| |
Things Left Undone
by Minnow
Summary: A series of shorts, twelve perspectives on the aftermath of Not Fade Away.
Rating: PG-13
Author Notes: Many, many thanks to JET, qowf, and oyceter.
Part 1: Building Maintenance
When the building housing the Los Angeles branch of Wolfram and Hart started to collapse, fourteen employees were inside, in addition to Eve and the corpse of Marcus Hamilton. Five were members of the nighttime cleaning staff. Three, from the MIS department, were working overtime to eradicate a ghost in the machine. One, a member of the research unit, was in fact an infiltrator from a secretive and exclusive organization dedicated to the cause of righteousness,+ whose duties included tracking Wesley Wyndham-Pryce's forays into research.
The remaining five employees worked in the legal department; four were lawyers and one a paralegal. Two of the lawyers, with the assistance of the paralegal, were working extra hours in the hopes that Charles Gunn would notice and promote them. The other two lawyers were cooperating reluctantly in a project intended to earn advance in a more cutthroat, if traditionally sanctioned, manner.
When the building started to collapse, the three members of the cleaning crew who had the advantage of vampiric speed made it out before the building went into automatic shutdown mode and activated its usual defense system in response to full-scale attack. None of the remaining employees had enough seniority to know of the escape hatches found on the third floor and the lobby.
The two more ambitious lawyers, prone to both tunnel vision and egoism, assumed that the building's instability was in response to their own conspiracy, and furthermore that the other had betrayed their plans. They began to argue. When Marcus Hamilton's reanimated corpse reached their floor, they had already died at each other's hands.++
When a standard cleanup crew was flown in from the New York branch two days later, they reported that they had found and dispatched eleven zombies, including both the former and most recent Los Angeles liaisons to the Senior Partners. They had disposed of two other decapitated corpses as well.
The cleanup crew then tracked down the three vampires who had escaped the premises. For their disloyalty, they were fired.+++
The cleanup crew was pleased to report that while the building had suffered severe structural damage, which would require a moderate magical expenditure to repair, the White Room remained untouched and intact.
Notes:
+The sect had split off from the Watchers Council in 1228 when it was determined that the methods of the parent organization were not sufficiently rigorous. In recent years, the sect, traditionally invested in magical and occult weapons, had developed more modern interests in biological warfare and cyborgs.
++ Or, more precisely, at each other's PDAs.
+++In the traditionally sanctioned manner.
Part 2: Wake
The cave stands empty, dust sifting down while tree roots grow slowly downward.
Left unguarded, the Old Ones move to wakefulness, but it is slow, slow. They do not yet stir, but without Drogan's presence to dampen their latent power, they dream.
Their dreams are fragmentary, vivid. A cairn of pale blue bones sunk into the desert sand. A corded limb, blazing with power, outlined against an orange sky. The crack of ivory and metal under the pressure of a foot. The smell of blood mingled with salt in a red ocean. The taste of a tree's roots, plucked from the ground.
In five years, they will begin to appear as shadows in Willow's most restless dreams. In ten years, the Slayers will start to wake screaming. In twelve years, Buffy Summers and her allies will gather near a cave and a tree with weapons in their hands.
For now, the Old Ones sleep. They turn with the restless earth and dream of battle, glory, and the endless night sky.
Part 3: Job Hunt
William Renley, lawyer, left his office late. He was always leaving late since his administrative assistant had run off without giving notice three weeks ago. When he heard the quick tap of heels behind him, he turned around.
"Sir? Mr. Renley?"
She was young and pretty, and so Renley sighed. The pretty ones were always trouble, and there was no good reason for this blonde ray of sunshine and smiles to be visiting the dingy offices of a balding, stoop-shouldered, mediocre lawyer after business hours. "Yes?"
"I called earlier today," she said. "About the resume and cover letter I sent..."
Renley sighed again, placing her voice though he couldn't remember her name. Something silly and trendy, Halcyon or Hailey. "Listen, Miss, as I told you on the phone--"
"But I can do the job!" she exclaimed, holding out a sheaf of papers in her hand. On top, he spotted the cover letter that she'd mailed him earlier this week. (Two misspellings, one malapropism, and one unclear antecedent: Renley was a mediocre lawyer but a careful prose stylist, and the hour he conscientiously set aside each day for sifting through cover letters had ground down his soul.) "And my personality brightens up any office, which you need since you don't even have any windows. Not that you need windows! But you don't want your clients to get depressed, do you?"
"Miss, when my clients see me, they're already depressed," Renley said bluntly. "Now if you'll excuse me..."
"Did you even read my reference letter?" she wailed. "Isn't it a good letter?"
"It was very good," Renley soothed, though he thought he'd spotted a certain long-suffering tone on the writer's part. But there was no need to be nasty to this young girl. "It's just that I need someone with at least five years of experience. I'm sure you'll suit another office quite well."
She smiled in a way that almost made him regret his refusal. "Do you really think that? That I'll fit into another office?"
"I'm sure you will," Renley said. He moved towards his car.
"That's sweet of you," she said. "Now, last chance, you won't reconsider?"
"I'm sure." He smiled to soften the refusal. "Now I'm late for dinner, so--"
"You know what? So am I!" she exclaimed, placing her sheaf of papers on the hood of a nearby car carefully. "I was so nervous about talking to you that I didn't eat all day. Well, no reason not to eat now."
She was moving towards him, and Renley had a moment of confusion. Had she thought he was inviting her out to dinner with him? Well, she was very pretty, and he could afford an extra dinner. Her hands were on his shoulders and she was leaning close and...
"Uh?" Renley said inelegantly, and died.
Part 4: Objects in Motion
Transcript of report from a local radio station during the morning news, October 14, 2008
Prison authorities are investigating the murder last night of Michael Conley. Conley, a former war hero and politician, was serving a 30-year sentence on charges of child molestation and statutory rape. In 2004, Conley, then at the height of his political career, was making a bid for a California Senate seat. He dropped out of the race and made a public confession when the allegations against him surfaced. Though he later retracted the confession, he was arrested and convicted on all charges. Conley's reputation was further tarnished by his association with the 2004 slaying of incumbent Senator Helen Brucker, Conley's opponent in the race. Police considered him the prime suspect in arranging the brutal murder, but charges were never filed, and the murder remains officially unsolved.
Part 5: Life's a Bitch
On an evening in late May, Nina sits on a beach with her sister and her niece, dragging her fingers idly through the wet sand. It's been a lazy day, and she's managed to check her cell phone for possible messages only twice. She and her sister have been tetchy with each other, but for once her sister isn't lecturing about emotionally unavailable men, and how that man is plainly mixed up in something bad and you don't want to be involved, and Nina, honey, you deserve better. Tonight, Nina isn't irritable with herself, with her niggling concern for Angel and his obscure warnings, with her dithering over whether to call him or wait to be called. In a moment, she will get up to help her niece with a sand castle, while her sister watches and they talk about sculpture and artistic talent running in families.
On June 1st, Nina returns from vacation, and she does call Angel then, to the accompaniment of wry internal comments about "Women Who Love Mysterious Vampires Too Much and Don't Know When They've Been Dumped." She leaves a message on his personal voice mail. When she calls him at work on June 2nd, she gets one of the administrative assistants she's met before. She's told that Angel's fine but out of town.
Full moon is June 3rd, and Nina makes her usual excuses to her sister, who rolls her eyes and sends her off with a hug and muttered comments about ridiculous New Age pagan crap, running around naked in the woods. Nina enters Wolfram and Hart.
Harmony isn't at the front desk, but Rhonda from the secretarial pool is. Nina's chatted with Rhonda and Harmony and Fred before, the humans eating muffins while Harmony drinks blood. It eases the awkwardness she feels, the furious shame over her dependence on Angel each month.
"Is he all right?" Nina asks. She laughs with self-deprecation. "I don't want to be clingy, but I haven't heard from him, and..."
"He took an unexpected business trip," Rhonda explains. "But everything's working out just fine, and we'll take care of you. We've got everything set in place--just follow the usual routine."
So it's Rhonda who accompanies her down to the holding cage. It's usually Angel, but sometimes he's been busy, so Nina's accustomed to Harmony or Wes or Fred coming down with her and locking her in. From then on, the routine does proceed normally. Things start to blur, and then there's pain, and then nothing, and when things come back into focus, it's morning. She sighs with relief, reaches for her robe, and settles in to wait for them to let her out.
Eventually, she starts to shout.
Part 6: Personal Effects
When the police found Charles Gunn's broken and mauled body in an abandoned alley in May, they invoked the legal machinery that led to an unsolved murder investigation, an autopsy, a cremation in accordance to the wishes of the deceased, and the disposal of the deceased's possessions among the living.
Wolfram and Hart had recommended that all human employees (and those demonic employees who belonged to a society with a tradition of legalized, non-violent dispersal of a deceased entity's possessions) write up a will, and Charles Gunn had done so when he accepted employment with the Los Angeles branch of Wolfram and Hart.
Charles Gunn had turned to an old acquaintance, David Nabbit, for advice when he drew up his Last Will and Testament. Nabbit referred him to the law firm of Smith and Warders, a less venerable firm than Wolfram and Hart--and furthermore considered provincial because they only catered to human clients--but reputable nonetheless.
Nabbit also agreed to act as executor.
Gunn had made more money in the final year of his life than he had made in any preceding year. He had also spent a large amount of money in acquiring a wardrobe, vehicle, apartment, and furnishings suitable for a man in his position. However, his salary at Wolfram and Hart had been more than generous, and he had not, unlike many of his colleagues, had loans from law school to repay. Furthermore, Nabbit had referred him to some very good investment counselors. He left behind a tidy sum.
The probate process took some time. Sixteen months after Gunn's body had become ash and bone, five members of Gunn's old gang received unexpected legacies, each numbering in the thousands. These legacies were put into bank accounts administered through David Nabbit, since not all of these recipients had official identification to claim their inheritances. The eventual use of the money depended on each recipient. One recipient refused to claim his for several years, saying only that Gunn had sold out and left them, and they didn't need his fucking blood money. He eventually did claim the money when his much younger brother joined him on the streets. Another recipient was carrying a large sum left from his portion of the Gunn inheritance when he was killed by vampires, who robbed him as well. A third was at one point mugged and lost $500 of his inheritance to human assailants. The bulk of the money went towards the following: permanent shelter, weapons against vampires and other demons, drugs, medicine, alcohol, transportation, blankets, clothing, food.
Several charities also received sizable donations, and so Gunn's money helped fund two local soup kitchens and an organization for children orphaned by vampires. One soup kitchen used a portion of the money to buy a new oversized freezer; a small plaque was placed near the freezer that read in etched calligraphic text, "Charles Gunn Memorial Freezer, with thanks. Luke 6:38."* The volunteers at the soup kitchen who were earnest tended to say prayers for his soul when they thought of it; other volunteers who were slightly less earnest joked about what legacies they would like to leave behind: memorial cabinets, serving forks, and kool-aid pitchers.
Anne's shelter was another recipient. Anne applied the money to much-needed repairs to the building.
In addition to the short-term benefits, the donation had a further effect: David Nabbit became acquainted with Anne over the course of directing the Gunn inheritance to her shelter. He matched Gunn's donation from his own funds and continued to make sizable donations for the rest of his life. He also funded several educational scholarships for those teenagers at the shelter who chose to return to school. Aside from a brief and awkward period in 2005 when Nabbit became infatuated with Anne, they got along well and remained good friends for the duration of their lives. (Nabbit later met Virginia Bryce at a benefit; they married after a tentative and lengthy courtship and lived relatively happily together.)
Anne herself never married, although she had several happy long-term relationships. At the age of 51, with crow's feet in the corners of her eyes and a scar from a bullet wound on her abdomen, Anne carried herself with serenity and confidence. She had not thought of Charles Gunn in years; neither had anyone who had once considered him a friend, although Wolfram and Hart did occasionally use him as an object example. However, in the days after Anne was diagnosed with the pancreatic cancer that would kill her after a short, painful, and futile battle, she did reflect on those she had lost over the years. In her litany of regrets and losses and loves, she remembered Charles Gunn one afternoon and smiled.
*Luke 6:38: "Give and gifts will be given to you; a good measure, packed together, shaken down, and overflowing, will be poured into your lap. For the measure with which you measure will in return be measured out to you."
Part 7: Memorials
I.
When Doyle died, Cordelia tracked down Harry to inform her. Although there was no body left to bury, Harry decided she wanted to hold a ceremony, where they would plant a tree in remembrance of Doyle and place a memorial stone at its foot. Harry, Angel, and Cordelia picked out the stone and ordered its inscription together.
They were in agreement on the epitaph they wanted engraved, and they stuck to it even though the employee who handled their request looked at them with questions in her eyes: Alan Francis Doyle, True Hero, True Friend. Harry cried when she saw it set in stone and hugged both Angel and Cordelia.
Harry hosted the simple ceremony, which Angel did not attend because it was a sunny day. Cordelia nodded and smiled at the strangers Harry had invited, old friends from the days of their marriage and some of Harry's relatives, who seemed to mourn Doyle genuinely if superficially. They murmured to each other about a Doyle that Cordelia had not known: "Oh, Francis had such a beautiful smile." "Such a gentle man, great with those kids." That night, Cordelia returned with Angel. They stood silently and said little, and then Angel made sure Cordelia got back to her apartment safely before he returned alone to his office.
Cordelia visited the memorial every so often, meeting Harry there once. Angel returned more often than Cordelia knew, and once when he was there he saw three Brachen demons standing nearby. They carried red flowers in tribute: red like fire, red like blood. Angel returned home knowing why the memorial always had flowers that neither he nor Cordelia had placed there. He returned home knowing that it always would.
II.
Fred thought it would be nice to put something about the visions on Cordelia's gravestone, something about how she'd been a Seer and bravely carried--
Wes and Angel broke in at the same time, with an unequivocal refusal.
Fred looked startled at their curtness, and Spike explained, "Pretty idea, pet, but it's just asking for trouble. Seer's eyes would fetch a fortune on the market, and you don't want anyone messing with your girl. Best to keep quiet."
"Between that and any of Jasmine's old acolytes who might be hanging around," Gunn mused, "we might want to think about cremation..."
"It might be safer," Wesley began to say.
"No," Angel broke in. "She deserves better than scattered ash."
There was a moment of silence, wherein some of them drew breath, and a potential discussion about the eventual fate of all bodies and cremation as a viable and respectful alternative to burial hung in the air. Then Angel glared at them implacably and they let it go. "There are certain traditional spells to protect the bodies of those with supernatural gifts," Wesley offered. "The cemeteries that Watchers use to bury their own are ringed with such spells, to prevent any interference after death."
"Then you handle that," Angel directed. "Do it without relying on any Wolfram and Hart employees."
Wes nodded and headed back to his office to do research, and Gunn wandered along with him. "So this thing Angel has against cremation..."
"In the time and faith he came from, it would have been viewed as a desecration," Wes said.
"All right, but when I go, I want to be damn sure I don't rise again, so it's cremation for me. You make sure Angel doesn't decide different."
"Of course."
"Cool. Thanks."
They buried Cordelia at dusk in a quiet corner of a small, obscure cemetery forty miles out of the city. Fred had informed Cordelia's parents. Cordelia's father was still serving his term for tax fraud, but Cordelia's mother attended, holding herself straight as she accepted the condolences of the officiant from the funeral home. She wore dark sunglasses that glanced past Lorne as if she noticed nothing odd about him. She inquired politely after Harmony's parents, said little to the rest of them, and brought a restrained and tasteful floral arrangement. Angel had called Giles and asked him to pass along the news, and so Angel carried an arrangement sent jointly from Giles, Buffy, Willow, Xander, and Dawn. He didn't know which one of them had chosen the flowers, but he thought they fit Cordelia: colorful, splashy, vibrant.
After Mrs. Chase left and Angel sent Harmony home, the rest of them adjourned to a restaurant where they told stories of Cordelia, her courage, her stubbornness, her love for fashion, her bluntness, her princess days in Pylea. Near midnight, they returned to her grave. Lorne sang slow, sad songs a capella while Wesley set the protective spells, spilling salt and blood.
When the marker was ready a month later, Angel and Wesley returned to the cemetery to see it placed. Angel was edgy. Wesley glanced sideways at him and assured him, "She will be at peace here."
"As if she wanted peace," Angel said.
"It's what we can give her, now," Wesley said quietly. "I suppose that's often how it is: we give what we're capable of, even if it's not what's truly wanted."
"Gifts. When she last spoke to me, Cordelia..." Angel began, and trailed off.
"Angel?"
"I'll tell you later."
Wes nodded. "All right."
They watched in silence, eyes forward, as the marker was placed: Cordelia Chase, 1981-2004, Beloved Friend.
III.
Roger Wyndham-Pryce heard rumors first, that that there had been another magical commotion in Los Angeles. Certain members of his private club were always eager to inform him of such doings, with sly sideways glances and comments made just within earshot about how at least now his son's incompetence was a liability to the other side. He warned his wife that she might hear another round of gossip and instructed her to steer clear.
Two days later an American woman, a representative of Wolfram and Hart, came to their door to inform him that their son was dead. Roger despised her, from the lazy glimmer of amusement in her eyes to her casual saunter to the boldly patterned scarf wrapped around her neck.
Roger had been informed, of course, when the vampire succumbed to Wolfram and Hart's blandishments. From what this woman recounted, it seemed that he had come to regret the affiliation. Doubtless he could bear no master but himself. The boy, with his usual misplaced loyalties, had stood at the vampire's side during a futile overthrow attempt that had left casualties on both sides.
"Wolfram and Hart would like to express our deepest sorrow for your unfortunate loss," the woman finished brazenly.
"We do not want your company's condolences," Roger said. "If you're capable of sorrow, save it for your own clients."
"Former clients, now." The woman smirked. "Wolfram and Hart does extend services beyond death for some demons, but not the ones in question."
"You even smile about it," Roger's wife said, tight-lipped and brittle. "Smile without shame."
"Oh, why disappoint your expectations of the terrible, evil, awful Wolfram and Hart employee by showing shame?" the woman asked with a dismissive hand gesture. "And I think we all can agree that our clients weren't much of a loss." She flashed a bright smile. "Common ground?"
When they stared at her stonily, she shrugged. "Well, I wouldn't want to overstay my welcome. You can call this number to make arrangements for the body." When Roger did not reach out to accept the business card she presented, she shrugged again and placed it on a small end table. "Normally the company's not this helpful when an employee dies working against it, but they didn't see a point in holding a grudge in this case, so you'll get our full cooperation when you call."
She turned to leave. At the doorway, she turned back. For a moment, her eyes were serious. "If it helps," she said, "he wasn't alone when he died. One of his colleagues was with him."
"Given the nature of his chosen associates, that's not a comfort," Roger snapped, but the woman was looking past him at Roger's wife.
The woman nodded once before her eyes shifted back to Roger. Laughter gleamed in them again. "You have a nice line in insults," she said. "Like son, like father? Though frankly, his were better."
After the woman had left, his wife picked up the business card. When Roger raised his eyebrows at her and started to say something about how the boy had chosen his own path, she said, "Whatever path he chose, he still bears the family name. It would be inappropriate for him to be buried elsewhere."
They made arrangements to ship the body from the States and bury him in the family plot. The mortician confirmed that magical traces had been left on the body, but they had been done before death and would not cause problems with the internment. The service was small, attended by old family friends and fellow retired Watchers, some of whom stayed to renew the spells that protected the cemetery from tampering. Roger's wife sent polite responses to the condolence notes that they received over the next few weeks.
Roger noted sourly that Rupert Giles had taken a moment from his attempts at organizing his haphazard collection of upstart Slayers to send a short sympathy note. As if they wanted insincere sympathy from such a man.
When the will was read, Roger was displeased to find that his son had left his library to Rupert Giles, but then he supposed the boy couldn't have amassed a decent collection in a place like Los Angeles anyway. His weaponry collection had been marked for a colleague, Charles Gunn. However, as this Charles Gunn was deceased, the collection reverted with the rest of his possessions to his parents.
Once the clothing had been donated to charity and the bulk of the weapons sold to a reputable dealer--though Roger did keep the few good pieces, including a rather remarkable sixteenth-century dagger from the Murshan dynasty, for his own collection--Roger found it oddly easy to forget that his son was dead. No one snickered behind his back to remind him of the boy's blunders anymore, and it was easy to think that they were simply in the lull between infrequent telephone calls. Roger did not think of his son often, except when duty demanded that he and his wife visit the cemetery to confirm that the family lot was being tended properly. Then they stood together in bitter silence, thinking of wasted effort and missed chances as they observed the weathering gravestone: Wesley Wyndham-Pryce, 1966-2004, Beloved Son.
Part 8: Legends
May 2004, a demon bar in LA
Yeah, give me the usual, the otter. No, wait. Make it a human, fresh as can be.
Yeah, I know I've been off the human. But that's just because of work. Because of the stupid blood testing. But guess what? They didn't do the blood testing today. Nuh uh.
Word is, Angel's gone.
Yeah, it was weird. They wouldn't let us in the building for two days and then suddenly today everything's back to normal but Himself isn't sitting pretty in his grand office and that little fucker Spike isn't prancing down the halls.
Nah, they don't tell us anything, but I've got a friend in accounting and everything passes by there. Word is, they got pushed out and ain't coming back--ever. Word is they tried a hostile takeover and it didn't take.
I mean, you don't think they're coming back, do you? Angelus always was too nasty to kill. Hmm. Okay, make it an otter just in case. One more day to play it safe. But keep some good human in reserve for me.
late May, 2004, a demon bar in LA
You're sure you want to take the job there, though? They got good benefits, sure, but if you ever cross them...
No, okay, here's an example. You hear what happened a month ago to Angelus?
He worked for them and then tried to set them up for a double-cross.
It didn't work. They sent a bunch of monsters after him and here's the thing--they didn't just dust him. Oh, no, that would have been too easy. They dusted his sidekick in front of him--Spoke, Bike, whatever his name was. Spike. But they took Angelus alive.
You know what I mean. Undead. Whatever. They captured him, is the point. And they locked him up in a little cell somewhere deep in Wolfram and Hart, and he's stuck there forever. Can't move, can't speak, can't drink, can't fight. So just be careful, is what I'm saying.
early June, 2004, a demon bar in LA
Hey, Leonard, you knew that guy who works for Wolfram and Hart, right? Yeah, see that little twerp over there?--yeah, the human.
I don't know, he's some kind of magician, too, so maybe not as weak as he looks. Don't know what's with the Gryffindor robe and tie. What a dork. But the story is he flew over from Italy, and he's paying good money to find out what happened with the whole shakedown last month.
I don't know--keeps talking about the gem of Amarra, and did Spike dig it up, and was there maybe a matching amulet? I don't know what he's on. But hey, go over there and tell him what your guy told you, that the rumor floating around is they got cosmically smacked down and they're little particles of dust, and you could get a free drink out of it.
August, 2004, a demon bar in LA
Nah, you want to avoid that area. Apparently there's a Mohra demon wandering around.
No, seriously! They had to re-vamp Rocco.
I don't know what a Mohra demon's doing here. It's been wandering around for a couple of months.
Don't know. Maybe it got pulled through in that big dimensional brouhaha a few months ago. Or they're mercenaries--maybe it's on a quest to find someone and it's sticking around until it can. Just steer clear of the area if you're smart.
November, 2004, a demon bar in New York
The salary's good, but you know they treat their employees like shit. Seriously, you step a foot wrong...
Okay, so there were these two guys running the LA branch. Head honchos out there. Vampires. They try to change some things about the way things are done and they piss off the big bosses.
But here's the thing, the higher ups have so much contempt for them, they don't even bother to lay a hand on them. Instead, one night, they send all these monsters after them instead, but the monsters aren't the point. The point is, these guys fight and fight and they think they're making a dent. But all night long the monsters are just making sure to maneuver them in a nice open area without any shade. So sunlight comes, the monsters vanish back through whatever dimensional portal they popped in through, and these two vampires have about a second to realize that they've been suckered before they burst into flame.
There's got to be better ways to earn a salary.
February, 2005, a demon bar in Sacramento
Aw, man, that's such a bummer. Decapitated. Huh.
They ended up traitors, but they were legends in their time, before they got soft or cursed or crazy or whatever it was happened to them. Got fucked by destiny, they did, but they were truly the great ones, once upon a time.
He took down Slayers, you know. Spike, that is. He showed me the coat once. Felt real soft and smooth, like skin. Like her skin.
C'mon, a toast. The Scourge of Europe!
Tonight, we go out and raise some hell in their names.
October, 2005, a demon bar in LA
Drink. Make it human with a twist of otter. And keep them coming, it's been a bitch of a day.
I look a bit singed? Yeah. That's one way to put it.
Okay, so you know how Angel used to have that base of operations, that hotel?
So late last year, we get to thinking, Angel's gone.
What? Oh, the way I heard it, Wolfram and Hart fucked around with the weather. Localized holy water storm. Whatever the case, he isn't around to boast about how this is his city and his territory and his hotel. And it's a real convenient place, good sewer access to lots of good places. So we moved in.
Yeah, it was a great place. Hell, sometimes we didn't even have to hunt for dinner. It'd come to our door, waving these old business cards and asking for Angel's help. Easy pickings. `Cept that one girl, but that's not part of the...
...I don't know, some Slayer wannabe. Came in with a tranq gun. Said she had unfinished business with Angel and one of his little pet humans. Something about a bucket. Whatever. We hurt her good, but she got away. Told you, not part of the story. Anyway, we're rolling along until one day Timmy gets this bright idea.
I know, I know, he always was a stupid fucker.
Yeah, was. He's dust. That comes later in the story.
So we're stupid too; we listen to him. He's going on about how if Spike could take on a Slayer, and Spike was like, 5'5" and skinny as a toothpick, then we should go after one. Prove who's boss. Whose city this is. So we get ready, all of us in our nest, and we track down a Slayer and bag her. Fought hard, but...fifteen, sixteen of us. One of her. Plus which, it's not like she's the Slayer, right? She's, like, the knock-off brand.
Hey, thanks. Designer or off-brand, still feels good to have a Slayer under my belt.
So we take her home with us, have a lot of fun with her. Then one day we're resting when all of a sudden, boom! Doors fly in, and there are lots of them standing there.
Slayers, what else? Little girls with crossbows, standing in our doorway. Saw them take out Timmy straight off.
No, they didn't have flamethrowers. The burns come later in the story.
So a couple of us don't even try to fight, we're smart, we just run for the sewers. We get out while they're busy with the others. We go back later and there's just little heaps of dust everywhere.
Then today, I go out during the day, okay? Pick up some cigarettes. Man, that place had great sewer access.
Had. Yeah. I'm getting to that part.
And I'm almost back but I hear something. It's those kids, that street gang. Don't know where they've gotten all the weapons they have, but they've been walking around like an army lately. Looks like they got the rest of my buddies. They're talking about reclaiming the city, and they talk about how they want to move in. But one of them says maybe it's a bad idea with that pentagram on the floor--
I don't know. Was there when we got there. So he's worried about the vibes of the place, but they don't want to leave it for us to move back in. Then one of them spots me, and man, that arrow almost got me. Hey, done with this one, get me another.
Thanks.
Nah, that's the worst part. I come back later, after dark, and I'm on the street walking towards the hotel, and all of a sudden there's a great big kaboom and fire everywhere. They blew it up to keep us from moving back in. Fire raining down, that's what caused this. Stray sparks. Those fuckers.
Might try another city for awhile.
February, 2006, a demon bar in Chicago
So, here's what I've never understood. I think I heard the story wrong or something. So Angelus was the big, big, he-man vampire, and he faced the Slayer and then he fell in love with her and went off to do good deeds until he tangled with Wolfram and Hart and they conjured up a bunch of demons, including a four-story high Rannam who stepped on him, and he ended up squished flatter than a vampire pancake, yadda, yadda. But the guy who told me the story was drunk, so maybe he got this one part wrong. The part of the story where Angelus is taunting the Slayer--my guy said something about his killing her fish?
Huh. Okay, but that makes no sense.
But, like, her fish? That's really kind of lame.
All right, all right, Scourge of Europe, but he was obviously coasting on his reputation. It's not surprising he ran off to save puppies if the worst evil he could do was kill the Slayer's fish.
It wasn't even her fish?
That's just pathetic. Heh. Speaking of vampire pancakes, you want to go get breakfast at that place around the corner?
I know you don't like human food that much, but this is human/demon fusion. You've gotta try their pancakes. Crushed bone in the batter and blood poured on top along with the syrup. It's really tasty. Come on.
May, 2007, a demon bar in Las Vegas
Another drink, my man! Life is so good. This time two years ago, I was on the run from Jasmine and now I'm here.
Bitch. Babbling on and on about love, love, love, blah-di-blah. She didn't love us, that's for sure.
Eh, I don't know, I mean, she disappeared, but you know people like that don't disappear for good.
I heard this thing--don't know if it's true or not, but I heard it from a guy who says he knew the woman who saw it. Still, it's probably just a story.
Okay, so you know how Jasmine's chief worshipper was a vampire. Angel. Traitorous bastard. Anyway, when Jasmine disappeared, Angel kept the faith alive. Did good deeds in her name and stuff. Then he got in this big fight, and just as he's about to be dusted, a shining light opened in the sky. Turns out Jasmine'd sent her own mother to intervene, and she scooped up Angel and crushed the demons under her heel and said he'd been Jasmine's faithful servant and now he'd be eternally rewarded in the light of her presence and he'd be on her right hand when she's restored to power.
Not saying it's likely. Just telling you how I heard it.
November 2008, a demon bar in Mexico City
Yeah, she's crazier than one of Drusilla's dolls. Hey, speaking of Drusilla, you heard the latest about her?
No, no, not Drusilla vs. the Dollmaker. That's old hat. This happened about a month ago in Rio de Janeiro.
We'd heard rumors, all the way up here, that Angelus and Spike were back.
No, I know about the rumors that came out of LA. That they'd been fighting a dragon and gotten caught in some interdimensional rift with it. But these two guys showed up in Rio claiming to be Angelus and Spike, saying that Wolfram and Hart captured them and did a soul removal and they were back to normal. It sounded plausible, so people gathered around and they started signing up minions.
The Slayer heard about it--whaddya mean, which Slayer? The Slayer, the original one, accept no substitutes. She sent the Slayer from around here to check it out, and that Slayer's witchy girlfriend. They sneak in to spy on them. First off, they see that it's not really Angelus or Spike, just one guy with dark hair and one guy with blond. Not even a good bleach job, and wearing pleather instead of leather. Just punks trying to capitalize on a reputation. So the Slayer gets her crossbow ready and moves into position when all of a sudden, who should glide up to her?
Yep. Drusilla. She stares into the Slayer's eyes and warns her not to interfere, and the Slayer crumples to the ground. The witchy girlfriend runs up to check on her and while she does that, Drusilla walks down, ignoring all the minions--or killing them--right up to the imposters.
Then she says, "You're not family." And stakes them both real fast before she walks out all stately, carrying her doll with her all the time.
Where are Angelus and Spike really? Fucked if I know. Sure aren't in Rio de Janeiro, though.
August 2009, a demon bar in Paris
Thank you.
No, I'm not from around here.
No, no stories to tell.
Yes, I've heard that story. I've heard all the stories.
No, I don't...listen, let me sit here, would you? I need...some peace.
Yes. Thank you.
Just another Seabreeze, please.
Part 9: Remains
Everything has a routine, and they slip into this one all too easily.
It starts with an e-mail that doesn't get a response, and then a phone message that isn't returned. They use words as wards against their growing fear: I'm sure she's fine. I'm just being silly and paranoid because of last time. She's an adult; she wouldn't want us fussing like this. She was happy and healthy when we saw her.
Then the first tentative actions, assuring each other that of course they're just checking, just in case, and she'll chide them for it. Calling her place of employment, and hearing she hasn't been around recently. Trying to get in touch with her friends, with no success.
They're frantic now, but still offer bracing words to each other during the drive. She's strong. She's tough. She's got good, tough, strong friends. They're probably off doing something big and dramatic, our little girl doing her part to save the whole damned world. She's smarter than anyone, smarter than monsters.
By the time they let themselves into her apartment, knocking first before they use the key, calling "Honey? Honey, are you here?" they already know that she won't be. Last time, the first few days were a whirlwind of blurred and unfamiliar activities, but they're old hands at this now. So things stay clear in their memories: the call to the police to report a missing person; the futile talks with her landlord, who hasn't seen her in several weeks, and with her colleagues, who are bland and unhelpful; the discussion over which photograph to use for the flyers they paste near her apartment, near the Hyperion, near Wolfram and Hart, near the library, near the bus depot where they found her last time; the interviews with the private detective they hire. The visits to the local hospitals.
The trip to the morgue.
They have more options this time: they go to see a shaman, a wizard, and a witch as well. They find this only gives them more ways to fail her.
After the first rush of panicked activity has worn off, they handle the more mundane matters: breaking her lease; placing her things in storage; canceling her credit cards and her cell phone account.
They reassure each other, constructing best-case scenarios. They remind each other that one colleague let slip that Fred looked different the last time he saw her, possessed maybe, or sick. And didn't the shaman and wizard both claim that there was recent interdimensional activity near the Hyperion? So maybe she got sick, magical flu of some sort, and her friends had to take her to another dimension to get better. Not every dimension can be filled with giant bugs and horrible monsters, right? She'll come back healthy and whole, and believe you me, we'll scold her for scaring us like this.
After several weeks in LA, they go home to wait.
The worst part isn't during the first few months, when they jump at every phone call and cry over each fruitless report from the detective, when they punch walls while cursing their daughter and the so-called friends who drew her into this whole business of monsters and magic and have disappeared along with their daughter. The worst part comes later, when the detective refuses to take any more of their money because he has no new leads. It's later, when the phone rings and they only think that that better not be another sales call. It's later, when they answer the doorbell and retrieve items from the mailbox without a hopeful lurch of their hearts. It's later, when they laugh over some television program and it doesn't have an edge of hysteria. It's later, when they see dark-haired women in the streets and are not automatically reminded of their own daughter.
They quarrel viciously with each other to keep from forgetting, from sliding inadvertently into contentment. They sneer at each other's attempts at hope. She probably hasn't spoken to that person in years. You can't believe that that would do any good. That mystical stuff is crap and you know it. If you believe that, there's a bridge in Brooklyn I've got to sell you. Any psychic who says Ouija boards are a useful tool can kiss my fat white fanny, and if you get taken in by it then you can, too. If you can't see that man's a scam artist there's no hope for you.
They each gain thirty to forty pounds within two years. Their blood pressures rise, as do their cholesterol levels. He suffers from sporadic impotence, but since she feels little desire, she finds it a relief.
On a return trip from LA, where they have not identified another corpse (their seventh such trip in five years), they're rear-ended by a pickup truck. It's not a bad accident, but they're both stiff and sore the next day, hobbling around like old people. With no energy for vitriol, they grouse about lousy drivers like distant co-workers or new acquaintances.
After that, they are polite and careful with each other, tentative strangers sharing the same house. We're out of antacid, if you could pick some up at the store. Of course. We need to renew the storage locker. I'll write out the check. Would you like me to call the police and see if they have new direction on the case? I'd appreciate that. Thank you.
After his first heart attack, they find themselves capable of gentleness again. Their hands brush as they walk slowly around the neighborhood, and they do not pull away from each other. He washes the dishes and she dries, and she brushes an errant soap bubble off his sleeve. They dress up to go out for dinner with a cousin of his who's in town, and he fastens her necklace for her.
A year after his second heart attack, they go on vacation, a trip to New Orleans. They sit in the hotel room and talk, deriding the advice of pastors and grief counselors they have known. All these people, telling them their daughter would want them to move on and to be happy, and that's true, but what those well-meaning people don't get is that it's just not relevant. Of course she wouldn't want us to mope about forever. That's not the point. As if I can stop missing her. As if I want to stop missing her. You understand.
After his third heart attack, she returns from the hospital alone. She thinks about what she will tell her daughter if her daughter ever returns. It was quick. He wasn't in pain for long. He loved you. He loved you. He loved you so much.
Her arthritis forces her to move into a condo soon after. She talks to the new buyers and all her old neighbors and makes it clear that they need to save her contact information. Just in case. Just promise not to throw it out.
The first stroke is bad enough to send her straight to a nursing home. The nurses who unpack her personal possessions place a framed picture of her family on her bureau. An orderly talks to her as he helps her eat, telling her that her husband was a handsome man and wasn't she a stunner when she was younger and is that her pretty daughter? What's her name? Maybe she'll be able to come visit?
When she becomes agitated, an administrator with the backstory sends out a memo to the nurses and orderlies on that floor and suggests they be careful about what they say about daughters to the resident in room 208. Most of them avoid talking about family altogether after that, but one of the nurses pats her hand and promises that she'll keep Fern's soul in her prayers.
A year later, the second stroke kills her. Two of the orderlies neatly pack away her possessions to ship to the next of kin, a distant cousin. "It's a mercy, really," one says as she wraps tissue paper around the framed picture.
"And now she'll be with her husband and daughter," says the other, and strips away the sheets.
Part 10, Inheritance
July 2004, New Mexico
Faith fought in bursts with opponents who disappeared and reappeared, swinging an empty hand at them instead of the knife that she'd held just a moment before. She would have cursed Giles, Buffy, herself, and these motherfucking demons if she'd had breath, but being thrown into a wall took it of you.
She didn't fight it, sliding to the ground and lying limp on her back. Moaned theatrically. Hoped they'd move in close enough. One did, and she acted quickly, springing up strong and clean and...
...she felt their magic like a ripple on her skin, and then she was watching a fist slam towards her face, too late to duck...
Motherfucking time-twisting demons. That had hurt enough the first time.
She should have waited, should have done what Giles told her and just kept an eye on them until magical backup arrived, but they'd been about to kill--ouch, dammit, faceplants on pavement fucking hurt--and she couldn't just stand by, right?
Magic crawled through the air and down her spine, and the knife fell out of her hand and clattered on the ground.
Then she was flying through the air again, headfirst into the alley wall, and this time the moan wasn't fake. Pain spread through her ribcage when one of the demons kicked her, and then all five of them were hovering over her. They weren't working their time mojo, but it didn't keep her head from spinning. She was going to die dazed and confused in an alley, and Buffy and Giles were going to shake their heads over her mutilated corpse and call her stupid for refusing to follow orders. She readied herself for one more try--die fighting, at least--when the demons turned away from her to look behind them, and then one was picked up and hurled away. It made a real satisfying thud when it hit the wall.
She half-expected it to be Buffy even though Buffy was on another continent, but her rescuer was taller and not blonde and didn't quip at all while she took on the rest of Faith's attackers all at once. One demon picked itself up from the ground so Faith hauled herself up and grabbed the knife and went after it. That damned magical prickle started to lick down her spine, but her rescuer just cocked her head and said coldly to the demon facing her, "You attempt your petty tricks against me?" Things stalled instead of blurring and shifting, and both Faith and her demon found it surprising when Faith's knife sliced into the demon's neck.
Well, surprising, but in a way that suited Faith just fine.
She and the other girl fought the rest of the demons side by side or back to back, Faith's vision blurring in and out until there was nothing left to fight and she could stop and pant for breath, leaning back against the wall. She could tell she was concussed and that a rib was maybe cracked, and her face and neck were slicked with blood from a cut. Right ankle wrenched a bit. Alive, and she'd lived through worse poundings.
"Hey," Faith said. "Didn't know there was another Slayer around. Thanks." She'd thought she'd shown up on Giles's magical radar thingy as the closest Slayer to Albuquerque, thought that was why Giles had done a spell to figure out her cell phone number and send her here, to keep an eye on these demons until Willow's warlock friend could arrive tomorrow and stop their time mojo.
The girl stepped closer to where Faith stood propped up against the wall, and something in the way she moved made Faith straighten up again real fast.
"I am not a Slayer," she said. Her eyes were an unearthly blue, examining Faith without malice but also without...
"You're not human," Faith said, and it ended up sounding pretty calm. Most demons didn't help out for no reason any more than most humans, but her instincts weren't screaming danger exactly. Just power, and lots of it.
"Nothing so inconsequential," the demon said coolly. She stepped forward, all blue hair and dispassionate eyes. "You are a Slayer. When I saw how you fought, I thought you must be. Not so easily destroyed as other humans," the demon mused, and her hand reached out to touch a cut on Faith's forehead.
"Back off," Faith snapped.
The demon examined the streaks of Faith's blood on her fingers. "But still mortal, with mortal frailty."
"Hey, I'll be fine," Faith said. "You want to tell me why you helped out? These guys enemies of yours?"
"Enemies? They would not have been worthy of that title," the demon said. She looked up from her bloodied fingers. "Nor did I have a compelling reason to help you. You have nothing of worth to offer. But I was told of Slayers by one who valued them."
"Someone who values us, huh? That the same person who taught you the trick you did to stop their time magic?"
It took Faith a moment to recognize fury on those pure features, a moment more to realize that it wasn't directed at Faith. "As if I needed to be taught such a small adjustment. Once I would have frozen them in their machinations, lost them in time. But now I am reduced to..." she cut herself off with an angry gesture. "I will answer no more questions. You leak blood. You require bandages." Then she froze and cocked her head, and the blue eyes clashed with Faith's.
"Faith," the demon said.
"How do you--"
"You are Faith the Vampire Slayer," the demon said, recognition in her tone. "I hold memories of you. You knew him. He chose you as his weapon against the vampire."
Faith reached out, grasping the demon's wrist. "What vampire--Angel? What do you know about Angel? Someone wants to use me as a weapon against him?"
The demon twisted out of Faith's grasp without difficulty, stepping back. "I should obliterate you for daring to place your hands on me," she spat.
Faith reached out again, grabbing hold of her biceps. "I'm gonna lay more than a hand on you if you don't tell me if Angel's in some sort of danger."
The demon shoved her easily back against the wall and smiled, sharp and bitter. "He is in no further danger."
"Listen, if you know something about Angel, start talking. Who are you?"
"I am Illyria." She tilted her head and examined Faith's face, and then sneered. "You do not even possess the knowledge to make my name meaningful to you."
"Are you Angel's friend or enemy?"
"I am not so weak as to need friends," Illyria said. "But the vampire and I were not, at the end, enemies. We stood as allies against the Wolf, the Ram, and the Hart."
"At the end?" Faith asked. Past tense. She straightened her shoulders, bracing herself against the uneasy feeling growing in her.
"If I tell you, you will reek unpleasantly of grief as well as blood and pain."
Faith swallowed. "Tell me anyway," she said.
And Illyria did.
Faith didn't punch a hole in the shower wall this time. She didn't cry either. Mostly, she felt numb as she washed flakes of dried blood, dirt, and demon slime off her skin. She pressed hard on her ribcage as she ran soap over her body; stood heavily on her bad ankle for distraction.
Yeah, all right, Illyria hadn't actually seen Angel or Spike die--they'd all gotten separated in the fight and by the time morning came and the monsters dissipated with the rising sun, Illyria had found herself several streets away, bruised and bleeding and alone. Who knew, maybe Angel was still out there somewhere, but...no. Faith knew him. He wouldn't have fled. So.
Weird to think of Angel as a vampire just like every other, leaving behind scattered dust instead of a body to bury.
She should probably have cared more that there was an ancient demon wearing a dead woman's body waiting out in her motel room, because Illyria had agreed indifferently to stay until Faith passed along the news to Giles so she could clarify any questions. She should care more that Illyria had seen Gunn fall for sure, and that Spike had come back from the Hellmouth for an extra year of undeath. But Faith had only met Fred and Gunn briefly, and sharing a cigarette or two with Spike hadn't made them best buddies. They weren't the ones who'd saved her. They hadn't fought her to a standstill; they hadn't held her in an alley; they hadn't visited her in prison; they hadn't told her in a shared dream to get off her ass and keep fighting. They hadn't been Angel, who had been her friend.
She didn't even know what kind of monster had finally taken him down. He'd been dust for two months now while she traveled the country in a beat-up convertible with a stash of swords and axes in the trunk, thinking every so often that she was getting close to California and she should drop by and see him. She'd had this stupid daydream of surprising him by stopping in for a visit when it wasn't an apocalypse, and they would kick back and drink beer and blood and talk about demons they had known, and then go out with his crew to do a little damage to the local demon population. And maybe--so fucking stupid--he'd say something about being proud of how far she'd come.
And the bastards had gotten Wes, too. Fuck. Wesley.
She'd never daydreamed about Wesley, because it would have been beyond stupid to fantasize about Wesley telling her that he was proud of her. But in those damned daydreams about Angel, Wes had been there in the background, saying things like, "Ah, four tails and three spines, that sounds like a whatever-the-fuck demon to me." Wes had been there, watching her and Angel's backs when they all went fighting together.
She turned off the shower eventually, and left the bloody towels in the tub to soak.
Illyria was watching Trading Spaces with an expression of quizzical disdain when Faith walked out of the bathroom. "All this effort that humans spent on the walls that confine them," she said. "It is ridiculous to expend so much effort in such a pointless pursuit."
"Interests you enough to keep watching," Faith snapped. "I have to make a phone call." Illlyria glanced at her as she dug out her cell phone and then dismissed her, returning her attention to the television.
Faith hadn't thought about the time difference, so she woke Giles up. He sounded mildly exasperated and mildly concerned, fatherly and Watcherly in a way that made her want to spit. "Have you been able to find the demons to monitor them? If not, you need only wait for Fedpar to arrive and he'll do a locating--"
"It's not the demons. The demons are toast. You can tell him he doesn't have to make the trip."
"Faith." Now he sounded exasperated. "Their ability to manipulate time makes them exceedingly dangerous. You shouldn't have taken them on by yourself."
"They were about to kill some people, Giles," Faith said. "Didn't have a choice."
"Are you all right, then?" Giles asking, switching back to concern. "And the intended victims?"
"They ran off--they were fine. I'm fine. Thing is, I had help." Now, stupidly, her throat starts clogging. "Someone who used to be on Angel's crew. She told me--they're dead, Giles. All of them."
She expected a shocked silence, but Giles only sighed. "Oh dear. We had feared that to be true."
"Feared--what--you knew? You fucking knew and didn't tell me?"
"I'm sorry, Faith. It wasn't an intentional omission--you hadn't heard the rumors about extensive magical activity in LA back in May, then?"
There was a pause where Faith fought back her anger. "No," she said. "I hadn't. Mostly I kill demons when I roll into town, not stop and chat with them about the latest gossip."
"We only knew definitively that Wesley was dead," Giles said, still sounding calm, but then the news was two months old to him. "Because he'd left some magical texts to me in his will. Angel was simply unreachable, though we suspected the worst."
"Wes left stuff to you?"
Giles coughed. "I was surprised as well. I shouldn't have been. Watchers often made it a point to turn their personal collection over at death to either their children or the Watchers' Council. I suppose I was all that was left of the Watchers' Council."
"You should have called and told me," Faith said, but the anger had died away, leaving her dull and flat.
"I do apologize, Faith, truly. We weren't in touch with you at the time and when we tracked you down again last week, it wasn't on my mind. I should have made more of an effort to locate you when we heard about Wesley, though. Did you have any questions? Or perhaps you now know more than we do about the circumstances of his death."
"Yeah, just--they found his body, then?"
"Yes, Wolfram and Hart returned his remains to his parents for burial. I am sorry. I know you and he had a difficult relationship, and that you doubtless left some matters unresolved."
"No, it--I know it sounds weird, but we were okay," Faith said. He'd taunted her and told her she was a monster, and she'd never untangled how much of it was a goad and how much he'd really meant. He would have sacrificed her to Angelus. But he would have sacrificed himself as well, and he'd given her authority and weapons to wield and then watched her back in damn near every skanky demon bar in LA. He'd trusted her to save Angel. He'd walked into that prison and expected her to be a Slayer again.
She'd never formally apologized for torturing him and he'd never forgiven her, but Faith figured she'd probably gotten as much closure as you could get with someone you've tied to a chair and carved up with glass.
Giles was talking again, murmuring that he thought it would be best for them to hold a conference call the following day so that she could relate the details of what she knew to all of them at once.
When she hung up the phone after agreeing on a time, Trading Spaces was almost done. "I do not find this aesthetically pleasing," Illlyria said in a detached tone. "Your race is quite blind."
"It's a Hildy room," Faith said. "Most humans think they're weird as fuck, too."
"I see," Illyria said, and then continued in the same detached tone. "When you speak to them tomorrow, you will tell them that Wesley was not afraid when he died. I understand that is your people's custom to say this even when false, although in this case I speak the truth." Her gaze was fastened to a commercial for Home Depot.
Faith wanted to punch her. She didn't. She went to bed instead, falling asleep to the flickering of the television over Illyria's face.
She spent most of the following afternoon on the phone, listening to all of them babble on. Andrew tried to convince them that Spike was alive somewhere--or would be alive again--and Giles clucked with concern over Illyria's reawakening, and Kennedy asked Faith how Wood was and sounded way too sympathetic when Faith explained they'd split on good terms awhile ago, and Buffy stayed grim and almost silent while Willow said consoling things to her, and everyone just barely skirted around saying that people who chose to work for Wolfram and Hart probably set themselves up for endings like this. In the background, Illyria made imperious comments and refused to take the phone to talk to Giles when he had questions about how Wesley had depowered her. They were all still talking when Faith disconnected, ready to smack them. Faith paced the hotel room twice, Illyria's eyes fixed on her, and then it was too much. "I'm going dancing," Faith told Illyria, "stay here tonight if you want." She slammed the door behind her.
She found a bar and danced until she had lost herself in her body's movements, until her skin was soaked with sweat and her muscles were loose. She left much later, buzzed on warmth and contact and adrenaline and alcohol, and headed back to the motel. She turned three vampires to dust on the way back, fought them without thinking much of strategy, fought them with a bass beat still thrumming in her head, fought without caring about the bruises they were inflicting.
She was almost back to the motel when it all hit, and she did start to cry then, bent over outside the door to her room and shaking with sobs. He was dust, the fucking bastard, and she would have gone to LA and fought at his side if he'd called and asked. Even if he'd been in charge of Wolfram and Hart. Because that was what friends did.
And Wesley, her stupid fucking Watcher who never would have been her friend. Wesley who hadn't been afraid when he died, and Faith believed Illyria on that. Because Wesley in Sunnydale had been a coward, scared of pain, death, and humiliation, covering up his weak spots so badly, and Wesley in LA had been shit scared in Cordelia's apartment and even more afraid when he'd regained consciousness tied to a chair, and then she'd hurt him and hurt him and hurt him until at the end he'd been bleeding and bruised and exhausted and angry and vicious and desperate but he hadn't really had much fear left in his eyes at all. Last year she'd watched him walk into crowds of demons without batting an eyelash, watched him go up against Angelus without flinching, and she'd known that that was somehow her legacy: she'd carved most of his fear out of him. If she'd had time for the blowtorch she probably could have burned the rest out there and then.
She was punching the wall when Illyria hauled her into the room and sat her down on the bed. Faith fought her, cursing and flailing. Even sloppy Slayer strength punches would have knocked out a human but Illyria just shook her off and walked away.
When the sobs subsided, Faith heard water running and then Illyria was back again, pressing a cool washcloth to the reopened cut on her forehead. "You are bleeding again," she said. "And you stink of alcohol."
"Oh, fuck you. I don't need your fucking approval."
"Wesley drank as well," Illyria said. "After the shell died. It did not seem to help him. Does it help you?"
"Yes. No. Drinking's just what you do at fucking wakes." Faith reached up to hold the washcloth herself, fingers tangling with Illyria's for a moment. Somehow she'd expected to demon to be warm, contained energy about to spill over, but Illyria's fingers were cool instead. "I'm not drunk."
"I cannot get drunk," Illyria said. "I tried one night. It did not help."
"Not much ever helps," Faith said. She remembered how long it had taken to let go of her first Watcher's death. "Killing the fuckers who did it, maybe."
"I have killed," Illyria said. "The grief lessened, but not enough."
They were silent for awhile. Faith lay back on the bed, closing her eyes.
"Tonight, you went dancing. I accessed Winifred Burkle's memories. She danced with Gunn one time. They circled the hotel room and laughed together and tripped over their own feet. It seemed a pointless activity. Did it rid you of grief?" Illyria asked.
"It helped me forget for awhile," Faith said.
They were silent again. Faith was starting to drift off to sleep.
"Mourning becomes tedious," Illyria said.
It struck a chord with Faith; she remembered the first few weeks in prison she'd been so absorbed with her own misery, and then after awhile she'd been just as miserable but bored with it, too.
"I hate crying. It makes my head hurt and my eyes itch," she said, and started to drape the wet washcloth across her eyes to soothe them.
"That cloth is soaked in your blood," Illyria said, and took it from her. The bed shifted. After a moment, it shifted again, and a clean wet washcloth was laid across her forehead.
"Thanks," Faith said.
"To ease the pain," Illyria said, and her voice was very bitter. After awhile the bed shifted again, and the TV clicked on. Faith fell asleep to its flickering.
"Check out time is noon," Faith said the next morning after she'd showed and dressed and started packing. "So I'm gonna be out of here and on my way. I don't know if you wanted to stay in this area or go to get Giles or Willow to help you or what."
"You are a wanderer," Illyria said. "You do not hide behind walls like many humans." She gestured vaguely towards the silent TV.
"I had enough of walls in prison," Faith said.
"As have I," Illyria said. "I will travel with you, and you will teach me human ways, and I will guard you in turn."
Faith looked up from her packing. "Back up a step. What?"
Illyria paced around the room with long strides. "I have walked alone and killed those my dead would have considered enemies, and it has not been enough to soothe me. I have wakened and cannot return to sleep. What choices do I have? Go back and beg the Wolf, the Ram, and the Hart for scraps of power? Go to this Giles and let him perform experiments on me or kill me for the risk I represent? Find my hidden acolytes to worship me?"
"I don't think there's any of your worshippers around here anyway," Faith said. "But going with me isn't.."
"If one remained, doubtless others exist," Illyria said. "But it is likely that they are either insane or intend this world much harm."
"Okay, fine, so that's a bad idea," Faith said. "So's traveling with me."
"Do you refuse me because I wear Winifred Burkle's face? Because you find my use of the shell abhorrent? Even if I could return to sleep, it would not restore her."
"It's not that," Faith said. It probably should be that, but she'd only met Fred Burkle once. Besides, her best friend had housed a demon who wore the face of the human he'd killed, and Faith was a murderer herself. She was familiar with accepting the aftermath of irrevocable damage. "It's just...I've just recently gotten my own shit together. I can't guide you on the way to be human when I just barely manage it myself. I'm not a teacher or a Watcher or something like that."
Illyria tilted her head and considered Faith. "You are human. It is enough."
"You've got low standards," Faith muttered. She studied Illyria, who looked supremely unconcerned, as if she didn't care much about Faith's decision or greater humanity at all. This was such a dumb idea, even if leaving Illyria alone and unchecked probably wasn't smart either. But maybe it was always a dumb idea; maybe Angel hadn't been ready for it when Cordelia and Wesley showed up on his doorstep, and Buffy hadn't been ready for it when a souled Spike and a whining Andrew and an army of Potentials had ended up at her house, and Giles probably hadn't really wanted all of Buffy's friends congregating in his library way back in Sunnydale. Maybe all responsibilities just got dumped on you unceremoniously like the Slayer powers had been when she was fifteen. "So, okay, if you don't mind that you're going to see more of bars and hotel rooms than operas and art museums, then we can travel together for awhile."
Illyria looked very distantly pleased. "I have no need of museums that showcase your people's pitiable attempts at art."
Faith rolled her eyes. "Lesson number one. You might want to lighten up on the 'your people' crap."
Illyria ignored her. "You are prepared to leave?"
Faith zipped up her pack and grabbed it. "Yeah. Okay. Let's hit the road."
Part 11: Ordinary
2016
Kate walked the perimeter.
It was quiet outside, which made a nice change from indoors. Her clients talked a lot when they were nervous, and their son, the kid she was here to protect, was a spoiled brat. If the demons were alive and succeeded in grabbing him and sacrificing him, Kate figured he wouldn't be much of a loss to the world.
Not that Kate wouldn't do her damndest for them anyway. One of the occupational hazards of being a cop, and later a Private Investigator, was that you learned pretty quickly that victims weren't always good people, weren't always the people you wanted to save. The people whom you wanted to help because they were likable and good were a luxury. Clients like these, who squabbled and bitched and complained about the bill, who'd been dumb enough to enter some sort of Rumpelstiltskin deal out of their own free will, were the more ordinary thing.
Still, she did the best she could for all her clients. Even if people were idiots or jackasses who thought they were entitled to everything they pleased, the law still said they got equal protection, and Kate had spent her life following the law. Then there was the other, hazier reason she didn't think about too often, about how if a different set of laws was bent for you even though you probably didn't deserve it, somehow not condemning others was part of the way you balanced those scales. So every half-hour, she went outside to check the perimeter rigorously, and she kept her eyes searching and her gun ready.
The day had passed without incident though, including the moment at 3:17 PM when the kid had technically turned 13, and the night had been quiet so far. Kate wasn't counting on trouble. Her clients said that all the demons were supposedly dead; if they were alive, they'd have scooped up the kid years earlier. Plus she didn't have that itch at the back of her neck that warned her of impending danger.
When she went back inside, she checked on her clients and the kid, and they were all okay. The kid was mouthing off to his mother again, whining about how this was the worst birthday ever, sitting around a cabin with that PI chick walking around patrolling just because some crazy had made a vague phone threat to his dad. Kate could see his point: this wasn't a fun way to spend a birthday, and the kid had been kept in the dark about the danger being to him, not his father. It wasn't even his fault he was spoiled, really; Kate figured his mom had always given him everything he'd wanted out of guilt for giving him up as a baby, and how else could he have turned out? But he'd lost her sympathy a long time ago, because she'd overheard too much of his whining to his parents. How his mom was a cunt who cried too much. How his dad was a wimp who couldn't even stand up to some threatening phone calls. How his teachers were bitches and if his history teacher couldn't take a joke she shouldn't be teaching, and it wasn't like they'd really been cheating. Kate tuned it out as his mother murmured placating things.
At 11:45 PM, Kate made her last perimeter check fifteen minutes early and then went inside to stay close to her clients. It was superstitious to think that something would happen at the stroke of midnight--when odd things happened, they tended to happen any time they pleased--but it felt better to stand guard inside. She glanced at the kid, who had fallen asleep, mouth slack and drooling, not any less unpleasant asleep than awake. Then she looked away from him and focused her eyes on any threats that might come from outside.
There wasn't a chiming clock, so Kate didn't know when midnight passed, exactly. When the mother started to cry, Kate spun around to make sure they hadn't snuck in mystically and snatched the kid from behind her, but the woman was only staring at the digital clock on the microwave. 12:01 AM, and the boy was thirteen years and one day old.
"Safe, we're safe," she murmured over and over.
"You're probably going to wake him up if you keep crying," Kate told her. "And we'll keep watch through morning anyway, just in case."
She stood guard until morning, but nothing happened and she sent them home to their ordinary lives. They mailed her paycheck a few weeks later, and she set it aside to deposit it later to thoughts of Rumpelstiltskin, and how of course this had followed the pattern and ended with a happily ever after. Then she went back to work on her next case.
Part 12: Building and Maintenance
2003
A boy lies on the table, split open from neck to navel. Lawrence can see the boy's beating heart. A horrifying creature leans over him, whispering to him in a soothing voice.
"You want me to meet that monster?" Lawrence asks, repelled.
"No," says the woman standing beside him. "I want you to meet the boy."
1998
In the fourth month after the diagnosis, Lawrence's old college roommate calls. "I was playing racquetball with the guys and I heard about your daughter." Lawrence expects the usual well-meaning platitudes to follow and braces himself to deliver the usual polite responses, but the conversation takes an unexpected turn. "I work for some people who do experimental medicine. They have a treatment that can help. But I should warn you, old buddy, that it has a high price tag."
His oldest daughter lies in a hospital bed, chalk white with exhaustion and dying by inches. He has sat for hours at a time, telling her stories until his voice grows hoarse, trying to tether her to this world with anecdotes about his work, current world events, past history from her childhood and his own. He has watched his wife Colleen put in eye drops and swallow aspirin for the headache she's gotten from sifting through information on the Internet and poring through medical journals with small print. He has watched his younger daughter's shoulders hunch as she walks into the hospital room, watched her grow thin and pale, a sympathy death.
"Whatever the cost," he says. "I'll find a way to get the money."
He and Colleen meet his former roommate for a tour at the company where he works. His roommate looks like he always did in college--jocular and hearty and a little bit insincere. The guys had always joked that he should have gone into sales, not law.
They have to sign a legally binding non-disclosure agreement even before they go on the tour. By the time they're finished, by the time they're offered the contract, they understand why.
That evening, they stand in the hallway outside their sleeping daughter's hospital room and have a perfunctory discussion about the dangers of accepting the contract. They were not fooled by his old friend's jovial manner, or the charming smiles they were offered by the people they met, or the assurances that the contract was a formality only and might never come to pass. They've had four months to learn to recognize death, and they recognized it in those smiles. They will not be walking into this blindly.
But they will, of course, walk into it. That was settled when they returned to the hospital to hear their daughter's breath rasp in and out of her lungs. So they start to argue the real matter: which of them will sign the contract.
There's something to be said for signing together, for sharing the risk and the sacrifice as they've shared love and loss and anger these twenty years of marriage. But they are sensible and dismiss that idea quickly. Only one of them can sign; if worse comes to worst, there needs to be one of them left to take care of the children. In the end, they agree it will be him. They kiss their sleeping daughter on her forehead and go home to call and make the arrangements. After he hangs up the phone, they stare at each other blankly until he breaks the silence. "I'm sorry," he tells her. "I'm sorry that you have to be the brave one, but I couldn't bear being left behind like that, I'm sorry it has to be you."
"Hush, don't," she says, "Not now, not yet, we still have time." She tugs on his sleeve to lead him into their bedroom, where they toe off their shoes, and she carefully unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt before they reach for one another, wordless and frightened.
In the morning, he wakes to find her looking down at him and crying a little. He reaches up to cradle her face. "It'll be all right," he tells her. "You're strong, we have time, it'll be all right." And because she is strong, she smiles for him through her tears.
Three days later, their daughter's face is already beginning to flush pink with good health. The family rejoices noisily and tearfully, and he quietly increases the amount of his life insurance, makes sure that his debts are paid and his will written.
As years pass without incident, it is easy for them to believe the story they have told their children about miracles, and easy to forget that his name, penned in blood, is on an IOU, and easy to tell themselves that it will never be due.
2003
In the fifth year after his daughter's recovery, Lawrence is summoned to the law offices again. He thinks of taking his family and running, but he can't be sure they wouldn't be caught. And if he breaks the contract, the consequences will fall on his entire family.
So he goes. His old roommate is apparently no longer with the company--there are vague mentions of an upheaval last year--so a stranger, a woman who introduces herself as Lilah Morgan, ushers him in. "We'd like to renegotiate the terms of the contract," she says.
"Renegotiate how?" he asks.
She waves a hand. "Well, the bit about us owning everything up to your immortal soul--so cliche, don't you think? And we have other sources for internal organs if we need them--yours are nothing special. If you agree to our new terms, you'll get a happy ending for yourself and your family, and you won't have to deal with us again."
"What's the catch?" he asks.
"There is no catch," she says, then laughs. "Well, of course there's a catch, but honestly, this deal can benefit you." She leans towards him confidentially. "I shouldn't even tell you this, but you're negotiating from a position of strength."
"I find that hard to believe," he says. Despite himself, he doesn't hate this woman, even though he's aware that her confidential attitude is an attempt to play him, too. "I don't have any special powers. I'm an ordinary guy."
"Exactly. You'd be surprised how few ordinary happy families we come in contact with." She stands. "I'd like you to meet someone."
He remains seated. "I'd like to know the catch first."
"Oh, that. There's a bit in your contract about the consequences not affecting your family--that will need to be revised a bit."
"No," he says, and starts to rise.
"Negatively," she says. "We need to add one word. Consequences will not negatively affect your family. But they will need to be involved."
"If you think I'm telling my daughters that this world even exists..." he begins, but she interrupts him.
"They won't have to know unless you tell them. They won't be harmed. Nor will your wife. Nor will you. Your entire family will be safe from us. We'll put that down in blood."
"What is it you want?" he says.
"I'd like you to meet someone," she repeats. "And explain things to you thoroughly, and then you can decide."
So he goes along with her, taking the elevator down to a medical wing. He notes signs tacked to the walls, "Approach with caution. Construction in progress," though he sees no evidence of a building project. She takes him to what looks like an observation room at a hospital, and together they peer through glass at the operating room below.
A boy lies on the table, split open from neck to navel. Lawrence can see the boy's beating heart. A horrifying creature leans over him, whispering to him in a soothing voice.
"You want me to meet that monster?" Lawrence asks, repelled.
"No," says the woman standing beside him. "I want you to meet the boy."
Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her turn to face him, but his eyes stay fixed on the tableau below. "His name is Connor," she says. "He needs a home."
2004
April is a strange month, learning that monsters exist and that their son has abilities straight out of a comic book. They joke uneasily about Peter Parker and make furtive phone calls to extended family members. "Huh, apparently my dad's great-uncle was a strongman in a circus," Colleen announces one night.
"So that might mean..." his voice trails off. "Genetically, that could mean..." he shrugs. He has no idea what it means.
They watch their son for signs of stress or trauma, but Connor seems happy enough, if disstracted, and when he shakes that off he seems to have been left with a quiet confidence, a new maturity.
And then May comes. Lawrence thinks at first it is an earthquake, as he watches Colleen stagger and staggers himself, but nothing else in the kitchen shakes. (Across the city, Vail disintegrates. The threads of his power are woven through LA, and the spells he has cast tremble just a little.)
And Lawrence stands, overwhelmed, as a tide of memories rushes over him.
He remembers himself and Colleen, standing over a strange boy. "You understand that we have limited time to alter his memories," a creature in red tells them, "and so the magic will have to fill in the gaps. But it will make the magic more binding if we transform events from his life instead of erasing them altogether. More difficult, transformation, but much more lasting and aesthetically pleasing, and your being here will help keep things in character. Just relax, so we can determine how you would react, given certain circumstances. Yes, yes, just like that."
The demon murmurs on and on to the boy while they watch, clutching each other's hands like scared children, like they did when they received the diagnosis of their daughter's illness. "Ah, you are two weeks old, and your father makes a monster's face to amuse you. Let that face become this one instead: you are two weeks old, and your father is making a silly face to amuse you." He turns to them. "A silly face, please, Mr. Reilly? But a non-threatening one." When they just stare at him, he sighs in exasperation. "That's a puzzled face, not a silly one. Come now, it's not that difficult."
Lawrence wiggles his eyebrows and sticks out his tongue. His face feels stiff, but it seems to please the demon. "Yes, yes, like that. All right, then, what's another strong memory? You are three years old and the one you call father is telling you a story. God delivered you from the monsters into his hands, to raise and teach and love in place of his dead children. Let us reshape. What happened was this: you are three years old and your mother is tucking you in and reading your favorite bedtime story aloud. A story about..." he stops and turns. "Perhaps you could supply the title, a family favorite?"
"Where the Wild Things Are," whispers his wife.
The demon nods in approval. "Yes, good. Where the Wild Things Are, and the book is a little grubby and worn already because it's a hand-me-down from your older sister. You snuggle into your mother until it's finished and then she closes the cover and kisses your forehead and tells you to go to sleep now."
They listen as the boy turns five and his guardian leaves him behind to teach him tracking, and that abandonment ends happily in a department store. They listen to a lecture on how vampires are made and how some special women, Slayers, are strong enough to stand against monsters, and then Lawrence delivers a fumbling talk ("keep it short, please, we have limited time and we can fill in the biological details, just give us the flavor") about puberty and how babies are made and how you should always treat women with respect. They listen as a demon's neck snaps between a twelve year old's hands, and a twelve year old punches a bully at school. They listen as a sixteen year old starts to track down the Skul to make them show him how to get away from Quortoth, and tell Connor to be safe while he takes the car on his own for the first time, thrilled to drive away from his house on his own. They say words of comfort when a classmate, a girl named Sunny, is rushed to the hospital because of a drug overdose.
The demon continues to talk during the afternoon, going back and forth to stitch together a history while they listen in numb horror to the account of this boy's life ("this poor boy, he never stood a chance," his wife whispers), until Lilah Morgan comes back in. "We're running short on time," she says. "I'm going to bring in the other members of the team. It's time to finalize this."
"This one last thing," the demon says, and leans close to Connor. "You've screwed up," he tells the boy. "Put yourself and others in danger by running that red light and getting in an accident. But it turns out all right, the only damage is to the car, and your parents tell you that will always love you, even if you're careless, that they'll always love you no matter what." He places his hand over the boy's heart. "You are eighteen years old, and that is not a knife coming down at your heart, but your father's empty hand touching your shoulder in reassurance. You are eighteen years old and you know, through and through, that your parents love you. And the knife never comes down."
(Across the city, Vail disintegrates, and his spells tremble for a brief, brief moment. Then, because he was powerful and made them well, they hold, and the tide of memories recedes.) Lawrence stares at Colleen across the length of their kitchen.
When Connor comes home later, they are sitting at the kitchen table, drinking tea. "Hey," he says, and Lawrence notes how he glances around the room swiftly, as if he's making sure enemies aren't hidden beneath the table. "What's up?" He stops when he takes in Colleen's pale face. "Mom? Are you okay? Are you sick? You look kinda green." For a moment, he sounds very young. Connor has always been nervous when his parents seem sick, even with something as simple as a cold.
"I stood up too quickly a moment ago," Colleen says. "Don't worry, hon. I just got a little dizzy for a moment."
"Are you sure?" He rocks forward on his toes. "No one...nothing happened, did it?"
"She just stood up too fast," Lawrence says. "Really, nothing to worry about. Promise, Connor."
"You're one to talk," Colleen says. "Colleen, sit down, Colleen, drink some tea, Colleen this, Colleen that..." she smiles at Connor. "You obviously inherited your fussbudget tendencies straight from your father."
Connor smiles in return, a bit sharply. "I guess so."
"I never fuss," Lawrence says. "Besides, they call it mother henning, and that means Connor plainly inherited it from you."
Connor relaxes and rolls his eyes. "I guess if you two are doing this again, you're both all right."
"We're all fine," Lawrence replies, and that ends that.
A few days later, Lawrence drops a hand to his son's shoulder to steer him out to the patio. "Come and sit outside with an old man," he says.
"Oh, boy, when you start in on the old man stuff..." Connor says as they settle down on the edge of the patio. Connor picks up a twig from the ground and gestures towards the tree it fell from. "You want me to carve you a cane?"
"I think I can manage to hobble around without one," Lawrence says, and clears his throat. "There is something I wanted to ask you to do, though."
"Oh," Connor says, and fiddles with the twig. "Okay. Is this about the whole, uh, thing? I promise you, I'm not gonna end up a circus strongman like great-uncle-whoever."
"Come to think of it, we'd appreciate if you didn't run off to join the circus, yes. But your mom and I discussed it, and we think it'd be better if--we'd like you to steer clear of Wolfram and Hart."
Connor ducks his head, and his hair falls down to obscure his face. "Why?"
"They're powerful people," Lawrence says carefully. "And I once...knew...a guy who made a deal with them."
Connor stiffens. "I thought the cop we met was the one who told you about them."
"He was. I'd...forgotten about the guy I knew. I just remembered a few days ago."
The twig snaps in Connor's hand.
"He made a bargain with them," Lawrence says cautiously. "For one of his children who was sick. The thing is, it turned out okay for him when they called in the debt. What they wanted in return was--it turned out better than okay for him. But he saw enough to know that was an exception. I don't want you to enter into some deal with them, thinking they're harmless and helpful and you'll get away unscathed. They're looking after their own interests, not yours. They'll hurt you if it's in their best interests to do so."
Connor leans over, chin against his knees, and plucks grass from the ground. "I know. I don't trust them. Except for Angel, but he's kind of the exception. And he wouldn't want me to trust them either. And I, um, I'm not sure he'll be in touch again." Connor's voice is muffled.
"All right," Lawrence says. He places a hand on Connor's back. "Just don't ever sign anything."
"Okay."
"Okay. Because the thing is..." Lawrence pauses to choose his words. "I'm getting to be an old man, remember? And you know they say the memory is the first thing to go. This already slipped my mind once, and I think...I think it will again. The details are fading already. So you're going to have to remember, about the possible danger. About consequences."
"All right." Connor leans into him, shoulder to shoulder. "Dad?"
"Yeah?"
"What if the guy you know, what if Wolfram and Hart decide to come after him?"
"Don't worry about him. Barring any new arrangements, he's safe," Lawrence says. "As it stands now, he and his family are safe from harm." He wraps his arm around his son's shoulders loosely. "His whole family. That's in the contract."
2016
The two women come to the door on Mother's Day, when everyone has gathered at the Reilly household, and ask for Connor. Connor goes out on the porch and talks to them for awhile. When he comes back inside, he's alone. He shrugs off the matter, explaining that the women were in town for the weekend, trying to track down some mutual friends from college. Connor's youngest niece snags his arm to come read her a story then, and Connor lets her drag him off.
At the end of the day, after the rest of the family has waved goodbye, Connor stays. "I've got something to talk to you about," he says, and leads Lawrence and Colleen to the kitchen. "The women who were here today, Dawn and Vi," he begins, "they weren't really here to track down some friends. They came to find me."
"What for?" Colleen says. "And why didn't you...there was no need to lie to the family, Connor."
"It's about my being strong," Connor says. "I know we don't talk about it a lot, and I didn't want to bring it up in front of the kids, but," he shrugs, "it hasn't changed."
It's easy to forget Connor's special abilities; he doesn't use them often, and no vans have come out of nowhere to knock into him in twelve years, no monsters have tried to mug him. Lawrence is pretty sure that his son-in-law, a big, burly guy who used to play football, doesn't even know that Connor could push him over easily.
"They're flying over to England tomorrow," Connor continues. "They want me to go with them. To help them fight some really nasty demons over there."
They stare at him, appalled. "But you're not a fighter!" Colleen exclaims. "You may be strong, but that doesn't mean that you have the skills to fight! It's one thing to move a sofa with one hand, Connor, but it's another to block a sword or an axe or dodge a bullet!"
"I can fight," Connor says quietly.
"You haven't been getting in brawls with monsters, have you?" Lawrence snaps out, fear settling into his stomach. "Trying to be some sort of hero--"
Connor looks slightly impatient. "Of course not, Dad. I don't go looking for trouble. But I live in the city, and sometimes I'll see someone in trouble, or someone or something will come after me thinking that I'm not a big guy and so I must be an easy mark, and I know how to fight."
"How did these people even know about you? Are they from that law firm? If they're asking for you now, I don't think you should jump to help them." Lawrence says. It's been a long time since they went there, and Lawrence doesn't quite remember why the memory of Wolfram and Hart has a taint of distaste. To justify his unease, he adds, "They just told you that you were special and then ignored you."
"Better than the alternative," Connor says. His eyes seem to search his father's face, and Lawrence wonders what he's looking for. "I didn't want their help," Connor says finally. "Dawn and Vi aren't from there anyway. But they knew someone, Angel, who knew about my abilities."
"And so you're just hopping on a plane to England to fight demons on their say-so?" Colleen exclaims. "You could be killed!"
Connor tilts his head forward, and Lawrence suddenly remembers him much younger, his teenage trick of ducking his head to hide behind hair that's long since been cut short. But after a moment, he looks up, meeting their eyes squarely. "It might be dangerous, but I won't be alone," he tells them. "I'm not doing this because I want to be some sort of hero. I'm doing this because I can help." He smiles at Colleen. Lawrence sees his resemblance to Colleen strongly in that attempt at reassurance, and knows that his son will be going to England.
They go with him to his apartment, to help him empty out his refrigerator and pick up his extra set of keys. Colleen calls the airlines to arrange the cheapest flight, while Connor packs a knapsack full of clothes. Lawrence watches him, pacing the floor uneasily, jingling the change in his pockets. "So this Angel person who told these women about you, how did you meet her anyway?"
"Him," Connor says, mouth quirking up as he digs through a chest of drawers.
"Him?"
"Yeah, I know," Connor says, and rolls up balls of socks before pitching them into the open knapsack from across the room. Perfect aim, of course, and this reminder of what his son can do makes Lawrence fear for him more, since all strength and speed and coordination has limits. "He, um, he helped me once. Back during the time of...do you remember Jasmine?"
Lawrence flips through his mental files again, but can't place the name. "Someone you dated?"
"Uh, no. A long time ago. Jasmine the cult figure."
"Oh. Her. Yes, I guess so."
"Yeah, and remember, I was in the city then, for the school band competition, so I saw more of it than I would have at home."
Lawrence searches through his memories again. Now that Connor's mentioned it, the memory floats up--he and Colleen waving goodbye to Connor as he hopped into the school bus with the other kids, and then going home to hear reports on the radio about some strange new figure on the LA scene who'd infected the city's water system. "I don't remember you saying much about it when you got home. You didn't seem that upset. I didn't even know you were affected."
"Yeah. Well. I did something..." Connor's fingers still on the shirt he's folding. "I did something," he repeats softly. "And I can tell myself that it was Jasmine's influence, that..." he stops again.
"You were young," Lawrence says, envisioning his son getting caught in the mood of the moment, falling into some cult behavior that looked insane by the light of day, an orgy or drugs or looting. "And you've always had a good head on your shoulders. Whatever you did, it can't be that bad. They say that she was very charismatic and easy to believe, and that the drugs she slipped into the water system made people suggestible."
Connor shrugs and resumes packing. "Yeah, I was young and she was powerful. There are excuses for what I did, but I also made a decision. To do what I did. Angel, he couldn't make everything better, or take back the things I did, but he made it better for me. He made things right for me."
"Connor, what happened back then? What did he do that was so important?"
Connor shakes his head. "It's settled now. I don't want to dredge it up again. But he..." Connor looks up and smiles, and for a moment his face is incandescent, gentle. "What he did for me was this: he sent me home safe."
"I'm glad he did, of course," Lawrence replies. "But is that why you're doing this now? Because you feel you owe him and his friends now? Is he going to be in England, too?"
"No. He died awhile back." Connor ducks his head and continues flatly. "He took on a monster bigger than he was."
Lawrence goes over to sit on the bed, nudging the almost full knapsack out of the way. "Would he want you to do this? To risk yourself?"
"I don't know. I think maybe he'd be proud, but then maybe he'd tell me to keep myself safe instead of fighting. I didn't know him that well. Not really." Connor looks at his father, gaze sharp and aware. "Do you really think we can owe the dead?"
Lawrence considers. "We can't live for them, but we can honor their memories, sure."
"I guess. The thing is, we're just guessing at what they would have wanted, based on what we knew of them years ago. The dead, they're sort of frozen. We can't help them or hurt them anymore. I mean, I owe Angel a lot, and there's...someone else who I owe even more. But I can't pay back the dead. So no, I'm not doing this for him." Connor looks around the room, examines the contents of the knapsack, and shrugs. "I think this is all I'll need. Probably better to travel light." He zips up the knapsack.
"Just...try to come back safe," Lawrence says. "And whatever happens, remember that your mom and I love you." He reaches out to put a hand on Connor's shoulder. He hopes his son sees his pride in his eyes, and not his fear.
Connor's eyes are unafraid and steady as he leans into the touch. "I know, Dad," he says. "I do know that."
Connor is gone for a week. When he returns, they rush to his apartment to see him and hug him, reassuring themselves that he is all right. He looks tired and Lawrence spots a large bruise on his arm, but he moves easily and without pain, and his eyes are clear and not haunted.
They sit down to drink coffee together, and he tells them a little about his trip, small character sketches of the people he fought alongside. Funny things, and Lawrence knows he is protecting them from some of the harsher parts of the trip, but doesn't push. Instead, Lawrence and Colleen listen to stories about the hazards of pissing off Slayers, women who act as warriors against evil, and the hassle of getting weapons through security.
"You sound like you plan to stay in touch with these people," Colleen says at one point.
"Probably," Connor says. "I don't know that I'll talk to them regularly. But Dawn and I are planning on keeping in touch--we had some conversations about being adopted that we want to continue." He glances from Colleen to Lawrence; Lawrence notices that Colleen has the same air of puzzlement on her face that he feels.
"Is she adopted, then? Why would that come up?" Lawrence asks.
"Just, she has some interesting perspectives on being adopted that I'd like to hear more about," Connor says. "Plus, it's good to know I have people I can talk to about the whole supernatural side of things, if I ever have questions."
Lawrence frowns, feeling the bite of uncertainty. He wonders how many questions Connor has had in the past years that he hasn't wanted to burden his parents with. After Wolfram and Hart told them that Connor's strength wouldn't have any unpleasant side effects for his health, they hadn't pursued the matter further. Maybe they should have tried to find out more, but most of what they'd seen of that supernatural world was threatening. Surely steering clear of it was better than fumbling around and becoming collateral damage in some demon war? "Do you think you'll have to go out and fight with them again?" Lawrence asks finally.
"Maybe," Connor says, and then adds, after a hasty glance at the silent look of protest on Colleen's face, "I can't promise I won't, Mom, if they need me. But honestly, I don't see them calling me for help that often. They have things under control. But the good thing about connecting with these people is, I can promise that if I do have to go, there'll be people backing me up."
"But it won't be right away, right?" Colleen asks, "This problem you flew to England for--it's dealt with? It's settled?"
Connor looks at them closely, and Lawrence wonders what he's seeing when he examines them that way: two people on the far side of middle age, worriers who have never quite gotten used to the idea that there's a world of demons and monsters out there. Lawrence, as always, is astonished when he really looks at one of his children and finds they've grown up, that his daughters have turned into women of strength and compassion, that his son views the world with gentleness and calmness and confidence, without fear. After a moment, Connor reaches out and drops a hand on his father's shoulder in reassurance, reaches out with the other hand to grasp his mother's arm. "Yeah," he says. "Don't worry. It's done. I'm home."
End
|
|
|