"Hey," Faith said as she sat down across from him.

"Hey," he replied, his voice low and quiet. His eyes were as dark and intense as ever. "How are you?"

"Five by five," she grinned lopsidedly. "You?"

"Can't complain," he looked around uneasily. "I came by to tell you that Buffy called me last night."

"Yeah?" Faith leaned back in her chair and stretched her legs out underneath the cubicle. This was going to be interesting. "What'd she say?"

"What do you think she said?" Angel asked, playing games with her. They were always playing games with her, every last fucking one of them. Faith let her eyes get the hard, edgy look in them that she usually reserved for her victims. Angel frowned slightly and continued, taking the offered hint. "She told them what you did."

"Huh. And?" she had expected more.

"And they reacted like I suppose you thought they might," he shrugged, leaning back to mimic her current position. He was trying to make her feel at ease, like she could trust him.

Faith smirked, "Big fucking whoop."

"Do you want me to tell them anything?"

That caught her off guard. She faltered, her eyes shifting to her left hand and her fingers flexing into a fist unconsciously; it was a reflex reaction to anything that made her uncomfortable. It made sense, in a way, that someone who reacted to everything with mental violence would eventually adapt to react with physical violence as well. Really, it only proved them right - another notch on their side of the proverbial fucking blackboard.

Faith blinked and thought, opening her mouth once before shutting it again without saying anything. Did she want to tell them anything? She could apologize, not that it would do any good, and maybe play some games with them as well. That made her snort. Playing mind games on the Scoobies would be an interestingly new tactic.

But it wasn't her style. Not that telling them anything would be her style to begin with. No, she wouldn't do anything so prosaic as apologize. Instead, she'd agree.

"Yeah, yeah I do have something I want you to say to them."

"All right," he smiled at her and leaned in towards the glass, as if it would help him hear her better. "What?"

"Tell them they're right."

"What?"

"Tell them they're right. I fit in here. This is my element."

"You're not joking are you," he seemed oddly disappointed.

"No, I'm not. I've never felt so at home in my entire life. We criminals have a similar outlook on life," she smirked at his unhappy expression.

"And what's that?"

"It's all stained glass," she let the words flow easily out of her mouth, proud of herself for saying them so smoothly. The analogy was perfect, in not-so-many-words. Angel only stared at her, his eyebrows crinkling together. She rolled her eyes mentally, "It's beautiful, if you know what you're looking at, if you're looking at it with your own eyes.

"I mean, they always say beauty is in the eye of the beholder, right? Well, so is life. The way we see it is that you and all the others out there," she gestured with her hand towards his side of the glass. "Are blind," she leaned forward so that their foreheads could, conceivably, touch if the glass weren't separating them. "Can you imagine selling a blind man a piece of stained glass?"

He shook his head slightly, not understanding the concept.

"He would have paid for it, but he'd never really understand how much it's worth."

Still nothing.

"Angel, we see things tainted, sure, but we see them in the most bright and beautiful colors. You and B, on the other hand, are so obsessed with redemption and duty that you never take the time to notice that all you're looking at is black and white.

"You're looking at the world through the eyes you think are yours, but that are really someone else's," she shrugged, pulling herself back so that she was sitting properly in the chair. "Christ, Angel, when was the last time you did something because you wanted to do it, rather than because you thought it was right?"

He was silent for a long time, his eyes focused on her face. He couldn't tell if he should believe her or not. If what she was telling him was the truth or a lie. She was too good at it, too good at covering up the truth with her tough façade. Jail had ruined any chance he had with her, or so he mused as he watched her now. She was lost to a world of colorful decay.

The guard signaled him and the door at the end of the prisoner's side of the glass opened with a clang. He looked at her eyes one last time, and, failing to find any hint as to her true motives, said, "Stained glass, then?"

"Yeah, stained glass," she said, nodding as she was hauled to her feet.

"Any particular design?"

She stared at him as the female guard cuffed her hands behind her back. The woman pulled her towards the door and Faith had to yell back to him, "A stake with a heart through it."

Faith smiled to herself all the way back to her cell. She smiled to herself as they called lights out. She smiled to herself as the moon rose and began to set. She had fucked with their heads, and it would probably mess them up whenever it came time for them to think about her again.

But then, she had also told the truth, not that anyone would be able to tell. Life really is like stained glass: When it breaks, the colors don't mean anything anymore.