“Do it…do it harder,” she groans, as he pulls at the pale column of her throat. She cradles his neck roughly against her, pressing him closer to the vein. It hurts.
He eyes her in the periphery of his vision, and is startled by the tears of relief leaking from her closed lids. Her blood is thick, decadent, laced with a dogging pain unlike the weary resignation of the last two. Something in her tone stops him, and he looks up into her eyes, which are full of sorrow and regret. This isn’t a warrior’s death; it’s suicide. Retracting his fangs, he staunches the blood with his palm and continues to dick her slowly, so he doesn’t jostle the wound.
“Begging doesn’t become you,” he tisks. He fists her hair and arches her head, forcing her to look at him. “Never known a girl to want it so bad as you.”
Faith gives a weak laugh, her heart slowing. “I’ve done all sorts of bad shit. Crap I’ll be paying for in the next life in a few secs.”
He searches her face. It’s not time for her yet. “You die, you gotta earn it.” He gives her a firm shake and pushes her harshly against the wall. Through the rushing in her ears, she makes out his contemptuous snarl. He sounds angry. What the fuck is his deal?
“Do it. Just do it,” she says with shaking determination, desperation. She clenches his collar even as he shakes his head and pulls back. “Why are you stopping? It’s over! Just end it!” she screams, a fiery rage suffusing her when she thought there was nothing left to feel.
“Can’t do that, Slayer. That’s not how this works.”
Her eyes widen a millimeter, and she stares at him, feeling betrayed, cheated. It’s hard to concentrate, but she swings sloppily anyway and punches him across the jaw. He holds her up and takes it. There’s hardly any force behind the blow.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, asshole!?” she yells and starts to struggle weakly in his grasp. He clutches her throat, squeezing her windpipe, and continues to rock his dick into her to quiet her down.
“Can’t take you like this when all the fight’s gone out of you,” he says simply. “You girls surprise me every time. Gonna see that you’re set right, though. Want to see the spunk you’ve got. Want you to give me everything you have.”
She starts to protest, but her mouth shuts. She feels nausea sweep over her, and her vision starts to blur. Her chest crumples against his, and she shakes her head.
“You fuck…gonna dust you…” she slurs, and then passes out against his shoulder, drool pooling on his duster.
The rain pounds the sidewalk in a staccato deluge on fractured concrete. Wesley regrets that his umbrella gave up the fight some blocks back. His trousers are soaked and hang limp on his legs, his coat held over his head doing little to staunch the wet that infiltrates. Just his luck. Hurrying toward the office’s stoop, he spots a dark shape laid out along the landing. He slows his steps and squints through his fogged-up glasses.
“What in the world…?” He approaches the thing cautiously, inching his way closer. In the dark shadows of the façade, he makes out the faint outline of a body, a female body. Rushing forward, he shakes the young woman in earnest.
“Angel!” he calls out for assistance. “Miss, if you can hear me, just –” Turning the woman over, he starts and falls silent. Her makeup has run down her cheeks in streaky smears, her hair limp and clinging to her face. She’s the last person he expected to find unconscious on their doorstep – Faith, his failure, his former charge. Cradling her head in his hands, he catches sight of the vicious bite on her neck. Her cheeks are cold, her face drawn and pale. Whatever – whoever – bit her took a lot, but…let her live?
He hears the clattering of heels, and the front door swings open, Cordelia outlined in the dim gloom of the hall. “Wesley, what the hell is so important that you couldn’t just come in like a normal person?”
A dark shadow slips out from behind her, and then Angel is crouched on the sidewalk next to him.
“Faith,” he murmurs, his eyes sliding over her. He feels an eager hunger tug at him when her blood tickles his senses. His eyes latch onto the bite and he feels his stomach sink when he recognizes the overpowering scent blanketing her. Looking around the deserted street, his brow drops uneasily.
“Let’s get her inside,” he says at last and hefts her effortlessly into his arms, Wes close at his heels, a puzzled expression on his face.
From across the street in an inky alley, Spike watches. “That’s right, Peaches,” he laughs. “Had a bit of a taste. Heal her up good, talk her off the ledge.” Taking a deep drag on his smoke, he flings it into a dumpster. “Third time’s always a charm,” he sings as he slips into the shadows.