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Saint Petersburg, 1896
Angelus slammed the desk drawer shut with a muffled curse. "What
member of the aristocracy doesn't keep matches in his goddamn bureau?"
he asked, pulling the hinges off of another cherry-wood cupboard. Finding
nothing but parchment and ink, he dumped the contents onto the floor in
obvious disgust. The papers fluttered in the air for a moment before
scattering around his bare feet.
Spike laughed.
Angelus turned to see Spike lying on the bed, bare-chested and sprawled
across the sheets as if someone had poured him there.
"Half a dozen of the finest cigars," Angelus continued, pointing to the now
empty humidor atop the desk. "And nothing to light them with." He held
the cigars up in one fist and waved them in the general direction of the
bed.
Spike shook his head. With the fireplace the only light in the room, his
skin all but cast its own glow. Tangled in the burgundy coverlet, he was
paler than the drifts outside the window; northern winter and shards of
ice, shining and deadly. His hair curled wildly around his face, his chest
was peppered with scratch marks, and there was a cut across his bottom
lip that he worried with his tongue.
"You look like a recently debauched Anna Karenina," Angelus said,
smirking.
"I'll stay clear of passing trains," Spike replied, the corner of his mouth
quirking. He sat up and let the coverlet pool around his waist. "You know,
considering who did the debauching you really ought to be in a better
mood."
Angelus scanned the room to find another likely hiding place for wayward
matches but eventually gave up to search for his trousers instead. The
carpet was scarcely visible under the thick pile of torn linens and silks.
Scattered here and there amidst empty bottles of vodka were splashes of
old, dried blood. He managed to find Spike's trousers in a ball by the
velvet chaise, under Angelus' boots.
"I'm perfectly happy," Angelus answered absently. "I just want a well-
earned smoke. Russians. They're a bunch of backwater cretins, the lot of
them."
Spike sighed and leaned over the side of the mattress. "Still got a bit of
something left might take the craving away," he said.
Angelus watched as Spike pulled a heavy object from underneath the bed
and deposited it in a heap across his lap. Something squirmed weakly
within the velvet drapery that bound it.
"Don't think there's much left to be had there," Angelus replied, stepping
closer regardless.
Spike untied the gold braided rope securing the bundle and tugged a still,
colorless arm from the folds of material.
"Mmm, maybe not," he mused, tapping the wrist with a fingernail.
He unwrapped another layer of velvet to reveal the bound girl's face. Her
lips and eyes were the same shade of pale blue, but she gave a faint
whimper when Spike slapped her cheek.
"I suppose we can share," he said, shaking his demon face on as Angelus
stalked a bit closer.
Angelus opened his fist, and the cigars fell to the floor. When he smiled, it
was somehow kinder for the fangs.
"S'what family's for, isn't it?" Spike added, offering Angelus the girl's
wrist.
Angelus pushed aside the girl's bindings, and tugged the remains of her
skirt above her waist instead. Bending his head to her thigh, he laughed.
"Indeed it is," he said.
With a snort of annoyance, Spike picked up the theater's phone.
"Damn it," he muttered and promptly slammed it back into its cradle.
"If you would try picking it up before the fifteenth ring..." Angel started,
not looking up from the desk.
"I'm not your secretary - speaking of which, where is your
secretary/intern/boy temp/only living heir to your legacy - whatever
you're calling it these days?"
Angel's brows came together. "Connor's home, spending time with his
family."
There was a jingle of bells, and the papers on the desk rustled in the night
air.
"I don't think so," someone said.
Angel turned to see Connor's other father standing in the office doorway
with a frown on his face.
"What do you mean?" Angel asked, standing up.
"I'm his family," Laurence said. "And he told me he was with you."
Episode 6.14: Crucible
Written by: Kita and The Brat Queen
Story Developed By: Kita, Soundingsea, and The Brat Queen
Edited by: Jane Davitt, Astarte99, and Mad Poetess
Produced by: The Brat Queen , Just Human, and Flaming Muse
"I take it he's not here, then," Laurence said. His arms were folded over
his chest, and the muscle in his jaw jumped as he stared at Angel.
Angel's fingers twitched at his sides. He stuffed his hands into his pants
pockets. From across the room, Spike stared at them both.
"No, not for a couple of days." Angel stepped around the desk to stand in
front of Laurence. "When did you last see him?"
"Two days ago. This isn't like him," Laurence replied, the tiny lines around
his mouth multiplying as he frowned at Angel. "He doesn't do things
behind my back."
"Must be nice," Angel muttered, turning his face away. He looked down.
Laurence wore the same kind of sneakers as Connor.
"What?"
"I said I'll take the case," Angel replied, catching Laurence's eyes again.
"I'll look for him. And I'll find him." He was already reaching for his coat.
"Case?" Laurence repeated, his tone growing suspicious. "Do you think
he's in some kind of trouble?" He took a few steps toward Angel, close
enough to grab his arm. "What do you know that you're not telling me,
Mr. Angel?"
Angel stared back and let the silence lengthen. Laurence dropped his hold
on Angel's arm, but he didn't back up.
Spike inserted himself into the space between them, forcing Laurence to
take a step back. He crooked a conspiratorial eyebrow towards Angel and
then shifted seamlessly into a conciliatory smile as he faced Laurence.
"I'm sure the boy's fine," he said, shrugging into his own coat. "Probably
got himself a new bird and just wants some alone time. Angel and I'll
have him back by supper."
"I'll call you as soon as I find anything," Angel said, checking his pocket
for his cell phone on the way to the door. His shoulder brushed Laurence's
in an abrupt gesture. "Spike's right," Angel added when Laurence still
stood his ground. "I'm sure he's fine."
"I hope so," Laurence said. He bent his head, and the gray in his hair
shone burnished silver under the light. "My wife is worried sick. I'm going
to call all his friends, go back to the campus, see if maybe he's already
back."
Angel nodded and pulled open the front door, but Laurence put his hand
on the door frame and faced him again. "I'll call you in a few hours?"
"Yeah," Angel said. "Good." He let Spike finish the conversational niceties
and finally shepherd Laurence out.
They stood in the front doorway, side by side, and stared into the dark,
watching until Laurence's car was just one dim light among too many.
When Angel took his hands out his pockets, they were clenched into fists.
He did not look at Spike.
"Drusilla," he said.
Connor knelt on the ground, lacing his fingers together over his extended
knee. Drusilla slipped one bare foot into the cradle of his palms and then
leapt neatly over the metal fence in front of them.
"Such a little gentleman," she said from the other side, giving him a small
curtsey with a porcelain doll clutched to her chest. "Now I won't need to
get my dress all dirty."
She tucked her foot back into her slipper and stared up at the pointed tips
of the metal gate, reaching fifteen feet off the ground. Connor followed
the line of her gaze and took a single step back. He knelt again in a
crouch and sprung, landing beside her on the carefully manicured lawn of
the park.
Drusilla lifted her skirt above her ankles, and Connor watched her glide
past the tiny merry-go-round, toward the set of swings that swayed in the
breeze. Just beyond the playground, over the hills, he could almost see
the twinkling of electric lights; warmth and family laid out in neat little
rows, as far off as the stars.
Kneeling beside a bed of spring flowers, she plucked the tulips out one by
one, their bulbs dangling incongruously from the stem of the delicate
flower. "So pretty and frail on the surface, but all the strength comes from
below." With the tips of her fingers, she pulled up the small metal sign
and used it to dig a small hole in the moist black earth.
Connor stood nearby and frowned. "What are you doing?"
"Putting baby to bed." With a smile, Drusilla combed back the doll's hair
and laid it in the shallow grave, pushing the dirt over the top until only the
face remained. "Now if you won't close your eyes, you won't have your
proper rest." The doll stared up into the night.
Drusilla tutted. "Very well, mummy will just have to cover you up so that
you don't rise out of sorts." With a flourish, she covered the doll's face
with soil. At the head of the mounded dirt, Drusilla planted her makeshift
shovel, which read, "Do Not Pick the Flowers."
She swayed as she stood, dropping tulips on the doll-sized grave. With a
grin towards Connor, Drusilla ran and perched herself on the nearest
swing, crossing her feet. She waved him closer, wiggling her fingers at
him like a charmer of snakes.
"Sit with me, dearie," she said, "and we'll have a lovely chat, you and I."
Connor stood still and stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets.
"I know what you have inside of there," Drusilla said, starting to rock. The
sing-song of her voice and the swing moving slowly back and forth were in
perfect rhythm. "And I've seen what you do with it."
Connor shrugged, pulling the stake out of his jacket and tucking it into his
belt loop.
"I want to know about my father," he said, walking closer to her. "I want
to know about everything they don't say in all those books. I want to
know about my mother and you. I want to know - "
"Silly Little Boy Blue," Drusilla interrupted, and the tsking of her tongue
against her teeth sounded like the rattle of bones. She held the chain on
the swing next to her still, offering Connor a seat. "You want to know
about you. Sit with me, then. Sit with me, and let your Auntie Dru tell you
the very best once upon a times."
When Connor sat, the metal swing was cool against his skin, and Drusilla's
hand in his own was small and strong.
Saint Petersburg, 1896
In a different large bedroom lit only by firelight, Drusilla sat on the floor
between Darla's bare knees. Drusilla's eyes were closed, and she clutched
a porcelain doll to her chest as Darla ran a silver brush through her hair.
"I miss my William," Drusilla said, tugging on the wool fringe of the rug.
"I couldn't tell," Darla replied, her voice as cool as the air outside their
windows, "considering this is the tenth time you've mentioned it in the last
hour."
"Do you think he misses me?" Drusilla leaned her head back into Darla's
lap.
Drusilla's curls were dark against the cream silk of the settee and the
even paler skin of Darla's legs. Darla put the brush down and slid
Drusilla's hair through her fingers. "I would imagine he's much too busy
with Angelus."
"I don't like Russia at all." Drusilla frowned. "The porridge is always cold,
and the boys won't play." She tossed the doll in the direction of a heap of
clothing in the corner. The corpse of a young man slumped against the far
wall. His hands were bound in his lap, all ten fingers bent and broken. His
throat was torn open.
"Shall we go out, then, and perhaps find warmer... porridge?" Darla
asked. She stood and wrapped herself in one of the thick, down blankets
from the bed.
Drusilla clapped her hands together. "I should like to wear fur," she
whispered, unfolding herself from the floor and sliding one hand up Darla's
leg. "And be a naughty grizzly bear."
Darla smiled down at her almost fondly. "Of course," she said.
As the door closed behind Laurence, Angel headed up the stairs to his
office.
Spike watched Angel go, shook his head, and began to clear away the
newspaper and doughnuts on the counter.
Angel's voice rang out from upstairs as he shouted, "Clean up that
goddamn mess, Spike; I need to lay out a map."
"Not the boss of me, mate," Spike called back.
"Angel loses track of his followers," Illyria observed as she entered the
lobby from the basement door.
"Not a follower," Spike said, finishing with his tidying. "Just somebody
with a clearer head than he has."
Illyria tilted her head, her lips parted as though she were tasting the air.
"His head is single-minded."
Spike snorted. "You got that right."
"He seeks his son," Illyria said, unresponsive to Spike's attempt at humor.
"It is a worthy goal."
"You can't tell me you've gone all mothery now that you're in human
form," Spike said.
"Offspring are the self-preservation of lesser beings," Illyria said. "Angel is
fragile, easily destroyed. It is wise for him to seek to protect his son in the
name of perpetuating his power."
"I protect my son because he is my son," Angel said, his stride not
faltering as he came down the stairs. He stopped between them, his eyes
dark and serious. "Anybody who doubts that can step up for an ass-
kicking right now. Connor is mine, and I am not going to allow anybody to
hurt him."
Spike held up his hands in a gesture of peace. "Calm down, Rambo.
Nobody here's looking to hurt the sprog. 'Sides, if he's inherited anything
from your side of the family we at least know a head wound won't do him
any real - "
Angel slammed his fist down onto the counter. "Help or get out of the
way. Those are the only options."
"You see?" Illyria gave Spike a smug look. "Single-minded."
"Problem is he only had half a brain to start with," Spike shot back.
"Angel, we are trying to help. Now get your bloody head out of your ass
and let us do it."
"Fine," Angel didn't look as though he believed them, but he spread a map
out over the counter anyway. "Okay, Spike, you last saw Dru somewhere
near the spot we fought the Loppestre demons, right? She was holed up in
some house?"
"Right." Turning the map at a ninety-degree angle, Spike scrawled an X
some distance away from Angel's starting point. "But knowing Dru she
could've rabbited off somewhere else if the moonlight wasn't right or the
pixies told her two blocks over's got better cable."
"I'm this close to trying to ask the pixies for a tip, myself," Angel said.
"It's not like we've had any luck trying to find her."
"Time was, I could walk out the front door and follow my nose," Spike said
seriously. "But that hasn't been working since I told her I was on your -
since I told her she and I weren't going to be doing the duet again
anytime soon. And if we think she's got mini-you - "
"He was upset when he left; who knows where he was going when she
nabbed him." Angel pressed a hand over his eyes. "Or even if she nabbed
him."
"Dru wanted to start a family again," Spike pointed out. "Your boy might
be a likely candidate if you and me aren't putting the pants on to play
man of the house."
"Connor's smart; he's crafty." Angel traced a fingertip down along the
map, following no pattern in particular. "If he doesn't want to be found he
won't be found. Not even by Dru."
"Said the man who is blinded with a father's pride." Spike began to roll his
eyes, then stopped. "Wait - since when are you possessed of a father's
anything?"
"Blood calls to blood," Illyria observed.
"You don't know what his blood does to a person," Spike replied.
"Are we arguing about me or are we finding my kid?" Angel asked.
"Finding your - " They all turned at the sound of a familiar voice. Wesley
was coming through the door, his step halted as he stood still, trying to
make sense of what he'd just overheard. "Drusilla?"
Angel shook his head. "Connor."
"Connor's missing?" Wesley came in the rest of the way. A look of
confusion crossed his face. "They know he's your - ?"
"Son, yeah," Angel said.
Spike folded his arms. "And what? Suppose you already knew about the
birth and the brain scramblies that came after it?"
"I was aware of what Angel had done on Connor's behalf, yes," Wesley
said, his eyes betraying no emotion.
"Charlie wasn't," Spike said. "Wasn't best pleased when he found out
about it either."
"Which just goes to show that Angel was probably right to keep it from
him, now doesn't it?" Wesley replied.
"Dunno," Spike said, glancing over at Angel, who was still frowning at the
map. "You think it's smart to tear up the team right when Angel needs 'em
most?"
"We need to do all we can to find Connor," Wesley said. "There's no time
for grudges over what can't be undone."
"Okay then," Angel said, "Let's get to work."
Drusilla sat on the swing with Connor's jacket over her lap. She'd pulled
his wallet from its side pocket, and now she ran her fingertips over the
plastic covered photographs inside, humming something that could have
been a rhyme from a child's television show.
"That's my sister, Megan," Connor said, leaning closer and pointing. "She's
kind of a pain in the neck."
"Your new family is very pretty." Drusilla handed Connor back his wallet,
cupping the back of his wrist in her palm. She closed her eyes and
shivered. "Paid for with blood and death, just like mine was. All that
madness is ever so beautiful."
Connor's mother and father smiled up at him from the glossy photograph
taken last Christmas. They were all wearing matching Santa hats. He
snapped the wallet shut.
"Your family..." Connor said, slipping the wallet into his pants beside the
stake. "You were innocent, too, once. Before."
"Oh, yes, I was. Holy and pure. That makes for the best blood, doesn't it?
Daddy always knew that." Drusilla tilted her head. Her hands were folded
primly over her knees, long white fingers and pale pink nails. Her eyes
were shut. She could have still been praying. She could have still been
holy. "You know that, too," she said, opening her eyes and looking at
Connor. "What kind of magic innocent blood makes."
"I don't - How did you know about that? No one is supposed to remember
that anymore," Connor said. His own hands curled into fists; familiar,
easy. Unbidden.
Drusilla smiled. "I told you, I know lots of naughty things I shouldn't.
That's why Daddy chose me. It's why he killed you, too, isn't it?"
Connor did not flinch. Drusilla's voice was too calm and certain, too much
like music. Broken church bells, hymns sung out of key, but sweet as a
lullaby for all that.
"You see, we're the same kind of dolly, you and I," she went on. "One that
he's gone and cracked open, poured the insides all out, and now won't
play with any longer. So we shall have to play together, instead."
"I don't want to kill anyone anymore," Connor said. "I don't want to be
bad." The wallet was the softest calfskin in his palm. The wooden stake
was smoother still.
"Oh, it's not about want," Drusilla said, touching the tips of her toes
against Connor's. Her shoes were burgundy velvet, like ballerina shoes a
little girl would wear. "It's not about good nor bad. It's about the blood
that makes us."
She lowered her voice enough that Connor had to lean in to hear. Now he
could see that her cheeks were flushed, pink as her nails.
"We're the stuff night-time whispers are made of," she said, tapping those
fingernails against the metal links of the swing. They groaned when she
twisted to face him. "We're the princes of all the fairytales. We are the
special ones."
Connor sighed and turned his head away. "Someone else said something
like that to me once."
Drusilla patted his knee very gently. "Yes, dearie. But she was insane."
Saint Petersburg, 1896
Drusilla rubbed her gloved hands together, the sable of her coat blending
into the crowd as she and Darla made their way through the frigid night.
Even the moon overhead looked frozen, a bit of snow and ice cast into the
black.
"I want a girl," Drusilla said. "A lovely, black-haired girl with bluebird
eyes."
Darla tucked a bit of hair under the fur cap she wore and didn't answer.
She watched an obviously drunken man stumble his way across the street
and into a small alleyway lined with drifts of dirty snow.
"Mind the moon," she said to Drusilla. "Be back to the rooms before it
sets. I've found my own supper."
"Yes, Grandmama," Drusilla replied, pursing her lips.
"And stop calling me that; you know I hate it." Darla stepped out into the
street.
Drusilla waved her fingers.
From around the corner, a young girl was walking toward her. She
couldn't make out the color of the girl's hair under her woolen hat, but her
eyes were as blue as birds. As she stepped closer, Drusilla reached out
and tugged the hat off the girl's head. The girl spun to look at her,
alarmed, indignant.
Drusilla pushed her into a nearby doorway and pressed her against cold
brick and stone. "Oh yes," she said, running her hand through long, dark
hair. "You'll do nicely."
Wesley snapped his cell phone closed as Angel rejoined him in the lobby.
"I placed calls to the Registrar's office for Connor's schedule and then to
his professors and teaching assistants. He didn't show up for his classes
today."
Before Angel could answer, Spike and Illyria walked in from the street.
"What did you find?" Angel asked them.
"A whole load of nothing," Spike said, folding his arms and leaning against
the counter.
Angel's face fell. "Nothing? No sign of Dru or Connor?"
"I, likewise, found no evidence of your progeny in the environs of the halls
of learning," Illyria said. "However, some fool asked me to join his 'J-Pop
band.' I scorned his feeble attempt to 'hit up me.' He would not bow at my
feet."
Spike chuckled. "Hit on you, Blue. Hitting you up would have been an
attempt to get your money, assuming you had any, and, yeah, we know
you have no need because you've got worshippers for that. Again."
"Spike," Angel warned, and Spike scowled a bit and fell silent. "So, no sign
of them anywhere so far. I've followed the route of Connor's commute,
and I can't track him past his bus stop. Don't even know if he got on or
not."
From the doorway, a familiar voice rang out, "Okay, I drove all around
East Hills looking for Connor and stopped and talked to my boys. Got
people keeping an eye out for him." Gunn stepped into the lobby of the
theater and closed the door behind him. "Mad as you make me, man, I'm
not taking it out on the kid. He, at least, deserves better."
Angel barely acknowledged Gunn with a flick of his eyes. "And I went to
all the places I know Dru hit last time she was in town. No luck there. So
now, everyone's going back out. Stay in contact by calling me, and I'll
pass along the information to the rest of you."
Gunn muttered, "Yeah, cause keeping your team in the loop is your
specialty. Oh, wait."
Wesley straightened up. "Charles, though I can appreciate what you're
going through, this is hardly the time or the place."
"All of reality is an illusion that is comprised solely of what mortals choose
to give their attention to," Illyria sniffed. "Fred's memories changed, and
they changed her. It is of no consequence and is hardly news."
"What? Even she knew?" Gunn turned toward Angel, punctuating his
words with angry jabs of his index finger. "Freaky blue demon-girl gets to
remember my life, and I don't? Great. Just great."
"Not the time, Gunn," Angel replied. "You want to hate me, do it after we
get my kid back home."
"Okay, okay, let's table the brainwashing discussion for the time being."
Gunn settled into a chair. "But only because I'm not going to let another
innocent get hurt thanks to the freaky shit that goes on in your family."
"Fine," Angel said. "So what do we know?"
"Searching based on Connor's movements isn't doing much good so far,"
Spike mused. "And as for the hunt for Dru - " He shrugged.
"We're still looking," Angel said.
"Less conventional methods may be called for," Wesley said. He gave
Angel a look of understanding. "I'm as loath to encourage any connection
between Connor and my employers as you are, but the longer he's out
there the greater the chance that he'll be in real danger."
Angel rubbed his face, lines of exhaustion hinting around his eyes. "God -
if only I had a dime for all the times Wolfram & Hart was the lesser of two
evils."
"You did," Spike said. "I believe you called it your annual salary."
"And if I'd known selling my soul would've brought me that much, I'd have
held off on that whole deal with the pickup truck," Gunn said.
Angel ignored him. "I don't want them touching my son, Wes."
"I can control it," Wesley said. "The Senior Partners won't get anywhere
near him."
"Sure they're going to agree with you on that?" Spike asked.
Wesley gathered his things, putting them into his satchel. "I don't care if
they do. If they have a problem with it, they can take it up with me."
"Okay, go," Angel said. "Keep me posted."
"I'll keep my cell phone handy," Wesley promised as he headed out the
door.
"What about the rest of us?" Gunn asked.
"According to his parents he should have been near campus," Angel said.
"I know you checked there, but hit it again -- not just the halls of learning
this time; everything in the area. Time to go shake up his dorm mates,
the kid at the coffee shop, the front desk at the student union... Rattle
'em enough, and somebody's got to talk."
Saint Petersburg, 1896
"Where's Drusilla?" Spike asked, coming down the stairs with his trousers
half-undone and still buttoning his shirt.
Darla raised one delicate eyebrow. "I'm not her keeper." She glanced up
at him from her spot on the couch and wrinkled her nose. "And do make
yourself decent."
Spike grinned. "Just can't resist me, can you, Grandmama?" he said and
then winced when Angelus' palm connected with the back of his head.
Angelus passed him on the stairs, buttoning his own shirt cuffs. "Is Dru
still gone?"
"Yes, she's as gone as she was the last time you asked," Darla replied, but
she was frowning in the direction of the window, where the sky was about
to turn pink.
"I'll go and look for her, then," Angelus said, grabbing his coat from off
the rack in the hall. He looked at Spike. "Fetch my boots, will you?"
Spike rolled his eyes but nodded. "I'm going with you," he tossed back
over his shoulder as he climbed the stairs.
Angelus was just about to argue when the front door opened, and Drusilla
nearly fell across the threshold. She was folded in half with giggles, and
her arm was draped around a girl Angelus did not recognize. Perhaps
fifteen years old, the girl was slight of build, paler than Drusilla, and
wearing matching fangs.
"My mother, was she beautiful?" Connor asked. He dug his toes into the
dirt and rocked his swing a bit. Drusilla's hand was still on his knee. "I saw
her once, I think. But she was kind of already dead."
"Oh, Darla was terrible and lovely. And quite fierce when already dead."
Drusilla nodded. "She always had the longest fingernails. They would
scritch-scratch-mreow." Her own nails left a crease down Connor's khakis
as she flawlessly mimicked a cat's howl. When she smiled, Connor could
see all of her teeth.
He rubbed over the mark on his pants with his thumb, watching it smooth
out. "She and my father, did they love each other? At all?"
"Darla made Angelus delightfully merry," Drusilla answered, skimming the
tips of her shoes in the wood chips beneath her swing.
"Right, they didn't have souls," Connor said, watching the ants scurry
around Drusilla's feet. "So I guess love was kind of out of the question."
"I don't know where all you boys get that silly notion." Drusilla tilted her
head back, looking up at the stars that weren't there. "It's such a pity, all
this talk of souls and chips and Slayers. None of that really changes who
we can love."
"It doesn't?"
"No," she said. "We love who we're meant to. We die for the same. You
see? A beautiful circle. And it's all so simple."
Connor bowed his head. Talking was easier when Drusilla wasn't looking
right at him.
"Angel told me that she loved me," Connor said. "Darla, I mean. He told
me that she staked herself so I could be born."
When Drusilla didn't reply, he looked up. She was staring at him now as if
he were an exotic animal of some sort, something precious and worthy of
safe keeping. He took a breath. "He said she died for me, but
sometimes... sometimes I feel like maybe I killed her."
Drusilla's hand was on his cheek before Connor knew he was crying. Soft
and careful, gathering tears like flower petals. She was humming again
when she leaned in closer and licked them off his face.
"I killed her once, too, my pretty," she whispered into his ear. Her hand
cradled his head. "What a perfect little circle we make after all."
Wesley was barking orders before the elevator doors had even opened.
"Get me Research, Intelligence, and the Psychic team. I want reports
every fifteen minutes that tell me where Drusilla and Connor are, or I
want damned good excuses for why we don't know."
"Drusilla's hard to track, sir." Kyle jogged along beside him, hanging back
by Wesley's left shoulder. He took notes on his steno pad. "And Angel's
son - "
"Angel's son is a gigantic lolly to a hungry, child-like creature whose
sadistic tendencies are only matched by her father's. Which means we
need to find him now." Wesley threw open the doors to his office. A sea of
books, maps, and paperwork covered every available surface. Wesley
shook his head. "It's not good enough. I need more."
Kyle tapped his pencil against the spiral ring of his pad. "Sir, what else
could you possibly need?"
"Forgive me - " Wesley unbuttoned his shirt sleeves and rolled them up
with quick, efficient motions. " - but perhaps I was absent on the day we
all decided that my orders are open for questioning?"
"No, no." Kyle pantomimed a gesture that was half a sign of innocence,
half bow. "I just meant I don't understand. All things considered - "
Wesley stood directly in front of Kyle. His face was calm, but his eyes
blazed with unmistakable anger. "All things considered, you either do as I
say, or I shall kill you and find someone to take your place. Are we
understanding one another?"
"I'll go get you - " Kyle waved his steno pad around in a helpless circle " -
more."
"Smashing idea," Wesley said. He turned his back to Kyle and began
attacking the piles of papers that were on his desk.
A shadow fell across his field of vision. "Problem with the staff?"
Wesley didn't look up to acknowledge Johanna. "Nothing I can't handle."
"Good to know," Johanna perched on his desk, crossing one leg over the
other and exposing a long expanse of thigh. "Because considering the
mess that Drusilla has made - "
"What mess?" Wesley snorted. "She's taken Angel's son. He's miserable. I
would have thought the Senior Partners would have considered this cause
for celebration."
"It might be," Johanna said, "if not for you."
Wesley tore his gaze away from his paperwork. "Explain that. Now."
"Ah, ah, ah..." Johanna waggled a manicured fingertip at him. "I don't
work for you. I don't have to do anything."
"I don't have to refrain from using you for target practice," Wesley replied,
"but I'm currently extending the courtesy. Tell me what the Senior
Partners have planned."
"Not them," Johanna gasped out. "You."
Wesley frowned. "What do you mean?"
"All this," Johanna spread an arm out, gesturing towards Wesley's work
like a game show hostess showing off a prize. "This. What you're doing."
"I'm attempting to track Drusilla," Wesley said.
"To what end?" Johanna asked.
"To - " Wesley stopped, realization spreading across his face. He quickly
tried to recover. "To - to take advantage of her. To shape her actions so
that - "
"You said it yourself." Johanna folded her arms, a look of cool satisfaction
on her face. "She has Connor. Angel's miserable. He's suffering. So what,
I wonder, are you doing?"
"We need to keep tabs on her." Wesley shoved one of the piles of
paperwork aside, unearthing the map that tracked her locations within the
city. "The last time she was in Los Angeles she was completely out of
anyone's control. It created chaos with the Senior Partners' plans."
"Funny how this didn't concern you before," Johanna pointed out.
"We knew where she was, before," Wesley replied.
"We don't need to know where she is now." Johanna slapped her hand
down on the map, covering the grid Wesley had been studying. "Angel is
in agony. Your job is to put him in that state and then make sure that he
stays there. Your every action should be one to take the knife in his gut
and twist it harder. Yet I can't help but feel that what you're trying to do
right now is help him."
"We don't need Connor," Wesley said. "He's extraneous to our goals. The
Senior Partners care about Angel."
Johanna's dark red lips formed a knowing smile. "I would have thought
you of all people would know that if you want to hurt the father, you go
after the son."
Wesley's hand curled into a fist. "Get out."
"Make one move, give any sign, show even a hint that you are attempting
to assist Angel or make his life any easier and - " Johanna snapped her
fingers. " - we'll get rid of you, just like that. You'll live out the rest of
eternity watching the Senior Partners make Angel suffer in all the ways
you failed to do." Johanna's smile became wider, crueler. "Watching him
suffer because you failed to do it. Now what I want to know is are you
really the man for this job?"
Angel slammed the phone back down onto the reception desk. "Damn it!"
"No luck?" Spike asked from his position by the map.
"This isn't working," Angel said. "We need to try something different."
Gunn sat forward, pushing his notes away from him to clear a space on
the counter. "Like what? We've hit his usual routes, we've talked to
everybody who should know where he's supposed to be - "
"Well, he's not where he's supposed to be," Angel snapped. "So maybe
you should've been talking to somebody else."
"It's not Charlie's fault your boy's gone off," Spike reminded him. "It's not
anybody's fault. He's a teenager and Dru's... Dru."
Angel began to pace back and forth along the worn rug of the lobby.
"Should've killed her years ago."
"Should've, didn't," Spike gave a philosophical shrug. "No point in blaming
yourself."
"And you?" Angel demanded, spreading his arms wide. "You supposedly
have a soul now. That wasn't, I don't know, whispering in your ear that
whole time you were running around town with her, helping her to kill
people?"
"I helped stop her from killing people!" Spike shot back. Anger shaped his
previously calm face. "Don't start that with me, mate. You had the soul
longer than me and didn't exactly stake her back in Sunnydale when you
had the chance."
Angel folded his arms. "Or you."
"Yeah, all right, or me." Spike shook his head, unimpressed. "What? It's
supposed to be news to me that I wasn't one of the good guys?"
"Could stake you now," Angel said.
Illyria looked back and forth between the both of them as though she
couldn't tell who was annoying her most. "These words are meaningless.
Noise, and senseless buzzing."
"No kidding." Spike turned back to the map. "Angel, you've got to learn to
stop tossing out threats that don't mean a bloody thing."
Angel clenched his hand into a fist. "You want to see how much I don't
mean it?"
Illyria stepped in between them, holding her arms out to block Angel's
way. "This is not the answer."
"Red letter day," Angel replied, his voice as dry as the air around them.
"The demon god suddenly thinks violence is not the answer. Hang on
while I get my diary to write that down."
"Destruction is always an answer," Illyria said. "Death is always an
answer. But this is meaningless. You quarrel about good and evil as
though such terms have weight or power."
"Excuse me," Gunn said from his position at the counter, "but considering
the war we're all in those words have the ultimate power."
Illyria gave him a look of disappointment. "Words are the fallacy of
mortals who think to control the universe by naming it within the confines
of their disgusting languages. Do you think a tree is a tree because you
call it such? The tree would exist, the world would exist, whether you
could name it or not."
"A tree is a tree because it's a tall-ass thing with branches and leaves and
roots and bark." Gunn pointed towards the windows as though they could
see through the movie posters to the few scraggly trees that lined the
sidewalks outside. "And evil is evil because it hurts the innocent. I don't
have to name it to know that!"
"You think that is all that a tree is?" Illyria demanded. "You take in only
what you can with your limited senses and arrogantly assume there is
nothing left. What you call a tree is merely a facet of all that such a thing
entails. What I know of as a tree encompasses more than any mortal mind
could even fathom. More so, if I were in full possession of my powers. It is
the same for any thing that you think you understand, including words like
'evil' or 'innocent'."
"Hey," Gunn said, stepping forward, "all I got is what I do understand.
Okay, maybe it's not the big picture. But I don't care. It's mine, and that's
all I need to know."
"Right." Angel narrowed his eyes. "Because your way is the only way,
right?"
Gunn shook his head. "Man, we are not having that argument right now."
"No, let's have that argument right now," Angel said. "I am sick and tired
of you copping attitude when I've been right each and every time!"
"Not now, you aren't." Spike reached to take Angel by the arm. "C'mon,
time's wasting, and we haven't found your boy yet. Let's you and Charlie
go to separate corners until we fix the first of our many problems."
"No, no." Gunn blocked Spike's hand. "I want to hear this. I want to hear
all the times Angel's been right. Was it every case you screwed up
because you saw the Senior Partners hiding behind it, or is it now when
you're blaming everybody but yourself for what went wrong with your
kid?"
This time, Spike was quicker in holding Angel back. He gave Gunn a
warning look. "Charlie - "
"You know nothing about Connor," Angel said, his voice eerily quiet. He
didn't remove himself from the white-knuckled grip that Spike had on his
fist, but he didn't look as though he felt breaking the hold would be a
problem if he had to. "You know nothing about what he's been through."
"And whose fault is that?" Gunn demanded. "Angel, you made the deal
with the Senior Partners. You screwed around with reality so that none of
us would ever be able to trust our memories or you ever again. And let's
not forget that you made the psycho-bitch vampire who's currently killing
my friends and doing whatever the hell she wants to with your kid. I'd tell
you if you want to know who to blame you should try checking in a mirror
except a couple of centuries ago you made sure you couldn't do that
either."
"I thought the vampire killed only one of your friends," Illyria said, her
head tilted curiously.
Gunn didn't take his gaze off of Angel. "You'd be amazed at how much
that number does not make me feel better."
"If you don't trust me," Angel said, flicking his eyes towards the entrance,
"there's the door."
"Right, okay." Spike tried to push both of them apart. "Let's all take a nice
step back and stop before we say something we're going to regret."
Gunn didn't budge an inch. "I don't trust you," he told Angel. "I don't even
know if I like you anymore."
"Yeah, like that," Spike said.
Angel detangled himself from Spike's grasp. He moved away, his eyes
never leaving Gunn's face as he made a broad gesture of invitation
towards the doorway. "Don't let me stop you."
Gunn shot a quick glance towards the exit. "If I go, it's gonna be for real
this time. No more of this losing the good fight to your personal vendettas
crap. I want to help people."
"Have fun," Angel said.
"Do you even understand me?" Gunn asked. "I mean it. If I leave then
that means I quit. No more being on your team anymore. I'll be starting
my own gig."
"Free advice," Angel told him, "if you want to be a leader then you
actually have to stop dicking around and make a decision at some point.
So anytime you feel like doing that..."
"Screw this." Gunn jerked away, quickly gathering his things up from the
counter. "Screw this and screw all of you."
Spike went towards him. "Charlie - "
"No," Gunn said. "Don't start. I got no beef with you, but I'm not putting
up with this. You want to keep on encouraging him to stick his head up his
ass, you go nuts. You ever want to go back to helping the helpless, you
know where to find me."
"Are you certain you know what that means?" Illyria asked.
Gunn shrugged a backpack onto his shoulder. "Nope. But for the first time
in a long time I know it's exactly what I want."
The doors to the Walden closed silently behind him.
Connor leaned into the hand on his cheek and breathed in damp air and
comfort. Drusilla pressed chaste kisses against his forehead, humming all
the while.
Sometime while his eyes were closed, it had started to rain. Light beads of
cool water fell down the back of his T-shirt, making him shiver. Drusilla
pressed him closer, running her little hands down his chest, and the
rocking of the swing was like floating, flying, falling.
"I'll catch you," she said, her mouth against his.
"I'm not - " Connor started, but then her mouth was open, and she was
kissing him. Quiet and careful, shy, like... a girl. She made a girl noise,
too, when he didn't pull away. Soft and wet and happy.
"It's spring," she whispered, and he could feel her smile against his lips,
then his chin, as her kisses drifted down, "and time for all new things to
be born."
Then her nails were in the back of his neck, and her teeth were at his
throat, and this time when he opened his eyes there were stars.
"He's gone." Angel's declaration preceded him as he entered Wesley's
office without knocking or asking for invitation. "Gunn."
Kyle hovered in the doorway, clearly waiting to be told if he should let
Angel stay.
Wesley dismissed him with a sharp gesture and then closed and locked his
doors for privacy. "Drusilla?"
"Me." Angel paced in a half-circle, ignoring or oblivious to the papers he
was crushing beneath the soles of his shoes. "Apparently I'm not a fun
and trustworthy guy to work with anymore."
"I wasn't aware that fighting evil was supposed to be about fun," Wesley
replied. "Lord knows working for it hasn't done me any favors."
"You're here, that's what's important," Angel said.
Wesley gave him a wan smile. "I suppose that's one way of looking at it.
Did Gunn say when he would be coming back?"
"Right about after at least one of the hells froze over." Angel said. "He's
pretty pissed."
"I could try talking to him?" Wesley offered.
Angel smirked. "Yeah, because the one person he trusts more than me
right now is you."
"I never did anything to hurt him," Wesley said stiffly. He gave a lazy half-
cock of his head. "All right, if one ignores the stabbing."
"Yeah, well, you work for Wolfram & Hart," Angel said. "As far as Gunn's
concerned that means you're up to no good."
Wesley brushed a piece of lint off the side of his tailored pants. "I don't
think it's quite that simple."
"Gunn's not what you'd call real fond of the grey areas right now," Angel
said. "It's either black or white. I'm wrong, he's right, and if nobody
agrees with him then he's not sticking around."
"Fine." Wesley rubbed his left temple. "Let him go. We've too much to
handle right now to deal with any distractions."
"Any luck?" For the first time Angel seemed to notice the chaos around
him. The piles of books and papers were now three times as large as
they'd been when Wesley had returned to the office. "Are you sure neither
of them is hiding in here?"
"I'm this close to tearing the building apart myself just to be on the safe
side," Wesley said.
"Want help?" Angel moved out of the way as Wesley knelt in front of a
stack of books. "I haven't done nearly enough damage today."
"What did you find out?" Wesley asked.
"Nothing." Angel leaned against the front of Wesley's desk. "Connor's
other parents don't know where he is, neither do his friends, neither does
anybody at school. Spike and Illyria said they'd check again, but right now
I'm not feeling too hopeful."
"I've had about the same," Wesley said with a frustrated grimace.
"Drusilla came into Los Angeles, she had her little killing spree and then -
poof! Off the map. Literally."
"It doesn't make sense," Angel said.
"It is Drusilla," Wesley pointed out.
"No." Angel folded his arms, his brow creased in thought. "It's Dru. Dru
makes sense. Not to us but... she's up to something. She's got some kind
of a goal, or plan."
Wesley sat back on his heels. "She felt a loss. She was trying to regain
her family."
"Yeah, and Spike and I rejected her, so she probably went right after
Connor." Angel jerked away from Wesley's desk, too angry to keep still for
long. "Stupid - I told him to stay home. I told him to stay out of this."
"He's his own person." Wesley shrugged. "He has his own thoughts, his
own way of doing things. He..."
Angel held still as Wesley trailed off. "What?"
Wesley went pale. He glanced over at the map on his desk. "He went after
her."
"Huh?"
"He went after her." Wesley stood up, rushing to the map. He shoved
away the paperwork that had fallen across it. "She didn't go after him; he
went after her."
"How?" Angel came over to Wesley's side, trying to see what he saw.
"How could he? He's never met her; he doesn't know her scent. I know
he's been reading up on my past, but a picture's not enough to - "
"A map is." Wesley slammed his fist down onto the desk. "Damn it. It was
right in front of me. The little bastard used this to track her down. He
used me."
All signs of emotion drained from Angel's face. "Excuse me?"
"The other day when he was here." Wesley cleared off space on his desk,
making room for the map to be spread out in full. "He saw this. He was
studying it right before he left. He knew where she was likely to be
found."
"Why didn't you tell me?" Angel asked.
"I didn't know," Wesley said. "I had no idea that Connor intended - "
Angel leaned in, his voice deadly calm. "Why didn't you tell me that you
knew where Dru was?"
Wesley faltered. "I don't."
"You did."
"That was before," Wesley said. "I told you, she came into town and then
literally - "
Both men realized the significance of the map at once. Both tried to grab
it. Only Angel emerged victorious.
"Let's see," Angel said, reading the map as though it were a newspaper.
"Few days ago she was seen at a mini-mall in the Valley, before that she
was taking tea in a cafe on Sunset, before that she was - yep, there's that
house she and Spike were shacking up in. And before that - " Angel laid
the map down, his index finger following the trail of Drusilla's movement
until it pointed at the starred location that marked Drusilla's arrival in
California. " - she was here. At Wolfram & Hart's very own personal
airport."
"I can explain," Wesley said, holding his hand up as though he could stop
Angel from jumping to any conclusions.
"I'm sure it's a great story," Angel replied. "Problem is, you already told
me the ending."
"It's not what you think," Wesley said. "That's not why she was brought
here."
"Senior Partners must be thrilled with you." Angel stepped forward, his
entire demeanor so dark and predatory that no one could have told the
difference between him and Angelus. "Jerking me around, setting Connor
up for sacrifice - that's got to at least be worth a new company car,
right?"
"It isn't like that," Wesley snapped. "Connor was never meant to suffer!"
The words hung in the air between them. Angel didn't blink. "Right. Your
job was to hurt me."
Wesley's mouth opened and closed. Then, for the first time, he realized, "I
can't do it."
"Oh, believe me, Wes, you can."
"I thought I - " Wesley's left hand waved aimlessly around his office. "I
was so certain that - "
"Gotta say," Angel continued, still advancing, "using my daughter to go
after my son? Stroke of genius. Convincing me that you were still my
friend?" Angel made a mocking so-so gesture. "UK judge gives you a 6 out
of 10, but looks like all the other judges rate you a zero on originality.
Sorry, Wes. Guess that trick got all used up when big evil tried doing it
with Cordy."
"Yes, how cleverly you see through my ruse," Wesley drawled. "It was
terribly elaborate, considering I told you at the very beginning what the
Senior Partners wanted me to do."
"I guess that makes the lying to me all better then, huh?" Angel asked.
Wesley shook his head. "I never lied to you. Not once."
"Last I heard it's still a sin if you do it by omission."
"I never lied to you!" The anger and frustration that had been hidden
within Wesley for months exploded out of him. "I told you everything! I
did everything I could to help you! To protect you!"
"You call this help?" Angel's fury was as great as Wesley's own. "Toying
with me? Toying with my son?"
"I told you to stay away," Wesley said. "I told you to let Spike handle it.
But, oh, no. You couldn't listen. You couldn't stand thinking for one
moment that you might be wrong and others might be right."
"It's my job." Angel made a sweeping gesture to indicate all of the city
around them. "I make mistakes, people die!"
"Oh, yes." Wesley's voice dropped down to a sarcastic coo. "Your job. Only
yours. Your responsibility, your problems, you, you, you, and not a bloody
one of us ever enters into it!"
Angel stabbed a finger at him. "I never said - "
"People die?" Wesley demanded. "Doyle died. Cordelia died. Fred died. I
died!"
"And this is what?" Angel laughed. "Revenge?"
"You still don't get it." Wesley shook his head, amazed. "You think
everything always comes back to you. Did it ever once occur to you that I
might have my own problems?"
"Yeah," Angel replied, "I can tell torturing me's been keeping you up at
nights."
Wesley grabbed a thick book and threw it at him. "It's not all about you!
There are other people who care for this world! Who care for the fight!
Whose battles are their own and have nothing - absolutely nothing to do
with you!"
Angel easily ducked out of the way. "Then get the hell out of town. It's
been six years, Wes. You haven't lacked for opportunity. Don't blame me
when you're the one who decided to try living in my shadow."
"I'm not your wanna-be!" Wesley grabbed book after book, throwing
them, even though Angel swatted them away effortlessly. "I am not your
boy wonder! I am not your bloody sidekick!"
Angel reached out, catching Wesley by the wrist and holding him still.
"What is it then?"
"You're not the king," Wesley said, his face flushed. "You're the pawn. The
game is so much bigger than you could ever imagine. It's so much more
elaborate than anything you could conceive. I thought I had it, but then
you got in the way. You, and your stubborn pride, and your selfish
priorities. You brought it all crashing down. Now I can't do it anymore. I
can't help you. I can't be held back by your - "
"Blah, blah, you're giving me a monologue 'cause you're the Big Bad now,
blah," Angel recited, miming a yawn. "You done with the explanation yet?
Because I'm ready to move on to the ass-kicking."
Wesley tried to pull out of his grasp. "Go to hell."
"Already been." Angel twisted Wesley's arm and slammed him into the
wall. He moved his other hand up, pushing against Wesley's chest to pin
him in place. "You next."
"So you'll do what?" Wesley laughed, a hint of insanity in the sound. "Kill
me? Go ahead! I'm deader than you are! Dead body, lost soul - there's
nothing left!"
Angel's eyes glittered. "Oh, believe me, Wes, I can break you."
Wesley didn't look away. When he spoke, his voice was a whisper. "I'd
love to see you try."
"Don't cross paths with me again," Angel said. "Tell your buddies the
Senior Partners. If I see anybody from this firm, I'm killing first, asking
questions later."
"And me?" Wesley asked, the words almost a challenge.
"You," Angel leaned in, his voice a private promise in Wesley's ear, "you
I'll hurt personally."
Wesley smirked. "You realize this means we're not really friends
anymore?"
"Stay out of my way," Angel said, shoving Wesley out of his grasp, "or I'll
make you beg for the kind of death that's permanent."
Slamming the front doors of the Walden behind him, Angel entered the
lobby, seeing no one in his cursory glance. He muttered, "Great. Just
great. Betrayed and abandoned. Why does this not surprise me?"
Spike came down the stairs. "Wanker, I'm right here."
Angel threw himself into a dangerously creaking chair and sighed, raising
his eyes to Spike. "Wes brought Drusilla to town and then led Connor right
to her," he said tightly.
"All right." Spike took that in, slowing down as he descended the last few
steps. "Credit for the hide in plain sight award, I suppose. Was that the
plan all along or - "
"Don't know, don't care." Angel rubbed his hands over his face. "He's not
on our team, he's working against us - we have to assume anything he
could have done to screw us over, he has."
Spike cocked his head. "Lotta 'we' and 'team' in there for a man who's -
well, you."
"I was wrong to trust him," Angel said. "I'm willing to admit I might not
have been totally right on other things, too. But one thing at a time.
Where's Connor?"
"At a park not far from the city-within-a-city that you call his college
campus," Illyria said, appearing within the entrance as though Angel's
question had summoned her. Off of Angel and Spike's curious looks, she
gave a nonchalant shrug. "I followed trails of destruction until I found one
that matched the patterns of Drusilla."
"Great," Angel said. "Why'd you leave him there?"
"You requested he be found," Illyria replied, "not that he be returned."
"Next time let me do the requesting," Spike said. "Few years around Anya
and you get used to being extra literal."
"Fine, whatever." Angel sat forward. "Illyria, you should know Wes sold us
out to Wolfram & Hart. He's evil."
Illyria considered that. "How does your possession of this knowledge
change him from what he was before?"
"Apparently it doesn't," Angel said. "But we can't worry about that now.
We need to get Connor. Where was he exactly?"
"Here," Illyria walked over to the map and placed her finger over a patch
of green not far from Connor's campus. "He seemed unharmed, but the
vampire did not impress me as stable."
"That's our Dru," Spike said.
Angel was quiet. He stared out over nothing in particular, his eyes dark
with his own thoughts. "Spike, we need to handle this."
"Yeah, I know," Spike said, glancing up from the map. "I was already on
that page hours ago."
"No." Angel gravely met his eyes. "We need to handle this."
"What are you - oh." Spike seemed to deflate, his shoulders hunching.
"Oh."
"It's my fault," Angel said. "It's my problem. If you don't want to be a part
of it - "
"Of course I want to be a part of it!" Spike took a few steps toward him.
"She's family."
Angel nodded, as though Spike were agreeing with him. "Yeah. So family
should take care of it. But if you want out - "
"No." Spike shook his head at once. "No. It's like I said: that's our Dru. If
you're in, I'm in."
"Okay." Angel got up. He patted his coat down in search of his car keys.
Finding them, he gave Spike a ghost of a grateful look. "Thanks."
"Don't mention it," Spike said with quiet sincerity.
Illyria moved to follow them. "I don't understand."
Spike cut her off, giving her a look of apology. "Sorry, Blue. Appreciate
the intel and all but this one's just for the blood relations."
"Why?" Illyria asked.
"Because some things only family can do," Angel said.
Saint Petersburg, 1896
Angelus grabbed Drusilla's wrist and hauled her into the living room. Darla
stood in the doorway, holding the silent new vampire by the back of her
neck like a shaken puppy.
"What did you do?" Angelus asked calmly. "We've talked about this, Dru.
No more pets. The boy was one thing, but this is unacceptable."
"Why don't you like her? I made her properly, Daddy! The ground's
packed hard, but I put her under the snow to sleep, and look how pretty
she turned out."
Spike's footsteps thumped down the stairs, and then he slid into the
room, Angelus' boots dangling from his hands. "Dru - hey, what's - "
"Stay out of it," Angelus said, not looking at him. He pulled a stake from
his coat pocket.
"Hey!" Spike shouted.
Angelus ignored him and turned instead to face the girl with the stake in
his fist. "Move away, Darla," he said.
Darla stepped to the side and pushed the girl, sending her stumbling
toward Angelus. Drusilla jumped in front of her with a small yelp just as
Angelus lifted his arm. He lowered the stake and sighed.
"Drusilla, step aside," he told her.
"I won't!" she cried. "You won't take my toy! I won't have it!"
Angelus said nothing.
The stake whirled in the air and flew toward both girls. Spike yelled and
flung himself across the room, but it was too late. Before he could grab
Drusilla, she had stepped away, and the new vampire crumbled into dirt
and dust, scattered across Drusilla's velvet cape.
Drusilla stared at the floor in yellow-eyed rage before starting to cry,
falling to her knees in the small pile of ash.
"You son of a bitch!" Spike said, glaring at Angelus. He gathered Drusilla
into his lap. "You could have killed her!"
Angelus grabbed the stake off the floor and tucked it back into his coat.
"But I didn't, did I?"
"No," Connor said, tugging her hand off his lap.
Still in demon face, Drusilla pouted at him. The contrast made Connor
blink.
"Oh, but you are Angel's boy, aren't you?" Drusilla said, her hand still
between his legs. "So big and strong."
She ran her tongue over the edge of her fangs.
Connor pressed his hand to the side of his neck and then held his fingers
up. In the mist and the dark, his blood was black.
"I don't want this," he said, trying to pull away. But the chains of their
swings were tangled together, and Drusilla still had hold of his wrist. She
squeezed a bit, and Connor winced.
"I told you, it's not about the wanting. It's about who you are."
"I'm not like that," he said, shaking his head. "Not anymore."
"Mmm, maybe not." Drusilla smiled. "But I can fix what's been broken."
There was the soft pop of bones breaking when Connor pulled back again,
and he landed in the dirt, cradling his wrist against his chest. His gaze
flickered over Drusilla's shoulder and then quickly back to her face. She
was standing up and walking closer to him, moving slowly, as if she had
no reason not to trust that he would stay. As if she were certain she could
make sure that he did.
"I'm ever so tired of disobedient boys," Drusilla said, clicking her tongue
like a very disappointed mother. "None of them ever did know how to
mind."
"I think you got it backwards, Dru," Angel said.
Drusilla spun around. Angel and Spike stood behind her, all long black
coats and shadowed eyes. They both looked tired. Resigned. And, Connor
noticed, very well armed. He let out a puff of breath and inched away
slowly, still favoring his arm.
"You're the one not so good at minding," Angel finished, watching as
Connor crawled to relative safety.
"You always interrupt my tea parties!" Drusilla stomped one foot and flew
at Angel, but Spike lunged forward and grabbed her before she could
reach him. He pinned her arms behind her back with one hand. His other
hand hovered just above her head, as if he wanted to brush the raindrops
out of her hair. He didn't.
"Shh," he said instead.
Connor watched Spike close his eyes as soon as Angel pulled the stake out
of his coat.
Drusilla fought, snapping her teeth and scratching at Spike's wrists, a kind
of growling noise rumbling in her throat that made Connor back up just a
little bit more. Spike kept hold of Drusilla's arms and kept her just off
balance enough for Angel to get close and raise the stake.
"I'm sorry, Dru," Angel said quietly.
Angel's eyes were open, but he was so focused that it wasn't until the tip
of the wood was inches above Drusilla's breast that he seemed to realize
Connor had moved. Connor sent Spike stumbling back and then leaned
against Drusilla, grabbing Angel's wrist and twisting, putting himself
between Drusilla and the stake.
Angel grabbed for Drusilla and missed. He ended up holding Connor up by
the front of his shirt in one fist, the weapon raised above his head in the
other.
He dropped them both.
"The bloody hell are you doing?" Spike was still holding Drusilla by one
arm. Connor glanced at them. She didn't look at all afraid.
"I can't let you do this," Connor said to both Angel and Spike. When he
pushed his wet hair out of his eyes, his arm throbbed. The rain was falling
harder, and the cold seeped through his clothes.
"It isn't up to you, Connor," Angel said, gathering the stake and reaching
down to help Connor off the ground. Connor couldn't help the wince when
Angel grabbed his wrist.
Angel frowned, held Connor instead by his forearm, and hauled him to his
feet. He tried to pull Connor closer, but Connor stepped back, shrugging
his shoulders so that the collar of his polo shirt covered the bite mark.
Still, Angel's nostrils flared, and his voice was low and dangerous. "Did
she hurt you?"
"She can't help it," Connor said. "It's what she was made to be."
"It's what I made her to be," Angel replied. "And I can... fix it."
"You mean you can kill her." Connor scowled at him. Mussed hair, dirty
clothes and angry words; the familiarity of it made Connor tremble, but he
kept his voice steady. "That's your idea of fixing people."
"She's not a person, Connor," Angel said.
"Neither are you!" Connor shot back.
"Look, kid, you don't understand, all right?" Spike said. "She hasn't got a
soul, she's gonna keep killing. We can't just... do nothing." But he looked
less certain than he had just moments ago now that Drusilla was wrapped
around his waist like some child seeking protection from an angry father.
Spike had a stake as well, Connor noticed, but he wasn't using it.
"Right, that soul," Connor said, raising an eyebrow at Spike. "Is yours
Velcroed on, too?"
"Stop it," Angel said, his voice rising. "Spike is right; you don't
understand. You can't."
"I understand much better than you want to believe I do," Connor replied.
He raised his chin. "How do you know I won't kill people anymore?"
"Stop it," Angel said again. His fingers clenched around the stake.
"No, listen to me," Connor said, stepping closer to Angel, blocking his view
of Spike and Drusilla. "You don't know what could happen - to any of us.
My whole life is made of magic. What if it suddenly just runs out? Is my
new dad gonna have to kill me this time?"
Angel flinched. "Connor!"
Connor lowered his voice. "Don't do this, please," he said. "It's not right."
He reached his hand out, palm up. "Dad?"
Angel looked over Connor's shoulder at Spike holding Drusilla. "No, it isn't
right," Angel sighed. He handed Connor the stake.
"Thank you." Connor's voice was a whisper.
Spike's shoulders dropped, and Connor could hear him letting out a heavy
breath.
"I mean this. Letting her go. It's a mistake," Angel said, narrowing his
eyes. "It's not going to end well."
"What the hell is?" Spike said, his voice low with fatigue. Right then, he
sounded older than Angel. He turned to Drusilla. "Get lost, pet," he told
her. He hadn't let her go, but his grip was looser on her arm. "Get very,
very lost."
Drusilla nodded and slipped away, looking at Angel, then Spike. "Oh, you
won't see me again. Cross my heart." She ran her index finger over her
breast in the shape of an X and frowned. "But it's you boys who are truly
lost."
"Stay away from Connor," Angel replied. "From all of us."
Drusilla stepped gracefully backwards, the wet edges of her skirts making
a small shushing sound. "Far away as the very stars," she said. She took a
step to the side and dropped to her knees, her skirts bunching beneath
her. For a moment, Connor couldn't understand what she was doing, the
quick, desperate movements of her hands - until with a quick jerk of her
arm, she pulled her doll from the dirt by its hair, the makeshift grave
marker tossed away.
Drusilla brushed the earth from its bone-white face, cradling the doll and
cooing softly to it as she rose and turned away from them. Then she was
gone, vanishing into a grove of trees behind the park.
Angel sat down heavily on the nearest swing, feeling as much as hearing
the creak of the chains beneath his weight. "Well, that was - "
"Really not as much fun as I hoped?" Connor suggested.
"You lied to me," Angel said, looking at him. His mouth was set in a hard
line. "And to your father."
"I'm sorry," Connor replied, fiddling with the hem of his shirt. "I just - "
"No, I understand, Connor," Angel said. "I really do. But next time you
want to know things about me, you could try maybe just asking."
Connor stilled his hands, and tucked his wounded arm behind his back. "I
wasn't sure you'd tell me the truth."
Angel stood up and walked towards Connor. He tipped the boy's chin up
with one finger until Connor met his eyes. "Give me the chance to prove
to you that I would."
"Right," Spike said, clasping Connor's shoulder. "Or you just come right to
me. 'Cause I can tell you all kinds of fun things about your old man, here.
Like this one time in - "
"Spike!" Angel made a grab for him, but Spike dodged away effortlessly
and corralled Connor toward the park gate.
Angel glanced back toward the trees, but even the shadows were still.
Then he turned to join Connor and Spike, a few feet ahead, walking side
by side. Spike leaned in to whisper something into Connor's ear. Angel
couldn't quite make out what Spike was saying, but whatever it was made
Connor throw his head back and laugh.
Some distance away, in the darkness of the trees that Angel had looked
towards, Wesley and Johanna stood.
"Is that how you expected it to turn out?" Johanna asked.
"It's not a surprise," Wesley said flatly as he turned away. "Angel doesn't
change."
"He changes enough," Johanna said, stepping carefully beside him along
the shadowed path of the park. "If he didn't, the Senior Partners wouldn't
have their hands full trying to keep up with him."
"But he doesn't," Wesley replied with a little shake of his head. "Not
really. Problems come and go, but Angel's methods remain the same."
"He let her go," Johanna said. "Not that the Senior Partners mind the
implications of Angel releasing a serial killer into the wild but - " Johanna
shuddered, as though trying to swallow a particularly distasteful morsel " -
he showed mercy to her."
"Ah, but that's the trick of it," Wesley said. "Angel always does. He fights,
he battles, but he never follows through. Not really."
"The big battle he did against the Circle last year felt real enough,"
Johanna pointed out.
"That was different," Wesley said. "Angel thought that it was his final
battle. His ultimate ending. He's very happy to give his all if it's his own
self on the line."
"Very heroic." Johanna said, rolling her eyes.
"Very stupid," Wesley corrected her as he pushed aside a drooping branch
in his way. They were nearing a group of slides not far from the collection
of swing-sets. "He destroys himself, yet shows mercy to his enemies."
"We are talking about the same guy?" Johanna asked.
"I'm still here, aren't I?" Wesley reminded her. "He could have destroyed
me. He let me off with a warning. He has no follow-through. No heart."
"Considering what just happened," Johanna said, "don't you think the
problem is he has too much heart?"
"It isn't," Wesley replied. They walked past the slides towards a brick
building that held the public bathrooms. Some of Wolfram & Hart's finest
muscle were there, dressed in sharp black uniforms, their faces stoic
beneath their helmets, and several of them keeping a firm and steady grip
on Drusilla.
Wesley pulled a stake out of his pocket, fingering it as though it held
answers within the rough edges of the grain. "When it comes to doing
what is necessary, the problem isn't having too much passion."
"Oh no?" Johanna asked.
"Another lost boy," Drusilla murmured, her voice sing-songing as she
looked at Wesley. "He tore out all your bits, didn't he?"
"No," Wesley said. With a flash his hand shot out, plunging the stake
through Drusilla's pale white dress and directly into her ribcage.
Confusion crossed Drusilla's face, freezing there as her body began to
disintegrate. "Daddy?"
Wesley watched Drusilla explode into dust. His face remained stoic and
unreadable, and he spoke as though there'd been no interruption to his
previous thought. "The problem is knowing how to focus it."
"What did you just do?" Johanna waved away the particles of ash, looking
as though she wasn't certain if she should be shocked or impressed.
"My job," Wesley replied.
"Isn't that going to interfere with your cute little desire to help Angel
however you can?" Johanna asked.
"Not in the slightest." Wesley whistled for one of his men to come over.
He motioned towards a doll that was half-hidden in the shadows of the
building, possibly thrown there when Drusilla had been captured. "Have
that sent to the Walden. Include one of my cards. Send Angel my regards,
while you're at it."
"And this helps Angel how?" Johanna asked.
Wesley's smile was cold and calculating. "Simple. It teaches him a lesson."
"I'm gonna kill him, Angel, I'm gonna - God, I didn't think it would feel
like this."
There was more, but Angel didn't hear it. It didn't matter, in any case; it
was the same thing Spike had been repeating for the past quarter of an
hour: detailed threats on loop, metered to the stomping of booted feet
around the lobby and the sound of crying without shame.
Angel stood by his desk, staring at the doll in the center of it. It stared
back. There was a hairline crack down its left cheek.
"Gonna fucking well - damn it, Angel, when are you going to say
something?" Spike shoved at Angel's back with open palms, hard enough
that Angel's knees connected with the desk.
Angel spun around. Spike was in game face, tears in his eyes, and
standing braced for a fist fight.
Angel turned back to his desk.
"Damn it!" Spike repeated, lifting his hand to shove Angel one more time.
"What are you going to do?"
Angel moved away before Spike could touch him and swept his arm across
the desk, sending all its contents flying.
He grabbed the doll before it could fall and turned again toward Spike,
raising it up as if wielding a weapon. Spike held up one arm in defense,
but the doll soared over his head and into the wall behind him.
It made a soft tinkling sound as it hit, then shattered into pieces against
the concrete. One of its bright blue eyes rolled across the room. It
stopped when it connected with Angel's boot and stared up at him from
the floor.
"Whatever I have to," Angel replied.
THE END