THE UNINVITED GUEST

I got a theory that you can tell a whole lot about a person by seeing what they're like at breakfast. Later in the day, you got your outfit on, your face on; you're acting the way you think you oughta act. That don't necessarily have a lot to do with the way you want to act, deep down.

First thing in the morning, though, you're too damn grumpy for all that. Guys are still scratching themselves, and girls don't have their makeup on yet, and what you see is pretty much what you get. (That is, unless you're one of those mutant-freak morning people, but in the evil-slaying business, I don't tend to run into a bunch of those.)

That's how come I started taking Fred for breakfast dates, way back about -- damn, two years ago now. The first couple of times, I thought I'd be able to find out what she was really like. Then I found out, and I didn't ever want to stop having breakfast with her. You gotta respect a girl who'll order the chimichanga omelet AND the blueberry pancakes, polish 'em off and then ask you if you're gonna eat your toast. You also gotta respect a girl who's got her head on straight at 7 a.m. when she didn't go to bed until 3, or who's in a good mood regardless of how badly we all got pounded the night before.

For a second, I remember how she looked on those mornings -- no makeup, plain T-shirt, her hair pulled back or braided up any old way. I feel just a little bit like I did back then, and for a minute, I'm not sitting in a beat-up diner in Chicago watching the snow fall. I'm back in L.A., palm trees and sunshine, and Fred's with me.

So, yeah, I miss Fred at breakfast. But other than that, I don't miss her at all.

Ain't that I didn't love her. I did, in a big, bad, whipped kinda way. Ain't that I don't wish her well. I hope she's doing great. But those few months me and Fred were together -- they don't seem to have a whole lot to do with the rest of my life. It's like some dream I had or something, where I turned into this guy who wanted to go to movies with women wearing corsets.

Like I said, I was whipped.

And damn, being whipped was FUN. Guys make fun of other guys for it, but what they're really sayin' is, "He's gettin' laid, and I ain't." I say, get yourself whipped as often as you can. It's worth doing all kinds of embarrassing shit to feel like that.

But that feeling don't last, and at the end of the day, you have to be with someone who's like you. Someone who understands your life. Even the parts you don't like.

And even right now, at breakfast -- the one time when I do kinda miss Fred and the way that girl woke up cute, ready to pack away a double-skillet hungry-man meal without blinking an eye -- I know the girl sitting across the booth understands me in a way Fred never did, never could.

I just wish I understood her.

First thing in the morning, she looks -- pretty much the same way she does any other time of day. Sometimes she'll eat, but most mornings she just drinks black coffee. That don't tell me much, which makes sense, because she don't tell me much, period.

Whatever else she is, Faith's her own woman.

It was about 4 a.m., I figure. I know I was dead-flat-out asleep, and there ain't many hours of the day or night I can count on getting a chance to sleep. 4 a.m. -- that's usually safe, though. Close enough to sunrise to get the demons and vamps off the streets, early enough that most any human with sense is asleep.

Of course, that group don't include Faith.

I heard pounding on the door, and the first thought I had was, the world's ending. Then I thought, naw. World was ending, they'd call. I hoped my landlord wasn't getting nasty about the rent, which was due way too long ago. "Who is it?" I yelled, stumbling toward the doorway and banging my knee on the table.

"It's Faith!" she yelled. "Get out here!"

She hadn't ever come to my apartment before. I'd thought about it often enough, though. Usually, the scenario in my mind was a little smoother than this, but, whatever.

I opened the door and looked at her. She looked like hell, even by Slayer standards. Her hair was yanked back, her clothes all dirty -- bloody, too, but that was pretty much the way she always looked. What was weird was that she'd been crying. "You okay?" I said.

"No," she said. "I gotta get the hell out of here."

"Here meaning my apartment?" I said, wondering why she came here in the first place.

"No. I mean Los Angeles. I gotta go, like, now." She grabbed my hand. I don't know that we'd ever touched before. Not that it mattered, anyway. But it mattered right then. It was like I'd been asleep -- not just a couple minutes ago, but my whole life, and the second she touched me, I woke up. "I want you to come with me. I need you. I -- I ain't gonna make it, if you're not there."

I looked down at her. "You ain't comin' back, are you?"

"No," she said.

Angel Investigations. Angel and Cordy and Connor and Wes. Fred. I put all that on one side of the scales, put Faith and the way she was looking at me on the other. I called it.

I said, "Gimme five to pack."

"I was looking at the St. Louis paper," I tell her. "You know, we could make some serious money at casino work.

"Dealing blackjack?" Faith smiles slowly. "Who the hell would trust me to deal cards?"

"Nobody who knew any better," I say. "But I figure, some fresh new I.D.s and an innocent look on your face, and we're home free."

Like I knew she would, Faith starts laughing. "An innocent look. On my face."

"Worth a shot." It feels good to laugh with her -- don't happen that often. And she's already getting quiet again, going to that place inside herself where she spends most of her time. "Hey," I say softly. "Who's your man?"

"Same guy who's picking up the tab for breakfast, I figure." She doesn't look back at me, but she smiles just the littlest bit as she says it. Now, that may not sound all warm and sentimental, but you gotta understand a few things about Faith. She ain't real big on answering direct questions, least not with a direct answer. So if you can't deal with not getting an answer, you're best off not asking. Me, I can deal with whatever answer she wants to give me.

Other stuff you gotta understand: She's carrying that weight around with her, all day, every day. Shit, I used to think I had problems; I'm the self-esteem poster child compared to this girl. She was screwed up before she became the Slayer, then she went through a serious dark spell that earned her some jail time and some wounds that ain't gonna heal.

And then she got outta jail, and thought she had her head on straight, and came on back to Angel Investigations to make it up to everybody and maybe do some good in the world. And she was doing it, too, before that Buffy got there. I swear to God, it was all kinda working out before then. That was when it got fucked up beyond repair. When Buffy showed up.

But I gotta get ahold of myself, before I start speakin' ill of the dead.

"You sure you're okay?"

Cordelia looked over at me and smiled what had to be the single fakest, least convincing smile of all time. I still cannot believe that girl was gonna be an actress. "Gunn, I'm okay. Why does everybody keep asking me that?"

"Because you're mopin' around all the time." I shook my head and went behind the counter; it was a slow day at A.I., one of the first slow ones in a while, and I would've liked to enjoy it. But Cordelia was walking around with this permanent black cloud over her head.

"I don't mope," Cordelia said firmly.

"Not like some people," I said. "You don't wear black and brood in your room. But you ain't your bright, shiny self, neither. We're down to 40-watt Cordelia. So what's up with that?"

I figured she'd just shut me up again. She'd been doing that for weeks at that point. But instead she was quiet, thinking over what I said. I was surprised, but I didn't say anything else. No point in pushing my luck. Finally she said, "I'm doing some -- second-guessing."

Shoulda seen that coming, I thought. I nodded and said, "Yeah, me too. But if Angel wants Connor back in the hotel, I guess we gotta go with it. Angel's the one who spent a month at the bottom of the ocean. If he can forgive and forget, we can -- well, not trust the kid for a second. But I guess we gotta let him back in the door."

Cordelia stared at me like I was speaking Farsi all of a sudden. "Connor?"

"Yeah. Damien. Mr. Troclon." I narrowed my eyes. "I'm thinking we ain't on the same page."

"Not really." Her voice was flat. I wasn't sure what to be more nervous about: the fact that Cordelia didn't seem to mind having the hellspawn back in the house, or the fact that something else was seriously wrong.

I waited. When she didn't say anything else, I figured I'd struck out again, and I took some files back to Angel's office. As soon as I stepped in there, I heard the door swing open. Client, I thought; then I heard Cordelia say, "This must be my lucky day."

"Hey, Cordy." A woman's voice. Southie accent. Said hey like she was apologizing, and like she didn't apologize much.

I stuck my head outta the office and saw her for the first time. I oughta remember what she was wearing, what she did with her hair, something like that. But all I could see were the eyes -- dark and dangerous, but so beautiful you just didn't care.

Shoulda realized right then I was in trouble. But things were still going okay for me and Fred at that point, so all I thought was, "hottie."

Cordelia didn't introduce me, and the Southie didn't introduce herself. They kept looking at each other in what appeared to be a major stare-off. After a second, Cordelia said, "Either the American justice system is even more screwed-up than I thought, or some amazingly misguided person sent you a cake with a file inside."

"You were right the first time. I made parole."

"Parole?" Cordelia's jaw dropped a little. "You can get paroled for murder after two and a half years?"

Murder. I knew I was staring at her now, and I could tell she'd noticed me staring. I'd like to say that she looked less hot to me at that point, but I can't. Like I say, I really shoulda realized I was in trouble.

"I didn't get convicted of murder."

Cordelia actually laughed. "So much for new-and-improved Faith, who confessed all her sins."

The woman -- Faith -- wanted to get seriously pissed off, I could tell. But she kept her voice steady. "I told 'em the whole story. Funny thing, though: If you tell the cops you killed a guy to help the mayor of a small town turn into a giant demon snake, offed another one because you thought he was one of the vampires it's your sacred duty to slay -- they kinda don't buy it. You get a psych counselor, not a murder rap."

"So they only got you on the beatings," Cordy said, folding her arms across her chest. Beatings? I kept staring at Faith wondering just how screwed-up her story got.

"That and evading arrest." Faith shifted her weight from foot to foot. "Listen, we don't want to be talking to each other --"

"Wow. I see that laser-sharp perception is still intact."

" -- so let's cut to it, okay?"

"You want to see Angel."

Faith ducked her head a little. Very quietly, she said, "I want to see Wesley."

And here I'd been thinking the conversation couldn't get more uncomfortable. So wrong. Faith stared at Cordelia, then looked straight at me for the first time. "What?"

"Wesley's no longer with the firm," I said. "And I'm Charles Gunn. Call me Gunn."

"You got it, Chuck." I half wanted to punch her, but the other half -- well, let's say that's about when I started to realize I was in trouble. "What happened to Wesley?"

"He left. We don't discuss it," Cordelia said. "And if we don't talk about it with each other, we're sure as hell not gonna talk about it with you."

Faith didn't have a quick answer for that, and the way she looked right then -- that was when I realized that she was younger than I'd thought. And I didn't know how somebody could look that young after two years in jail. Finally she said, "Then I guess I just gotta apologize to you. I'm sorry, Cordy. I hit you, and I scared you, and I was way outta line. I was screwed up. It's not an excuse," she added quickly. "That's just how it was. And I'm sorry."

"Not bad," Cordelia said. She was a little calmer, but there was still a major chill in the air. "With two years to rehearse, I think I could've come up with something better. But hey. You did your best."

Faith was gettin' pissed off for real by this time, and I could tell. But you gotta give her credit; she didn't snap. "I just wanted you to know. If Wes ain't around -- can you tell me where he is, anyway?"

"I don't think he wants --" Cordelia stopped short right there, and you could see her brain working: Did she want to protect Wesley or give him a little more hell, courtesy of Faith showing up on his doorstep?

We'll never know. Because that was when Angel showed up at the top of the stairs. "Faith?"

"Angel." Her face lit up; you'd never of dreamed the girl could smile like that. Right that second I thought maybe Faith was in love with Angel, and that was why Cordy was so hacked. Which shows how much I know.

"It was today? I thought was going to be another few months." Angel was smiling when he came down the steps. The way he talked and moved was almost like normal; he was getting a lot closer to shaking off that month in the box. "I would've come to the hearing, if I'd known."

Cordelia was giving Angel the razor stare of death. "And you were gonna mention this when?"

"I'm sorry," he said. That was all there was to it, but the apology worked better than it had coming from Faith. Angel leaned against the counter -- he didn't have his strength back yet -- and Cordelia lay one hand across his arm.

Faith raised an eyebrow, but all she said was, "Probably a good thing you missed it. Vampires don't make great character references, last I heard."

Angel grinned. The mood in the room was a whole lot better, until he said, "So, where are you living?"

"Don't know," Faith said, and Cordelia's face fell, and I knew we were in for a ride. I just didn't know how wild it was gonna get.

We pay our ticket and head out into the Chicago winter, a shock of cold that wakes me up better than the diner's coffee did. I pull my cap down further on my head and cross my arms in front of me. L.A. don't prepare you for this sub-zero shit.

Faith gives me her best wise-ass grin. She grew up in Boston, which ain't as cold as Chicago, but at least involved snow from time to time. "How's the hothouse flower?"

"I don't care if you give me hell about being a wimp with the cold," I tell her. "But you gotta find a way to do it without calling me a flower."

"St. Louis oughta be warm enough for you, Petunia."

"So, you like the idea of dealing blackjack."

"I was thinking of being a showgirl," she said. "Whaddaya think? Glitter g-string and some pasties?"

"I had a dream 'bout that once," I answer, and she grins again. "But I don't think they got showgirls there. That's just Vegas and Atlantic City."

Faith tugs her parka around her and screws up her mouth, thinking. "Atlantic City," she repeats. It's worth thinking about it. Vegas, of course, is way too close to L.A.

But maybe that's the secret -- get closer to them, instead of running away. Get so close they'd never dream we'd dare. Then again, they know me, and they sure know Faith. They know there ain't much we don't dare.

So I'm thinking about that, and Faith's thinking -- whatever it is she thinks, locked up in that head of hers -- as we make our way through Rogers Park. The snow is piled up on either side of the concrete, a couple feet high on the curbs. On TV, they show you pretty snow, all fluffy and white. But the real thing don't quite live up to the image, after about day two. It's more gray than anything else, and some icy chunks are solid black. So much dirt in the world.

"I wouldn't mind Jersey," Faith says. She's smiling as she says it, and she locks one of her arms with mine. "At least we could get some decent pizza and hot dogs."

"Oooh, don't let the locals hear you knockin' the pizza."

"We don't have to decide right off," she says, with a little half-shrug that she uses to show she doesn't care. It always means she cares a lot. Jersey's what she wants. "But we can think about it, okay?"

"Okay," I say. Faith smiles again. Every time we run, she gets like this for a few days -- kinda excited about all the possibilities. If there's any thing I love most about her, it's this. The fact that, after all she's been through, she's still hoping there's something better on the other side.

It's moments like these that I know she didn't kill Buffy.

I mean, couldn't have happened. I know they had some bad blood in the past, but they were doing okay. At least, Faith was. Buffy, now --

And there I go again. I gotta try to be fair about this. Buffy was not what you'd call the most pleasant person in the world, so far as I knew her. But I only knew her after she came to Los Angeles, and everybody else agreed that she wasn't quite the same after all that went down.

I'm still not real clear on the details, because Buffy wasn't big on talking about it, not that you could blame her. But apparently some witch friend of hers, somebody else Cordy went to high school with, got a serious case of evil and started doing some bad magic mojo. And Buffy's Watcher came back to help her, and another friend of theirs went out to talk to the witch on a verge of a nervous breakdown, but it didn't do no good. They stopped her, but they didn't stop her until too late.

I know the witch died, and the Watcher, and the friend who went to deal with the witch, and somebody who was Buffy's sister, except she wasn't -- I still don't quite understand that part --

Well, it was a big deal, if you knew these people.

What happened didn't just mess Buffy up; Cordy and Angel and even Wesley were all kinds of strange for a while. But Buffy was the one who had to see it all. So I ought not to judge how she was acting, at least not be so harsh about it.

It's just that Buffy went off the rails and got herself killed, and they want to pin it on Faith. They wanted to lock her up in whatever weird-ass medieval jail the Council of Watchers has for Slayers. Just when Faith was getting her life back together, those guys wanted to lock her up again for something she didn't do.

And I know she didn't do it. I KNOW it. I mean, I ain't ever asked her. First off, that would be pretty damn insulting, and second, she'd probably kick my butt even for thinking of it. And besides, like I said -- she's not real big on direct questions.

I'm not saying I don't ever want to ask. Sometimes, late at night, when she thinks I'm asleep, she goes in the bathroom and turns on the taps and cries like -- you heard it, it would break your heart. So I know she feels, well, guilty. I figure that's because she got there too late to save her. That's all that is. But if I asked her about it, maybe then she could at least open up and talk some. Maybe she'd hurt less if she could just talk about it.

Still, I don't need answers. I know my girl. Faith didn't kill Buffy.

"How'd patrol go?" I said, like I really needed to ask. Faith was covered in grime, blood and grease. And she was smiling.

"Fan- fuckin'-tastic," she said, hopping up on the counter. "I gave 'em hell tonight, huh, Wes?"

"Hell was given," Wesley said as he took off his jacket and folded it over a chair. He even smiled a little bit when he said it, and for the first time in about forever, I started to relax and smile back at the guy. Things were definitely still not right in that quarter -- especially with him and Angel, like that's a surprise -- but Faith said she wanted a Watcher, and she didn't want some goon the Council kept on a leash, and that meant Wesley.

Given their history -- Cordy filled me in on the details -- I was surprised she asked for him. But we were all more surprised when he said yes. We didn't ever give him shit about lying to us and taking Connor, and he didn't give us shit about whatever he thought we did wrong. We didn't talk about it at all. He and Angel didn't hang around in the same room together if they could avoid it, but other than that -- well, it wasn't that much different. We kinda went back to the way things were. Plus Faith. And then Buffy. But still mostly the same idea, and a hell of a lot closer than I thought we'd ever get again.

Who said denial is a bad way to cope?

"How'd you guys do?" Faith said. She had a little edge to her voice when she said it; ever since we started dividing up into patrolling teams, there was some competition in the air. "You're lookin' kinda down in the mouth. Struck out?"

"We did fine," I said, which was true. The reason I was looking down was because Fred and I had just had one hell of a fight. About Faith, actually -- nothing had happened there, not yet, but Fred always did have an eye for that kind of thing. Girl was almost psychic sometimes. Just in case Faith was psychic too, I explained. "Fred's out gettin' herself some tacos. Connor went with. Wonder how the kid's gonna like his first encounter with hot sauce?"

Wesley looked around the lobby. "But then, where's Cordelia?"

Before I could answer, the front door swung open. Buffy and Angel -- the third patrol team -- came in. They looked totally wrung out. The usual.

Faith smiled. They were in one of their getting-along phases right then. "Hey, B. Your slayage count for the night?"

"Very slayey." Buffy smiled. I never did see that girl's smile reach her eyes. Not even that time when -- well, never mind. "We found some Hevreth demons on Melrose."

"They were financing their operation with a celebrity-autograph business," Angel said. "If you've paid a lot for any signed photos lately, you should ask for your money back."

"So the entire demon underworld makes spare change by sitting around signing 'Jennifer Lopez' over and over." I thought about that for a second. "Yeah, makes sense."

"You never did say where Cordelia is," Wesley said. Angel didn't acknowledge Wesley -- he never did -- but he turned toward me, suddenly intent.

"She's fine," I said. "I mean, she's gonna be fine."

Angel gripped my arm way too tight. "What happened?"

"Take it easy, cowboy." Faith removed his hand from my jacket. "Cordy okay?"

"She got tossed off a fire escape by a vamp." As Angel's eyes went wide, I said quickly, "Like I said, she's gonna be fine. Girl can hover now, you know? She just didn't do it quite fast enough. Bruised herself up. Nothing major. She's upstairs takin' a load off."

Angel ran to the steps, but just as he started to go up, he paused and looked back at Buffy. It was like he was asking permission -- no, more like he was trying to figure out if he should ask permission. Buffy didn't say anything. One second more and then he was halfway up the stairs. We all watched him go.

Buffy spoke next. She didn't talk about Cordy, which didn't surprise me. "Brought you a present."

Faith held her hand to her chest, mock-surprised. "For moi? And it ain't even my birthday."

"I found it in the demons' lair," Buffy said. "Beneath a bunch of glossies of David Hasselhoff. Who's buying David Hasselhoff autographs anymore?"

"Good question," Wesley said. "Of course, Knight Rider's a classic, but -- I mean, what is it you found?"

Buffy pulled out the knife, and Faith's eyes went wide. This thing -- this was no ordinary knife. Curved blade made out of gold or something at least as shiny. Hilt with jewels in every color, catching the light as Buffy turned it before Faith's eyes. "B -- that's a thing of beauty," Faith sighed.

"Reminded me of you," Buffy said. Faith just stared at her, dark eyes wide, as she took the knife in her hands. Buffy almost looked shy, but she was happy. Faith loved it, and Buffy loved that. They looked beautiful like that, sitting together in the lobby, lit up with excitement and the colors of the jewels. Like they belonged together.

Like I said, at first they got along.

We're walking toward the El stop; we don't have a lot of shopping to do, so this is gonna be winter-Sunday-morning standard. We'll go back home -- it ain't much, like HUD housing ever is, but it's all right. We'll take turns reading the Sunday paper and watching whatever sports are on TV. Nap in the afternoon. And at sundown, we patrol.

I look at Faith, still so damn young, and I think of the others in L.A. I can feel myself getting mad. Do you think they realize that? That she still patrols? That she's still the Slayer, no matter what they do?

Probably not. They probably think she's still out getting drunk and getting laid. They never did want to give her a lot of credit, not even Angel. And sure as hell not Connor, or Fred, or Cordelia --

Okay, I was just thinking about Cordelia, and that's why I think I see her walking toward me.

No, Cordelia's walking toward me. Faith and I stop short. Cordy does too. For a minute, all we do is stare. Cordelia's hair is longer. No gloves. She's wearing a thick coat like nothing I've ever seen on her. Of course, I never saw her in Chicago. In winter. She's only here for one reason.

For a long time we just stand there, three lone figures in a world of white. The snow keeps falling like nothing's happened.

Cordelia says, slowly, "I'm not alone. You should just come with us. Don't fight it."

"Bullshit," Faith says. I got nothing to add to that.

"Don't make this harder than it already is," Cordelia says. She's blinking kinda fast, and I realize she's trying not to cry. You'd never know it from her voice.

The adrenaline's hitting my bloodstream now. My heart's pounding, and I'm ready to fight or run. Probably both. "Yeah, I realize how hard this is for YOU," I say.

"Charles, don't." I turn around to see Fred standing behind us. She's got a crossbow aimed right at me. Her tone's awful nice for somebody who could shoot me dead any second. But she's shaking too much for me not to know this is getting under her skin. "You're gonna get your say, okay? But the important thing right now is makin' sure nobody gets hurt."

"Funny, you guys doin' this during the day," Faith says. "Angel not in on this party?"

"If you try to escape underground, you'll find out," Cordelia says.

I hear tires crunching on the salt-crusted roads. I half-turn to see the vehicle; it's not exactly a humvee, but it's got heavy enough armor to make sure Faith can't get out. Or me neither. I can't see who's driving, but probably I don't know them. Probably Watchers.

Sure enough, as it pulls up, Wesley hops out the back. He looks bad. This is bugging him worse than it does Cordy or even Fred. "Faith," he says. "Please. We don't want violence."

Faith gives him a big ol' grin as her hands ball into fists. "It's a little late for that, isn't it?"

And BAM, Faith's slamming into Fred. I see Fred falling, see that the crossbow is already in Faith's hands as she turns. I don't wait to see what else she's doing; I just get my head down, run hard and tackle Cordelia with all my strength.

We fall to the sidewalk, and I feel the ice cutting into my skin. Cordelia tries to get her hands on my face -- if her bare skin touches mine, she can do her demon shit, and I'm not about to go into the light just now, thanks. I punch her in the face as hard as I can -- harder than I ever hit a human being before, and Cordelia doesn't even scream. She just goes limp on the pavement, and I see the blood. Oh, hell.

I hear a crunch and look up to see Wesley flat against the armored truck, where Faith apparently just threw him. Fred's struggling to her feet outside the liquor store while the other Watchers pile out of the truck. Faith starts running like hell, and I follow her. We might be a match for any three of them, but toss five Watchers into the mix, and the odds change.

Faith ain't running as fast as she can, and that could only be to let me catch up. She's still got the crossbow, though I don't think she shot anybody. Oh, God, I hope she didn't shoot Fred -- "Run!" I scream. Don't matter if they get me -- in the end, there ain't that much they want to do to me. It's Faith who's got to get away.

"The El!" she shouts. Sure enough, I can hear it -- rattling on the rails. We're close to the stop, and if we could just get on the train, maybe we could lose 'em on the red line --

We turn and start running up the steps. I can hear the Watchers behind us, but way behind us. And the train's pulling in right now. We might just make this happen. I feel myself starting to smile, and then I see Cordy's blood on my gloves, and all I want is to get the hell outta here.

Faith and I get to the top, turn the corner, go for the train -- the doors are open --

And there's Connor.

"Oh, shit," I say. Faith doesn't say anything, just shoulders the crossbow and fires. Fast as light, Connor ducks the arrow. I've seen him do it a hundred times, and it never stops freakin' me out.

People on the train are shouting and pointing as the doors slide shut. Faith throws the crossbow aside. It's pretty much worthless now. "Okay, junior," she snarls. "I always did want to see what you were made of."

"Of my father," Connor says, and he charges her. He punches high -- she blocks him -- he twists -- she stumbles --

I grab up the crossbow; maybe the son of a bitch, and I mean that literal, can't duck if he's fighting. But they're moving fast now, and there's no moment when I could hit Connor and be sure I wouldn't hit Faith.

Faith gets him hard on the jaw, but he just takes the blow, spins around, slams his fist into her ribs. She cries out in pain, and I want to kill him -- especially when he smiles and shoves her away.

"You will be thrown down the wall," he says. "To the dogs."

I heard that story, thanks to the African Methodist Episcopal Church. I put the crossbow in his face, more to stop his grinning than from the idea I could actually be fast enough to hurt him. I ask, "What the hell have Bible verses got to do with killin' my girlfriend?"

"Everything," Connor says.

He slaps the crossbow out of my hands so hard it burns through the bloody gloves. I punch him once, harder even than I did Cordy, and he barely even flinches. And then I see his fist flying out to punch me --

Oh, God, I can't see, I can't stand, I feel myself falling and it's hurting and I'm on my back and run, Faith, run if you can.

Instead I hear her screaming. Maybe it's pain. Maybe it's fear. Maybe it's just pure rage. Because I feel the hands closing on my arms, and I know it's the Watchers. They're on us. They've got us.

I ran away with Faith because she thought I could keep her safe. I told her I could keep her safe. And I lied.

"Charles?" I open my eyes and see Fred. She's kneeling above me. Her face is already turning purple from the bruises. She holds my hands so gently I almost don't notice the cuffs. "It's all right. I promise, it's gonna be all right."

"They're gonna drag Faith off to jail, maybe to die, because of something she didn't do. What is all right about this?"

Fred shakes her head. "All we want is the truth."

"Like hell you do," I say. They don't want the truth. Nobody does.