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It wasn't until she'd parked the Cruiser in a public lot on Figueroa that she wondered how the hell she was going to get into Wolfram and Hart.

She’d booted the hitcher the minute they’d hit city streets, sending him on his way with the bag of tortilla chips clutched hard in one meaty paw, and a cold glare guaranteed to make sure he didn’t argue with her. The last thing she needed was anyone knowing where she was headed. The glare probably hadn’t been needed; he’d hit the pavement hurrying. Whatever legends were building around the Two, he wasn’t inclined to hang around and ask questions.

She walked up to the corporate monument to Mammon that was Wolfram and Hart’s Los Angeles headquarters, and stared up at it. Way too late in the day to just walk in the front door, she thought, and anyway, could a slayer even do that, stroll up to the reception desk of Fiends of Hell, Incorporated, without triggering fifty kinds of alarm bells? Giles had said the place was rumoured to be laced with mystical wards, or some bullshit.

Frustrated, she jammed her hands into her jacket pockets, and touched the cellphone the Council had insisted she take. Prepaid, programmed with a variety of one-touch numbers; she hadn’t even looked to see what numbers were there. She’d actually forgotten she had the thing - she hadn’t wanted to bring it, and hadn’t once used it, or even thought about it, since she headed back west.

She stepped up under the nearest streetlight, and turned the phone on. Randomly, she punched the display button and brought up a list of names: Giles. B. Xander. CoW2 – that must be the London one. Angel. Angel? What the fuck?

She highlighted his name and, without hesitation, hit the call button. He answered on the second ring.

“Giles?”

For a moment, disoriented, Faith said nothing. Then it occurred to her, the phone must be registered to Giles; it was his name that was probably blinking on Angels no doubt ultrasophisticated caller ID. She found her voice.

“Not Giles, yo.” Something moved in the shadows behind her. “Angel, hang on a second, OK? There’s something – no, it’s gone. Hi. Anyway. It’s Faith.”

“Faith!” His voice was sharp, edgy. It reminded her that things had been pretty dark in the southland recently. Shit had not merely been hitting the fan, it had been circulating through the air conditioning system and landing on everyone, like detritus from a twister. “What’s wrong? Is everyone OK?”

“Yeah, we’re all fine. Five by five.” She wondered if she ought to mention Buffy, and decided against it. He could bring up the subject himself, if he wanted to. “I’m in LA, right downstairs at Wolfram and Hart. Passing through. I figured to be here for a few days. Can you give me a place to crash? If not, it’s cool, I have plenty of money. But I wanted to see you – I wanted to see everyone who’s left.”

“Give me three minutes.” He still sounded terse, but then, he always had, and probably always will. “I’ll come down and get you. My suite’s right here, in the penthouse.”

• * *

She sat on an antique settee that had probably come from a chateau in Europe somewhere, looking around a room that seemed to have about as much in common with Angel as she had with Britney Spears.

“What?”

The word jerked her attention back in his direction. He sounded strange, almost impatient.

“Sorry.” She moved her head, taking in the room, letting him see her do it. “Just trying to wrap my brain around this. Doesn’t much look like you, you know?” She was silent a moment, and then gave an interior shrug. Might as well ask. “Was it worth it? Wolfram and Hart, I mean?”

“I know what you mean. Short form answer? Don’t know yet.” He was prowling the room, but without focus or enthusiasm. She thought she’d never seen so much energy and so much exhaustion in the same package. “Considering all the shit that’s gone down in the past year, I’m inclined to think, no. In fact, I’m beginning to wonder if all of it – Jasmine, saving my son, Cordy, everything – wasn’t just a big snare set by the Senior Partners, to get us in here.”

Son? She blinked at him, wondering what he was talking about, but he kept talking, sweeping over her unspoken words.

“Get us in here. Control me. Separate us – it’s a great tactic, a classic, you know? Divide and conquor. Yoko factoring.” He smiled, dark and bitter. “If that’s what it came down to, then they won and I lost. Gunn – weak. Can you imagine that? So weak he let them take Fred, empty her out, scour her soul into nothing, so that he could keep being what he thought he was.”

“I knew about Fred.” She was aware of a twinge of something she couldn’t define, pity maybe, or her own sense of personal loss. Fred had helped her. The girl had been right, and real, and sharp as a razor. Hot, too. “Sucks. I’m sorry.”

He talked on, letting it out, and she suddenly understood that he needed to do this, just spit out the stuff he couldn’t talk about with those who were left.

“Wes stabbed him. Did you hear about that, back at the High and Mighty Council of Watchers of the Slayer of the Vampyres?” His words and inflection, a perfect twisting of Andrew, were chilling, completely without humour. “Put a knife in Gunn’s belly. He lived, but we booted him out. No idea where he went. Cordy never woke up from her coma. Gunn, Fred, Cordy. Wes has gone dark, really dark. I can’t –“

He broke off suddenly, as if aware that he’d been talking, wondering what in hell he’d said, remembering that in a very real sense, she represented a potential enemy. She uncoiled herself from the settee.

“It’s okay, Angel. I’d heard there was some bad juju falling down here, but not the details. And you can talk to me, or not – whatever you want. Just want you to know, I’m not here on behalf of anybody. This trip is personal for me. I’m not reporting back to any of those fuckwads at the Council. And to be fair? No one asked me to.”

He smiled at her, a small grin, but

That's cause I'm good. Luck has nothing to do with it.(/Howard) You know, that's the first time I ever heard a TV woman say that? And I'm thirty. And a beneficiary of the biggest feminist revolution in the fucking world.(/Kay likes her own goddamn carrots, damn it) Sorry...that still feels huge. But I'm boring. ETA:I had no idea you could give such good Faith, internet spouse.

(rest)

She sat on an antique settee that had probably come from a chateau in Europe somewhere, looking around a room that seemed to have about as much in common with Angel as she had with Britney Spears.

“What?”

The word jerked her attention back in his direction. He sounded strange, almost impatient.

“Sorry.” She moved her head, taking in the room, letting him see her do it. “Just trying to wrap my brain around this. Doesn’t much look like you, you know?” She was silent a moment, and then gave an interior shrug. Might as well ask. “Was it worth it? Wolfram and Hart, I mean?”

“I know what you mean. Short form answer? Don’t know yet.” He was prowling the room, but without focus or enthusiasm. She thought she’d never seen so much energy and so much exhaustion in the same package. “Considering all the shit that’s gone down in the past year, I’m inclined to think, no. In fact, I’m beginning to wonder if all of it – Jasmine, saving my son, Cordy, everything – wasn’t just a big snare set by the Senior Partners, to get us in here.”

Son? She blinked at him, wondering what he was talking about, but he kept talking, sweeping over her unspoken words.

“Get us in here. Control me. Separate us – it’s a great tactic, a classic, you know? Divide and conquor. Yoko factoring.” He smiled, dark and bitter. “If that’s what it came down to, then they won and I lost. Gunn – weak. Can you imagine that? So weak he let them take Fred, empty her out, scour her soul into nothing, so that he could keep being what he thought he was.”

“I knew about Fred.” She was aware of a twinge of something she couldn’t define, pity maybe, or her own sense of personal loss. Fred had helped her. The girl had been right, and real, and sharp as a razor. Hot, too. “Sucks. I’m sorry.”

He talked on, letting it out, and she suddenly understood that he needed to do this, just spit out the stuff he couldn’t talk about with those who were left.

“Wes stabbed him. Did you hear about that, back at the High and Mighty Council of Watchers of the Slayer of the Vampyres?” His words and inflection, a perfect twisting of Andrew, were chilling, completely without humour. “Put a knife in Gunn’s belly. He lived, but we booted him out. No idea where he went. Cordy never woke up from her coma. Gunn, Fred, Cordy. Wes has gone dark, really dark. I can’t –“

He broke off suddenly, as if aware that he’d been talking, wondering what in hell he’d said, remembering that in a very real sense, she represented a potential enemy. She uncoiled herself from the settee.

“It’s okay, Angel. I’d heard there was some bad juju falling down here, but not the details. And you can talk to me, or not – whatever you want. Just want you to know, I’m not here on behalf of anybody. This trip is personal for me. I’m not reporting back to any of those fuckwads at the Council. And to be fair? No one asked me to.”

He smiled at her, a small grin, but genuine. “Nice to know they aren’t stupid enough to ask.”

“I’d gut them, wouldn’t I? After all, I’m the Dark Twin.”

The words were out before she could stop them. His reaction, the shift of the fine planes of his face, told her he knew.

Shit.

“OK.” She blew her breath out. “Down here too, huh? B and me, yang and yin, The Two?”

“Well – yes.” He held a hand out and patted her shoulder. His touch was light, unintrusive. Angel knew about boundaries. “We get everything at Evil and Company, but not all the details. I’ve been hearing stories about the Slayerettes – we had a run-in ourselves, a really sad case, she cut Spike’s hands off. Apparently, a lot of people out there are genuinely afraid of the girls and the power they have.” Two pairs of dark eyes locked and held. His voice was even. “And I gather, not without reason. I’m a little curious about you and Buffy, though. You two seem to have become celebrities, since Sunnydale blew out.”

“Celebrities?” She began to laugh, sour, on the wrong edge of hysteria. “Honey, it’s a fucking cult, or something. I don’t know why it started, or how, or when. One day we’re in the bus, some kind of Jack Kerouac Magic Bus deal, me and B and Giles and Xander, plus Robin Wood – Principal McHottie, used to run Sunnydale High, mother was a Slayer Spike offed back when CBGB’s was happening – plus a few girls, the surviving Potentials. Willow, too, and her little chewtoy, girl named Kennedy. We’re on the bus, heading for Cleveland.”

“Cleveland? Why in hell?”

She smiled, suddenly tired. It occurred to her that she’d driven about six hundred miles that day; body and mind were both aching. “Hell is why. Cleveland’s got a hellmouth. So we check into a motor lodge near Bakersfield, heading east, and the news about Sunnydale’s all over the television. And next day, the guy behind the desk looks at me, looks at B, and begins stammering. Are we going to kill him? Please don’t kill him, even though we’re the Two, he knows we can kill him.”

Angel was staring at her. She nodded.

“Not shitting you, yo. It was, like, I don’t know – we go to bed and wake up, and sometime between moonlight and morning, we’re cult objects and killers. They wouldn’t take our money. They couldn’t get our asses out fast enough.” She yawned cavernously. “It got stronger every day. We’d stop in a town, check for potentials, take them with. Within a day or two, a few would disappear, and so would a whole lot of people. I don’t know what’s happening, or why. But there are fewer people out there than there were a week ago. Trust me on this one. Maybe you didn’t notice – up here in this big glass tower, and anyway, you don’t get out during the day and you’ve had other stuff to deal with. But outside LA? The herd’s being culled, Angel. We don’t know any more than that.”

(all I have so far. Feedback? would be a good thing to have.)

I wish the H:LOTS fandom was more active so I'd have one place to write my Howard-worshipping essay. But I did get a chance to tell ML(viva internet, huh?) Sorry, couldn't resist. Worst Warning I ever read On A Homicide List: These characters wouldn't act like this. I'm making them for plot reasons.
Babe, what's wrong with that sentence?

Wow, deb, that's really good (as if you didn't know. =).

Characterization is excellent, that couldn't be anybody but Faith. I also really like where the story is going, I think. How soon after Chosen is this supposed to be, though? I don't really get a good timeline feeling from it. I assume it's at least a year later, possibly later than that, but then you get phrases like "there are fewer people out there than there were a week ago," that makes the extended trip to Cleveland (which I assumed was right after Chosen) seem very recent.

I'm not much of a critic/editor, so that's all I've really got for you. But I'm looking forward to more.

About four months after Chosen, I'd say.

Be good to get back to it. Be warned - there's a bit of slash coming up soon, to be written next, in fact. The story's actually a prezzie for Roz Kaveney, so the slash aspect, well, yes.

Consider me warned. I can read slash, I just don't bother when fic is nothing but sex. This one, clearly, isn't.

"Sex is never gratuitous," That said, my fics are usually longer on politics than The Sex. But I seem to have a thing for semi-public places.

Oh, the slash won't be explicit; I find explicit sex descriptions boring beyond belief. It's just that even implied slash bugs some people, and this, well, it's Faith and Harmony.

But this won't be porno, particularly. Like Anya and Spike, it's more for solace, a little of that human touch.

Can't picture it, but I trust you. And I hate reading sex that feels like gyno or urologist visit..