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I. Situation Calls for Some Bruce
They set out that first day in Angel's car, Faith behind the wheel. "What do you think?" she said, "North? We haven't been north yet. Maybe we can find a bar with a drunk dog in it?"
Wesley fastened his seatbelt and mused: "Bar dogs of the American West. I suppose it's as good a mission as any." He started to hum a bar of music, then sang, "And we walked – off – to look for Amer-errr-ica."
Faith slammed on the brake and turned to stare at him. "All right, Wes? Don't take this wrong, but your taste in music could use some serious de-pussyification."
"Now how could I take that wrong?"
"This situation," said Faith, "calls for some Bruce."
"Springsteen?" Wes made a face. "I always thought he was a little nasal."
There's a record store up the block, so she doesn't have to kill him. She just goes through the bins and stacks his hands with Greetings from Asbury Park, NJ and The Wild, the Innocent, and the E Street Shuffle. She lifts a last disc and whoops, "Wicked! This must have come out while I was in the joint!"
The store stops moving, maybe breathing. Everybody stares.
"Yes," says Wesley, loudly. "Perfect music for fighting vampires."
This time, the clerk won't let him pay. "Take it. We don't want any trouble."
On the way out, Wesley slips a copy of Graceland onto the pile.
II. Postcard: Faith to Buffy
B!
Greetings (God that's corny! Sorry!) from (I think) Wyoming. Sorry I cut off as soon as I did after the big cratering of Sunny-D. Guess you heard I'm with Wes, on this trip or something. Life's weird, huh? Angel gave us his car man, sweet!
We did this job in Santa Cruz, then we weren't sure what to do and – well, there's this book Wes gave me for my birthday – yeah, a book, but don't laugh – it was cool with guns & stuff. And in this book the guy talks about all these dogs in bars all over America. So we decided to drive around and see as many as we could, but apparently (oh God! Hear me starting to sound like W?) it's not the seventies anymore and they have health codes and shit. *Eyeroll* So we didn't find many dogs, but lots of bars. And the last one in Wyoming (maybe Sheridan?) we started doing shots of JD & so we just staggered across the street to this hotel. Where we are now. (W is sleeping; I'm writing – told you life's weird.)
We woke up this morning afternoon and we both swore we'd never drink again EVER! And I think we mean it, but just in case, W emptied out a minibar and marched it up to the front desk. He looked like hell, but he sounded all English, like on TV, and said he was insulted by all the filthy alcohol being in the room. He did it with a totally straight face, and they were all apologizing. So I put my hand on my shoulder, and said, "Thanks for being strong, Dad!" And he cracked up. Then I looked at the clerk and said, "Another thing! We need more Bibles!" It was funny, but then they cut off our porn channels too, so we could only watch cartoons!
-FAITH
III. Postcard: Faith to Dawn
Dawnie!
Hey cupcake, heard you're in Rome. I'm in Virginia, that's almost as exciting. (Yuh-huh). Wes really wanted to drive all the way across the country. I told him I already DID, it wasn't that great, but he wasn't going to stop singing Simon & Garfuckle until we did. We stopped at this place and ate at a shitty crappy Moroccan restaurant and then Wes found this bookstore, with all these first additions or whatever. Fortunately, it has chairs, because I'm sitting here while he's in the other room having an orgasm over the books. (Not that I know what Wes-having-an-orgasm looks like. You should never have sex until you're married, and not drink beer, and also stay in school. If your sister sees this card, make sure she reads this part!)
While Wes was still in the other room, all these girls came in and were complaining about their students who never do homework. I guess they were college English teachers, so I said I was one too & they asked me my favorite book & I said "Wuthering Heights" because it was next to me. Then they got in this argument about people named Charlotte & Anne. Finally, they went away. Thk God!
Faith
IV. Virginia is for Lovers
"Virginia is for Lovers," Wes reads of the side of the mug, as he hands Faith the freshly-brewed tea.
"Not this week it's not," she mumbles. Pulling the blanket around her, she settles into the La-Z-Boy and says, "Cramps." Glaring up at him, as though this is somehow his fault, like he was responsible for this particular design flaw of female biology.
He pats her shoulder, then bends down and kisses her cheek. "The tea will help," he soothes her.
Again with the glare. "Oh, it works for your PMS, does it?"
He smiles, refuses to let himself be drawn in. "Throughout the nineteenth century – really up until the nineteen-seventies – there was a theory tying the force of a Slayer's menstrual cramps to the proximity of vampires."
"Nuh-uh," she answers. "Any fangy types try to bust into this place tonight, they're all yours." She scowls and looks around the room, a neatly furnished hospitality suite provided by the Northern Virginia software millionaire who had hired them. "What'd we drive all this way and take this job for, anyway? Can't he get rid of his own zombies?" She shakes her head. "I'm getting bored."
Wes stiffens. "I thought it was inevitable."
"Hey!" She beckons him over. "Not with YOU." Pulling him down for a long kiss on the mouth, she says, "Thanks for the tea."
V. More Than You Love Me
They make quick work of the tech-corridor zombies but Faith is still in a bad mood. "Suburbs make me itch," she says. "Sooner we get out of this place, the better."
But Wes wants to make a quick detour to the National Rifle Association headquarters and Firearms Museum.
"You a Republican now?" Faith demands.
"No," he says, a little snippy. "I just want to look at. . ."
"The guns," she says. "I get it. But I'm still not having sex with you until I get over these cramps of death."
"You know, I hear it sometimes helps. . ."
"You get your own menstrual cramps, come talk to me about what helps."
"I just want to look at the guns, it's not about sex."
She watches him get almost as heated up over the heavy artillery as he did over the leather-bound books at that stupid store. She wants him looking at her that way. Her and nothing else – though it's not like she's being exactly encouraging. She can tell he's dying to show off the Desert Eagle, but he's left it in the car – not exactly legal.
On the way out of town, they stop at this park climb up behind the waterfall and when they're alone, he takes out the gun and polishes it on his shirt.
"You love that gun more than you love me."
"Oh, I do not!"
They look at each other, and go to work, pretending he didn't say it.
VI. Romantic Poverty
They do what they can to scrape money together. A job here, a job there, making it contingent on room and board. As long as Faith is reading the private eye books he gave her, she likes this plan. But then he makes a mistake and hands her Jim Thompson's The Grifters, and suddenly the occasional petty theft isn't enough, she thinks they'd be great con artists. He hates to start sounding like a Watcher again, but. . . "It's not as though we're desperate for money," he sighs. "There is always the trust fund."
He has tried to convey to her that hitting – even what she thinks of as lightly, on the shoulder – is not an acceptable way to express displeasure, but he supposes he deserves this one.
"You have a TRUST FUND?"
"Well. . ." Rubbing said shoulder. "I haven't touched it since I came to America. I have no idea how much. . ."
"More than a million?"
"Pounds or dollars?"
"You have to ASK?" Again with the hitting.
"I thought you and I were doing the romantic poverty thing."
"And I thought we were doing the 'Look, we're poor' poverty thing."
"Look, I can't simply withdraw the money. There are conditions."
"It's your money."
"It's not as though I worked for it. Family money. The family would have to approve
of. . ." He swallows. "My conduct. Lifestyle." He looks hard at her. "Understand? I'd as soon forget it."
"I understand," she says, and for some reason he believes her.
VII. Legacy
Wesley told Faith about the trust fund, and about his father needing to approve any withdrawals, and then he told her to forget about it. Somehow, he imagined that she would. But if he really wanted that, he supposed he shouldn't have gone to the shower and left his cell phone on the table, with "Father" programmed into the contacts. When he came out, with a towel around his waist, daydreaming he might find Faith in a playful mood, he was horrorstruck to hear her on the phone: "Hey Rodge. . . Yeah, sure thing. Sure, I'm keeping him in line. I'll put him on."
When Wesley took the phone from her, he could hardly speak, but it wouldn't have mattered anyway. On the other end, Roger Wyndam-Pryce was laughing too heard to hear his son's stammerings of disbelief. Finally, Roger stopped laughing to say, "This is a fascinating situation, son. As for this money, your mother and I had long despaired of grandchildren . . ."
"Did she say . . .?" Wesley gasped. Then, a more frightening thought followed. "Are you?" he asked her.
Faith laughed. "No, dumbass."
Roger considered: "Since such a legacy now seems unlikely, use the money as you see fit. Only – have your intriguing friend keep me up to date.
VIII. Your Son is a Dork
Update: Your son is a Dork
Hey Rodge!
You asked for updates, so here's one: Your son is a fucking dork! Sorry I'm the one to tell you, but, man – we're in this truck stop, see, in "historical" Lexington, Virginia, and Wes has spent like twenty minutes playing this "game" where he's trying to knock quarters off a shelf in this machine, and I guess then you win 'em or whatever? It's such a scam because I'll tell you, I worked this carnival for a while for a while and we had that, only not a machine. It's impossible to win and there's not even a carnie here to talk him into it. So I'm pretending I don't know him, because even though he's wearing leather and all sexy scruffy-like (yeah, really, I can send pix), he's so intense with the stupid game like he's planning how to take out a demon nest or something. You can lead a dork to fashion, but you can't make him cool. Funny. Kind of cute, too, honest, would you believe I have a secret thing for dorks? Don't tell.
-Faith
PS – I'm looking out for your boy!
IX. Faith to Xander: Living Large
Xan-man:
So me and Wes are living large on his old man's dime. Did you know? Guy is like a millionaire, only was slumming with Angel and chumps for years, 'cause he didn't want to ask his dad for it. Can you picture? I guess I see it. Don't know from rich but DO know from stubborn, and Wes IS that! So I thought we should stop at this resort place and I'd dress up like a preppy chick and make him teach me golf. (Lotsa shoulder-holding et cet) You didn't hear this from me but he is REALLY good. (At golf). I thought I would be, because I can hit it hard, but it's not the biggest part. Apparently. Lotsa slogging in mud traps.
We are enjoying this for now, but soon we're giving most of the money to poor kids and stuff. Whatever. They need it more than me. Wes has a lawyer in charge of it and everything. We're doing it in my name (not Faith, 'cause I guess that means something weird w/ charity. Lehane. Was that some big mystery?)
-F
X. It's All Right to Miss Him
They talk to Angel once a week -- Wednesday nights, it just works out that way – on Wesley's cell phone. Wes always goes first and the conversation is very professional. Comparing notes on what they've killed or thwarted this week, anything the other should be on the lookout for. Sometimes Angel steers them in the direction of a contact, but he's always careful to say it won't be a W&H operation. He's also careful not to say, "You could help us HERE." Wes senses this, because he is equally careful not to say "Is there anything I can do?" They talk about the car a lot.
Then he hands the phone to Faith. Faith laughs the whole time. Every time. Wes gets a little peeved. "Why does it sound like he's always telling you funny jokes? In all the time I've known Angel, he's told maybe two funny jokes."
"Oh," says Faith. "Angel doesn't KNOW he's funny. That's what's so funny about him."
She crawls into bed next to Wes, and lays her head against his chest. "It's all right to miss him, you know," she says.
"I know." He cradles his arm across her chest, and they lie there in the dark.
XI. Faith & Wes to Giles: Bad Habits
Gman- Sorry I bailed a LITTLE bit after Sunny-D, but it's like I said to B, none of these slayerlings need to learn all my bad habits. Not that I regret my Adventures in Babysitting, but currently I'm conducting more of a one-on-one tutorial (bet you didn't think I knew that word!) with somebody we both know – and Wes has enough bad habits of his own, how much could I corrupt HIM? He says he doesn't know what I mean by that, but you guys go way back in England and stuff. I bet you know stories! Found a 3-horned slime-warthog in a drive-in outside Denver. Will send pix!! – FAITH
Giles – Faith suggests that I add my sentiments to hers although (as is so often the case) one is hard-pressed to imagine how exactly to improve on such uniquely expressed – now she's threatening to stab me with a pen, if I don't get to the point – I have NO IDEA what my bad habits are meant to be! -- Wesley WP
XII. Giles to Faith and Wesley: Occam's Razor
Dear Faith and Wesley (??) –
I was not entirely certain that I had read your previous card correctly, but Buffy, Dawn, Xander, and lately Mr. Wyndam-Pryce, senior, assure me that the two of you are in fact traveling together. I was at first inclined to consider this an excessively elaborate practical joke, but I am also, whenever possible, a proponent of Occam's Razor, which holds that the simplest explanation for a phenomenon tends to be correct. So.
Faith, you suggested that, by virtue of our shared national heritage, I may have some hitherto unhinted knowledge of young Wesley's bad habits. I do not pretend to possess any such intimate knowledge. However, I have observed his very low resistance to trivial though potentially costly sales pitches, especially when delivered by a pretty woman. Then there were the subsequent attempts to shift responsibility for said choices to his employers, by exceptionally sloppy use of Council expense accounts. He disapproves strongly of smoking, and will make faces if you do it. He does not sing as well as he thinks, either. – RG
PS – The days in which I considered Wesley to have the emotional maturity of pastry are of course long past.
XIII. Big Sleep
"I don't think I like this as much as the book," Faith announced.
Wesley's mouth twitched.
"What?" she demanded. "I thought that was what smart people always said. And you GAVE me that book, you can't turn around and say it sucks."
Wes curled his arm around her waist and pulled her close to his bare chest. Speaking half into her hair, he said, "I love hearing your opinions. That's all. Tell me why."
"They turn it too much into a love story. It's all about those two, just because they need a love story. Not everything is a fucking romance novel."
"But that's Bogey and Bacall you're talking about. They fell in love for real – while they were filming this. Besides – I vaguely remember a friend of mine at university explaining how the book enforced the patriarchy, because the only woman Marlowe approved of was the one who shaved her head and went into hiding to help her no-good husband."
Faith frowned. "Are you saying you thought that? Or someone told you?"
"I don't remember what I thought," he confessed. "I remember agreeing, but I imagine I was trying to sleep with her."
"Did you?"
"Good question. I don't remember. William Faulkner wrote this movie, you know."
"Who?"
"Some guy who stayed in Mississippi too long."
XIV. Year of the Cock
Faith announces that she would like to have Chinese food for dinner. When Wes starts to hint that he might not be in the mood, she stamps one booted foot like an impatient horse and says, "It's my birthday."
"Again?" he demands. "I understand that your birth certificate may be somewhat ambiguous. . ."
"Non-existent."
"But I'm starting to think you're abusing the circumstances to get whatever you want."
"When I decide to get whatever I want," she answers, "It's gonna be more than a fucking eggroll."
In fact, it's a lot more than an eggroll. It's four platefuls of the greasiest fried-indeterminate animal parts Wesley has ever seen.
"How can you eat this?" he asks.
"Don't you come from a country where they make pudding out of blood? And what the fuck is haggis?"
"Haggis is gorgeous," he assures her. "If it weren't, it wouldn't exist. No one would eat anything that vile if it didn't taste. . .What are you laughing at?"
"What year were you born?'
"Nineteen sixty-nine."
She nearly snorts tea out of her nose. "That's even better." She points at her placemat. "1969? Year of the cock."
"It does not say. . ." He grabs it. "Oh my. As in rooster, you know."
She shrugs. "Whatever. And look – 1981. Me too!"
He reads: "People born in the year of the cock often speak their mind – and should never marry each other."
XV. We Only Live Tonight
Wesley remembers a story – he read it somewhere, or maybe it was a myth. Maybe a dream. A man in the woods, he might have been a hunter. He stumbled on a girl, maybe a wood spirit, or a goddess. He found her and he held her, until she slipped away, and he followed her, and they kept up the chase, three days and nights until at last the hunter fell down in exhaustion, and slept, a day and a night until he woke, and he never saw her again.
He thinks of this story, some nights, as he holds Faith against him, feeling her warmth, using touch to memorize things he never thought he could notice in a woman, the shape of her wrists, the way her third toe – on the left foot only, not the right, is slightly crooked, and the veins that bulge a little on the back of her neck, like they're just waiting to be bitten. Sometimes when she is somewhere else, he panics with trying to remember these details, as though there may be a quiz and if he could somehow recite Faith, everything would be more secure, because now – as much as he wants to run with this, he can't imagine a future beyond tomorrow, and this makes him wake up at night, breathing fast and shallow, and she touches him and says, "We only live tonight," and he lets that be enough.
XVI. Don't Scare Me Like That
Sometimes, Faith thinks he's cheating. Not on her, exactly, but on the deal she thinks they've made. No obligations, no expectations. No sentimental crap. No thinking about tomorrow. "We only live tonight," she says when she touches him. An he never says "No. . .Wait." Never says they should have a plan, or picks up the real estate section and starts pricing houses with picket fences, never wants to get a puppy or any of that shit. But sometimes she catches him looking, wonders what he's thinking, snaps her fingers and pulls him back from that place. Wherever he was. She doesn't get him, sometimes.
Then one day, they storm a vamp nest near the Tennessee-Arkansas border. Should be totally routine, but she gets cocky or lazy, she's throwing a quip at Wes, and this Bubba-vamp clotheslines her, knocks her off a 20-foot wall. She lands on her back, she swears it just stuns her for a minute, but when she comes to, there's Wes covered with blood and dust, and he's swearing and crying all at once, starts to shake her, then gets scared to move her, so finally she just sits up, puts a hand to her forehead, and pushes him back.
"Dude, I'm fine. Chill!"
"Don't SCARE me like that!" he almost screams, and then she sees his eyes and she gets it. He's scared. She's his slayer and his lover and his mission, and now his whole world is as fragile as her body. Well, what's she supposed to say? That she won't leave, won't die? Nobody can fucking promise that. She won't lie, so she walks away. Now how can she blame him if he starts thinking about someone else?
XVII. Back to School
He gets email from Fred. Wireless access is sporadic, of course, from the road, but often enough, they find a hotel or bar or coffee shop, and while Faith is arguing with the barristas about why she can't just get a plain damn black coffee, he pulls up his webmail account, and there's always something from her. Witty and well-crafted anecdotes about life at the office, the amusing rather than the menacing side. Silly items she saw on the news. Sometimes she links to stories on a fake news website or something that's apparently called a "blog" now. He writes back in kind. They're bantering, really, something he could rarely pull off with her in person. He never mentions Faith, though he sometimes catches himself slipping into "we"-s. He always goes back to edit, just takes out the pronoun altogether. "Took out a Gropthar nest, what a mess!"
One day in Washington, at a Starbucks across from where Lincoln died, he pulls up an email that says "BACK TO SCHOOL!" It's addressed to everyone in her mailbox. "Leaving W&H as of Monday. It's been a great ride, but the physics department at UC-Boulder calls. PS. Thank/blame Wes for this! See you guys in the Rockies!"
XVIII. Wes to Fred: The World's Oldest Mountains
Dear Fred –
Virginia is very pleasant and we have see most of the places on the card, although I can't begin to imagine how they take credit for the moon landing. I'm told they try to hog presidents' birthplaces as well – some rivalry with Ohio? Can you, as a product of America's civic institutions, explain this?
I was chuffed to get your "Back to School" email, including the "blame/thank Wesley." Though I can't begin to see that I deserve either. I am happy that you'll be finishing your degree. I've always encouraged you, if you wanted, so perhaps that's what you meant? Though we are in the east at the moment, there's talk of a job in Arizona, so we shan't be too far from Boulder, and the idea of paying a visit sounds lovely. I'm a bit fond of these old eastern mountains (the Appalachians are the world's oldest, as you'll know) but could use a "Rocky Mountain High." (Sorry.)
-Wes
XIX. Fred to Wes: All that's Missing is You
Dear Wesley,
I'm taking a risk that this will reach you, but you have to admit you are not the easiest man to get hold of these days! Angel said you would probably check in at the Phoenix office, so here goes nothing. I'm not telling you much you don't already know from e-mail, but I'm an old-fashioned girl some ways, and I thought a written invitation would be nice. So. . .I'm finally settled here in Boulder, and I would LOVE to get visitors. The place is so cute, you'll die (though don't, please, I've seen enough of that). Sorry you had to get the big news via mass I'm-changing-my-email-address, but. . .well, I have to admit, you're partly responsible for me coming back to school. When we all signed on at W&H, it was one thing, but since you left – didn't seem like there was as much of a point. Plus, I'm really psyched about finishing my Ph.D. The UC dept. is great. Boulder is GREAT. All that's missing is you! :)
-FRED
XX. Considering a Side Trip
"So I was thinking," Wesley tells her. "Maybe we should consider a side-trip to Boulder."
"Yeah," Faith answers. "I bet you were."
"What?" he protests. "Fred invited us."
"Yeah," says Faith. "She's dying to see me based on the two sentences she ever said to me."
"Well, she's one of MY oldest friends."
"She's also one of your prettiest friends. What's the chance of that?" She turns her back and starts to walk away.
"Don't do this!" he calls, and when she still doesn't turn, he calls, "FRED!" Now she looks, and raises an eyebrow.
He thinks, Oh hell, and she says, "You are screwed. As in, not by me, anytime soon."
He sighs, and tries to make it a joke. "Look at it this way, there's a lot of worse times I could have called you that."
She considers, then shakes her head. "Not really. You never call me anything. I mean, dirty words and stuff, but never a name. During. Does make a girl wonder what you're thinking about. Or who."
"I. . ." He starts, but doesn't have an answer. He's never considered it. Sure he's thought about Fred, in bed with Faith, but he's also thought about Lilah and Virginia, the World Cup and his fifth form maths class and whether the next Star Wars movie is likely to be any good. If there's anything he learned with Lilah, it's that his body only does what he wants if he lets his brain go where it wants.
Now, Faith squeezes his arm and pecks his cheek. "I'm just kidding you, OK? Let's go. Could be fun."
XXI. Faith to Fred: An Outline
FRED –
OK.
(1) I know this is an ugly-ass postcard. This is from some stupid historical place, with a famous shed. Wes wanted to stop there, & this is the only thing I could find to write on, plus I'm writing FAST because
(2) It doesn't matter how ugly this is because when you read it, you better burn it and if you don't I'll be angry & YOU WOULDN'T LIKE ME WHEN I'M ANGRY. (Like the Hulk. That's a joke, except not so much b/c you WOULDN'T.)
(3) He isn't over you. All right? I don't know, maybe you don't even know he's under you, but I think you probably do, because you're smarter than you act. (About people, I mean. Nobody who's been through what you've been through can be as nice as you act.)
(4) It's not like I'm jealous or anything. He thinks I am, but he's the one acting different since he got your card. It's not like I'm jealous or anything, but if his head's not in the game, I could get hurt. That's what partners means.
(5) If you want him, he's yours. Not like I like it that way. I can just see a thing that's in front of me. If you don't though, you need to tell him in a plain sentence. So he can get over it. We'll come visit, but you need to tell him either way.
–FAITH
P.S. Burn this. I mean it!
XXII. Leather and Lace
Boulder is nice, like Fred said it would be, and seeing her is more and less than Wesley expected. She's lovely and kind and he's forgotten how much he loves her laugh. But she's still HER, the same Fred any place, every place.
Faith is on better behavior than he expected, doesn't even laugh when Fred proposes dinner and music at a place called the Bluegrass Hut. He walks in with the two of them, Fred in a long hippie skirt with a bow in her hair, Faith in tight suede pants. He feels like the luckiest man in the state, like he's living a Stevie Nicks song: Faith's leather, and Fred's lace.
They have lots of laughs and a few beers, go back to her townhouse, and then he thinks he sees a signal between the women – or maybe it's imagination, but Fred asks him to come look for some wine with her. He follows, admiring the place, thinking about the yard and kids and a dog, crazy thoughts but WHY crazy? These are normal things to want, and Faith is so young, and she's been very clear about "not forever," so why shouldn't he dream?
"It's a great place," Fred agrees, as he takes down the bottle. "I'm trying to talk Charles into coming. Maybe you could drop a hint next time you talk."
And something about the way she says "Charles" knocks the bottom out of his dream. It breaks something in him, one last thing, but then he wonders if it was a thing that needed breaking.
"It's Charles, then," he murmurs.
She nods, and a few years ago, she would have apologized. Now, she says, "Wesley, you're everything I could want."
"Except the part where you want me."
She nods. "Life's funny like that."
"Hilarious." He manages a smile. "Thank you for saying it."
"You're welcome." She's in tears as she hugs him. Then she looks at the shelf. "Oooh! Goldschlager?"
"Definitely."
XXIII. . . .and Goldschlager
Fred brings out the Goldschlager and some Ketel One, and they start doing shots in her living room. At least, Fred and Faith do. Wesley sticks with the wine, says it's the best he's tasted in ages. And it isn't at all bad, but the main thing he knows is that he can have a few glasses and stop. After The Talk with Fred, he wants to be drunk so badly that he knows he shouldn't. You don't want me, he told her, and she answered, Life's funny. And now there's a space inside him that's been full so long of her, the possibility, at least, of her, and he has no idea what will go in it. Besides, he has to stay sober so he can drive – Boulder to Denver, tonight, and he's given some kind of reason, but mostly, he's not ready to sleep with Faith under Fred's roof.
The girls either don't notice his pensive mood or don't care. Faith has shaken off the funk she's had for the past few days. Maybe she's surmised how The Talk went; maybe Fred told her before she told him. Or maybe she's just being Faith, sunshine and shadow, and who knows why? But they're both laughing, downing shots and touching each other's hair.
"Gimme some!" Faith demands, swiping the vodka. "It's my birthday!"
"Really?" Fred squees. "How old are you?"
Wes snorts. "About 74, at last count." She sticks out her tongue, but Wes says, "It's always her birthday when she wants something."
Fred turns and smacks his arm. "What about you? I missed your birthday on account of you running away. What can I get you?" She leans back into Faith, lace into leather. Wes smiles a fraction too long, and they all laugh.
"Yeah," Faith says.
Fred giggles.
Wes stands up. "Very funny. Faith, we should hit the road."
XXIV. Running on Faith
Faith is in a bad mood again, as they leave Fred's house. Wes attributes it to "tired and drunk," and can't say he feels that great himself. But when she sulks in the passenger seat half the way to Denver, he finally turns off the radio, looks at her, and says, "What?"
"I can't believe you turned her down, man!"
"WHAT?"
"She's hot. And as long as you've been hung up on her, it might have helped."
He flushed: "Believe me, Faith, I didn't turn HER down."
"Did! She was all ready to go, me and you and her. . ."
"WHAT?" Part of him wonders if she is right, and that part is ready to turn the car around, but, "You misunderstand. That was a joke."
"I don't know what room YOU were in."
"Honestly, Faith, Fred's not that kind of. . ."
She doesn't even let him finish, but snaps: "You mean a big whore like me?"
"No! I – why are you so angry about this?"
"You wish you were back there with her!"
"NO!" he says, and suddenly she's quiet, and he understands that he means it. All this time struggling not to define anything, and he finally understands. She's his girlfriend, and they're having a silly fight, and he doesn't want to be anywhere but here.
XXV. Wes to Gunn: What You Can Get Away With
Dear Charles,
A smart man once said – "Art is what you can get away with." (Don't ask me who, though I have a vague idea he was Canadian). Like this painting. Van Gogh called it a self-portrait, but nobody would have painted himself this way until Van Gogh did it, and suddenly "self-portrait" was what this was, and nobody after him could get away with the old kind anymore.
I don't suppose this makes any sense, and I sound like I'm just going on about garbage I don't really understand until (possibly) circling around to make my point. Well. What else is new?
So here goes: I've seen Fred. She's well. Happy in her new life. Radiant as ever. And oh yes: She loves you. I don't know if that changes anything for you, or even if it's something you don't know, but I figure it's worth saying. Don't think I'm being all noble and stepping aside, because frankly I was never there. I was kidding myself. Seeing her made me realize that, and also something else – I have something with Faith, and I didn't want to call it love, like I never called it love with Lilah or Virginia or – anyone, because I couldn't decide what I thought love was. So here I am, the last man on earth qualified to give advice, and I'll just say this: Love is what you can get away with. For whatever that may be worth.
-- Wesley
XXVI. Gunn to Wes: Devil Drummers
WES –
So I haven't been able to convince my girl to go out looking for the devil drummers yet, but to be fair? Most of the time we've been in Jamaica, she has to be inside at her symposium. (The school ponied up for her to come down here, hotel included. If I'd known higher education was such a scam, I might have looked into it.)
Speaking of education, the Wolfies sucked out most of mine, when I quit, but I think it's a fair trade.
(You better think so – Charles, I mean – and hi! Wes! It's Fred! Hi Faith too! Happy birthday!)
Angel knows I've still got his back when push comes to shove. For now (when not on vacation) I'm busy being one of 3 black guys in Boulder. Teaching karate – sport of the future!
(That's kickboxing! Fifteen years ago! – Fred)
-Gunn
PS – Wes, before I drop this in the mail? Thanks for the push.
XXVII. Me, You, Too
Giles calls to tell Wesley about a job in New Orleans.
"Well," he says, "We're in New Mexico right now, but perhaps we could swing by on the way to Savannah."
"No, Wesley. I mean -- a job. They need someone with your special skills. Actually, they offered me first, but all this business with training and supervision. . ." A note of regret hangs in his voice. Almost envy. "I suggested you."
Drily, Wes answers, "All the other qualified people you know of being dead."
"Willow spoke well of your work last spring with Angelus – not the part where you let him out in the first place of course, but. . ."
"Thank you." Wes takes this for as much of a compliment as he can, hangs up, and calls the guy in New Orleans. Two days later, they're in the French Quarter, and Wes is smitten. Renault's is more than just a bookstore or a magic shop. It's an archive, resource, and gathering place for anyone interested in magicks in the Southern United States. The owner is retiring and wants to pay someone to run it.
Rubbing his fingers down the spine of an ancient volume, Wes wonders if he's salivating. "I don't know. . ." he says to Faith.
"Bullshit," she says.
"Fine, but. . ." He tries the words, still unfamiliar. "I love you. But you don't have to stay."
She laughs at his unease. "You kidding, man? It's N'awlins." And falling into a kiss. "Yeah. Me, you, too."
XXVIII. Only the Trying
New Orleans has enough cemeteries to keep a slayer busy for a couple lifetimes. Faith spends the first month visiting a different one every nigh, and her reputation gets around. Some tough fights, but nothing she can't handle. She comes home charged and sweaty, raids the refrigerator, then goes upstairs and jumps on Wes, who doesn't have any complaints.
At first, he wanted to go out with her, all the time, but she caught him nodding off over his books, and insisted he had to sleep sometimes, and helping her work off the post-patrol energy was sufficient contribution to the cause. There was still plenty of fighting for him to do, but she wanted to handle the nightly stuff on her own.
"Just promise me you'll always come back," he told her. "Or at least that you'll give me fair warning."
She doesn't know if she's ever made a promise in her life, not to another person. Finally, she says, "I promise to try."
"Of course," he answers. "There is only the trying. The rest is not our business."