Wesley has a five inch scar on his throat and a sullen disposition, and although there's no way he could be unaware of the first, he generally tries not to think about the second. A sunny Pollyanna attitude is hardly likely to be a benefit to him anymore, if indeed it ever was.

He gets jobs where he can -- at first a slow trickle and then, as word of his competence gets out, a more regular flow. Rather like a paper cut, he reflects as he examines the one he's just given himself on a file folder; the blood seeps into the wound. Hm, not such an accurate analogy then, as the blood never goes further than the edges of the cut.

Wesley is not particularly fond of the sight of his own blood.

He's been working out of his flat for some time, but now that his cash flow has become more consistent he's thinking about renting a small office space. That would give his operation the more professional aura which, he hopes, would bring in some of the higher paying clients.

One has to spend money to make money, after all.

A few hours looking at small offices doesn't do much to impress him, although he thinks one or two of them might do. It's after eight by the time he finishes looking at the ones on the list the realtor gave him, and he's tired and hungry, having continually told himself that he'd stop after seeing 'the next one' for some dinner but never actually managing it.

Wesley walks along the sidewalk, trying to recall exactly where he'd left his car, and stop suddenly as a young woman steps out in front of him.

"Hi," she says, sounding younger than she's obviously trying to appear in her low cut top and heavy black eyeliner. "You want to have some fun?"

"No," Wesley says, a bit curtly, but it's not the first time he's been approached by a prostitute, and he's learned that any other sort of answer is just likely to result in a more avid form of persuasion on the young lady's part.

Then Wesley really gets a good look at her. "Dawn?" he says incredulously.

She looks up at his face for what he has to assume is the first time, and her eyes framed in their dark purple mascara coated lashes widen. "Wesley?"

Dawn takes one startled step backward and Wesley can tell that it's the first of many, that's she's planning to bolt, so he reaches out and grabs onto her wrist to forestall that.

He doesn't particularly feel in the mood to chase her down, and he suspects that's just what he'd do.

"Ow! Let go of me!" Dawn protests loudly, as if she thinks she can bully him into backing down by making a scene.

"Not until I find out what's going on," Wesley says.

She seems to put up only a token struggle as he drags her to his car, opens the passenger side door, and deposits her on the seat. From here she could leave easily enough if she wanted to, but Wesley's not quite prepared to tie her up. He looks the girl over -- she's thin to the point of emaciation, pale, strung out. Roughly Wesley pushes up one sleeve, baring her arm to the elbow.

Dawn squawks. "Hey!"

The skin is unblemished. "Well, you're not shooting up," Wesley says. "At least that's something."

"Fuck you," Dawn says, sounding more like a four year old trying the words on for size than like a tough street kid. "It's none of your business."

"Listen to me," Wesley says. She's right; it's none of his business, and he surely has better things to do with his time than try to rescue a headstrong young girl who's never wanted anything to do with him. "I'm willing to buy you a meal -- no strings attached. By the look of you, you could use it, so why don't we dispense with the hostilities for now?"

For a very long moment Dawn looks back at him, sullen and stubborn as, he supposes, befits a Summers girl. Then she says, "Okay. But only because I'm hungry."

Wesley nods and closes her door, walking around and getting in behind the wheel as if he expects her to stay put.

"I'm not familiar with this area," he says as he starts the car. "Do you have any suggestions?"

"There's a diner around the corner," Dawn says. "But I've only had coffee there."

"Is it good?"

"The coffee? No, it sucks." Dawn looks out the windscreen.

"Then perhaps we should go somewhere else." Wesley thinks about where they might go, and eventually decides on a chain restaurant that he knows is fairly close by.

Dawn doesn't speak again until they pull into the parking lot an Wesley shuts off the engine. "What happened to your throat?" she asks flatly.

"Someone tried to kill me," Wesley says. "Are you really working as a prostitute?"

A pause. "Sometimes," Dawn says.

That seems to set them on some sort of equal footing, and they both get out of the car at the same time.