by Minim Calibre

It's high noon, but the thick curtains of Whil-A-Way Motor Inn room #104 keep the place pitch black, just how Wes likes it.

Faith looks over to where he's sleeping off his third bender in four days. It's like being with Mom, only with Mom, all she ever had to worry about was dodging cigarette butts and her Mom's lecher boyfriends, not making sure the shotgun's empty and all the knives are hidden.

Sometimes she thinks about leaving him a note--taking the car keys and the contents of his wallet and getting the hell out of whatever this is--but she still owes him for getting her out of Sunnydale alive. So she'll deal with the drinking. Besides, least when he's drunk, she gets laid. He won't touch her when he's sober.

She watches as he thrashes against the pillows. Even odds he's dreaming about that last fight, about having to chose between rescuing her ass and saving Angel's, about choosing her, thinking Angel could take care of himself. She gets up, stretches legs still stiff from another night spent trying to make it all up to him with her body, and just holds him 'til the thrashing stops.


Silverlake: Authors / Mediums / Titles / Links / List / About / Plain Style / Fancy Style