(no subject)

"Cordelia, please, just a few things. We're not going on safari." You urge her, then pick up the phone, intending to call Angel again. The sense of urgency is rife in the air. You need to leave soon, before Faith has a chance to track down-

"I've got a little problem. - I don't feel Angel's in the game. But, somehow, I feel you guys are the key.” She’s here. You freeze at the sound of her voice, then carefully set the phone down again. It’s too late, she’s found you both. “ Now what can I do to really make him hate me?"

"Faith." You need to talk her down. Try to make her see reason or at least stall for time.

"Shut up, Wesley."

You try again. "It's not too late."

"For cappuccino? 'cause it just keeps me up." Her flippancy can’t mask the hard, menacing edge to her tone.

"It's not too late to let me help you." You know the words ring hollow, but you mean them, all the same.

"Yes. We want to help you." Cordelia chimes in, you can tell she’s terrified out of her mind, but all you can give her is a quick bolstering look.

You step forward, trying to keep Faith’s focus on you. Perhaps if she’s distracted enough, Cordy can make a break for the door.

"I realize there have been failures, on both sides. - But I also believe in my heart that you are not a bad person." You have to make it convincing. There’s doubt there, though. Because you know what she’s capable of, what she’s done. In answer, Faith elbows Cordy hard in the face and she crumples to the floor. Your heart leaps painfully into your throat. No! Cordelia! Anger and outrage suddenly grips you hard.

Faith gives you a taunting smirk. "What do you believe in your heart now?"

You lash out with your fist, the punch connecting with her jaw. How dare she hurt another innocent. Your friend. It can’t go unanswered.

Faith pops back up, grinning, a manic sort of gleam in her eye. "Alright, Wes!” The congratulations just leaves the bitter taste of bile in your mouth, though. You know what’s coming next. “My turn."

You try to brace for it, but she kicks you clear across the room. The world goes dark.


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You’re trying not to panic, but the darkness bears down on you like an unrelenting weight. It’s the same whether you close or open your eyes. Utter blackness. Your small eight year old fingers scrabble around the cramped space blindly, seeking an opening, or a handle, or something which might tell you where the door is. You recoil back when you brush against a soft and yielding substance which sticks to your fingers and makes you shudder. There was movement too. A spider? What if there are more? What if they’re poisonous? What if there are other creatures locked in with you? Supernatural creatures.

Your over-active imagination is kicking into high gear and your heart is clamouring in your chest, breaths turning short and shallow. The air is musty. Dry and stale on your tongue. Will you suffocate, or die of hunger or thirst first if he forgets that he put you here?

Was that a creak upon the stair above you?

“Father?” You call out feebly. Then try to sit up on your knees, pressing your face closer to the wooden panelling. Can he hear you?

You raise your voice a little, trying to make it carry further. “Father, please...I’ll be good. I promise.”

Another creak.

“Just let me out. Please.”

The silence in response is deafening.


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Your eyelids flutter, but it’s an effort to keep them open. Slowly and dully, you become aware of your situation, your surroundings. You’re tied to a chair. Every part of you aches. Your body has been brutally beaten. And you’re held fast, there’s no escape.

Faith is pacing in front of you, she notices your wakefulness and suddenly leaps onto your lap. You let out a muffled scream at the agony of her weight bearing down on your bound arms and legs and bruised muscles. She deliberately presses hard on a sore spot on your cheek and you try and fail to suppress a groan.

"All these little cuts and bruises - just bring out the mother in me.” You start to lose consciousness again and are grateful for it, but then she slaps you awake again. “Come on. Now, now, don't poop out on me, damn it! Otherwise this all just going to be over too fast, and you'll be dead and I'll be - bored. - Come on, Wesley! Where is that stiff upper lip?” You give her a baleful glare. It’s all you can do. Even the makeshift gag prevents you from voicing your defiance.

“Now, we've only done one of the five basic torture groups. We've done blunt - but that still leaves sharp, cold, hot and loud. Have a preference?” You nod in response. “Well, that’s great! It's always better with audience participation. - May I take your order please?"

She removes the gag and you spit on the floor, trying to get the blood out of your mouth. But your throat is so painfully dry, hoarse from the cries of pain it’s already muffled..

"I was your Watcher, Faith. - I know the real you - and even if you kill me, there is just one thing I want you to remember." It’s just a ploy, a gambit. Perhaps it won’t work, but Faith will want to hear what you have to say, you know she will. She kneels down, pretending to be attentive and almost tender. It’s an act.

"What's that, love?"

You steel yourself. Perhaps if you make it harsh enough she’ll snap and kill you; it’d make the pain stop and also prevent her from using you as a bargaining chip with Angel. He’s noble and idiotic enough to try to trade himself for you, you don’t doubt it. "You - are a piece of sh..."

Faith interrupts you, stuffing the gag back into your mouth: "You should talk, huh? I guess I'll just have to try a little harder."

There’s the sound of glass breaking. You failed to push her far enough. Now you’re going to pay for that.

"We'll switch to sharp for a while."


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You’re trapped, there’s no escape. You’ve finally given up trying to bang and call for help and claw at the panels to pry them open on your own. All you’ve gotten for your troubles are splinters and a raw throat. You crumple in on yourself, finally giving in to despair. You can’t stop once you start, tears fall and quiet sobs escape from you, despite your attempts to hold them in.

A sliver of light appears. The tiniest crack of salvation running across the floor. A shadow moves beyond the wall.

“For heaven’s sake, stop snivelling,” comes the stern admonishment. You guiltily wipe at your eyes and try to comply, to dash away the tears and stifle your own sounds of distress. But you’re weak and your body is fighting you.

“I’m s-sorry,” you reply, your voice hitching embarrasingly in the middle.

“It’s for your own good, boy.”

The light disappears again and your father’s gone. You’re alone.


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You’re barely able to stay conscious. New agonies assail you. You’ve lost track of time. The minutes and hours are starting to blur. All you know is that it’s never-ending. There’s no hope of respite.

If Angel finds you, it only means that he’ll be hurt as well, to see you like this. You don’t want him to see you like this. But you’re helpless to do anything but subtly squirm, trying to find a weakness in your bonds, ignoring the resulting pain in the effort.

Faith turns her attention to you again, dropping her shard of glass from her hand to the street below.

"That's refreshing. But I'm feeling a little cold. “ She pats your cheek condescendingly. “What do you say we warm the place up?"

Soon enough, there’s open flame being brought close. A lighter and some sort of accelerant. You don’t jerk back, you’re too exhausted to even react. This is your fate. There’s no saving yourself, even if you wish you could.

“Did you ever wonder if things would have been different - if we'd never met. What if you'd had Buffy - and Giles would have been my Watcher? You think you'd still be here right now? Or would Giles be sitting in that chair? - Or is it just like fate. You know, there is no choice. You were gonna be here no matter what. - You think about that stuff? - Fate - and destiny. “ She moves closer, and you try to brace yourself yet again. To prepare for more pain. “I don't. Not that any of this is your own fault.” She’s taunting you with bursts of the naked flame. Making you feel the searing heat but not yet burning you. It’s only a matter of time, though, before her teasing becomes reality. “Since this may be - the last chance we will have to unload on each other, I feel that it is kind of my duty to tell you that if you'd been a better Watcher, I might have been a more positive role model! Face it, Wesley, you really were a jerk. Always walking around as if you had some great big stake rammed up your - English Channel. “

You try your best not to flinch back at the flames she’s directing at your face, and apparently that angers her. She pulls the gag free, frowning. “I think I want to hear you scream."

"You never will." You declare, determined never to give her that satisfaction, no matter the cost.

Faith bends down, her gaze turning intent again, and her lips hovering close to your ear. “Admit it, Wesley, didn't you always kind of have the hots for me?"

You don’t have the energy to jerk your head away and deny it. What if she’s correct? What if you’ve had those sorts of twisted thoughts and just never acknowledged them. Not even to yourself. It’s possible, isn’t it? You’re not sure what’s real anymore. What is the truth, do you even know? Would she stop if you admitted it? Would she relent, if only for a few minutes?

Then the door crashes open and Angel is there, standing on the threshold. He came. You should never have doubted it. Before you can say anything, though, you feel your head being yanked back viciously by the hair and a too sharp blade being levelled at your throat.

"About time, soul-boy. Ready to play now?" She snarls at Angel, her fingers digging into your scalp and knife pressing tight against your jugular.

It never was about you. You realise that now. It’s one last proverbial sucker punch to the gut while you watch Angel’s expression darken and turn murderous on your behalf.

"I'm ready."


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You’ve lost track of time. You have no idea how long you’ve been trapped here. Your tears have dried and crusted against your cheeks. You’re tired, filthy and hungry. You just want it all to end. You hate being stuck in here, with only your thoughts for company. All you can do is mull over and over again what you did wrong. What you should have said or done differently so as not to have found yourself where you are.

Finally it clicks.

The next time you think you hear the sound of a footstep, you press against the wall again.

“I’m not afraid anymore.”

Is he there?

“What’s that? Speak up, boy. Don’t mumble.”

You swallow hard and then try again. With a firmer voice, this time, and more conviction behind it. “I’m not afraid.”

There’s a long pause.

“I still don’t believe you.”

Your heart sinks and you slump back against the far wall. But then there’s an audible sigh and the sound of a latch being lifted and the wooden panel slides open, allowing light to flood in. You raise an arm to shield your eyes from the sudden change. You’ve been given a reprieve. You start to babble a thank you, but the words of gratitude are cut off by your father’s disapproving mien.

“Took you long enough. How very disappointing. Straight off to bed, then. And no supper. We’ll try this again tomorrow.”


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