Ficlet: Looking For A Trigger, Faith, Angel
Title: Looking For A Trigger
Author: Laure Alexander
Rating: PG13
Pairing: None
Warnings: A bit of language
Disclaimer: Nothing about BtVS belongs to me; it's all Joss; I'm just playing with his characters and making them do naughty things except nothing naughty in this fic.
Distribution: Please ask first. Will be at my site Meandering Muse
Word Count: 578
Summary: Set before the Angel & Faith comic book (which I really, really like) so, if you haven't read that or the end of Buffy Season 8, basically Angel and Buffy screwed up the world and he's catatonic after doing that and killing Giles and Faith is taking care of him in the house she inherited from Giles.
A/N: Sorry this is so short--my muse is kind of missing at the moment due to a cold that just won't go away that leaves me tired and not wanting to do anything but lay on the couch.
If you'd asked her a couple years ago--hell, if you'd asked her two months ago--Faith would never have guessed she'd be tending to a catatonic, two hundred fifty year old vampire with a soul in the house of a man he'd killed.
Her life was just that surreal--yesterday's word of the day calendar word.
"Hair's thinning here, Angel," she lied as she drew a comb through his wet hair. He didn't sweat or anything but he still got kind of grungy so bathing was a thing.
That little tiny Buffy handled that big schlong kind of gave her a new respect for the older Slayer.
Angel didn't move, didn't breathe, didn't say anything. She pulled hard on a knot, then sighed. "Nothing?"
Setting aside the comb, she leaned him back against the pillows, then rose to fetch his dinner. At least he had the autonomic--three or so weeks ago's word--reflexes to sip from a straw. As she waited for the pig's blood to heat up in the microwave, Faith flipped through the mail. Bills and junk. She set aside the bills to pay later in the week--money was not a problem; Giles had been loaded, not that you would have known from the piece of shit car he drove in Sunnydale and the tweedy suits twenty years out of date. She dumped the junk mail in the recycling.
She still had no real clue why he'd left the London house, its contents, and the funds to run it, to her. Buffy was broke, too. Last Faith had heard, she was working at a coffee shop in San Francisco and not slaying anymore.
Probably a good idea she was laying low. She wasn't exactly popular with their sister Slayers, but at least none of them were calling for her head on a platter like they were Angel.
The ding of the microwave drew her from her thoughts and she removed the mug to carry it upstairs to the room she'd made habitable for Angel. A former study, it was still full of Giles' books but she'd managed to squeeze a bed inside. It was a single, but it wasn't like Angel was protesting. Or moving on his own.
He didn't blink when she sat down facing him, grabbed a straw from the night stand and dunked it in the blood. She pushed the other end into his mouth and he began to drink.
Two months she'd been doing this, feeding him twice a day, bathing him every couple days, introducing him to the joys of British telly, reading to him from trashy tabloids and celebrity mags. It was tiring. It was boring.
And Faith would keep doing it, because Angel'd been there for her when she'd needed him, more than once. He'd saved her, so she'd find some way to bring him back.
When he was done feeding, she set aside the mug and reached for the remote to the tv she'd squashed between bookcases. Turning to lean back against the headboard next to him, she turned on the tv and flipped through the channels. "Hey, Downton Abbey. You probably love this stodgy old stuff, right? Let's watch it and you can tell me everything that's historically inaccurate, 'k?"
Not surprising, Angel didn't respond, but Faith just settled back, her shoulder pressed to his, and knew that some day, something would bring him back.
She just had to keep looking for that trigger.
End
Author: Laure Alexander
Rating: PG13
Pairing: None
Warnings: A bit of language
Disclaimer: Nothing about BtVS belongs to me; it's all Joss; I'm just playing with his characters and making them do naughty things except nothing naughty in this fic.
Distribution: Please ask first. Will be at my site Meandering Muse
Word Count: 578
Summary: Set before the Angel & Faith comic book (which I really, really like) so, if you haven't read that or the end of Buffy Season 8, basically Angel and Buffy screwed up the world and he's catatonic after doing that and killing Giles and Faith is taking care of him in the house she inherited from Giles.
A/N: Sorry this is so short--my muse is kind of missing at the moment due to a cold that just won't go away that leaves me tired and not wanting to do anything but lay on the couch.
If you'd asked her a couple years ago--hell, if you'd asked her two months ago--Faith would never have guessed she'd be tending to a catatonic, two hundred fifty year old vampire with a soul in the house of a man he'd killed.
Her life was just that surreal--yesterday's word of the day calendar word.
"Hair's thinning here, Angel," she lied as she drew a comb through his wet hair. He didn't sweat or anything but he still got kind of grungy so bathing was a thing.
That little tiny Buffy handled that big schlong kind of gave her a new respect for the older Slayer.
Angel didn't move, didn't breathe, didn't say anything. She pulled hard on a knot, then sighed. "Nothing?"
Setting aside the comb, she leaned him back against the pillows, then rose to fetch his dinner. At least he had the autonomic--three or so weeks ago's word--reflexes to sip from a straw. As she waited for the pig's blood to heat up in the microwave, Faith flipped through the mail. Bills and junk. She set aside the bills to pay later in the week--money was not a problem; Giles had been loaded, not that you would have known from the piece of shit car he drove in Sunnydale and the tweedy suits twenty years out of date. She dumped the junk mail in the recycling.
She still had no real clue why he'd left the London house, its contents, and the funds to run it, to her. Buffy was broke, too. Last Faith had heard, she was working at a coffee shop in San Francisco and not slaying anymore.
Probably a good idea she was laying low. She wasn't exactly popular with their sister Slayers, but at least none of them were calling for her head on a platter like they were Angel.
The ding of the microwave drew her from her thoughts and she removed the mug to carry it upstairs to the room she'd made habitable for Angel. A former study, it was still full of Giles' books but she'd managed to squeeze a bed inside. It was a single, but it wasn't like Angel was protesting. Or moving on his own.
He didn't blink when she sat down facing him, grabbed a straw from the night stand and dunked it in the blood. She pushed the other end into his mouth and he began to drink.
Two months she'd been doing this, feeding him twice a day, bathing him every couple days, introducing him to the joys of British telly, reading to him from trashy tabloids and celebrity mags. It was tiring. It was boring.
And Faith would keep doing it, because Angel'd been there for her when she'd needed him, more than once. He'd saved her, so she'd find some way to bring him back.
When he was done feeding, she set aside the mug and reached for the remote to the tv she'd squashed between bookcases. Turning to lean back against the headboard next to him, she turned on the tv and flipped through the channels. "Hey, Downton Abbey. You probably love this stodgy old stuff, right? Let's watch it and you can tell me everything that's historically inaccurate, 'k?"
Not surprising, Angel didn't respond, but Faith just settled back, her shoulder pressed to his, and knew that some day, something would bring him back.
She just had to keep looking for that trigger.
End