It is rare that he goes out any more. Los Angeles holds little appeal for him now, in a world colored by oaths and blood and prophecies that he has no choice but to believe. His world is skewered sideways, and the mere fact that the person he so praises above any other might make a misstep causes his heart to protest otherwise.
He goes to see Faith, because he thinks she might have cut a piece of his soul from him when she wielded her sharp, sharp knife, and now he wants it back. He needs every bit of himself now, and with what little rationality he still possesses, he asks politely to schedule an appointment with her.
She doesn't know what to say to him when she sees him; she is obviously nervous, unsure of why he is here, to berate her or praise her or kill her, she does not know. He sees the pity he once had for her reflected back to him, and wonders if he looks particularly bad. He wouldn't know; he hasn't looked at a mirror in weeks. His image would only stare bleakly back at him.
She chatters on about something, a poledance and life in prison and the possibility of work release. He doesn't know what to say, so he holds the phone close to his ear as if to catch every scrap of her inanities. They are more comforting than the ring of six small words in his ears. She eyes him nervously through the glass she could break easily if she so chose, and carefully asks him why he is here.
He says he doesn't know, and to some degree that's true. He came here for something, though now the concept of a soul seems silly. It certainly won't stop Angel from doing the things he is so destined to do, will it? His life is directed by destiny, it's clear in the texts he has translated over and over again, and those around him will inevitably get sucked into the maelstrom of tormenting fate along with him.
When he doesn't speak for a long moment, Faith presses her hand to the glass. After hesitating, he does the same, and he wonders how he became a man who could look his torturer in the eye and ask for guidance, when he knows there is none to be had. She says softly that she is sorry, and he blinks the words away; it is long past time for forgiveness, and it no longer matters anyway. He simply has a few more scars and a story he won't talk about when he's drunk.
He wishes he were drunk now, honestly, but he watching his uncle waste away from that and the intense disapproval his father radiated from his brother's destructive inaction.
Wesley turns from Faith, his hand dropping from the glass, and she says his name worriedly. He apologizes to the wall, his voice faint through the mouthpiece. He shouldn't have come, but there is little he can control now, including his own feet, apparently. She sounds confused, and he laughs, the sound wrung from his lips like a heart ripped willfully from a body. When he says goodbye and walks away, he knows she will think that who he is now is her fault, and she's not completely wrong. Moreso than that, though, he wishes he had never come to Sunnydale, to Los Angeles, wishes he had just stayed in England where he had the option of being a researcher instead of a field operative. The phone hangs forlornly from the booth as he makes his way through the lobby.
words © SA. characters, show, and people not mine. no infringement is intended.