never been much for that game to begin with.
Finally she speaks without looking at him. “So if you don’t wanna do this, you wanna keep on pretending that we’re five by five?”
Wesley keeps walking, and he fights off the urge to rub the scar on his neck when he says, “I wasn’t pretending.”
“Liar.” She walks faster, striding ahead of him, black boots making sharp little sounds on the hot sidewalk. He watches her but doesn’t change his pace.
Faith finds the nest and kills four of the demons before he can catch up. He decapitates the other one neatly, managing to end up with the requisite amount of slime on his clothes. She refuses his offer of a ride to his apartment so she can shower, and the anger comes off her in shimmery waves, like the heat rising from the sidewalk as she stalks off. She leaves Wesley with the bodies to dispose of.
There’s still a guard at the entrance to Wolfram and Hart. He nods when Wesley arrives, never fails to have an elevator waiting for him, always calls him “Sir.” His office is dark, cool, decorated much like the former offices of the higher ups in the Watcher’s Council. He supposes it’s someone’s idea of a joke, but he never changes a thing. Gunn’s been in a few times, wearing a suit and tie that make him look every bit the part of a young, upwardly mobile lawyer. He looks cool, bleeding-edge-sharp, but his solemn game face always softens when he closes the door behind him.
“Wes, this place makes me feel like Masterpiece Theater exploded. You know they can get you furniture from this century. Maybe even the one before this.” He touches the velvet on the high-backed couch with one finger, like he’s expecting it to be dusty, that it will crumble from human contact. “You could call CORT Furniture Rentals if you don’t want the evilistas to redecorate.”
Wesley shrugs at him. “I don’t live here, it’s just a workspace. It only needs to be functional.”
Gunn raises an eyebrow. “Whatever, man. Come see my workspace. I’ll kick your ass on the X-Box, I got a screen the size of your last apartment. You can put it on the books as billable hours, call it a meeting if you think Angel’s gonna get nitpicky on your time.”
“I’ll come over one day this week.” Wes picks up one of the leather-bound books and finds the marker he left in there the day before. He holds his finger there and waits for Gunn to get the none-too-subtle hint.
It doesn’t take him long. He presses his lips together in a tight line before he nods. “Yeah, you do that.”