As far as ideas went, more whisky seemed like a very good one indeed. He brought the bottle over and set it on the table between them. After calculating how many sick and personal days he had remaining, he added more of the alcohol to his mug.

"I had nightmares after Faith tortured me," he said. "For months, I would feel the edge of the glass she used to cut me, pressing into my skin. She'd let it skip sometimes, to vary the pattern, or change the angle as though it were a calligraphy pen, widening and narrowing the lines of blood. I was gagged, a rag stuffed into my mouth, so the entire time I felt as if I was choking." He poured another shot into his cup. "If she thought I was about to pass out, she would slap me--or worse--until my eyes opened."

Buffy took the bottle and poured some out, stopped, then poured out a little more. "Why do I get the feeling that I don't really want to know what the 'or worse' was?"

"Probably because you don't. It was not pleasant."

"And yet you tried to save her, even after everything she'd done to you."

"Things change, as do people. Time and circumstances had altered the both of us, and I had an entirely different set of things to keep me awake at night by then. As I've said, I owed her a great deal."

She looked at him skeptically from over the top of her cup, but said nothing. He hadn't really expected a response; her own history with Faith wasn't exactly a shining example of camaraderie. Of course, neither was her history with him. If it had been, she probably wouldn't be here. He watched her as she slowly sipped her drink, her expression distant and pensive.

"I think I loved her," she said at last. "Faith, that is. In a weird, messed up, confusing way. Which, of course, I can't explain." Buffy fidgeted with the mug, twisting it around and around in her hands. She looked at him with the solemnity of the slightly intoxicated. "I must have, right?"

He shrugged, watching as her teeth worried at her lower lip, wondering both how to respond and why he was choosing now of all possible moments to fixate on her mouth. "I don't know."

A sad smile crossed her lips at his lack of an answer, leaving him wishing he'd could tell her whatever it was she'd needed to hear, and wishing he knew her well enough to know what that was. It wasn't that he'd not paid attention to her during her stay; if pressed, he'd have been able to recite everything about her habits, from how often she showered (at least once daily, more often twice) to rate of toothpaste consumption (slow, the paste squeezed slowly and neatly from the bottom to extend the life of the tube). He would not, he realized, be able to say very much at all about the more subjective aspects of tastes and opinions that made up the girl.

It hadn't, and still didn't, seem appropriate to ask. More to the point, it would be borrowing trouble. Her tongue shot out to chase a errant drop of whisky from the corner of her mouth, and for a moment, borrowing trouble seemed a grand idea. He averted his gaze until the moment passed.

When her eyelids began to droop, Wesley took the cup from her and set it on the coffee table next to his own.

"We should get you to bed."

She blinked and looked from the empty mugs to him. "Only if you come with me." When he didn't answer, she added, "Just to sleep. I could use the company. Besides, you did it before."

"When you were much more inebriated, and I was much more sober." Not to mention, he thought, much less tempted.

"Please?"

Reluctantly, he nodded his agreement and followed her up to her room, hesitating momentarily before joining her in the bed, then not hesitating at all before pulling her next to him.

"Thanks," she murmured against his chest.

He rubbed her shoulders lightly. Even calm, they were stiffer than they had been that afternoon. She slid a hand along the bare skin of his back, nuzzling closer, her mouth pressing drowsy kisses along the line of his collarbone. His hands left her shoulders to tangle in her hair.

"This isn't sleeping."

"Suddenly, I'm not all that tired."

Kissing her seemed the proper thing to do, or perhaps the improper thing; he'd had enough whisky to make the line between the two blur. The warmth of their breath mingled as lips touched, making the fine hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

They broke apart long enough for him to tug off her shirt. The faint light coming through the window reflected off the sweat-dampened skin, making a blurry halo around her body. He bent his head to the hollow between the base of her ribs, sampling where he wanted to devour until demanding hands pushed him closer.

He paused long enough to ask her if she was certain she wanted to continue.

A long moment later she answered, her voice filled with anxious determination. "Yes."

• **

It was strange to wake up sore and consider it a good thing. Buffy stretched experimentally to see just how her body was handling the morning after while her brain tried to figure out how it was handling it. Overall, it didn't seem to be too bad.

She opened her eyes to find Wesley watching her. His face was impassive, a hint of wariness in his eyes. Okay, so not too bad for her, maybe not so good for him. She reached a hand out to cup his cheek and tried to think of something to say while the silence grew strained and awkward.

"I didn't mean for that to happen," he said quietly. "I'm sorry."

"I'm not. Well, I wasn't. I don't want to be."

He smiled slightly and kissed her forehead. "You're all right?"

"Yeah, I think I am. No freezing, no panic."

"You were worried about that, I take it."

"Kind of. I was half expecting that either I wouldn't remember what to do, or I'd freak out and start screaming." She burrowed against him, enjoying the feel of skin on skin. It was nice to be able to just touch someone.

He wove his fingers through her hair, combing out the spots where it had tangled during the night. "There was some screaming, if memory serves."

They lay quietly entwined for a while, not bothering with anything more than the occasional lazy caress. That was nice, too. Actually, a lot of things about the situation were nice; it was just the talking about it part she was dreading.

"You realize this changes things, Buffy."

Apparently, Wesley wasn't dreading it as much as she was. "Is that bad?"

"I don't know." He paused, frowning. "With Faith, it lead to behavior both ruthless and reckless."

Buffy rolled away from him and stared at the ceiling, trying to find words that would sound reasonable and mature. Once again, she hadn't been prepared for the difference between suspicion and knowledge. Let that be a lesson to her.

"You were sleeping with her."

"It's a six hour drive from Stockton to Los Angeles, and she had been in prison for a number of years; given our history, there was a certain inevitability to it."

She turned to look at him, incredulous. "You go to bed with every woman who tortures and tries to kill you?"

The jolt of laughter startled her. "That did appear to be the pattern for a time. Unfortunately, one tends to run out of attractive enemies rather rapidly."

"I'm not sure how to respond to that," she said. "Doesn't that seem kind of... unhealthy?"

"It was never boring. Besides, it isn't as though you have much room to talk."

"Point taken. Grudgingly, but it's taken." She bit her lip and decided it was as good a time as any to bring up something she'd been wondering. "How long until the protection spell can be performed again?"

"It can be performed at any time, but neither the effectiveness nor the duration will be at full strength this soon after the initial casting. It was only intended for annual use; repeat applications over a short period of time lead to resistance."

"You mean its possible to build up magic tolerance even when you're just the target?" It seemed weird, but maybe it was like secondhand smoke.

"It's slightly more complicated than that, as with this, you're both the target and the channel for the energies involved, but essentially, yes. Why were you asking?"

"Let me put it this way: yesterday, the highlight of my day was deciding it was worth the risk to go for a walk, which I was too nervous to enjoy. The day before that, it was alphabetizing your spice rack and your tea cabinet. And before that? Sharpening every pencil in the house. Twice."

As soon as the novelty of safety had worn off, boredom had started to creep in. Attempting to make up for seven years of deprivation in one weekend hadn't helped; she'd just realized how much she'd been missing. On the bright side, that meant she was recovering emotionally as well as physically. She was still a long way from being her old self, but at least she wasn't one step away from catatonic anymore.

"For goodness sake, Buffy, next time you're that bored, come and see me rather than going off alone. It isn't safe, even during the daytime."

"Maybe I would have, if you hadn't spent the last month avoiding me. What about whatever it is the Council uses to keep you from becoming demon food?"

"The Council gets a bulk rate on mystics, it didn't help Giles, and you're a unique case."

It took a second for the implications of what he'd just said to sink in. When they did, she felt the blood drain from her face. "I've put you in danger, haven't I?"

"I've made enough enemies amongst the demonic populace of L.A. that any additional risk brought about by your presence is miniscule. What happened last night doesn't change that. Seven years ago, the demons of Sunnydale knew you and all of your associates; it's unlikely that most of the ones now know much more than your reputation."

"And on that comforting note, I'm getting out of bed." Buffy looked over at the clock, a little surprised to realize it was already ten. "Shouldn't you be at work?"

He shook his head. "I called in when I woke up."

• **

Wesley watched her dress, admiring the slight curve of her hips and the lines of her shoulder blades as she pulled on a pair of sweats. Her flesh was smooth, with only a scattering of scars marring it; he'd felt the worst of them beneath his fingers while exploring her body. One on her neck, faded and almost invisible, another below her ribs, short and jagged like the knife that had made it, the same knife that gutted Faith while he watched, too far away to do any good, and the rest of them, still red and ugly, marking her hips and thighs.

He told himself he'd done stupider things than finally giving in to his prurient interest in Buffy; given that she'd ventured out by herself, not giving in to it earlier was probably one of them. As soon as she left the room, he got out of the bed and knelt to collect his discarded robe from the floor. He was pulling it on when something between the box spring and the mattress caught his eye.

Curious, he took a closer look, frowning as he recognized the book: Giles' diary, the volume he'd thought he'd misplaced and had been searching for for weeks. The one that detailed the closing of the Hellmouth. He slipped it into the pocket of his robe, trying hard to avoid thinking about why Buffy might have hidden it.

A few hours later, he knew exactly why. Giles should have prepared her, damn him. He'd had months with the knowledge, where Wesley had only had a handful of weeks, most of which had been taken up with slightly more pressing concerns. She should never have seen this, not after everything she'd been through. It must have felt like one last betrayal from beyond the grave.

If he'd kept the books in his room... no. He wasn't going to don hairshirts whenever something might have gone differently had he just been able to anticipate every possible move of every possible player, not again. He flipped through the other volumes to remind himself of their contents (choosing for his own sanity to skip the entries about his ignominious stint in Sunnydale) and went to find Buffy.

It wasn't difficult; she was curled up on the couch, a cheap paperback in hand.

A glance at the cover brought a slight smile to his face. "Ah yes, the classic American vampire novel. One of your purchases last month, I take it?"

She had the grace to blush. "It's nostalgia. Besides, I like to go through them and find all the inaccuracies."

"Well, that would explain the highlighter, if nothing else."

"What's up?" She set both book and pen down and looked up at him.

There wasn't, he realized as he met her gaze, any point in bringing up the book. "Nothing, I was just wondering if you'd eaten."

"I had a bowl of cereal and two cookies for breakfast, but not lunch, no. If you're hungry, I could order pizza; I've programmed it into your speed dial."

"Actually, I was thinking we could go out."

Her brows flew up to her hairline. "As in, leave the house?"

"If you feel up to it."

"It does sound strangely appealing. Also kind of scary."

"Do you have a preference?"

"Open, airy, and demon-free. I think that pretty much covers it."

He could think of several dozen places that met those criteria in his neighborhood alone, so he settled on the closest of the lot. The food was decent, though not exceptional, but the service was prompt and the patio had an unobstructed view of the street. Overall, it was as good a choice as any.

"You should eat something more than just salad," he chided.

"I've been living on pizza for weeks. Salad is better for me." She poked at the lettuce and gave him a sheepish look. "And I might have lied about the number of cookies eaten."

"More than two, I take it?" It was somewhat startling to realize this almost approached light conversation. Even more startling to realize that outside of his visits with Angel, it was the most social he'd been since she'd moved in with him. He'd have to make certain to rectify that situation before Lorne and the others decided he was overworking himself again.

Buffy held up four fingers. "A couple more."

She didn't eat very much of her salad, but she looked as though she wanted to eat it, which was a significant improvement from when she'd arrived. Even after their late night, the shadows under her eyes were less noticeable, and the pinched look had softened.

"Is there anything else you'd like to do?"

"Not really feeling like pushing my luck," she said. "Besides, you're starting to do that thing where you look at me like I'm a science experiment."

After they got home, he took the first opportunity that presented itself to place the diary back where she had hidden it. She had tidied the room, leaving no trace of the previous night's activities. At some point, they would need to discuss those. Not, he decided as he returned to his own quarters, immediately, however.

He opened yet another volume on binding and protection, then checked its contents against the information in one of the few remaining Council histories. Lovely. More contradictory text. Wesley rubbed his temples; he was acutely tired of cross referencing prophecies and investigating spells to no good effect.

Still, he reminded himself, as much as he might wish it to, the answer wasn't about to appear before him without the inevitable hassle of false starts. An inelegant snort escaped him as he realized how much he sounded like his Sunnydale self, a sure sign he was in over his head.

....annnnnnnnnnnd there are 3100 more words I need to sort through and re-read before shoving up here. But, you know. Soonish. Honest. Or something.

Oh, Plei.

WOW. This:

One on her neck, faded and almost invisible, another below her ribs, short and jagged like the knife that had made it, the same knife that gutted Faith while he watched, too far away to do any good, and the rest of them, still red and ugly, marking her hips and thighs.

guh.

You know what, in that entire thing, only one thing made me blink in the wrong way (there was an astonishing amount of blinking in the right way) - the use of the word "prurient" to describe Wesley wanting her. I sort of felt that, after the levels of hell he'd been through and, more, the levels of hell he knows that she's been through, he'd know there was a level to his need for her that went well beyond prurience. Unless it was sort of a Wesley-kickback moment,in his head? It would make perfect sense for for that word to pop into his head then.

Waking up. Man, that floored me. Keep it coming, please; I can't wait to see how it ends.

Ahem. Damn, online time too short! connie, I'll read and comment on that when I get to your LJ.

While I'm here, though, there's HH/FF crossover. Pure, unedited, unreread, as it tumbled out of my brain.

- - -

“Even dyin’ don’t go smooth, seems,” he said, and was a little startled to find that when he looked up at the buildings on the horizon, they were moving, gently waving up and down.

“Sir?” Zoe said, over to his left. “Is it just me, or is something very strange here?”

“This is scary,” Wash put in, from further along the beach. “Zoe—can you please stop being a penguin?”

Before Mal could formulate a reply, a calm female voice announced, “Two to the power of one hundred thousand to one against and falling.”

River giggled. “Infinite improbability drive. Shiny.”

Mal looked right, past River, past Jayne, to Simon. “Doc,” he said, “if your sister knows where we are…”

“One to the power of…” the voice went on.

Simon had to shout to be heard over it. “I don’t think she does, captain. Not really.”

“Right,” Mal said, and watched his arm slowly reappear.

“We have normality,” said the voice, cheerfully. Various members of the crew made noises expressing deeply held cynicism. “I repeat, we have normality. Anything you still can’t cope with is therefore your own problem.”

“Okay.” Mal stood up, and took stock of his surroundings. They were in a small, luminous pink cubical, similar in shape and size to an airlock.

Jayne had his gun out and was standing by Kaylee, alternating between glancing round for anything attacking and watching Mal’s reactions.

Kaylee, in turn, was standing by Inara—in fact, Mal noted, they were holding hands—and trying to look confident.

River was leaning on one of the walls, listening to something behind it and muttering to her brother, who clearly wasn’t understanding a word, although he was trying.

Zoe and Wash were kissing passionately, apparently glad not to be penguins, and Book was on his knees, head bowed in prayer.

“It’s real shiny,” Kaylee said, staring at the sparkling clean walls. “All clean, like it was new.”

“It’s only been around for six lousy months and already there are more visitors,” drone a voice that sounded strangely like a man with his head in a metal bin. “Brain the size of a planet and all I ever get to do is escort visitors. Useless organic habit.”

They all looked around wildly for the source of the voice, and after a couple of seconds, the door slid open and Marvin appeared. Every jaw dropped simultaneously.

Wash’s was the first up, of course. “Hi,” he said. “Err… are you a *robot*?”

“I’m a cybernetic companion with a personality prototype. You can tell, can’t you?”

“That’s not possible,” Kaylee said, gaping.

“There are more things in heaven and earth,” Book told her, but added, “Robots aren’t mentioned normally, though.”

“I assure you, I am depressingly real,” Marvin said. “Now if you’ll be so kind as to follow me, which I expect you won’t, we’ll be going.” He turned and started to leave, glaring at the door as it opened with a happy sigh, but noone was following.

“Where ‘xactly are we goin’ to?” Mal asked.

“The bridge, of course, the current dwelling place of the other humans on this ship. If you don’t like that, frankly couldn’t care less, so pardon me fore breathing which I never do anyway so…” His voice droned on as he dragged himself up the corridor.

Mal looked around at his crew, decided it couldn’t get worse, shrugged, and gestured for them to follow the… whatever he was.

“Zoe—can you please stop being a penguin?”

suhNERK! Deb just went back to a BBC Thursday night radio happy place...