Some Rain Must Fall - Chapter 5
Sep. 1st, 2005 03:30 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
psubratChallenge code: 1BG15
Title: Some Rain Must Fall
Author: PSUbrat
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Joss Whedon and whomever else he sells them to, I’m just borrowing them for a while.
Description: This story is completely AU and set in 1928 Chicago. No vampires. No Slayers. Just lots of mobsters and Feds.
Author’s Note: This was written in response to the LJ community![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
watchersdiaries's art-a-thon reversed challenge. I’d like to thank ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
eurydice72 for her honest opinions, betaing prowess and constant support and encouragement.
Summary: It’s 1928 Chicago. Prohibition is at its height and mobsters Al Capone and Bugs Moran run the city, including the local law enforcement agencies. The Pratt kidnapping case is the last thing that private detective, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, expects to have come across his desk, but it does. Now he must deal with his past, which includes a young, feisty brunette name Faith Lehane and the murder of his wife, Winifred, in order to find the missing Buffy Pratt before it’s too late.
Previous chapters can be found here.
Wesley stepped back from the door as it opened. A woman, cinching her pale blue robe, her dark hair pulled into a ponytail, answered it with a scowl. He knew it was early, but he’d been up since the crack of dawn working on the Pratt kidnapping case, going over his notes and trying to put together the few puzzle pieces he had gathered so far. That included the piece that Lorne had given him last night --- Cordelia Chase and Angel O’Connor being at Caritas together and looking quite cozy.
“It’s eight-thirty in the morning,” she growled, her brown, almond-shaped eyes flashing in anger. “You better have a damn good reason for waking me up.”
Cordelia Chase, despite looking like she’d just rolled out of bed, was a striking young woman. She was taller than average, slender in build, and looked to be about a year or so older than Buffy.
“Miss Chase?” Wesley asked, taking off his hat as he did so.
“Maybe. Depends on who you are,” she stated, raising an eyebrow in question as she folded her arms across her chest.
“I’m sorry to have woken you. I’m Wesley Wyndam-Pryce.” He handed her a business card. “I’m following up on the disappearance of Buffy Pratt and I need to ask you a few questions.”
Her eyes widened, one hand went to her mouth as she gasped. “Oh no, Buffy’s still missing?”
Wesley took note that the gasp had been almost theatrical in nature. “I’m afraid so. Would it be all right if I came inside to ask you a few questions?”
“Absolutely. Please...” She stepped aside, allowing him entrance. He was then ushered into a sitting room of moderate size. “Would you like some tea?”
“Yes, thank you. That would be lovely,” he said. While she presumably went to the kitchen, he casually took a look around.
The room was exquisitely decorated, right down to the ornate crown molding and the mahogany wainscoting on the walls. The furniture was a mix between the Colonial and Victorian periods, all antiques and in rather excellent condition. If it hadn’t been for the craftsmanship, he would have thought the divan and tea table were reproductions, but they most definitely were not. There was some serious money in this room, right down to the chintz curtains on the windows.
“I’m sorry,” she said as she entered the room, carrying a silver-serving tray loaded down with all the essentials for having a cup of tea. “You look really familiar. Have we met somewhere before?”
“I believe we met briefly at Buffy and Spike’s wedding.” He sat down on the divan as she took a seat in the navy blue wing chair.
“Oh, right. What a wedding, huh? I think it was a who’s who of Chicago, don’t you?” Her face glowed as she talked about the nuptials.
Wesley frowned, having difficulty trying to picture those who might have been in the crowd at the reception. “Yes, I suppose it was.” He took the cup offered to him, adding some milk and a couple sugar cubes to the tea. “Miss Chase…”
“Oh, please,” she started, angling her long, bare legs to the side as only proper women did. She undoubtedly came from an upper class background. “Don’t call me that. Only my fans use that.”
“Your fans?” he asked curiously.
“Yes, I’m an actress. Or at least I’m trying to be.”
“Film or stage?”
“Mostly stage at the moment, but I have some connections in Hollywood that I’m planning to get in touch with after I move there in a few months.”
“I see. So what shall I call you then?”
“Call me Cordelia,” she said, smiling and waving a hand dismissively. “Any friend of Buffy’s is a friend of mine.”
He smiled politely at her while taking mental notes. It wouldn’t have done him any good to get out a pad and pen. Something told him she might not be forthcoming with information then. “Cordelia, it is. When was the last time you saw Buffy?”
“At the theater. She was getting into a cab to go home.”
“I see. The two of you were at the Riviera then?” That’s where Buffy had told Spike they were going before she had left the house.
Cordelia laughed haughtily. “Oh heavens, no! The Riviera is nice enough, but we went to the Palace. The service is better and the shopping in the area is amazing.”
“Yes, I’m sure it is.” He put his teacup down and leaned forward in his seat. Making sure he made eye contact, he asked his next question. “Tell me, Cordelia, are you absolutely certain that was the last time you saw Mrs. Pratt?”
The wide smile she’d been wearing the entire time he’d been there faltered slightly and she lowered her eyes to take a sip of her tea. “I’m…I’m certain,” she stated, not sounding at all convincing this time.
“So the fact that there were witnesses who saw both you and Buffy at Caritas on the night in question doesn’t do anything to change your thoughts?”
She tilted her head to the side and glared at him. “Mr. Wyndam-Pryce is it?” On his nod, she continued. “There has to be some type of mistake. Buffy and I were never at Caritas.”
“I assure you, Miss Chase,” he emphasized, “there is no mistake. There are witnesses to the contrary.”
“They’re wrong,” she stated indignantly. She pulled herself up straighter, squared her shoulders and glared at him again.
“And are they also wrong to say that Buffy left the club with Liam O’Connor?”
Cordelia set her teacup down on the table and then stood up. She began pacing, wringing her hands as she did.
“Is there something you’re not telling me?” he inquired, studying her actions closely. He could tell she was struggling with a decision when she stopped and looked at him, wrapping her arms around herself.
“You have to understand, I swore to Buffy that I wouldn’t tell a soul.”
“Miss Chase,” he began harshly, but then decided to change tactics. Softening his tone, he continued. “Cordelia, if you know something that would help us find Buffy, then you have to tell me. I think she would understand this breach of trust if it meant finding her.”
“See,” Cordelia said with a grimace, “I’m not so sure about that. This is pretty big.”
Wesley didn’t say anything. He just sat there, waiting for her to tell him the big secret.
Cordelia sighed in resignation. “All right. I’ll tell you,” she said, the words tumbling from her lips as she sat back down on the edge of the chair. “But if you tell anyone else I’ll deny it.”
“Understood. Now, please, continue.”
“Buffy’s having an affair.”
“Pardon?” He was sure he hadn’t heard Cordelia properly. He had been waiting for her to tell him about her involvement with Angel, but this, this was completely unexpected. And he didn’t believe a word of it.
“Buffy. She’s having an affair with Angel O’Connor,” she said quietly, as if whispering it would make it less true. “I know what you’re thinking.” Her smile finally disappearing all together.
“I highly doubt that.”
“You’re thinking, ‘how can this be? She’s in love with Spike,’ right?”
Slowly, Wesley nodded. “Cordelia, are you quite certain about this?”
“Definitely. Buffy told me when it first started.”
“And how long ago was that?” he asked, thinking Cordelia would say a week or two, three at the most.
She shrugged. “A couple of months now.”
“I see.”
“It’s been pretty easy keeping things quiet for them,” she said, rushing her words together. “At least until recently. But I guess Buffy’s decided to leave Spike for good, although I wish she had told me that she was doing that. It would have made things a lot easier for me. I felt horrible having to lie to Spike last night. He really loves her.”
“He does.”
Just then, the telephone rang shrilly in another part of the house.
“Excuse me,” she said as she left the room.
Wesley heard her answer, but the conversation was muffled. Every so often, her voice grew louder and her tone more desperate. After several minutes of intense discussion, Cordelia returned.
“Sorry about that,” she said, forcing a smile. “It was my agent. I need to get down to the theater for an audition.”
“Of course,” Wesley said. He stood up and grabbed his hat. “Just one other thing before I go. Are you and Mr. O’Connor friends?”
Her smile faltered again. “What makes you ask that?”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” he responded casually. “It’s just that you’re keeping such a large secret for Buffy, I thought perhaps you were friends with Angel as well.”
“No,” she replied frowning. “I’m Buffy’s friend, not his.”
“Thank you for your time, Cordelia.”
“Remember,” she said quickly, “I’ll deny everything if you tell anyone.”
“I’ll remember. Have a pleasant day.” He bowed to her and then let himself out the door.
Faith fumbled with her keys, trying to unlock the door to her room. She was tired, more tired than she’d been in a long time. Last night should have been one of the best nights of sleep in her life – a soft bed, a safe environment – but she had to go and mess that up by fighting with Wesley. Sometimes being stubborn got you nowhere fast.
Despite the way she had treated him, he had left her money for cab fare and a little bit extra for a nice breakfast. She had done some much-needed grocery shopping instead, the sack hanging heavily from her arm. She was grateful for his generosity, because it meant she could actually eat something for the first time in days. And, of course, it only made her feel more awful than she did about the tantrum she had thrown. So the guy didn’t want to have sex with her, what was the big deal, anyway? It wasn’t like he was saying no forever, just last night.
The thought made her grin as she turned the key in the lock. The door opened easily, no squeaking to be heard. At least that meant that the super had been by to oil the hinges. It was about time. She’d only been after him to fix it for the last three months.
Once inside, she threw her coat on the back of the only chair she owned. It was old, the paint was chipping and half the spindles were missing, but it was hers and she made do. She always did.
The Kelvinator refrigerator in the corner had seen better days too. She had found it in the dump while looking for a table and chair. Rich people threw away the best stuff, even if there wasn’t anything wrong with it. Granted the door was a little rusted, but all it had needed was some sanding and a little painting to make it look as good as new. It had been her best find yet.
Pulling it open, she carefully placed the apples, milk and cheese inside. Those items and the peanut butter, bread and the couple cans of soup she was able to get as well, would last her the next two weeks. Thankfully, whenever she worked at Caritas, she was able to sneak a few rolls, along with a steak here and there. She knew that if Lorne ever found out about her not being able to afford food, he’d be more than willing to raise her wages, or even let her eat dinner there every night. But she didn’t want a handout. She wanted to be able to say she could make it on her own, even if it meant living in squalor for the moment.
There was a sound at the door. Turning to check it out, she gasped in surprise. The once closed door was now open and a tall, broad-chested, man with dark hair stood their staring at her.
“Faithy,” he said nodding at her. He smiled smugly as he leaned against the doorframe, hands in his pockets. When she didn’t respond, he continued. “It’s been a while.”
“Angel. Why are you here?” she asked, wrapping her arms around herself. She tried to hide her terror, but her body started trembling. Living in a one-room apartment certainly had its drawbacks, one being there was no place to run.
He made a tsking sound as he closed and locked the door behind him. Walking towards her, he spread his arms wide as if he was going to hug her. She took an immediate step backwards, almost tripping as she did. Thankfully, he stopped his movements.
“Faithy, I’m disappointed. I figured you’d be happy to see an old friend.”
“Not really.” She tried to make her voice hard and cold, but she didn’t think she was succeeding.
Angel sighed dramatically, one hand going to his heart as he feigned being stung by her words. “After everything we shared.”
She made a break for the door, but he was fast, catching her arm in a meaty grip and snapping her back towards him.
“Ow!” she cried.
The hand tightened around her bicep and squeezed. There would definitely be bruising.
“Just where do you think you’re going, sweetheart?” he demanded with a growl. When she didn’t answer, he grabbed a handful of her hair, pulling her head back so she had to look at him. “I asked you a question, bitch.”
The tears were slipping down her cheeks at a steady rate. Between the pain and her fear, she was having a hard time keeping control of her emotions. But now anger was also starting to bubble to the surface. Anger, she could deal with. “Away from you, asshole,” she spit at him.
“Wrong answer!” He threw her down on the bed.
She scrambled to stand up, but he just pushed her back down so that he could continue to lean menacingly over her. “What do you want from me?” she sobbed.
“Some answers,” he said, pinning her arms to the bed. “A little birdy told me that you slept elsewhere last night.”
Faith frowned, her mind whirling as she tried to make sense of his comment. “Why are you suddenly concerned about who I go home with?”
“Because, Faithy, I care about you and don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“Fucking liar! Who I sleep with is my business, not yours!”
He put one knee between her legs as he leaned over her, pushing her arms and upper back further into the uncomfortable mattress. “Oh, but in this case, it is.”
“Get off me!” she yelled. She began thrashing, trying to get loose. Images of the last time he’d done this to her flashed through her head and she screamed.
Her cries were immediately cut off as he clamped down on her mouth with his hand.
“Listen to me, Faithy, and listen good. You stay away from Wesley Wyndam-Pryce. If I catch you anywhere near him, I’m going to kill you. Do you understand?”
She froze. What did this have to do with Wesley?
“I said, do you understand?”
The wild look in his eyes scared her even more than his actions. She nodded her head as best she could under the circumstances. His demand didn’t make sense to her, but she didn’t care. Right now she wanted him off her and out of her room.
“Good girl,” he said. He smiled as he pulled his hand away from her mouth. “Now, what say you and me have a little fun, huh?”
“No!” she screamed.
“Playing hard to get today, are you?”
“Please,” she begged. “Please just go away.”
Angel laughed as he ripped the strap of her dress, exposing a bare breast. There was nothing gentle about the way he grabbed her nipple, and she cried out in pain, sobbing for him to stop.
When his mouth came crashing down on hers in a violent, hungry kiss, she bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. “Bitch. You’re going to pay for that.” Kneeling above her, he fumbled at his belt with his free hand as his other went across her chest to hold her down.
Faith screamed again. This time she brought her knee up and connected with his groin. The groan of pain, and his collapse on top of her, signaled that she had hit her mark. While Angel writhed in pain, his eyes tightly screwed shut, she reached under her pillow, her fingers curling around the smooth steel that she kept there as a precaution.
The sound of the gun cocking got his attention.
“Get the fuck off me, you bastard.” When he didn’t move, she screamed at him again. “Get. The fuck. Off me! Or I will shoot your goddamned brains out!”
This time he moved, sliding down to the end of the bed. He stood, wiping the blood from his mouth while glaring at her. “This isn’t over, Faithy.”
“I don’t give a shit.” She scooted to a sitting position, never taking the gun off him. “Get out!”
Angel put his hands up in mock surrender. “Fine, but just remember this,” he said, that smugness returning to his smile and voice. “There isn’t any place you can hide that I won’t find you.”
“Fuck you.” She kept the gun steady with both hands as she stood up. “Now get out of my room!”
Faith watched him unlock the door and back out slowly. When he crossed the threshold, she ran to the door, slammed it shut, and locked it.
“This isn’t over, Faithy!” he bellowed.
When she didn’t acknowledge his threats, she heard his footsteps echo off the walls as he left. Relief flooded her. Her terror was over – for now. She slumped to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably.
For the last several hours Wesley had been sitting at his desk, mulling over the information he’d gleaned so far about Buffy’s disappearance, and making a few telephone calls. None of it made any sense. He certainly didn’t believe for one moment that Buffy was having an affair with Angel. He knew about their past troubles. Her stepfather, Rupert, had discussed it with Wesley several times, and at great length – the continuous gifts and cards, Angel showing up at the house unannounced wishing to take Buffy out to dinner or a show, and the constant lurking in the shadows watching her window.
It was good that Rupert had made him aware of the problem; otherwise, Wesley would have called the police the first time Angel had shown up in his classroom, holding flowers and demanding to see Buffy. Wesley had tried to reason with him, but the unstable young man refused to listen. It hadn’t been until Buffy arrived and acknowledged Angel’s presence by accepting the gift, that the situation was defused. Wesley had to hand it to Buffy though; she never let Angel know exactly how much he scared her.
No. It was impossible that Buffy would betray Spike. So that meant Cordelia was most definitely lying to him, for whatever reasons, and he was going to get to the bottom of it.
Leaning back in his chair, his thoughts temporarily strayed to his evening with Faith. She was an amazing creature, beautiful and alluring, strong and willful, yet fragile and feminine at the same time. And her skin was like silk. His eyes slipped closed as he imagined running his hands over the smoothness of her stomach while he kissing her hungrily. Rebuffing her advances last night had been one of the hardest things he had ever done and the evening hadn’t ended well because of it.
When he’d left the flat this morning, she had been sleeping on the couch, curled into a ball and snoring lightly. He had wanted to reach out and touch her, let her know he was leaving, but thought better of it. Instead, he had left her a note with a five-dollar bill so that she could get breakfast and then a cab home.
Suddenly a thought occurred to him. She’d never given him that list he’d asked for. Not a problem. He would just stop by her place later this afternoon before heading to Caritas.
The telephone’s tinny ring brought him out of his thoughts.
“Genesis Detective Agency, Wyndam-Pryce speaking.”
“Wesley, it’s Lorne.”
“Hey, Lorne. Is everything all right?”
“I sure hope so. I’m a little concerned. Faith hasn’t shown up for work yet. I figured I’d give you a call since the last time I saw her, she was with you.”
“I’m sure she’s fine, Lorne.”
“I’m not so sure about that, Cuz. It’s not like her to be late, even a little bit.”
“I was planning on stopping by her place anyway before I came over to Caritas. If it makes you feel any better, I’ll head over there now.”
“It would. I’d go myself, but I’m waiting for the flower delivery. Do you know where she lives?”
“I remember the address from last night, though I don’t have the room number.”
“223.”
“Thanks. And Lorne, I’m sure everything is fine.”
“Sure hope you’re right, Wes. Talk to you later.”
Wesley hung up the phone, frowning. Despite what he’d just told Lorne, he was now worried too.
To be continued in Chapter 6– Marks of Suffering
Title: Some Rain Must Fall
Author: PSUbrat
Rating: NC-17
Disclaimer: All characters belong to Joss Whedon and whomever else he sells them to, I’m just borrowing them for a while.
Description: This story is completely AU and set in 1928 Chicago. No vampires. No Slayers. Just lots of mobsters and Feds.
Author’s Note: This was written in response to the LJ community
watchersdiaries's art-a-thon reversed challenge. I’d like to thank eurydice72 for her honest opinions, betaing prowess and constant support and encouragement.Summary: It’s 1928 Chicago. Prohibition is at its height and mobsters Al Capone and Bugs Moran run the city, including the local law enforcement agencies. The Pratt kidnapping case is the last thing that private detective, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, expects to have come across his desk, but it does. Now he must deal with his past, which includes a young, feisty brunette name Faith Lehane and the murder of his wife, Winifred, in order to find the missing Buffy Pratt before it’s too late.
Previous chapters can be found here.
Chapter 5: Deafening Silence
Wesley stepped back from the door as it opened. A woman, cinching her pale blue robe, her dark hair pulled into a ponytail, answered it with a scowl. He knew it was early, but he’d been up since the crack of dawn working on the Pratt kidnapping case, going over his notes and trying to put together the few puzzle pieces he had gathered so far. That included the piece that Lorne had given him last night --- Cordelia Chase and Angel O’Connor being at Caritas together and looking quite cozy.
“It’s eight-thirty in the morning,” she growled, her brown, almond-shaped eyes flashing in anger. “You better have a damn good reason for waking me up.”
Cordelia Chase, despite looking like she’d just rolled out of bed, was a striking young woman. She was taller than average, slender in build, and looked to be about a year or so older than Buffy.
“Miss Chase?” Wesley asked, taking off his hat as he did so.
“Maybe. Depends on who you are,” she stated, raising an eyebrow in question as she folded her arms across her chest.
“I’m sorry to have woken you. I’m Wesley Wyndam-Pryce.” He handed her a business card. “I’m following up on the disappearance of Buffy Pratt and I need to ask you a few questions.”
Her eyes widened, one hand went to her mouth as she gasped. “Oh no, Buffy’s still missing?”
Wesley took note that the gasp had been almost theatrical in nature. “I’m afraid so. Would it be all right if I came inside to ask you a few questions?”
“Absolutely. Please...” She stepped aside, allowing him entrance. He was then ushered into a sitting room of moderate size. “Would you like some tea?”
“Yes, thank you. That would be lovely,” he said. While she presumably went to the kitchen, he casually took a look around.
The room was exquisitely decorated, right down to the ornate crown molding and the mahogany wainscoting on the walls. The furniture was a mix between the Colonial and Victorian periods, all antiques and in rather excellent condition. If it hadn’t been for the craftsmanship, he would have thought the divan and tea table were reproductions, but they most definitely were not. There was some serious money in this room, right down to the chintz curtains on the windows.
“I’m sorry,” she said as she entered the room, carrying a silver-serving tray loaded down with all the essentials for having a cup of tea. “You look really familiar. Have we met somewhere before?”
“I believe we met briefly at Buffy and Spike’s wedding.” He sat down on the divan as she took a seat in the navy blue wing chair.
“Oh, right. What a wedding, huh? I think it was a who’s who of Chicago, don’t you?” Her face glowed as she talked about the nuptials.
Wesley frowned, having difficulty trying to picture those who might have been in the crowd at the reception. “Yes, I suppose it was.” He took the cup offered to him, adding some milk and a couple sugar cubes to the tea. “Miss Chase…”
“Oh, please,” she started, angling her long, bare legs to the side as only proper women did. She undoubtedly came from an upper class background. “Don’t call me that. Only my fans use that.”
“Your fans?” he asked curiously.
“Yes, I’m an actress. Or at least I’m trying to be.”
“Film or stage?”
“Mostly stage at the moment, but I have some connections in Hollywood that I’m planning to get in touch with after I move there in a few months.”
“I see. So what shall I call you then?”
“Call me Cordelia,” she said, smiling and waving a hand dismissively. “Any friend of Buffy’s is a friend of mine.”
He smiled politely at her while taking mental notes. It wouldn’t have done him any good to get out a pad and pen. Something told him she might not be forthcoming with information then. “Cordelia, it is. When was the last time you saw Buffy?”
“At the theater. She was getting into a cab to go home.”
“I see. The two of you were at the Riviera then?” That’s where Buffy had told Spike they were going before she had left the house.
Cordelia laughed haughtily. “Oh heavens, no! The Riviera is nice enough, but we went to the Palace. The service is better and the shopping in the area is amazing.”
“Yes, I’m sure it is.” He put his teacup down and leaned forward in his seat. Making sure he made eye contact, he asked his next question. “Tell me, Cordelia, are you absolutely certain that was the last time you saw Mrs. Pratt?”
The wide smile she’d been wearing the entire time he’d been there faltered slightly and she lowered her eyes to take a sip of her tea. “I’m…I’m certain,” she stated, not sounding at all convincing this time.
“So the fact that there were witnesses who saw both you and Buffy at Caritas on the night in question doesn’t do anything to change your thoughts?”
She tilted her head to the side and glared at him. “Mr. Wyndam-Pryce is it?” On his nod, she continued. “There has to be some type of mistake. Buffy and I were never at Caritas.”
“I assure you, Miss Chase,” he emphasized, “there is no mistake. There are witnesses to the contrary.”
“They’re wrong,” she stated indignantly. She pulled herself up straighter, squared her shoulders and glared at him again.
“And are they also wrong to say that Buffy left the club with Liam O’Connor?”
Cordelia set her teacup down on the table and then stood up. She began pacing, wringing her hands as she did.
“Is there something you’re not telling me?” he inquired, studying her actions closely. He could tell she was struggling with a decision when she stopped and looked at him, wrapping her arms around herself.
“You have to understand, I swore to Buffy that I wouldn’t tell a soul.”
“Miss Chase,” he began harshly, but then decided to change tactics. Softening his tone, he continued. “Cordelia, if you know something that would help us find Buffy, then you have to tell me. I think she would understand this breach of trust if it meant finding her.”
“See,” Cordelia said with a grimace, “I’m not so sure about that. This is pretty big.”
Wesley didn’t say anything. He just sat there, waiting for her to tell him the big secret.
Cordelia sighed in resignation. “All right. I’ll tell you,” she said, the words tumbling from her lips as she sat back down on the edge of the chair. “But if you tell anyone else I’ll deny it.”
“Understood. Now, please, continue.”
“Buffy’s having an affair.”
“Pardon?” He was sure he hadn’t heard Cordelia properly. He had been waiting for her to tell him about her involvement with Angel, but this, this was completely unexpected. And he didn’t believe a word of it.
“Buffy. She’s having an affair with Angel O’Connor,” she said quietly, as if whispering it would make it less true. “I know what you’re thinking.” Her smile finally disappearing all together.
“I highly doubt that.”
“You’re thinking, ‘how can this be? She’s in love with Spike,’ right?”
Slowly, Wesley nodded. “Cordelia, are you quite certain about this?”
“Definitely. Buffy told me when it first started.”
“And how long ago was that?” he asked, thinking Cordelia would say a week or two, three at the most.
She shrugged. “A couple of months now.”
“I see.”
“It’s been pretty easy keeping things quiet for them,” she said, rushing her words together. “At least until recently. But I guess Buffy’s decided to leave Spike for good, although I wish she had told me that she was doing that. It would have made things a lot easier for me. I felt horrible having to lie to Spike last night. He really loves her.”
“He does.”
Just then, the telephone rang shrilly in another part of the house.
“Excuse me,” she said as she left the room.
Wesley heard her answer, but the conversation was muffled. Every so often, her voice grew louder and her tone more desperate. After several minutes of intense discussion, Cordelia returned.
“Sorry about that,” she said, forcing a smile. “It was my agent. I need to get down to the theater for an audition.”
“Of course,” Wesley said. He stood up and grabbed his hat. “Just one other thing before I go. Are you and Mr. O’Connor friends?”
Her smile faltered again. “What makes you ask that?”
“Oh, it’s nothing,” he responded casually. “It’s just that you’re keeping such a large secret for Buffy, I thought perhaps you were friends with Angel as well.”
“No,” she replied frowning. “I’m Buffy’s friend, not his.”
“Thank you for your time, Cordelia.”
“Remember,” she said quickly, “I’ll deny everything if you tell anyone.”
“I’ll remember. Have a pleasant day.” He bowed to her and then let himself out the door.
******
Faith fumbled with her keys, trying to unlock the door to her room. She was tired, more tired than she’d been in a long time. Last night should have been one of the best nights of sleep in her life – a soft bed, a safe environment – but she had to go and mess that up by fighting with Wesley. Sometimes being stubborn got you nowhere fast.
Despite the way she had treated him, he had left her money for cab fare and a little bit extra for a nice breakfast. She had done some much-needed grocery shopping instead, the sack hanging heavily from her arm. She was grateful for his generosity, because it meant she could actually eat something for the first time in days. And, of course, it only made her feel more awful than she did about the tantrum she had thrown. So the guy didn’t want to have sex with her, what was the big deal, anyway? It wasn’t like he was saying no forever, just last night.
The thought made her grin as she turned the key in the lock. The door opened easily, no squeaking to be heard. At least that meant that the super had been by to oil the hinges. It was about time. She’d only been after him to fix it for the last three months.
Once inside, she threw her coat on the back of the only chair she owned. It was old, the paint was chipping and half the spindles were missing, but it was hers and she made do. She always did.
The Kelvinator refrigerator in the corner had seen better days too. She had found it in the dump while looking for a table and chair. Rich people threw away the best stuff, even if there wasn’t anything wrong with it. Granted the door was a little rusted, but all it had needed was some sanding and a little painting to make it look as good as new. It had been her best find yet.
Pulling it open, she carefully placed the apples, milk and cheese inside. Those items and the peanut butter, bread and the couple cans of soup she was able to get as well, would last her the next two weeks. Thankfully, whenever she worked at Caritas, she was able to sneak a few rolls, along with a steak here and there. She knew that if Lorne ever found out about her not being able to afford food, he’d be more than willing to raise her wages, or even let her eat dinner there every night. But she didn’t want a handout. She wanted to be able to say she could make it on her own, even if it meant living in squalor for the moment.
There was a sound at the door. Turning to check it out, she gasped in surprise. The once closed door was now open and a tall, broad-chested, man with dark hair stood their staring at her.
“Faithy,” he said nodding at her. He smiled smugly as he leaned against the doorframe, hands in his pockets. When she didn’t respond, he continued. “It’s been a while.”
“Angel. Why are you here?” she asked, wrapping her arms around herself. She tried to hide her terror, but her body started trembling. Living in a one-room apartment certainly had its drawbacks, one being there was no place to run.
He made a tsking sound as he closed and locked the door behind him. Walking towards her, he spread his arms wide as if he was going to hug her. She took an immediate step backwards, almost tripping as she did. Thankfully, he stopped his movements.
“Faithy, I’m disappointed. I figured you’d be happy to see an old friend.”
“Not really.” She tried to make her voice hard and cold, but she didn’t think she was succeeding.
Angel sighed dramatically, one hand going to his heart as he feigned being stung by her words. “After everything we shared.”
She made a break for the door, but he was fast, catching her arm in a meaty grip and snapping her back towards him.
“Ow!” she cried.
The hand tightened around her bicep and squeezed. There would definitely be bruising.
“Just where do you think you’re going, sweetheart?” he demanded with a growl. When she didn’t answer, he grabbed a handful of her hair, pulling her head back so she had to look at him. “I asked you a question, bitch.”
The tears were slipping down her cheeks at a steady rate. Between the pain and her fear, she was having a hard time keeping control of her emotions. But now anger was also starting to bubble to the surface. Anger, she could deal with. “Away from you, asshole,” she spit at him.
“Wrong answer!” He threw her down on the bed.
She scrambled to stand up, but he just pushed her back down so that he could continue to lean menacingly over her. “What do you want from me?” she sobbed.
“Some answers,” he said, pinning her arms to the bed. “A little birdy told me that you slept elsewhere last night.”
Faith frowned, her mind whirling as she tried to make sense of his comment. “Why are you suddenly concerned about who I go home with?”
“Because, Faithy, I care about you and don’t want to see you get hurt.”
“Fucking liar! Who I sleep with is my business, not yours!”
He put one knee between her legs as he leaned over her, pushing her arms and upper back further into the uncomfortable mattress. “Oh, but in this case, it is.”
“Get off me!” she yelled. She began thrashing, trying to get loose. Images of the last time he’d done this to her flashed through her head and she screamed.
Her cries were immediately cut off as he clamped down on her mouth with his hand.
“Listen to me, Faithy, and listen good. You stay away from Wesley Wyndam-Pryce. If I catch you anywhere near him, I’m going to kill you. Do you understand?”
She froze. What did this have to do with Wesley?
“I said, do you understand?”
The wild look in his eyes scared her even more than his actions. She nodded her head as best she could under the circumstances. His demand didn’t make sense to her, but she didn’t care. Right now she wanted him off her and out of her room.
“Good girl,” he said. He smiled as he pulled his hand away from her mouth. “Now, what say you and me have a little fun, huh?”
“No!” she screamed.
“Playing hard to get today, are you?”
“Please,” she begged. “Please just go away.”
Angel laughed as he ripped the strap of her dress, exposing a bare breast. There was nothing gentle about the way he grabbed her nipple, and she cried out in pain, sobbing for him to stop.
When his mouth came crashing down on hers in a violent, hungry kiss, she bit his lip hard enough to draw blood. “Bitch. You’re going to pay for that.” Kneeling above her, he fumbled at his belt with his free hand as his other went across her chest to hold her down.
Faith screamed again. This time she brought her knee up and connected with his groin. The groan of pain, and his collapse on top of her, signaled that she had hit her mark. While Angel writhed in pain, his eyes tightly screwed shut, she reached under her pillow, her fingers curling around the smooth steel that she kept there as a precaution.
The sound of the gun cocking got his attention.
“Get the fuck off me, you bastard.” When he didn’t move, she screamed at him again. “Get. The fuck. Off me! Or I will shoot your goddamned brains out!”
This time he moved, sliding down to the end of the bed. He stood, wiping the blood from his mouth while glaring at her. “This isn’t over, Faithy.”
“I don’t give a shit.” She scooted to a sitting position, never taking the gun off him. “Get out!”
Angel put his hands up in mock surrender. “Fine, but just remember this,” he said, that smugness returning to his smile and voice. “There isn’t any place you can hide that I won’t find you.”
“Fuck you.” She kept the gun steady with both hands as she stood up. “Now get out of my room!”
Faith watched him unlock the door and back out slowly. When he crossed the threshold, she ran to the door, slammed it shut, and locked it.
“This isn’t over, Faithy!” he bellowed.
When she didn’t acknowledge his threats, she heard his footsteps echo off the walls as he left. Relief flooded her. Her terror was over – for now. She slumped to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably.
******
For the last several hours Wesley had been sitting at his desk, mulling over the information he’d gleaned so far about Buffy’s disappearance, and making a few telephone calls. None of it made any sense. He certainly didn’t believe for one moment that Buffy was having an affair with Angel. He knew about their past troubles. Her stepfather, Rupert, had discussed it with Wesley several times, and at great length – the continuous gifts and cards, Angel showing up at the house unannounced wishing to take Buffy out to dinner or a show, and the constant lurking in the shadows watching her window.
It was good that Rupert had made him aware of the problem; otherwise, Wesley would have called the police the first time Angel had shown up in his classroom, holding flowers and demanding to see Buffy. Wesley had tried to reason with him, but the unstable young man refused to listen. It hadn’t been until Buffy arrived and acknowledged Angel’s presence by accepting the gift, that the situation was defused. Wesley had to hand it to Buffy though; she never let Angel know exactly how much he scared her.
No. It was impossible that Buffy would betray Spike. So that meant Cordelia was most definitely lying to him, for whatever reasons, and he was going to get to the bottom of it.
Leaning back in his chair, his thoughts temporarily strayed to his evening with Faith. She was an amazing creature, beautiful and alluring, strong and willful, yet fragile and feminine at the same time. And her skin was like silk. His eyes slipped closed as he imagined running his hands over the smoothness of her stomach while he kissing her hungrily. Rebuffing her advances last night had been one of the hardest things he had ever done and the evening hadn’t ended well because of it.
When he’d left the flat this morning, she had been sleeping on the couch, curled into a ball and snoring lightly. He had wanted to reach out and touch her, let her know he was leaving, but thought better of it. Instead, he had left her a note with a five-dollar bill so that she could get breakfast and then a cab home.
Suddenly a thought occurred to him. She’d never given him that list he’d asked for. Not a problem. He would just stop by her place later this afternoon before heading to Caritas.
The telephone’s tinny ring brought him out of his thoughts.
“Genesis Detective Agency, Wyndam-Pryce speaking.”
“Wesley, it’s Lorne.”
“Hey, Lorne. Is everything all right?”
“I sure hope so. I’m a little concerned. Faith hasn’t shown up for work yet. I figured I’d give you a call since the last time I saw her, she was with you.”
“I’m sure she’s fine, Lorne.”
“I’m not so sure about that, Cuz. It’s not like her to be late, even a little bit.”
“I was planning on stopping by her place anyway before I came over to Caritas. If it makes you feel any better, I’ll head over there now.”
“It would. I’d go myself, but I’m waiting for the flower delivery. Do you know where she lives?”
“I remember the address from last night, though I don’t have the room number.”
“223.”
“Thanks. And Lorne, I’m sure everything is fine.”
“Sure hope you’re right, Wes. Talk to you later.”
Wesley hung up the phone, frowning. Despite what he’d just told Lorne, he was now worried too.
To be continued in Chapter 6– Marks of Suffering
