Fic: My Sorrows Learned to Swim; Spike and Connor Gen; Hard R
Title: My Sorrows Learned to Swim
Author:
lillianmorgan
Setting: Post-Not Fade Away
Rating: Hard R
Disclaimer: I do not own Joss’ or ME’s toys.
Warning: Implied character death
Characters: Connor, Spike, Angel and Illyria; Spike/Angel toward the end, though predominantly gen
A/N: Many, many heartfelt thanks go to
myfeetshowit and
kittyzams for the very helpful beta.
Written for
germaine_pet’s
lynnevitational.
I had the task of writing for
stoney321 who had no specific requests other than to ‘Joss it up’ as well as no character bashing.
Due to the freedom of the request, I decided to write a prequel (of sorts) to Til the End of the World, though it’s not necessary to have read that first, because hey! prequel! Though I kinda fear it might be a prequel to the prequel. ::sigh:: Anyway, enough of me: onto the gen!
My Sorrows Learned to Swim
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had,
And add some extra, just for you.
- Philip Larkin ‘This Be Verse’
It’s Finals week and Connor is ensconced within his dorm room, contemplating the merits of the Bay of Pigs fiasco. He’s such a fucking good boy to be sitting here studying when Ian and TJ are out at a keg party, probably sampling loose girls and something illegal and mind-bending.
Reading the text doesn’t get any easier, not even on the tenth time over. He screws up his eyes and wishes he were elsewhere; a place where there is not a looming Twentieth Century American History exam in two days’ time.
He looks out the window at the dark shadows and pinpricks of light made by the other students high on Red Bull and hitting the books, and thinks about how quiet Stanford is now - how it will erupt in a few days’ time when everyone’s making plans to go on holiday or away, just far, far, away, from study, musty professors and deadlines. He has in mind a nice beach somewhere enjoying the California sun. Cold liquid refreshment - kept from his mom’s prying eyes - and that pretty girl who lives on his block too.
He shouldn’t think about it - when he’s studying, should be focused - but he’s feeling overwhelmed, so his mind wanders back to that day in L.A., drinking coffee with Angel. A week later, he’d called Angel’s office - from a prepaid cellphone that wasn’t his own - and found himself on a round of endless secretary after secretary, just getting nowhere. He remembers their vague platitudes that Angel would return his call once he left his number. Connor may have spent many years in a hell dimension, but he wasn’t born yesterday.
His reverie is interrupted by an insistent knocking at the door, and it’s probably TJ or Ian or maybe one of those loose girls (if he’s really lucky) come to regale him on the awesome time had by one and all. He opens the door and finds, waiting and looking back at him, that it’s not.
“Hi Connor,” the girl breathes. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a severe ponytail, sharpening her cheekbones and intelligent eyes. She has an oversized white Stanford sweatshirt on, with grey sweat pants. Dressed to impress those study books. She looks vaguely familiar.
“Forgive me for wondering, but you’re here because?” He’s short with her, he doesn’t know why but there’s studying to be done and memories to figure out.
“It’s Cushla,” she says as if that helps him out. He’s never been all that good with names. “We share Media Studies together.”
He frowns trying to place her. That class is a big one and picking out recognisable faces is about as easy as remembering everyone’s names. He raises an eyebrow at her. Maybe he’ll just have to believe her.
“Listen,” she says, and she’s skittish and jumpy, constantly looking behind her, and then over his shoulder, “I wondered if you wanted to take a break.”
“With you?” he asks. He slides an arm up the open door.
“Yes, I know where you can get twenty-four hour coffee and wondered if you wanted to accompany me. We should go there now … before it’s too late.”
“Hmmm, tempting,” he replies, and reaches up to hang off the door. “Would you make it worth my while?” She doesn’t blink rapidly at him, like he expects she would - there are not many that can withstand the Reilly charm - so he changes tack. “I mean, want to exchange study tips?”
“That’s right,” she nods, her eyes becoming more and more serious. “You’ve got to study, Connor. Your future is important.”
“So that makes a whole lot of sense when you’re asking me for a break.”
“It’s just - ” But she isn’t able to finish her sentence. Something, someone crashes through his window. Frames split under the pressure of the impact, glass flies everywhere, his books sail through the air. He doesn’t get a good look, but the intruders are big and possibly steel-plated and really, really fierce.
“Come on!” She yanks him violently by the T-shirt out into the hall, then kicks her legs into a face-paced run that he has trouble keeping up with.
“Wait,” he yells, looking over his shoulder to see two creatures chasing them. “I can fight them. I’m strong.”
“Too many,” she shouts back. “When you’re outnumbered, the best course of action is to find a safe place and sit out the storm. There’s no point getting killed.”
“There’s only two though.”
“That’s the two you can see,” she calls, “now stop talking, you need to conserve your energy.”
“No. We can’t leave. What about the other students?”
She slows and stops outside a fire exit, rams the door open and they speed down the stairs. “Don’t you ever listen to well-meaning advice?”
“Not often. Do you know why they're after me?”
“Because you’re connected to important people and you’d make for a powerful enemy. It’s you they want, Connor. And you they will kill.”
They’re out on the street and running toward a dark blue VW Golf. She pulls out a set of keys and clicks on the button.
“Can you drive?” she asks, thrusting the keys into his hand. “I should be better, after all this time, but I never really seemed to master it.”
He nods - what else can he do? He can see the steel-plated demons exiting his dorm block only yards away - and soon they’re speeding from the parking lot, tires smoking in screeching fury, and out into the San Jose Valley night.
**
Spike really, really, really wants to say, ‘No, I’ll have the sodding dragon, thanks all the same,’ but figures that is churlish and childish and will get him fucking nowhere. Instead he pulls on Angel’s arm and yells, “Ok but I got your back!”
The look that flits across his grandsire’s face could possibly be gratitude, more likely disbelief, but the moment is swallowed into a wave of demons attacking them from the front, the sides and the rear. The sodding dragon swoops in from above too.
As it arcs down, Angel raises his sword, bends at the knees and leaps up onto the dragon’s back. He reigns blow after blow onto the creature’s head: Flames burst from its mouth and it twists and turns trying to shake its unwelcome guest.
A Grevlak demon - with a nearly too-well timed punch - distracts Spike. He blocks the punch, and everything blurs into fighting, kicking, scrapping, brawling, biting and swallowing too much repulsive demon blood. And rain, far too much bloody rain.
He can’t keep a handle on Gunn’s position, until the scent of human blood assails him, hits him with a suckerpunch. Spike takes his sword and sweeps it through the audience of fighters in front of him to clear a path. The rain comes down in sheets now and the darkness crawls in at the edges. He is cold and wet and bleeding exhausted, and just plain bleeding as well. He thinks about resting, about giving it all up until he sees a body slumped against the wall at the far end of the alley.
Two Retaw demons, small but undeniably persistent, leap on top of him the moment he takes a step toward Charlie. He swings his arms but this is futile, for they have those pinned in a disciplined instant. He spreads his feet, lets the earth take the weight, and focuses on the muscles in his arms. He jerks free. The demons soar into the air, then crash to the ground at his feet. He lifts his boot, with enormous satisfaction, and smacks it down onto the closest demon’s head. It squashes, squelches and bursts open like an over-ripe melon. The second demon moves quicker but this time it runs away from Spike, and he turns toward Gunn.
Propped against the wall, and clinging to a gaping hole in his abdomen, Charlie’s breathing is rapid and shallow. He is close to death. His eyes flick open; they’re cloudy from the pain.
“Charlie,” Spike begins, not really knowing what to say. He thinks of the countless times that Death has been at his hands, then he’s walked away; he has never had to consider the clean-up or the restoration.
“Behind you,” Gunn whispers, before his head collapses onto his chest.
He swivels, sword slicing into the Fyarl behind him, which a troll soon replaces, and the next demon he doesn't even recognise. He forgets Gunn in the blur of the fight, forgets the fight might have an ending. He blocks a pole-axe with his dripping sword, kicks at a random stomach, and realises he’s forgotten about Angel, too.
So much for hollow promises.
**
She’s given him directions to drive for San Francisco and they move from highway to highway for nearly an hour until they hit the outskirts of the city. He’s wondering what the hell he’s doing. Connor snatches at glances of the woman beside him; he has figured out that she’s probably not a student (though maybe she’s a mature student). The clothes she’s wearing might have fooled him into thinking she was in her early twenties when she stood beside his dorm door, but her conversation consists of bits and pieces of information like that of someone who has seen the world. And then some.
“Anywhere you see a nice restaurant in a highly populated area you can stop,” she says.
He’s got nothing except a very confused, “Huh?”
She looks at him, then, as if she’s wondering whether his brain is made of brain-like matter or just jelly. “It is more difficult for a demon to track a human in a city. And besides, they won’t make a fuss with an audience. That’s why we came to San Francisco. You see, it’s the biggest city at the closest distance. All that blood masks the one scent you desire. You have to be very good, or a master vampire to find it.”
“Right,” he says, annoyed, “vampires.”
“You can’t escape them, Connor.”
“But vampires weren’t the ones bursting into my room and destroying my books,” he says, scanning the road for a place to stop. The city flicks past him, filled with lights from flashing neon signs and the sound of tooting car horns, the car radio accompanies the melody of his discontent.
“No,” she observes, correctly, then adds haughtily, “they looked more like Kiewilco demons to me. Though, admittedly, it’s been some time since I’ve seen one. Nasty brutes in any case. Wouldn’t want to get our hands dirty with those. Not much in the thinking department so reason wouldn’t work either.”
“Who the hell are you?” he erupts, because maybe it’s the delayed shock, or maybe he’s been lulled into some kind of false sense of security, but he suddenly realises that he’s stuck in a car with a woman he has no clue who the fucking hell she is. He could’ve been killed by some ugly looking demons and he realises that he still doesn’t know how to find Angel. And he would be the guy he’d turn to with all this mystical crap.
“I saved your life,” she says quietly, and then looks out the window. He hears her sigh softly a number of times, until he realises that maybe she’s not sighing, but breathing deeply instead as if to haul in her emotions.
“You did,” he returns.
She looks back at him. “You shall just have to trust me, I’m afraid Connor. I know that must seem difficult to understand at the moment, but I only want the best for you. Your life is in grave danger.” She stops and looks at her hands. “I’m afraid I’m not very good at relating and empathising. Not when it is for real.”
“Ok,” Connor laughs, because it’s getting a little too weird for his liking, “so you’re like my guardian angel or something?”
“Stupid sentiment,” she pronounces. Then, “See that Italian restaurant on the corner, the one with the black billboard above it? Stop there if you like. I haven’t been here for some time, but, from memory, the patrons always seemed to enjoy it. We can talk more when we’re inside. I’m sorry, but cars make me nervous.”
She tugs off the sweatshirt to reveal a simple white shirt underneath, then eases out of the baggy sweatpants covering a pair of black trousers. He feels a bit clever that he knew she did not suit the student get-up. He wonders if he should feel horny that a woman is getting undressed in this car; it’s a fleeting thought, but he’s startled by it. She doesn’t seem to make him feel that way at all.
He pulls in around the corner and parks under a tree, its branches straining under the weight of a multitude of pink and white blossoms.
When they’re looking through the extensive menu, he attempts to get himself out of this.
“I know someone that can help. With these vampires and demons and fighting them.” He’s speaking into the menu, then lowers it so he can see her reaction.
She is beatific and peaceful by comparison to his raging nerves. “He can’t help us now. He’s too busy. Besides, he was incredibly foolish to leave you so vulnerable and alone. What was he thinking? That you could survive by yourself?” She shuts her menu. “I think I shall take the venison. I’ve always wondered what that tasted like. What do you want?”
“Spaghetti Bolognaise. Wait. How did you know he’s a he? The guy who can help? Did he send you here?”
She blinks at him. “Connor. Please don’t make me tell you. That was the condition I agreed to.”
“What? What condition? That doesn’t help me. Did Angel set you up to this? Is this some kind of joke? You name isn’t Cushla, is it?” He throws the menu to the table and grabs at his glass of coke.
She squares her shoulders. “No but it’s the name your father used to call me. When he was intolerably drunk. He never betrayed his ancestry, even with you.”
“My dad? How do you know my dad?” Connor’s mind whirls with information, it’s seriously hard to concentrate. Does she work with his dad? Maybe she’s his mistress. She’s pretty enough to be anyone’s mistress. God, it would suck if Dad had a mistress because what then for Mom? He’d hate for them to split, they’re like his bedrock, the thing that keeps him sane.
A thought clunks to him from out of the blue. Maybe she’s one of Holtz’ groupies, come to repay a favour he did to her, long, long ago.
He must look really weird, because a petite smile is tugging at the corner of her lips. “Come now, Connor, don’t tell me you received all your mental faculties from your father?”
She sets the menu beside her cutlery and looks around for a waiter.
It’s then he realises who she is. And so he sobs. Loudly.
**
The dragon swoops in erratic arcs across Spike’s peripheral vision. He wants to watch as it plummets mercilessly to the ground, but he’s a bit busy what with the hordes and hordes of demons attacking him. He may not see the descent but it’s the end result that creates a pause in hostilities when the dying dragon smacks straight into a couple of dozen demons on the rampage toward Spike.
He has to strain to do it, but he is able to savour the momentary elation when he finally sees Angel peel himself off the dragon’s back. With his fucking sword aloft like a raging Cu Chulainn on the warpath. Bastard.
It’s into this pause that Spike becomes aware of something else, something insidious approaching. Bloody Hell. Worse than this? His arms ache from the parries and attacks he’s delivered throughout the last hour and a half, but his ears are still sharp enough to hear the approach of heavy-footed boots.
He flings his sword through his attacker’s heart and turns to appreciate the entrance. Leading a new army, blue hair streaming out behind her in the whipped up air from battle, legs stretching out with confidence in front of her, is Illyria. Bringing in the cavalry.
Spike’s body instantly sags as if it thinks he can finally rest. He watches Illyria stride toward Angel, flinging demons from her path as if she were swatting at moths. Angel hacks at a demon and looks ever so slightly miffed when Illyria raises a fist and brings it down on the demon’s head, sundering his brains from his skull. The army behind her has already thinned the numbers of the Wolfram and Hart brigade. Illyria steers Angel further into the alley, and away from the main action. Spike figures he’d better get over there if he’s to find out what’s going on. And not end up like Charlie.
By the time he arrives, Angel is in full steaming ire mode, raging at Illyria.
“You should desist from battle. You are weak. You have many injuries. You will be killed.”
“This is my battle, Illyria. Not yours. I choose to die or to live, not you.”
Illyria spins around, her back toward Angel, with what Spike can only describe as satisfaction, to view his arrival. A feral smile lights up her face. “I am most pleased, Pet. You have survived too.”
She turns her head and Spike follows suit to watch a wizened, four-foot demon approach them, his shoulders curled in around its head. The demon holds a long staff in its pale left hand and with a slight inclination of Illyria’s head, the demon raises the staff and points it at the two vampires.
A bolt of electricity fires from the bulbous end of the stick and even if Spike were in the prime of his life he doubts he would be able to evade whatever magic he’s been frozen inside.
It turns out that that is the perfect analogy, for he and Angel are immobilized in space in that dingy alleyway. Illyria stands guard in front of them and circumvents any skirmishes that might endanger her captives. Spike can only watch as the battle thunders on in front of them, Illyria’s army slowly but surely overwhelming the hordes.
It is further elongated minutes before the battle finally turns in their favour and Wolfram and Hart’s minions are either fleeing or dying before them. Illyria does not move from her position but once the attacks decrease, she stands before them, hands on hips, legs spread wide. Spike knows that if he could see her expression he might consider it orgasmic. Her wish has been granted, demons are doing violence in her name.
A tall, sinewy ghost-like apparition bows to the ground in front of her and waits until she taps him on the shoulder to rise. It is then that Spike suddenly notices the feeling has returned to his body and he almost falls forward in surprise.
Angel has realised this quicker than Spike. With a roar, he raises his arm to strike Illyria. An expression of pure, undiluted hatred overwhelms the apparition’s face. Spike realises, when it grasps Angel about the neck and slowly but surely twists his head, that maybe apparition wasn’t the best word to describe it.
He’s about to attack the thing, when Illyria calls, “Desist!” The apparition lets go of Angel and returns to stand before her.
“There shall be no fighting amongst my charges,” she instructs.
“Charges?” splutters Spike. “I don’t bloody think so! I didn’t save the world to become somebody’s lackey.”
“That is irrelevant,” Illyria interrupts. “And also incorrect. You have made it apparent to me that you belong to Angel.”
“Why you - ”
“What do you mean?” Angel asks, ignoring Spike in his indignation. “Are we some kind of bartering chip now that you’ve rolled up and saved the day?”
“We do not want you,” the apparition adds, sweeping his coat around his body. His voice sounds like water trickling over stones. He raises two fingers and clicks them.
In milliseconds, Spike and Angel find themselves in what appears to be a kitchen, the rain no longer beating down on their heads nor the air whipping about their faces.
“Bloody bitch!” yells Spike. He runs toward the door. When he finds it locked, he bangs against it bodily with as much fury as he can muster.
“Calm down, Spike. It’s security. The sun was about to rise.” Angel limps away from Spike and eases himself against one of the stainless steel bench tops.
“Why aren’t you bloody panicking?” He sags against the door. “Because I’m trying to think.”
“Yeah?” Angel sighs and looks about him. “Figure out why we’re here. It’s the Hyperion Kitchen. Illyria and her cohorts are only just out there.”
“So not as if we can go anywhere, right? No hidden exits?”
“Place is probably sealed off by now. No, escape isn’t the best option. I think we need to figure out why we’re alive. What they want from us.”
“What they want from you, you mean,” Spike mutters. “I’m no bloody use to anyone, apparently.”
Angel chooses to refrain from enabling him in his pity party, so Spike can only huff obstreperously to himself.
**
“Do you remember me?” his mother asks. Cups of partially consumed coffee stand idly between them. Her voice is soft, her eyes are distant.
Connor ducks his head down. Of course, he’s forgotten her, or else he wouldn’t have been so confused from the beginning. But he doesn’t want to admit to that.
“It’s fine if you haven’t.” She reaches a hand over toward his, then stops. It hovers across the table and he studies it: so small, so white, so delicate.
“My memories are wicked jumbled, from the spell. Did you know about that?” He frowns at her and she nods slightly.
“A little,” she concedes. “But where I’ve been events in this reality take on less consequence and importance. It’s difficult to explain. Yet, I always kept you as my focus.”
“I remember you in dreams,” he whispers.
“That’s the best place for me, I should imagine.” She brings her hand back to her lap; her expression hardens.
“Why?” he asks.
“You shan’t be sullied by the terrible crimes I’ve committed. Did you ever ask your father about me?”
“No.” He pauses, closing his eyes. She begins to laugh harshly but he interrupts her, “But he once told me about you. About your sacrifice.” He raises his gaze to hers, his eyes shining with unspilled tears. “Because you loved me.”
“Oh Connor,” she reaches her hand out this time and grasps his own. Her hand is warm and tight and he feels something surge through him, making him feel lighter. “I did. I do. Very much. You’re the one good and beautiful thing I ever did.”
“Tell me something, anything about you,” he breathes.
She laughs again, but this time it is boundless. “What do you want to know?”
“Anything.” He joins her in laughter. “What’s your favourite colour? What music do you like? Where were you born?”
“Hmmm, I expect we would be here all night, if I were to indulge you. And there are things I want to know about you.”
“Tell me something. Small,” he urges. Her eyelids flutter close and she smiles. When she opens them again, he notices they have filled with tension. Her gaze is fixed on something behind him, and she grips the chair.
“Come on,” she says, standing so fast that her chair topples over behind her. “We should leave.”
“But the check,” he begins, but she is grabbing his arm again and pulling him from the chair. She flings several bills at the startled maitre’d and they barrel out the door. Their speed picks up as they run around the corner of the street. In contrast, time around him slows down to super-slomo speed and when they get to where the car should be, they find it has vanished.
“Bastards!” she exclaims. “They must know we’re here.”
“What happened to your big city plan?”
“Not all of my plans are faultless,” she cries. “After all, I usually oversaw or just nitpicked. Somebody else would execute them.”
“What now?” he asks, because he doesn’t know what to do. And he feels the panic setting in. “Should we … Angel?”
She looks at him, fear washing over her face, and he realises that she doesn’t know either. Her eyes gain focus and she pulls herself straight. “Yes. That’s what we should do.”
“What? What?” he asks, helpless.
She pushes past him, and runs onto the street. He watches as she hails down a yellow cab, then waves him over. She opens the door to the cab and pushes him in.
“To the airport,” she directs to the driver, and reaches into her pocket, pulling out credit cards and cash. “They sent me here equipped. But your need is greater than mine. Once you get to the airport buy a one-way ticket to Los Angeles. Find your father. He can’t be far from the Hyperion, the place of your birth. Remember trust no-one, trust only your instincts. Find your father. Or, as second best, look for Spike. White-haired, punky vampire. He’ll do well by you too.”
“Who sent you equipped?” he asks, then jolts with realisation. “Get in the cab. We have to go now don’t we? Aren’t you coming too?”
She steps back. “My favourite colour was red. I used to adore Chopin. And I was born in a small house in Highgate, London. Remember, Connor. I will always love you.”
She slams the door in his bewildered face. Then hits the cab on the roof and turns her back on him. The cab pulls away and he wants to yell, ‘Wait! Stop!’ to the cab driver, but he can’t because this is her wish, this is what she has asked of him. All he can do is stare from the back window and look at her as she fades into the San Franciscan night.
**
Time has stretched on with no definable meaning, and Spike and Angel are still trapped in the Hyperion kitchen, despite multiple attempts to find some kind of egress. Spike wonders if both conventional and mystical locks trap them inside. They should be driving each other barmy, but they are too exhausted for that. Or, rather, Spike has decided to desist from engaging Angel in any kind of verbal warfare. Instead, he just wants to find answers.
“What do you think they want?” he asks. They’re sitting on the kitchen floor, facing opposite each other, backs pressed against cupboards.
“I have no idea, Spike.”
“Can’t you make a few well-placed guesses? Then we can take it from there?”
Angel sighs and looks to the ceiling for relief. “Power, money, control of this dimension? It could be anything. And as they’ve got enough firepower and hutzpah to go up against Wolfram and Hart, I’m guessing that it’s a hell of a motivation.”
“So what you’re sayin’ is that you never saw this coming? Nothing came across that lovely pine desk of yours, in memo form, proclaiming that Illyria would want to take over the world?” Spike cocks his head to the side in concentration.
“Exactly. Though, I’m not the one who spent a lot of time with her.”
Spike coughs out a giggle. “Oh come on. Granted in the beginning there was the important research to be done. But later on it was always Watcher Boy who had the most slots on his dance card, not me. Besides, what do you care? Jealous?”
Angel chooses not to dignify that request.
Spike can’t control himself and begins to giggle fervently. “You are jealous! I can see it in the tight set of your forehead. You’re straining yourself at the implication that I might belong to another. Oh woe is you, Angelus. Woe is you.”
“Shut up, Spike,” Angel grinds out, as he clenches his fingers into a fist.
Spike thrusts his tongue out from underneath his front teeth. “Make me.”
The combination of tongue, come hither look and insolent request has the desired effect and Angel crosses the divide between them as fast as he can. He captures Spike’s mouth in a searing kiss, and immediately begins tugging off his coat.
“I know, you old bastard,” says Spike when his mouth is freed, “you just need to get it out of your system.” Angel recaptures his lips to shut him up, and plunders Spike’s mouth with biting teeth and thrusting tongue. He begins to struggle with Spike’s trousers, but twisting his head and fiddling with the zip becomes untenable, so he has to let go of his control of Spike’s mouth. “Lay it all on me. You’re fucking frightened of something. Fuck it out of me, Angel.”
Spike resists and bucks against him a few times to increase Angel’s desire - fighting has always been part of their fucking - until Angel grasps him so hard he can’t move, rotates him over, shucks down his trousers and enters.
It is a relief for both of them to be doing something other than worrying or repelling demons in exchange for their lives, but it is too rapid, too fevered, too overwhelming to enjoy - except in the brief moment of release.
As Angel heaves himself off Spike so that they can attend to their clothes, a voice behind them says, “They mate, from time to time. I have smelt it on them, but never witnessed the act. I find it fascinating.”
Spike whips his head around to see Illyria and her ghostly minion standing beside the kitchen door.
“It is not pleasurable to my eyes, Highness, but should you wish we can study them further.”
“Hey, hey, hey. No studying,” says Spike, leaping to his feet. “This is a highly private act. We’re not fucking lab rats.”
“What is it exactly that you want?” Angel is on his feet too, standing beside Spike. “And who are you?”
Illyria crosses her arms over her body. “Angel. It is curious to me that you are in a position of weakness and yet you still wish answers to be given as if we were equals.”
“Illyria,” Angel begins, “we let you live, we helped you -”
“Silence! My Wesley is dead. Drogyn, Charles Gunn and Knox were killed. My acolytes in this world have been destroyed, and I mourned them in due fashion. But I am left with two half-breeds who have never shown me loyalty. It is not for you to question, half-breed, it is for you to follow.” She turns her head to her minion. “Tell them.”
He inclines his head in acquiescence. “My name is Hovenden. I am not of this world, but live in a dimension still ruled by the Old Ones. I serve fealty to my God-king, Illyria, and do his bidding as and when he sees fit.
But there is a prophecy, created many moons ago, that we believe will bind you to Illyria and do his bidding in this world. There is a creature, a boy, his name is Connor and we know of his existence.”
“You always underestimated the shell, Angel,” Illyria interrupts, her eagerness to impress her authority over Angel all too apparent. “You did not consider that she would have memories not contained by your spell.”
“Don’t you talk about him, you don’t have the right,” Angel whispers, teeth clenched together in fury.
“It is you that have lost your rights. We saved you from death on that battlefield. You fought for the glory of Illyria, and in return we spared your lives,” Hovenden explains. “By the laws of the Old Ones, your lives are now forfeit to us. As are the lives of your offspring.”
Spike recoils at the insinuation but he knows to remain silent, to save up the question when he has Angel alone.
“And what if we don’t agree to whatever it is you are proposing?” Angel asks.
“Your death,” Illyria answers simply. “And the death of those closest to you.”
“Right,” decides Spike, “and what is it exactly that you are proposing?”
“I wish to return to a dimension where I will be respected and worshipped. This world has become rancid to me, tainted with death and decay.” Illyria pauses, turns her head on an angle and stops talking.
After many tense, silent minutes at Illyria’s pleasure, she enlightens them further. “You are to be my warriors in this world, and report to me with information on the Wolf, the Ram and the Hart. You are not human, you have no expiration date. You will live long and therefore dedicate many years to me. This is the only detail that pleases me about your existence, for you are half-breeds and treachery is in your nature.”
“The boy,” Hovenden says, “will bind your lives to Illyria’s. We shall be in touch with the particulars.”
They turn to leave the room, Illyria exits without a backward glance. Hovenden pauses and turns one final time to them, “If you wish to protect him from the minions of the Wolf, the Ram and the Hart, know that he has just taken a silver bird in the sky. It would be wise to meet him at the place of its landing.”
As Spike watches him leave, and feels the mystical charms around them dissolve, Angel sinks to his knees. For the first time in his unliving memory, Spike is firsthand witness to Angel’s tears.
**
Connor doesn’t expect to see anyone as he walks through the arrivals lounge at LAX airport. He’s considering taking a taxi or maybe a bus into the centre of LA and finding a hostel, when his path crosses that of someone familiar.
“Connor.” It is all Angel says, before he grabs him into an incredibly tight hug. Around his father’s shoulder, Connor can see another man - or perhaps a vampire. He looks sulky, and is dressed all in black. His white hair and pale skin create a shocking contrast.
“Dad. Dad!” Connor tries to shake Angel off. “I can’t breathe!” Angel releases him in an instant, and looks incredibly sheepish.
“Yeah,” the other man observes. “Your old man always forgot about the breathing thing.”
“Spike,” Angel says, his mouth tightening, but his eyes still holding their gaze with Connor’s. “This is Connor.”
The other vampire, Spike, inclines his head towards Connor. “Nice to properly meet you, mate. Heard ever so much about you, you know.”
“Spike,” growls Angel, and Connor can hear a warning tone in his father’s voice.
“Yeah? Well, I’ve heard some stuff about you,” returns Connor. “All of it good.”
He sees that he’s taken the other vampire by surprise, but he’s too excited to revel in his victory. “Did she get hold of you? Did she tell you I was coming? Is she alright?”
He feels his father immediately tense up and it’s as if an invisible wall goes up between them. “We have to get you out of here. It’s not safe. Connor, we’re going to take you away.”
“Yeah, and it’s best not to talk about her in your father’s presence,” Spike declares. Then adds, quite inexplicably, with a punch to the shoulder, “Unc.”
His head sways from vampire to vampire as a secret, angry message passes between them. He really, really wants to find out if his mother is alive or around but instead he is being dragged away, this time by Angel, and he wonders if there will ever be a time when someone isn’t grabbing onto his shoulder and pulling him in their direction.
Perhaps he can wait, find the right moment when Angel is not looking quite so neurotic. Or perhaps he can try and find her. Go back to San Francisco when the danger has passed. Hell, he has to go back to Stanford at some point.
He knows she is beautiful, but there are things that he tries to recollect, things that he will savour in his memory - the way her voice rasped when she was excited, the way she told him she loved him, her hand in his, so small and yet so filled with power.
As he follows the two vampires from the airport, and onto whatever next danger waits for him, he decides that he’ll wait for her, that’s all he can do. He just hopes that she will find him again. Somehow.
Finis
Author:
lillianmorgan
Setting: Post-Not Fade Away
Rating: Hard R
Disclaimer: I do not own Joss’ or ME’s toys.
Warning: Implied character death
Characters: Connor, Spike, Angel and Illyria; Spike/Angel toward the end, though predominantly gen
A/N: Many, many heartfelt thanks go to
myfeetshowit and
kittyzams for the very helpful beta.
Written for
germaine_pet’s
lynnevitational.
I had the task of writing for
stoney321 who had no specific requests other than to ‘Joss it up’ as well as no character bashing.
Due to the freedom of the request, I decided to write a prequel (of sorts) to Til the End of the World, though it’s not necessary to have read that first, because hey! prequel! Though I kinda fear it might be a prequel to the prequel. ::sigh:: Anyway, enough of me: onto the gen!
My Sorrows Learned to Swim
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had,
And add some extra, just for you.
- Philip Larkin ‘This Be Verse’
It’s Finals week and Connor is ensconced within his dorm room, contemplating the merits of the Bay of Pigs fiasco. He’s such a fucking good boy to be sitting here studying when Ian and TJ are out at a keg party, probably sampling loose girls and something illegal and mind-bending.
Reading the text doesn’t get any easier, not even on the tenth time over. He screws up his eyes and wishes he were elsewhere; a place where there is not a looming Twentieth Century American History exam in two days’ time.
He looks out the window at the dark shadows and pinpricks of light made by the other students high on Red Bull and hitting the books, and thinks about how quiet Stanford is now - how it will erupt in a few days’ time when everyone’s making plans to go on holiday or away, just far, far, away, from study, musty professors and deadlines. He has in mind a nice beach somewhere enjoying the California sun. Cold liquid refreshment - kept from his mom’s prying eyes - and that pretty girl who lives on his block too.
He shouldn’t think about it - when he’s studying, should be focused - but he’s feeling overwhelmed, so his mind wanders back to that day in L.A., drinking coffee with Angel. A week later, he’d called Angel’s office - from a prepaid cellphone that wasn’t his own - and found himself on a round of endless secretary after secretary, just getting nowhere. He remembers their vague platitudes that Angel would return his call once he left his number. Connor may have spent many years in a hell dimension, but he wasn’t born yesterday.
His reverie is interrupted by an insistent knocking at the door, and it’s probably TJ or Ian or maybe one of those loose girls (if he’s really lucky) come to regale him on the awesome time had by one and all. He opens the door and finds, waiting and looking back at him, that it’s not.
“Hi Connor,” the girl breathes. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a severe ponytail, sharpening her cheekbones and intelligent eyes. She has an oversized white Stanford sweatshirt on, with grey sweat pants. Dressed to impress those study books. She looks vaguely familiar.
“Forgive me for wondering, but you’re here because?” He’s short with her, he doesn’t know why but there’s studying to be done and memories to figure out.
“It’s Cushla,” she says as if that helps him out. He’s never been all that good with names. “We share Media Studies together.”
He frowns trying to place her. That class is a big one and picking out recognisable faces is about as easy as remembering everyone’s names. He raises an eyebrow at her. Maybe he’ll just have to believe her.
“Listen,” she says, and she’s skittish and jumpy, constantly looking behind her, and then over his shoulder, “I wondered if you wanted to take a break.”
“With you?” he asks. He slides an arm up the open door.
“Yes, I know where you can get twenty-four hour coffee and wondered if you wanted to accompany me. We should go there now … before it’s too late.”
“Hmmm, tempting,” he replies, and reaches up to hang off the door. “Would you make it worth my while?” She doesn’t blink rapidly at him, like he expects she would - there are not many that can withstand the Reilly charm - so he changes tack. “I mean, want to exchange study tips?”
“That’s right,” she nods, her eyes becoming more and more serious. “You’ve got to study, Connor. Your future is important.”
“So that makes a whole lot of sense when you’re asking me for a break.”
“It’s just - ” But she isn’t able to finish her sentence. Something, someone crashes through his window. Frames split under the pressure of the impact, glass flies everywhere, his books sail through the air. He doesn’t get a good look, but the intruders are big and possibly steel-plated and really, really fierce.
“Come on!” She yanks him violently by the T-shirt out into the hall, then kicks her legs into a face-paced run that he has trouble keeping up with.
“Wait,” he yells, looking over his shoulder to see two creatures chasing them. “I can fight them. I’m strong.”
“Too many,” she shouts back. “When you’re outnumbered, the best course of action is to find a safe place and sit out the storm. There’s no point getting killed.”
“There’s only two though.”
“That’s the two you can see,” she calls, “now stop talking, you need to conserve your energy.”
“No. We can’t leave. What about the other students?”
She slows and stops outside a fire exit, rams the door open and they speed down the stairs. “Don’t you ever listen to well-meaning advice?”
“Not often. Do you know why they're after me?”
“Because you’re connected to important people and you’d make for a powerful enemy. It’s you they want, Connor. And you they will kill.”
They’re out on the street and running toward a dark blue VW Golf. She pulls out a set of keys and clicks on the button.
“Can you drive?” she asks, thrusting the keys into his hand. “I should be better, after all this time, but I never really seemed to master it.”
He nods - what else can he do? He can see the steel-plated demons exiting his dorm block only yards away - and soon they’re speeding from the parking lot, tires smoking in screeching fury, and out into the San Jose Valley night.
**
Spike really, really, really wants to say, ‘No, I’ll have the sodding dragon, thanks all the same,’ but figures that is churlish and childish and will get him fucking nowhere. Instead he pulls on Angel’s arm and yells, “Ok but I got your back!”
The look that flits across his grandsire’s face could possibly be gratitude, more likely disbelief, but the moment is swallowed into a wave of demons attacking them from the front, the sides and the rear. The sodding dragon swoops in from above too.
As it arcs down, Angel raises his sword, bends at the knees and leaps up onto the dragon’s back. He reigns blow after blow onto the creature’s head: Flames burst from its mouth and it twists and turns trying to shake its unwelcome guest.
A Grevlak demon - with a nearly too-well timed punch - distracts Spike. He blocks the punch, and everything blurs into fighting, kicking, scrapping, brawling, biting and swallowing too much repulsive demon blood. And rain, far too much bloody rain.
He can’t keep a handle on Gunn’s position, until the scent of human blood assails him, hits him with a suckerpunch. Spike takes his sword and sweeps it through the audience of fighters in front of him to clear a path. The rain comes down in sheets now and the darkness crawls in at the edges. He is cold and wet and bleeding exhausted, and just plain bleeding as well. He thinks about resting, about giving it all up until he sees a body slumped against the wall at the far end of the alley.
Two Retaw demons, small but undeniably persistent, leap on top of him the moment he takes a step toward Charlie. He swings his arms but this is futile, for they have those pinned in a disciplined instant. He spreads his feet, lets the earth take the weight, and focuses on the muscles in his arms. He jerks free. The demons soar into the air, then crash to the ground at his feet. He lifts his boot, with enormous satisfaction, and smacks it down onto the closest demon’s head. It squashes, squelches and bursts open like an over-ripe melon. The second demon moves quicker but this time it runs away from Spike, and he turns toward Gunn.
Propped against the wall, and clinging to a gaping hole in his abdomen, Charlie’s breathing is rapid and shallow. He is close to death. His eyes flick open; they’re cloudy from the pain.
“Charlie,” Spike begins, not really knowing what to say. He thinks of the countless times that Death has been at his hands, then he’s walked away; he has never had to consider the clean-up or the restoration.
“Behind you,” Gunn whispers, before his head collapses onto his chest.
He swivels, sword slicing into the Fyarl behind him, which a troll soon replaces, and the next demon he doesn't even recognise. He forgets Gunn in the blur of the fight, forgets the fight might have an ending. He blocks a pole-axe with his dripping sword, kicks at a random stomach, and realises he’s forgotten about Angel, too.
So much for hollow promises.
**
She’s given him directions to drive for San Francisco and they move from highway to highway for nearly an hour until they hit the outskirts of the city. He’s wondering what the hell he’s doing. Connor snatches at glances of the woman beside him; he has figured out that she’s probably not a student (though maybe she’s a mature student). The clothes she’s wearing might have fooled him into thinking she was in her early twenties when she stood beside his dorm door, but her conversation consists of bits and pieces of information like that of someone who has seen the world. And then some.
“Anywhere you see a nice restaurant in a highly populated area you can stop,” she says.
He’s got nothing except a very confused, “Huh?”
She looks at him, then, as if she’s wondering whether his brain is made of brain-like matter or just jelly. “It is more difficult for a demon to track a human in a city. And besides, they won’t make a fuss with an audience. That’s why we came to San Francisco. You see, it’s the biggest city at the closest distance. All that blood masks the one scent you desire. You have to be very good, or a master vampire to find it.”
“Right,” he says, annoyed, “vampires.”
“You can’t escape them, Connor.”
“But vampires weren’t the ones bursting into my room and destroying my books,” he says, scanning the road for a place to stop. The city flicks past him, filled with lights from flashing neon signs and the sound of tooting car horns, the car radio accompanies the melody of his discontent.
“No,” she observes, correctly, then adds haughtily, “they looked more like Kiewilco demons to me. Though, admittedly, it’s been some time since I’ve seen one. Nasty brutes in any case. Wouldn’t want to get our hands dirty with those. Not much in the thinking department so reason wouldn’t work either.”
“Who the hell are you?” he erupts, because maybe it’s the delayed shock, or maybe he’s been lulled into some kind of false sense of security, but he suddenly realises that he’s stuck in a car with a woman he has no clue who the fucking hell she is. He could’ve been killed by some ugly looking demons and he realises that he still doesn’t know how to find Angel. And he would be the guy he’d turn to with all this mystical crap.
“I saved your life,” she says quietly, and then looks out the window. He hears her sigh softly a number of times, until he realises that maybe she’s not sighing, but breathing deeply instead as if to haul in her emotions.
“You did,” he returns.
She looks back at him. “You shall just have to trust me, I’m afraid Connor. I know that must seem difficult to understand at the moment, but I only want the best for you. Your life is in grave danger.” She stops and looks at her hands. “I’m afraid I’m not very good at relating and empathising. Not when it is for real.”
“Ok,” Connor laughs, because it’s getting a little too weird for his liking, “so you’re like my guardian angel or something?”
“Stupid sentiment,” she pronounces. Then, “See that Italian restaurant on the corner, the one with the black billboard above it? Stop there if you like. I haven’t been here for some time, but, from memory, the patrons always seemed to enjoy it. We can talk more when we’re inside. I’m sorry, but cars make me nervous.”
She tugs off the sweatshirt to reveal a simple white shirt underneath, then eases out of the baggy sweatpants covering a pair of black trousers. He feels a bit clever that he knew she did not suit the student get-up. He wonders if he should feel horny that a woman is getting undressed in this car; it’s a fleeting thought, but he’s startled by it. She doesn’t seem to make him feel that way at all.
He pulls in around the corner and parks under a tree, its branches straining under the weight of a multitude of pink and white blossoms.
When they’re looking through the extensive menu, he attempts to get himself out of this.
“I know someone that can help. With these vampires and demons and fighting them.” He’s speaking into the menu, then lowers it so he can see her reaction.
She is beatific and peaceful by comparison to his raging nerves. “He can’t help us now. He’s too busy. Besides, he was incredibly foolish to leave you so vulnerable and alone. What was he thinking? That you could survive by yourself?” She shuts her menu. “I think I shall take the venison. I’ve always wondered what that tasted like. What do you want?”
“Spaghetti Bolognaise. Wait. How did you know he’s a he? The guy who can help? Did he send you here?”
She blinks at him. “Connor. Please don’t make me tell you. That was the condition I agreed to.”
“What? What condition? That doesn’t help me. Did Angel set you up to this? Is this some kind of joke? You name isn’t Cushla, is it?” He throws the menu to the table and grabs at his glass of coke.
She squares her shoulders. “No but it’s the name your father used to call me. When he was intolerably drunk. He never betrayed his ancestry, even with you.”
“My dad? How do you know my dad?” Connor’s mind whirls with information, it’s seriously hard to concentrate. Does she work with his dad? Maybe she’s his mistress. She’s pretty enough to be anyone’s mistress. God, it would suck if Dad had a mistress because what then for Mom? He’d hate for them to split, they’re like his bedrock, the thing that keeps him sane.
A thought clunks to him from out of the blue. Maybe she’s one of Holtz’ groupies, come to repay a favour he did to her, long, long ago.
He must look really weird, because a petite smile is tugging at the corner of her lips. “Come now, Connor, don’t tell me you received all your mental faculties from your father?”
She sets the menu beside her cutlery and looks around for a waiter.
It’s then he realises who she is. And so he sobs. Loudly.
**
The dragon swoops in erratic arcs across Spike’s peripheral vision. He wants to watch as it plummets mercilessly to the ground, but he’s a bit busy what with the hordes and hordes of demons attacking him. He may not see the descent but it’s the end result that creates a pause in hostilities when the dying dragon smacks straight into a couple of dozen demons on the rampage toward Spike.
He has to strain to do it, but he is able to savour the momentary elation when he finally sees Angel peel himself off the dragon’s back. With his fucking sword aloft like a raging Cu Chulainn on the warpath. Bastard.
It’s into this pause that Spike becomes aware of something else, something insidious approaching. Bloody Hell. Worse than this? His arms ache from the parries and attacks he’s delivered throughout the last hour and a half, but his ears are still sharp enough to hear the approach of heavy-footed boots.
He flings his sword through his attacker’s heart and turns to appreciate the entrance. Leading a new army, blue hair streaming out behind her in the whipped up air from battle, legs stretching out with confidence in front of her, is Illyria. Bringing in the cavalry.
Spike’s body instantly sags as if it thinks he can finally rest. He watches Illyria stride toward Angel, flinging demons from her path as if she were swatting at moths. Angel hacks at a demon and looks ever so slightly miffed when Illyria raises a fist and brings it down on the demon’s head, sundering his brains from his skull. The army behind her has already thinned the numbers of the Wolfram and Hart brigade. Illyria steers Angel further into the alley, and away from the main action. Spike figures he’d better get over there if he’s to find out what’s going on. And not end up like Charlie.
By the time he arrives, Angel is in full steaming ire mode, raging at Illyria.
“You should desist from battle. You are weak. You have many injuries. You will be killed.”
“This is my battle, Illyria. Not yours. I choose to die or to live, not you.”
Illyria spins around, her back toward Angel, with what Spike can only describe as satisfaction, to view his arrival. A feral smile lights up her face. “I am most pleased, Pet. You have survived too.”
She turns her head and Spike follows suit to watch a wizened, four-foot demon approach them, his shoulders curled in around its head. The demon holds a long staff in its pale left hand and with a slight inclination of Illyria’s head, the demon raises the staff and points it at the two vampires.
A bolt of electricity fires from the bulbous end of the stick and even if Spike were in the prime of his life he doubts he would be able to evade whatever magic he’s been frozen inside.
It turns out that that is the perfect analogy, for he and Angel are immobilized in space in that dingy alleyway. Illyria stands guard in front of them and circumvents any skirmishes that might endanger her captives. Spike can only watch as the battle thunders on in front of them, Illyria’s army slowly but surely overwhelming the hordes.
It is further elongated minutes before the battle finally turns in their favour and Wolfram and Hart’s minions are either fleeing or dying before them. Illyria does not move from her position but once the attacks decrease, she stands before them, hands on hips, legs spread wide. Spike knows that if he could see her expression he might consider it orgasmic. Her wish has been granted, demons are doing violence in her name.
A tall, sinewy ghost-like apparition bows to the ground in front of her and waits until she taps him on the shoulder to rise. It is then that Spike suddenly notices the feeling has returned to his body and he almost falls forward in surprise.
Angel has realised this quicker than Spike. With a roar, he raises his arm to strike Illyria. An expression of pure, undiluted hatred overwhelms the apparition’s face. Spike realises, when it grasps Angel about the neck and slowly but surely twists his head, that maybe apparition wasn’t the best word to describe it.
He’s about to attack the thing, when Illyria calls, “Desist!” The apparition lets go of Angel and returns to stand before her.
“There shall be no fighting amongst my charges,” she instructs.
“Charges?” splutters Spike. “I don’t bloody think so! I didn’t save the world to become somebody’s lackey.”
“That is irrelevant,” Illyria interrupts. “And also incorrect. You have made it apparent to me that you belong to Angel.”
“Why you - ”
“What do you mean?” Angel asks, ignoring Spike in his indignation. “Are we some kind of bartering chip now that you’ve rolled up and saved the day?”
“We do not want you,” the apparition adds, sweeping his coat around his body. His voice sounds like water trickling over stones. He raises two fingers and clicks them.
In milliseconds, Spike and Angel find themselves in what appears to be a kitchen, the rain no longer beating down on their heads nor the air whipping about their faces.
“Bloody bitch!” yells Spike. He runs toward the door. When he finds it locked, he bangs against it bodily with as much fury as he can muster.
“Calm down, Spike. It’s security. The sun was about to rise.” Angel limps away from Spike and eases himself against one of the stainless steel bench tops.
“Why aren’t you bloody panicking?” He sags against the door. “Because I’m trying to think.”
“Yeah?” Angel sighs and looks about him. “Figure out why we’re here. It’s the Hyperion Kitchen. Illyria and her cohorts are only just out there.”
“So not as if we can go anywhere, right? No hidden exits?”
“Place is probably sealed off by now. No, escape isn’t the best option. I think we need to figure out why we’re alive. What they want from us.”
“What they want from you, you mean,” Spike mutters. “I’m no bloody use to anyone, apparently.”
Angel chooses to refrain from enabling him in his pity party, so Spike can only huff obstreperously to himself.
**
“Do you remember me?” his mother asks. Cups of partially consumed coffee stand idly between them. Her voice is soft, her eyes are distant.
Connor ducks his head down. Of course, he’s forgotten her, or else he wouldn’t have been so confused from the beginning. But he doesn’t want to admit to that.
“It’s fine if you haven’t.” She reaches a hand over toward his, then stops. It hovers across the table and he studies it: so small, so white, so delicate.
“My memories are wicked jumbled, from the spell. Did you know about that?” He frowns at her and she nods slightly.
“A little,” she concedes. “But where I’ve been events in this reality take on less consequence and importance. It’s difficult to explain. Yet, I always kept you as my focus.”
“I remember you in dreams,” he whispers.
“That’s the best place for me, I should imagine.” She brings her hand back to her lap; her expression hardens.
“Why?” he asks.
“You shan’t be sullied by the terrible crimes I’ve committed. Did you ever ask your father about me?”
“No.” He pauses, closing his eyes. She begins to laugh harshly but he interrupts her, “But he once told me about you. About your sacrifice.” He raises his gaze to hers, his eyes shining with unspilled tears. “Because you loved me.”
“Oh Connor,” she reaches her hand out this time and grasps his own. Her hand is warm and tight and he feels something surge through him, making him feel lighter. “I did. I do. Very much. You’re the one good and beautiful thing I ever did.”
“Tell me something, anything about you,” he breathes.
She laughs again, but this time it is boundless. “What do you want to know?”
“Anything.” He joins her in laughter. “What’s your favourite colour? What music do you like? Where were you born?”
“Hmmm, I expect we would be here all night, if I were to indulge you. And there are things I want to know about you.”
“Tell me something. Small,” he urges. Her eyelids flutter close and she smiles. When she opens them again, he notices they have filled with tension. Her gaze is fixed on something behind him, and she grips the chair.
“Come on,” she says, standing so fast that her chair topples over behind her. “We should leave.”
“But the check,” he begins, but she is grabbing his arm again and pulling him from the chair. She flings several bills at the startled maitre’d and they barrel out the door. Their speed picks up as they run around the corner of the street. In contrast, time around him slows down to super-slomo speed and when they get to where the car should be, they find it has vanished.
“Bastards!” she exclaims. “They must know we’re here.”
“What happened to your big city plan?”
“Not all of my plans are faultless,” she cries. “After all, I usually oversaw or just nitpicked. Somebody else would execute them.”
“What now?” he asks, because he doesn’t know what to do. And he feels the panic setting in. “Should we … Angel?”
She looks at him, fear washing over her face, and he realises that she doesn’t know either. Her eyes gain focus and she pulls herself straight. “Yes. That’s what we should do.”
“What? What?” he asks, helpless.
She pushes past him, and runs onto the street. He watches as she hails down a yellow cab, then waves him over. She opens the door to the cab and pushes him in.
“To the airport,” she directs to the driver, and reaches into her pocket, pulling out credit cards and cash. “They sent me here equipped. But your need is greater than mine. Once you get to the airport buy a one-way ticket to Los Angeles. Find your father. He can’t be far from the Hyperion, the place of your birth. Remember trust no-one, trust only your instincts. Find your father. Or, as second best, look for Spike. White-haired, punky vampire. He’ll do well by you too.”
“Who sent you equipped?” he asks, then jolts with realisation. “Get in the cab. We have to go now don’t we? Aren’t you coming too?”
She steps back. “My favourite colour was red. I used to adore Chopin. And I was born in a small house in Highgate, London. Remember, Connor. I will always love you.”
She slams the door in his bewildered face. Then hits the cab on the roof and turns her back on him. The cab pulls away and he wants to yell, ‘Wait! Stop!’ to the cab driver, but he can’t because this is her wish, this is what she has asked of him. All he can do is stare from the back window and look at her as she fades into the San Franciscan night.
**
Time has stretched on with no definable meaning, and Spike and Angel are still trapped in the Hyperion kitchen, despite multiple attempts to find some kind of egress. Spike wonders if both conventional and mystical locks trap them inside. They should be driving each other barmy, but they are too exhausted for that. Or, rather, Spike has decided to desist from engaging Angel in any kind of verbal warfare. Instead, he just wants to find answers.
“What do you think they want?” he asks. They’re sitting on the kitchen floor, facing opposite each other, backs pressed against cupboards.
“I have no idea, Spike.”
“Can’t you make a few well-placed guesses? Then we can take it from there?”
Angel sighs and looks to the ceiling for relief. “Power, money, control of this dimension? It could be anything. And as they’ve got enough firepower and hutzpah to go up against Wolfram and Hart, I’m guessing that it’s a hell of a motivation.”
“So what you’re sayin’ is that you never saw this coming? Nothing came across that lovely pine desk of yours, in memo form, proclaiming that Illyria would want to take over the world?” Spike cocks his head to the side in concentration.
“Exactly. Though, I’m not the one who spent a lot of time with her.”
Spike coughs out a giggle. “Oh come on. Granted in the beginning there was the important research to be done. But later on it was always Watcher Boy who had the most slots on his dance card, not me. Besides, what do you care? Jealous?”
Angel chooses not to dignify that request.
Spike can’t control himself and begins to giggle fervently. “You are jealous! I can see it in the tight set of your forehead. You’re straining yourself at the implication that I might belong to another. Oh woe is you, Angelus. Woe is you.”
“Shut up, Spike,” Angel grinds out, as he clenches his fingers into a fist.
Spike thrusts his tongue out from underneath his front teeth. “Make me.”
The combination of tongue, come hither look and insolent request has the desired effect and Angel crosses the divide between them as fast as he can. He captures Spike’s mouth in a searing kiss, and immediately begins tugging off his coat.
“I know, you old bastard,” says Spike when his mouth is freed, “you just need to get it out of your system.” Angel recaptures his lips to shut him up, and plunders Spike’s mouth with biting teeth and thrusting tongue. He begins to struggle with Spike’s trousers, but twisting his head and fiddling with the zip becomes untenable, so he has to let go of his control of Spike’s mouth. “Lay it all on me. You’re fucking frightened of something. Fuck it out of me, Angel.”
Spike resists and bucks against him a few times to increase Angel’s desire - fighting has always been part of their fucking - until Angel grasps him so hard he can’t move, rotates him over, shucks down his trousers and enters.
It is a relief for both of them to be doing something other than worrying or repelling demons in exchange for their lives, but it is too rapid, too fevered, too overwhelming to enjoy - except in the brief moment of release.
As Angel heaves himself off Spike so that they can attend to their clothes, a voice behind them says, “They mate, from time to time. I have smelt it on them, but never witnessed the act. I find it fascinating.”
Spike whips his head around to see Illyria and her ghostly minion standing beside the kitchen door.
“It is not pleasurable to my eyes, Highness, but should you wish we can study them further.”
“Hey, hey, hey. No studying,” says Spike, leaping to his feet. “This is a highly private act. We’re not fucking lab rats.”
“What is it exactly that you want?” Angel is on his feet too, standing beside Spike. “And who are you?”
Illyria crosses her arms over her body. “Angel. It is curious to me that you are in a position of weakness and yet you still wish answers to be given as if we were equals.”
“Illyria,” Angel begins, “we let you live, we helped you -”
“Silence! My Wesley is dead. Drogyn, Charles Gunn and Knox were killed. My acolytes in this world have been destroyed, and I mourned them in due fashion. But I am left with two half-breeds who have never shown me loyalty. It is not for you to question, half-breed, it is for you to follow.” She turns her head to her minion. “Tell them.”
He inclines his head in acquiescence. “My name is Hovenden. I am not of this world, but live in a dimension still ruled by the Old Ones. I serve fealty to my God-king, Illyria, and do his bidding as and when he sees fit.
But there is a prophecy, created many moons ago, that we believe will bind you to Illyria and do his bidding in this world. There is a creature, a boy, his name is Connor and we know of his existence.”
“You always underestimated the shell, Angel,” Illyria interrupts, her eagerness to impress her authority over Angel all too apparent. “You did not consider that she would have memories not contained by your spell.”
“Don’t you talk about him, you don’t have the right,” Angel whispers, teeth clenched together in fury.
“It is you that have lost your rights. We saved you from death on that battlefield. You fought for the glory of Illyria, and in return we spared your lives,” Hovenden explains. “By the laws of the Old Ones, your lives are now forfeit to us. As are the lives of your offspring.”
Spike recoils at the insinuation but he knows to remain silent, to save up the question when he has Angel alone.
“And what if we don’t agree to whatever it is you are proposing?” Angel asks.
“Your death,” Illyria answers simply. “And the death of those closest to you.”
“Right,” decides Spike, “and what is it exactly that you are proposing?”
“I wish to return to a dimension where I will be respected and worshipped. This world has become rancid to me, tainted with death and decay.” Illyria pauses, turns her head on an angle and stops talking.
After many tense, silent minutes at Illyria’s pleasure, she enlightens them further. “You are to be my warriors in this world, and report to me with information on the Wolf, the Ram and the Hart. You are not human, you have no expiration date. You will live long and therefore dedicate many years to me. This is the only detail that pleases me about your existence, for you are half-breeds and treachery is in your nature.”
“The boy,” Hovenden says, “will bind your lives to Illyria’s. We shall be in touch with the particulars.”
They turn to leave the room, Illyria exits without a backward glance. Hovenden pauses and turns one final time to them, “If you wish to protect him from the minions of the Wolf, the Ram and the Hart, know that he has just taken a silver bird in the sky. It would be wise to meet him at the place of its landing.”
As Spike watches him leave, and feels the mystical charms around them dissolve, Angel sinks to his knees. For the first time in his unliving memory, Spike is firsthand witness to Angel’s tears.
**
Connor doesn’t expect to see anyone as he walks through the arrivals lounge at LAX airport. He’s considering taking a taxi or maybe a bus into the centre of LA and finding a hostel, when his path crosses that of someone familiar.
“Connor.” It is all Angel says, before he grabs him into an incredibly tight hug. Around his father’s shoulder, Connor can see another man - or perhaps a vampire. He looks sulky, and is dressed all in black. His white hair and pale skin create a shocking contrast.
“Dad. Dad!” Connor tries to shake Angel off. “I can’t breathe!” Angel releases him in an instant, and looks incredibly sheepish.
“Yeah,” the other man observes. “Your old man always forgot about the breathing thing.”
“Spike,” Angel says, his mouth tightening, but his eyes still holding their gaze with Connor’s. “This is Connor.”
The other vampire, Spike, inclines his head towards Connor. “Nice to properly meet you, mate. Heard ever so much about you, you know.”
“Spike,” growls Angel, and Connor can hear a warning tone in his father’s voice.
“Yeah? Well, I’ve heard some stuff about you,” returns Connor. “All of it good.”
He sees that he’s taken the other vampire by surprise, but he’s too excited to revel in his victory. “Did she get hold of you? Did she tell you I was coming? Is she alright?”
He feels his father immediately tense up and it’s as if an invisible wall goes up between them. “We have to get you out of here. It’s not safe. Connor, we’re going to take you away.”
“Yeah, and it’s best not to talk about her in your father’s presence,” Spike declares. Then adds, quite inexplicably, with a punch to the shoulder, “Unc.”
His head sways from vampire to vampire as a secret, angry message passes between them. He really, really wants to find out if his mother is alive or around but instead he is being dragged away, this time by Angel, and he wonders if there will ever be a time when someone isn’t grabbing onto his shoulder and pulling him in their direction.
Perhaps he can wait, find the right moment when Angel is not looking quite so neurotic. Or perhaps he can try and find her. Go back to San Francisco when the danger has passed. Hell, he has to go back to Stanford at some point.
He knows she is beautiful, but there are things that he tries to recollect, things that he will savour in his memory - the way her voice rasped when she was excited, the way she told him she loved him, her hand in his, so small and yet so filled with power.
As he follows the two vampires from the airport, and onto whatever next danger waits for him, he decides that he’ll wait for her, that’s all he can do. He just hopes that she will find him again. Somehow.
Finis