Title: Rebel, Rebel
Author: Misty Flores
Email: [email protected]
Rating: Hard R for violence, some sexual situations.
Teaser: When the Watcher's Council comes after Faith, Angel Investigations must pull from the chaos they've become embroiled in to save the renegade Slayer, and Wesley must face a past that has become more haunting than ever.
Archive: http://www.stoic-simplicity.net/imperfect
Splash: http://www.stoic-simplicity.net/exposure/graphics/angel/digital/rebelrebel-poster.jpg
Spoilers: Sleep Tight
Genre: Action/Drama – General ensemble
--
Chapter Twelve – Epilogue
I still don't know what I was waiting for, And my time was running wild
A million dead-end streets
Every time I thought I'd got it made, it seemed the taste was not so sweet
So I turned myself to face me, but I've never caught a glimpse
Of how the others must see the faker, I'm much too fast to take that test
- David Bowie

--

Faith walked into her room wearing a really ugly, blue jumpsuit.

Cordelia clucked her tongue, overwhelmed by so many faux paus on one person. And on FAITH. The girl had potential. Sure, she dressed like the dominatrix from hell, and a slut-o-rama, half the time, but Faith wore leather pants. And got away with it.

That was a HELL of a BIG DEAL.

And here she was in, this… ugly. Blue. Jumpsuit.

"I don't even know where to begin," Cordelia remarked flippantly, sitting up with a wince, hand over her abdomen. "Love the handcuffs."

"If I could, I'd flick you off," Faith said, leaning in the doorway.

"Right. Cause you haven't done THAT before."

"Oh, fuck you."

"Again, the déjà vu is just so overwhelming," Cordelia muttered.

"Why are you always such a bitch?" Faith asked, pushing off the doorway, and into her room.

"Must be the company." And God help her, Cordelia couldn't help but suppress the huge grin on her face as Faith, hand cuffs and all, settled on the side of her bed. The two women regarded each other, silence falling as the bullshit was moved aside for a moment. Just one. "You look good, Faith," Cordelia said finally, indicating the fading bruises, the healed lip.

"And you look like shit," Faith remarked, ignoring Cordelia's rolling eyes to add, "But, healthy."

"So you're out," Cordelia said. Faith looked down at her handcuffs, and shrugged, smirk fading.

"Yeah." There was a pause. "You?"

"Observation. They think I've got some blood disease. And I insist I'm fine, but I can't really, you know TELL them, that the reason my blood's weird is because I'm all demon-y. Morons."

Faith's lips pulled into a smirk, before she shifted uneasily, the clanking of the handcuffs audible and loud. Cordelia grinned. "Wesley give you his pair?"

"No," Faith said defensively, red coloring her cheeks as she turned, hiding the absurd grin with a scowl. "I hear your boyfriend's dumb as a post."

"You had a reason for coming? Or was it just to annoy the crap out of me with the oh-so-funky blue jumpsuit?"

"I wanted to thank you," Faith finally said, breathing raggedly. "You know, for the whole saving-my-life-taking-a-bullet-for-me thing. Just… never really expected ANYONE to do that for me…" she let out a trembling sigh. "Thanks."

Cordelia arched an eyebrow, but her eyes were twinkling as she responded. "That was hard as hell for you to say." Before Faith could respond, she said, "If it helps, I tried to duck."

"Whatever," Faith said, shaking her head as she stood.

"Faith." The Slayer paused, turned around, and found the Seer smiling at her sincerely. "You're welcome. I'm glad you're okay. And that you're not evil."

Faith grabbed a pillow from the nearby bed and chucked it at her, laughing as Angel opened the door, staring between them as if both had grown second heads.

"Faith was just leaving," Cordelia said, stuffing the pillow under her back, smiling innocently. The vampire still looked suspicious, but Faith turned, and he allowed a smile as Faith gave him an awkward hug.

"Take care, retard," she said warmly. "Good luck…" she flushed, "You know… with the Connor thing. I'll… you know, even pray and shit. If it helps."

The sincerity in her voice was heartwarming, and Cordelia had to smile in spite of herself as Angel hugged her back. "It does," he said gruffly. "We'll see you soon."

"Okay." Taking a ragged step back, Faith turned to the doorway, where her two female butch officers were waiting, and found instead, Wesley.

Cordelia was silent, Angel sinking down beside her as Faith turned to him, caught in a gaze that was hungry, intense, longing.

For a moment, Cordelia's heart ached for them.

She didn't know what she was expecting, but not the bittersweet challenge in Faith's voice, as she asked Wesley simply, "You still believe in prophecies, Wes?"

There was absolute quiet in the room, before Wesley slowly shook his head, and took another step in the room. "No. I believe in people."

For two seconds, he kissed her, a gentle caress, before he pulled back, brushed a lock of wild hair from Faith's face, and stepped back. "I'll see you in a week."

Faith managed a smile, even as the officers stepped into the room, and placed their hands on her elbows.

"Bring cigarettes," she said. "Like fucking gold in there."

And just like that, Faith left the hospital room.

--

"You know, I'm wondering if this is starting to become some sort of conspiracy to keep me out of the loop."

Charles glanced up, leaning on his broomstick, glancing at the kneeling Fred as Lorne, a big apron tied around his middle, frowned at the charred pieces of wood, throwing them glumly into a bag.

"What do you mean?" Fred asked curiously.

"I'm always knocked out or out when things happen."

"Yeah, dog, where WERE you?" Charles asked, resuming the sweep across Angel's room, using broad strokes. Fred gave him a stare, and he stared right back. He still did not subscribe to the theory the softer the stroke the cleaner the floor. A broom sweep, was a broom sweep. "Cause you know, we could have used your help."

When Lorne didn't answer, Fred sat up, suddenly distracted by the way the green demon slumped down into a chair, shrugging. "Doesn't matter, anyway." Fred and Gunn continued to stare blankly. "I was trying to get a connection to the Powers," he admitted finally. "Figured it was worth a shot."

Oh, Lorne. Sweet, wonderful, green Lorne. Fred felt her heart skip in hopeful anticipation, but Lorne's face didn't change, and the hope died as soon as it came. "Nothing?" she asked softly.

He shook his head. "Not even a peep."

Her heart sank, and Fred felt her insides tremor, catching Gunn's dark eyes for a moment, before looking away. In the silence, she began to paw through the ashes, and froze.

"Oh, God," she whispered. Lorne and Gunn paused, as Fred lifted up a small, grey and green charred jersey with trembling fingertips. Her breath hitched, and she laid it on a nearby chair, smoothing it out delicately, fingering the letters. "It's over, isn't it?" she smoke with a tremoring voice, despair in her tone. "Nothing will ever be the same again."

Oh, God. With the realization came an outpouring of emotion, and Fred smothered her face with her hands, suddenly overwhelmed with the reality of their situation. In a second, large hands were pulling hers away, and she was forced to see a gentle face staring down at her, carefully gathering her into him.

"Hey," Gunn said softly. "Listen girl, I ain't going anywhere, okay? That's one thing that will never change."

There was such conviction in his voice, such a need to make things better in his eyes, in a way that only Gunn could, that Fred couldn't help but love him for it. Her fingers gently pressed against his cheek, and she smiled, slightly. "I know," she answered softly.

When they turned to Lorne, he was staring at them with an odd expression on his face. It was unreadable, and Fred had no idea what he was thinking, until he carefully stood.

"Are you prepared to become rocks?" he asked finally. "Because, it's not over. Not by a long shot."

It was a question that she knew the answer to immediately.

"No," she said, her tone wavering. "I'm not." Lorne swallowed, and she took a breath, continuing, "But I can be one of those bridge things that sway a lot, but never actually fall." The answer made Lorne smile, and Gunn's arms wrapped around her, and Fred knew the promise that she made was binding.

Letting Gunn go, she knelt down again, grabbing the shirt and carefully folding it.

"We're going to be okay," she said raggedly. "'Cause we've got the mission, and we've got each other."

Her fingers smoothed over the charred material, heart shuddering.

That was all they had, now.

--

The lights over the city seemed different somehow. Darker, colder. Angel smoothed his hand over the railing of his balcony, and felt the wind drift over him, ruffle his hair. Cars honked, in the distance, someone yelled. Dogs barked.

People lived, down there. People, fodder for evil, and despair, human, who found their souls constantly in peril, who had children and lost them.

Humans.

He shuddered, clutching at the railing.

"Angel."

The vampire's demon gave a growl at the voice, and he swallowed, eyes on the world outside, as he clipped, "What."

Wesley was silent behind him. "I don't… Angel, I don't know how I will ever-"

His eyes closed involuntarily, and he trembled, the aching in his heart splitting open. "Wesley," he managed. "Stop. STOP. You were trying to save my son. It comes down to that. I understand that."

There was a pause, genuine need in Wesley's tone. "I know you can't forgive me, Angel, not yet."

Angel kept his eyes shut, and began to breathe, a human characteristic, one that came back with remarkable ease. "I'm good with grudges."

That was all, there was nothing more to be said. Smell, sound, taste, told him Wesley had turned, was leaving.

"How's Faith?"

An uncertain pause, a change in scent. Wonder, wary guilt mixed with the sorrow in Wesley.

"Doing well," he answered politely. "Her strength is back, almost full strength. Her sentence won't be increased by much, even after the escape."

Angel stiffened, finally turning to gaze at the Watcher in the eyes. "How?"

"Her defense lawyers seem to care for once."

Angel stared, and Wesley offered a grim smile, before nodding, and moving toward the door.

The darkness of the city called to him. Angel's eyes closed, and he leaned against the balcony, breathing raggedly.

Breathing, in and out. He didn't need it. But the oxygen in his lungs calmed him, filtering through a dead body, and again, the loneliness consumed him.

"Wes said you were up here."

Angel's eyes opened. A simple voice, flat and almost cheery.

Cordelia stood in his doorway, arms crossed. Slender arms leaned against the wood, and for once second, she dissolved into the woman she was the night of the ballet. Beautiful, warm, his.

His throat clogged, and turning away, Angel sighed, eyes fluttering closed. "I was looking for you," she said, coming forward.

When she reached him, she leaned with him, forearm brushing forearm. He felt her heat even through the cloth of his shirt, her leather jacket. His hands tangled together, as he gazed upon his friend.

"Groo?"

"Downstairs," she said dismissively. "I kinda wanted…" her words drifted off, and then picked up again, coming out in a rush. "I found this." Angel felt something small and flat pressed into his palm, as she leaned against him, folding his fingers over it, stepping away.

Casting her a curious look, Angel then glanced down, unwrapping his hand to find a worn picture. It was a small photograph, taken recently. His aching heart suddenly remembered it, taken the morning after they had found the money. Fred had snuck in, taking it while they slept.

All three of them. Angel, Cordelia… and Connor.

His heart seared deeply within him, his hands trembled, but Cordelia anchored him, taking the photo and smoothing it out carefully, showing him a frame. "I wanted you to have it," she said softly. Unsure, Angel watched as she slipped the photo into the frame, set it delicately on the balcony railing.

Angel's eyes roved over the portrait. Warmth pressed into his side as she leaned her cheek on his shoulder, voice soft, gentle. "We should remember, you know? Keep the memories alive, and all that. That way, when we find Connor, we can tell him. I'm sure he'll … you know, want to see that."

God. Bittersweet anticipation swept over him. Cordelia's voice was so sure of itself. She KNEW they were getting Connor back. There was no need to despair. He would be back.

She knew.

He leaned heavily against the railing, carefully fingered the faces in the photograph. It was a moment of silence, absolute trust, until Cordelia spoke.

"Right now, though, we should probably worry about the demon that's going to be crashing the UCLA spirit rally."

The words sunk in, slowly. Angel licked his lips, something in him, certainly not his dead heart, thumping as Cordelia stared at him. In her hazel orbs was absolute trust, love. Her half smile on her face held something that fascinated him, warmed him.

The trembling in his soul continued, as he glanced back at the humans in his city, and then at the picture of he, Cordelia, and Connor in bedtime bliss.

He looked up, and found Cordelia still there, leaning against the railing, much like she did three years ago.

And suddenly, something shifted into place. It wasn't an epiphany, but it was close, as he spoke quietly, for the first time.

"Feel like taking in a little college atmosphere?"

Cordelia's eyes sparkled, her mouth parted and her beautiful face was filtered with disbelief, and then overwhelming relief as the words registered. On her face was such a mesmerizing smile, as she laughed, an aching, wonderful laugh of love and acceptance. She flew into his arms, and her embrace was intoxicating, the joy in her face enough to make him smile in return, hold on to his anchor. HIS anchor.

Cordelia's own heart was beating so fast, as she clutched onto her big, undead hero. Her embrace was desperate, and she had never felt more complete, more relieved, than the moment he had accepted his mission. THIS was her Angel, the Angel she had been so afraid to lose, and her eyes closed, breathing his scent, impulsively turning her cheek against his and pressing her lips on that spot.

Her lips lingered, as her heart shuddered, her body stilled, heart hammering against his still chest. Eyes closed as her lips skimmed over his cheekbone, and when his head tilted, her mouth welcomed his, buried into his embrace for a long, lazy, caress.

Shuddering, Cordelia's lips sought entrance into his, in a move that seemed so easy, too easy, as if she had done it for years, fingers sliding up to bury into the nape of his neck, pulling him closer.

Her friend. Her lover. Her companion.

The break for reality came with her need to breathe, as Cordelia's mouth moved from his, pulling back, and found her hands spread across his chest, his arms wrapped around her waist. Her lips stung, swollen from a long, consuming kiss. Confused, shocked at what had happened, Cordelia stared into his face, hoping to find an explanation.

What she found, was love. Her heart skipped with it, her soul sang with it, and her mind screamed with complete fear from it.

It was a long silence, until a confused, "Princess?" broke her from the spell. Slowly, Cordelia tore her eyes from Angel's, and found the Groosalug standing uncertainly in the doorway.

Licking her lips, her hands clenched at her best friend, as she stared back at him, mouth dropping, and then back at Groo, and then, at the picture.

Clarity came with a single glance.

"Oh, crap."

--

"He says the appeals are going okay. At this rate, I'll be out in a year."

The husky voice was cheapened by the phone, but the news made him smile. Across the glass, the beautiful face, with yellowed and fading bruises on her face, smiled back.

"You look like you could be okay with that," she said, leaning her chin on her hand, gazing at him.

Wesley hated the glass. His gaze was full of warmth, staring at a past that had been horrific, a future that was even more uncertain, and a present that was at this moment, a bright spot.

"I could be okay with that," he admitted. Her face flushed, and Faith, who looked uncharacteristically nervous, shuffled in her chair, pushing her wild strands back behind her ear with her free hand.

"Just don't make me stay with Cordelia, okay? We'll kill each other in an hour."

"You like each other more than you care to admit."

"Well, yeah. She's a bitch. I like bitches. I am a bitch. We go good together." He couldn't help but smile at the shrug that accompanied the statement.

Opening his satchel, he pulled out a carton of Marlboroughs, and a small book. "I thought we'd take things slowly."

"Hold that up." He did, patient as Faith studied it. "Charlotte's Web? It's that for, like, bratty kids?"

"Yes."

When his eyes twinkled, she slumped back, shaking her head. "Fuck you, Wes."

"You don't want it?"

"Hell yeah, I want it. I must have read everything in that library. And seriously – you can only read freaking Monica Lewinsky's bio so many times before you start to go a little nuts."

"I see."

"So how're things, Wes?" Faith asked, gnawing on her lower lip as her brown eyes darkened in concern.

He swallowed. "I'm not sure," he answered honestly. "Quiet."

"Oh."

The silence descended, and Wesley tilted his head. "Perhaps the worst is over?"

Faith, who until then had been inspecting her fingernails, gazed at him. A sudden, tight smile slid over her face, and she shrugged.

"Maybe. Maybe, we're getting lucky for once."

--

Lilah Morgan was having a very bad day. Her day planner was filled with appointments, and all of them involved some sort of sacrifice, or signature in blood. Her fingertips were sore enough. Rubbing at them, she considered making her assistant take over with the pinpricks.

Glancing up, she waited as he finished his report. Eloquent, familiar looking man. Her eyes scanned over the documents, silently reading. Papers upon papers of conclusive material. Impressive. She had heard of the group, had never really taken them seriously. Relics, she considered them – it wasn't as if the Slayers around paid them much attention.

Apparently, they were trying to rectify that.

Sighing, she tossed the pile onto the desk, leaned back carelessly in her leather chair, and gave him an even stare.

"Why should I care?"

"Someone needs to exterminate that woman. Wolfram and Hart have the resources."

She managed a smile. "But you said she'll be a catalyst for evil, didn't you? Shouldn't that make her an asset to us? We are evil, you do know that?" she remarked coolly, leaning forward, hands together on her desk.

He arched an eyebrow, pulling off his glasses and giving them a meticulous wipe. "The prophecies indicate only that she will be a major catalyst. Who's to say she will not sway toward the side of the good?"

Lilah shook her head. He had her there. "May I ask, Mr. Pryce, why you are so intent on taking out a Slayer, who, from the last few reports, I've gotten, is pretty close to boning your son?"

That got a reaction. He stiffened, got a little red-faced, but recovered. A man with class. "I have a job. I swore to take this woman out. And I will follow it through."

She pursed her lips. "So… the fact you can't stand the sight of her, or the vampire who your son happens to work for doesn't have a thing to do with this?"

He managed a tight smile. "Perhaps a little something."

"And the fact that you've just been relieved of your position thanks to this girl SERIOUSLY not getting dead, nothing to do with it, either?" His smile faltered, and she grinned. "I told you. My company rocks."

He breathed out slowly. "I don't want my son harmed."

She pushed the manila folder toward him. "We know all about your prophecy, Mr. Pryce. We've been following it for years. We've had our own dealings with Faith. And you're right – who's to say it won't go either way with her? What you're neglecting to understand, is that the role of the vampire, the Slayer, and your son are all intertwined. There can't be one without the other. Angel Investigations has been a thorn in our side, for years. But there's a balance, see. Angel has his own anchor, just like your son is quickly emerging as one for the Slayer. What YOUR manuscript is missing, is that these Champions," Lilah produced a photo of Faith, and dropped it next to an 8 x 10 glossy of Angel, "Will be on opposite sides. And their anchors, will be decimated." His eyes remained cold, impassive. "Ah," she said. "So you DO know that?"

"I don't want my son harmed," he clipped.

She smiled. "What if it's not Faith? What if Angel's the evil one? It could happen. It's a fifty/fifty chance."

"If Faith dies, my son is no longer an anchor."

Lilah shook her head. "I'm sorry, Mr. Pryce. I feel for you, I really do. Okay, I don't, but the plan is already in motion. Prophecies are tricky things to manipulate. We've been at the business for years. We don't need your help."

The doors opened, and guards came forward. "Good-bye, Mr. Pryce, have a nice trip back to London. Say hello to your son for me."

Mr. Pryce's eyes blazed, but Lilah had already forgotten him, as the phone rang, and she picked it up with a crisp, "Hello?"

"Got the appeal hearing – keeps going this way, we'll have her out in six months. Provided you can pony up the money and turn in that serial killer you represent."

Lilah smiled. "Not a problem. He was becoming more a liability than anything. Bye."

Hanging up the phone, Lilah Morgan gave herself to breathe, let her mind rest from the complicated worlds of what-if's, and manipulation.

Sighing, she rubbed at her head, made a mental appointment to schedule sometime with her masseuse.

Prophecies really were a bitch.

You've torn your dress, your face is a mess
You can't get enough, but enough ain't the test
You've got your transmission and your live wire
You got your cue line and a handful of ludes
You wanna be there when they count up the dudes
And I love your dress
You're a juvenile success
Because your face is a mess
So how could they know?
I said, how could they know?
So what you wanna know
Calamity's child, where'd you wanna go?
What can I do for you? Looks like you've been there too
'Cause you've torn your dress
And your face is a mess
Oh, your face is a mess
Oh, oh, so how could they know?
Rebel Rebel, you've torn your dress
Rebel Rebel, your face is a mess
Rebel Rebel, how could they know?
Hot tramp, I love you so - David Bowie
FIN

"The end is not coming. Someone is always uncovering some ancient scroll, and they're always saying the same thing: that something terrible is coming. Do you know how many of these things I've seen in my very long life?"
"Four?"
"Three. But there's nothing to worry about."
Angel and Cordelia – Offspring