Natural Born

By Ros Fod

The inside of St. John Bosco church was quiet, and the rows of empty pews stretching in front of Connor stood in immaculate rank and file. The altar had been laid bare, with only a white cloth left to cover its crisp corners. Behind the crucifix, a purple banner signaled the coming of Easter.

Connor sat in one of the back pews, alone, head tilted forward against his folded hands. There was the muted creak of a door opening and then the shush of dress shoes against carpet. He straightened up and tugged the ends of his jacket closer.

A priest entered from the door behind the altar and surveyed the area, his eyes sweeping over the premises. He pivoted halfway back through the door before he saw Connor, and then he hesitated for a moment before he began walking towards the back of the church. Connor unknotted his fingers and watched the priest approach him.

The priest called out, "Good evening." His vowels were softened by an accent that matched his Hispanic features.

"I'm sorry to bother you so late," Connor said, leaning back with one palm on each knee.

"It's no trouble," the priest murmured, lowering himself into the pew in front of Connor's. He turned his body so that they were face to face and slung one arm across the back of the pew. His gaze traveled over Connor with curiosity, noting and categorizing Connor's clean hair and fingernails and the tiny alligator patch peeking out from behind the lapel of his jacket. "God's door was always open."

Connor looked around the church. The stained glass windows cast a feeble shine in the late evening light. He stared at a portrait above his head of the sixth Station of the Cross, a crude commercial rendering of Christ's second fall. Connor curled his fingers and looked back down at his hands.

"Actually, the doors were locked," he said, with a grimace of apology. "Sorry about that."

The priest made a small gesture with two fingers, an absolution of sins. There was a faint trace of stubble at his chin and jaw line, but his cheeks looked freshly scrubbed.

"You seem troubled," the priest observed. Concern was starting to melt the edges of wariness on his face. "Is there something in particular that you're looking for?"

It was too quiet, the heavy church doors keeping out the hum of traffic that served as LA's persistent soundtrack. When Connor sighed, the sound echoed as it traveled up towards the church's low ceilings. He nodded slowly before he said, "I'd like to make a confession."

---

Watch the Credits

• Episode 6.13: Natural Born
• Written by: Ros Fod
• Edited by: Adoxerella and Naked Wesley
• Researched by: Adoxerella
• Produced by: The Brat Queen and Flaming Muse

---

THE DAY BEFORE

Spike slouched on the ottoman, one leg bent at the knee and the other extended to full length and positioned a good distance from its mate. He rolled the heel of his left boot around on the floor, following Angel's movements with his toes so that he was tilting his foot to the right as Angel passed in front of him. His foot moved back to the left as Angel crossed his path again.

"As helpful as I'm sure this is bound to be…" Spike said, trailing off and letting the light sarcasm hang in the air.

Angel stopped in front of the counter and braced his hands on the edge. His back was a solid column, his shoulders straight and severe, but he was hanging his head slightly. "I know," he said to the papers scattered across the counter. He picked one of the documents up and then put it back down again, unseen. "You should be out there."

"Right," Spike said, slapping his palms on his knees as he stood up. When Angel didn’t turn around, Spike sat down again and patted his hands against his coat, checking both sides before he reached under the lining and pulled his cigarettes out from the back pocket of his jeans. "You mean we should be out there.”

“Right,” Angel echoed.

“And by out there, you mean…?” Spike paused to indicate that it was Angel's job to fill in the rest of the sentence.

"You found her at a Pier 1 before." Angel's tone held every measure of his disbelief. "I don't know - Bombay Company?"

Spike's expression flattened as he tapped the filter of the cigarette against the side of the pack. He didn’t bother putting the cigarette into his mouth, just leaned forward with both of his wrists between his knees. "I've already been to hell, ta very much."

Angel turned around, squeezing his forehead in his hand for a brief moment before he lowered his arm. "You got a better idea?" He actually sounded hopeful.

Spike shifted his shoulders underneath his coat in a shrug. "She's nesting. Figures she's the lady of the house now or something."

"She's crazy."

"Yeah," Spike said with a trace of affection. There was a space of silence while he cartwheeled the cigarette between his fingers. "She's not wrong, though."

That earned him a sharp glance. "The last thing we need is for Dru to start mothering the both of us."

"Hey," Spike said, using the cigarette as a pointer, "I'm trying to help here."

Angel closed his eyes and slumped back against the counter. "Yeah, okay." He made a 'please, go ahead' gesture, and Spike humphed approvingly before he nodded.

"The way I figure, Dru's seen that she's not going to get her boys back. I'm thinking she might decide to make a little family of her own."

"That - " Angel paused, frowning slightly. " - actually makes sense."

"Thank you," Spike said with a nod.

"It's also the worst thing that could possibly happen," Angel added.

"Yeah, there is that bit." Spike shoved the cigarette back into the pack.

They were both quiet for a moment of unhappy contemplation.

"I should have expected something like this," Angel said, starting to pace again.

"Probably," Spike drawled. His mouth tightened as he grew serious. "This is bad."

Angel didn’t say anything to that, just looked towards the doors as if he was hoping that Drusilla might do them the favor of walking right in. He gave it a few seconds before moving towards the exit. "I've got to go," he said.

"The hell you going at a time like this?" Spike asked, curious enough to sit up straight.

"I'll be back as soon as I can," Angel promised. "You've been luckier so far; see if you can find her again."

"And if I do?" Spike asked, quirking an eyebrow skyward. "What then?"

Angel pushed his arms through the sleeves of his coat and stared back at Spike in silence.

---

It was the birthday party to end all birthday parties. The house was a chaotic jumble of pastel dresses, primary colored balloons and presents that were bigger than the children.

Connor swerved to avoid colliding with a line of chattering girls as he exited the kitchen, holding plates of cake in both hands raised above his head. He grinned over towards the corner where Megan was holding court, decreeing in her overly serious voice, "No, Janie, you sit here, next to me."

Janie, her hair cascading down her back in carefully constructed blonde waves, flashed the other girls a smug grin and set herself down at Megan's right. She was wearing leggings that missed the hem of her denim dress by several inches.

Content, Megan tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, carefully showing off the aquamarine studs she was wearing.

"Those earrings are so pretty," one of the other girls cooed. The hand holding her fork was covered by a fingerless glove of black mesh. Her belt was wider than Connor's. "You're so lucky, Megan. Your parents totally rock and stuff."

"Well, I wanted a cell phone, but Mom said maybe next year," Megan said, fixing the green bow on the front of her dress.

Connor rolled his eyes. "Dream on, little sister. I don't have a cell phone," he called out as he set the plates down and slid them to the girls farthest away from Megan.

Megan stuck her tongue out at him. "That's because you're a social retard," she said, waving her hand in an imperious dismissal. She leaned in towards the crowd, voice lowered, hushed and conspiratorial. "His girlfriend just dumped him."

A dozen heads swiveled to gape at Connor with expressions of curiosity or compassion. He twisted his mouth at the corners, but he didn’t say anything.

He heard the clinking of dishware bumping edges and turned to see his mother coming up to join him. She was toting a tray lined with bowls of chocolate ice cream.

"How're you holding up?" she asked, letting him take the tray from her.

"It's hell," he said, distributing the bowls. He slid on a smile to let her know he was joking.

"Well, it was nice of you to come and help," she said, smiling back. She'd pulled her hair into a ponytail today and looked like she could fit right in at his college.

The two of them moved away from the group of girls, Connor licking a drop of ice cream that had melted onto his hand while Colleen picked up her abandoned mug of tea.

"Well, I did volunteer for duty," he told her as they settled themselves in a corner of the room. "You only turn twelve once, right?"

His mother murmured, "Thank goodness," around the rim of her mug as she took a sip.

At that moment, his father bounded down the stairs, jiggling the camera in his hand as he made his way towards the dining room table.

"All right," Laurence said, all business and cheerful determination. "I knew I had a spare charger up there."

The girls groaned as he started to take pictures of them, flashbulb casting long shadows behind them with each snap. They were finally starting to get into it, preening and posing for the camera with Paris Hilton-faces, all pouty lips and slitted eyes, when there was a knock on the front door.

Connor glanced out the window and noticed the very top of the sun sinking behind the hills. Thick ribbons of clouds soaked in sunset colors lay against the darkening sky. He pushed himself off the wall where he'd been leaning. "I'll get it," he said.

His mother gave him a distracted smile, and he touched her shoulder as he walked away.

In the foyer, he turned around to watch the scene. The girls were digging into the cake. Colleen was tipping her head back in laughter, the sound bright and spilling out into the hallway as Laurence pulled on one of the paper cone hats that the children had abandoned. Even Megan was smiling benevolently at her father, pretending to squeal and squirm away as he planted a noisy, enthusiastic kiss on her cheek. Connor smiled to himself and crossed the rest of the way to the door.

He opened it to see Angel on the other side of the threshold, standing with his back towards Connor. He was tracing the edge of one of the calla lilies sprouting up from the bush in their garden and looking out past the line of their property to where the distant lights of other people's homes were blinking warmth and welcome. He turned around, and Connor caught a glimpse of the crease between Angel's brows before his face smoothed out into a smile. A thin branch from the plum tree shadowing their driveway was sticking out from Angel's hair.

"You didn't have to get dressed up or anything," Connor said, reaching up to pull the branch off. A few of the petals drifted on to Angel's shoulders, and he brushed them away.

There was a high-pitched scream from the dining room. Connor couldn’t help his laugh when Angel took a quick step forward. He looked like he was about to bound through the door before he remembered that he hadn’t received an invitation.

"It's okay," Connor said, shuffling back far enough to give Angel enough room. "Come on in. It's just a party."

"I'm not really... good at parties," Angel said. He wore a frown, but he crossed the threshold anyways.

"It's not a real party," Connor said. "I mean, there's no booze or anything. Just a bunch of twelve year old girls."

Angel pretended to turn on his heel. Connor laughed again as he caught Angel's sleeve and mock-pulled him towards the noise.

"Angel's here," Connor called out as they entered the dining room. The girls glanced up and then immediately went back to whatever it was that they were doing. "Wait, what are you doing here?" he asked, quirking his head towards Angel.

"Carpool," Angel said before stretching his arm out to take Laurence's offer of a handshake.

Laurence still had the camera slung around his neck. He let go of Angel's hand and lifted the camera up to snap a picture of Angel and his son.

"Dad," Connor said, stepping in front of the lens. "Stop joking around."

"No, seriously, I was in the neighborhood on business," Angel said, and then looked around at the trio of blank expressions in front of him. "Oh, you meant - "

There was a lull in the conversation while Connor squinted in Angel's direction. Angel was holding himself stiffly, as if he was trying not to fidget.

"How is the new business going?" Colleen asked, cutting into the pause.

"Busy," Angel said. Another pause indicated that he was not planning on adding to that response.

"Well, if you're really going to save me from a long bus ride, let's go." Connor turned to his parents. "Is it all right if I leave?"

"Don't be too late, though," Colleen reminded him.

Connor grabbed his jacket and kissed his mother. Laurence was already taking Angel's hand again, shaking it in a goodbye.

“It was nice to see you again,” Laurence offered.

"I'll make sure he’s okay," was the only thing that Angel said as they walk out.

---

The office in the rectory was not a large one, and the small space made it seem more cluttered than it was. Connor sat on the edge of a worn armchair. The green leather was faded with the slight imprint of all the bodies that had sat there before him. The priest handed him coffee, served on surprisingly transparent china. Connor took the offering with both hands and lifted the cup to his mouth without using the handle.

"I don't remember Confession being this comfortable," he said.

The priest chuckled, and the sound was muffled by the stacks of books lining the walls of the room. He settled in the chair opposite Connor and crossed one foot over his other knee. All of his clothes were faded to a dull black. His socks were grey argyle and fantastically ugly.

"Surely you didn't come all the way over here in the middle of the night to confess that you've been teasing your sister," the priest said. “Nor, I imagine, because you’re feeling guilty about having left her party early.”

"Not exactly," Connor admitted, smiling and setting the cup back down on the saucer.

The priest sat back in his chair and waited. His hands were older than his face. "So, you were saying."

Connor looked down and pushed the handle of the cup, turning it one hundred eighty degrees. "That lies have a way of revealing themselves.”

---

"I'm going to have to tell them at some point," Connor said, walking through the double doors of the Walden. Angel was right behind him, pocketing his car keys. Connor stopped three steps into the lobby, while Angel walked past him towards the phone. The desk lamp threw a solitary circle of yellow around one side of the counter, leaving the rest of the lobby darkening in twilight. "Where is everyone?”

"I'm not sure," Angel said, picking up a stack of pink message notes. He read through them and glanced at the machine. It was blinking zero. He turned around and crossed his arms in front of his body while he rested his hip against the side of the counter. "I mean, how do you tell your parents you're not actually their son?"

Connor slid his book bag off his shoulder and sat down on the arm of the couch. He stretched out his legs and crossed his ankles. Angel was little more than an outline, the lamp just bright enough for his body to cast a shadow, but Connor didn't seem uncomfortable with the dark.

"They're good people," Connor said. "You made sure of that, remember? I feel like I owe them the truth."

Angel nodded his agreement, but the movement was still slow with hesitation. "It's your call, Connor. I just - I don't want you to get hurt. That's all."

Connor pressed his lips together. "They'd never hurt me," he said finally. His voice was carefully even. He unlocked his ankles and stood up, then gave up a sigh that was too heavy. "Anyways, I'm not even sure. I'm just... talking about it." He looked around the lobby again, the space between his brows drawing smaller as he frowned. "There isn't one single client?"

"We're still closed," Angel replied. He was avoiding Connor’s eyes. "Probably for the next few days at least."

Connor gave him an appraising look. "So why am I here?"

Angel perked up at the question and loosened his arms enough to let them drift down. "I thought we could spend some time together."

Connor let out a breathy laugh, disbelief tipping towards indulgent. "We see each other almost every day."

"Well, you know." Angel shifted on his feet. "Outside of work, I mean."

"You want to take me out for coffee?" Connor grinned. "Maybe a dinner and a movie?"

"Don't even joke about that," Angel said. His pale skin blanched even further.

Connor's grin, on the other hand, grew wider. "You want to go cruising for chicks together, don't you?"

"I thought," Angel said, over-emphasizing his words, "that maybe we could get in a little training or something." He stuffed his hands into his pockets even as his tone lightened. "Wouldn't that be fun?"

Connor made a face. "My idea was, unbelievably, the better one. Anyways, I'm supposed to be training with Illyria."

"She said she didn't want to anymore," Angel said, the ghost of a smile appearing at the corners of his mouth.

"She did?" Connor asked, genuinely confused.

"Oh, yeah," insisted Angel. "She said she didn't want to waste her time with... well, something that sounds like it might have once belonged in the insect family."

Connor opened his mouth and then closed it again. He narrowed his eyes at Angel. "No, she didn't," he said.

"She would have, though," Angel replied, mouth curving up to a full grin. "If I had asked her."

Connor shook his head, laughing softly. "You sure you don't want to go out instead? I mean, there’s a whole city out there. Adventure just waiting to happen."

Angel walked up to Connor and put a hand on his shoulder. He bent at the knees a little so they were eye to eye. "Come on," he said. "It'll be fun."

---

The alleyway outside of the teen center was obviously low on the city's priorities for cleanups. Torn boxes, their sides sodden with mysterious and disturbing substances, lay piled up against the cracked walls in cluttered heaps. Gunn added more trash to the mess, boxes marked Sunkist that were filled with discarded papers. He bent down to drag a rolled piece of carpet closer to the overflowing dumpster. A corner of a shadow shifted somewhere to his right.

He called out without actually turning towards the figure, "Come back to the scene of the crime?"

"Hoping to find the guilty party near here, yeah," Spike said as he stepped around the edge of the building.

Gunn started moving piles of trash from one area to another, not really paying attention to his own actions. "Well if you see her, tell her I said hello. Actually, I'll just tell her myself if I catch her around."

"I'm hoping to find her first," Spike said.

"I bet."

"Gunn - " Spike closed his mouth when he couldn't think of a good reason to argue with Gunn’s statement.

"One of the kids got a hold of it," Gunn said, indicating the carpet. "Saw all that red and started screaming. And now half of them are missing. Out there in the streets somewhere, what with Sean's jack-in-the-stomach routine and the gallon of dried blood on the rugs."

"Could tell the little ones it's all part of some new after school training." Spike said, pulling out lighter tone. "Meant to put hair on their chests. Keep it real." He tested out some combination of hand gestures that looked vaguely ghetto-ish.

"You really don't get it," Gunn said, his voice hardening. He set the box in his hands down with enough force that the sound of breaking glass echoed between the walls of the alley. He slashed the air with frustrated gestures. "These kids - this place is all they have. It's supposed to be a safety zone." He stopped and ran a hand over the slope of his skull, slipping his palm down to settle on the back of his neck. He looked at Spike and slumped against the side of the dumpster. "I'm getting really sick of your family. No offense."

Spike barely shrugged as he relaxed against the alley wall and eased back into serious mode. "None taken."

"Angel doesn’t get it either," Gunn said with a sigh.

Spike's eyebrow lifted. "You sure about that?"

"First Darla comes cruising in here," Gunn said. "And then you literally beam down into Wolfram & Hart to do your guys' version of bad cop, good cop. And now this other chick." He pointed back toward the shelter.

"Drusilla," Spike said.

Gunn threw up his hands. "It's like some bad sitcom, in perpetual reruns. Angel’s Family or something. Although I can’t decide which one of you is Carol Burnett."

Spike blinked him a look. "Can't get rid of family, mate. They have a tendency to keep popping into your lives whether you want them or not."

"Guess Angel's never told you about my sister," Gunn said, his words heavy with hidden meaning.

Spike shook his head. “What’s the story?”

"Maybe some other time." Gunn pushed himself into a standing position. "I've got blankets to wash and paperwork to fill out and helpless to help. And you should be on your way."

Spike nodded, unfolding slowly from where he had been leaning against the corner of the building. He turned half around, looking over his shoulder. "Didn't make her," he said. "That's on Angel's soul. But I'm still half the reason why she's here. Might as well get all grudge-y on me, too."

"Who said I'm not?" Gunn tossed back, his tone just light enough.

Spike slid the smirk over his face. "Come and get me," he said, rotating all the way around and walking backwards.

"Get out of here," Gunn said, not unkindly.

"You know how to find the theater," Spike said. He dipped his voice quiet enough for it to be almost gentle. Then he blended back into the building's shadows, the crown of his head catching light for another second before he was gone.

Gunn stared after him for a moment before he pulled the door open and went back inside. It closed with a stutter.

---

The overhead lights buzzed for a few seconds of delay before they sputtered on. Someone had hung a punching bag in the far corner of the lobby. Connor laid his hand on it and pushed it with just enough force to set it swinging.

"This the renovation you were talking about?"

"Part of it," Angel said, stripping off his dress shirt and slipping out of his shoes. "Ready?"

"Sure," Connor said, toeing his sneakers off before he stepped onto the mat.

They circled each other for a few seconds, then began to spar. Connor managed to keep up with Angel, although he was still too gangly and his elbows were positioned incorrectly. The two of them bounced on the balls of their feet, blocking punches and taking turns scoring a touch every so often.

"You can do better than that," Angel said, goading Connor. And then, "Come on." He tapped Connor several times.

His eyebrows furrowing, Connor pulled his elbows in. He feinted to the left and then dropped, getting low enough to kick up and hit Angel squarely in the middle of his chest. Angel staggered back, and by the time his head hit the wall Connor was right there, pinning Angel in place with his body, his arm across Angel's throat. They blinked at each other for two of Connor’s breaths before he backed away slowly.

"Nice," Angel said, rubbing his larynx.

Connor looked at him uncertainly. "Really?"

"Sure," Angel said with a faint but confident smile. "Illyria's been teaching you a few tricks, huh?"

"Things are starting to come back," Connor replied. He sniffed and then swiped the hem of his shirt across his forehead. Angel hadn't even broken a sweat.

His smile vanishing, Angel lowered his fists to his sides. At moments like this he always looked like he was holding his breath. "How's that working out?" he asked, his voice stripped down, giving nothing away.

"You tell me," Connor said. He watched Angel from across the mat and pulled his feet together so that he was out of fighting stance.

Neither one of them noticed Illyria until she spoke. "You are bonding."

Connor turned with a start and then slumped back into a more relaxed position. "Sort of."

Illyria walked forward, mouth parted in the habit she'd taken up whenever she was approaching something that had piqued her curiosity. She switched her unblinking gaze between the two figures before her and then to the weapons along the wall before settling on staring down Connor. "Where are your balls?"

Angel pursed his lips but he couldn’t help the sound that escaped from his nose. Connor just flushed up to his hairline.

"Fathers and sons play games involving small balls and oversized mittens," Illyria announced as if she'd held this particular piece of information forever. "Everyone knows this fact, yet you do not follow the rules."

"Baseball," Angel said in a stage whisper, as if he was giving Connor cues.

"Evidently," Connor said, shaking himself out. He offered Illyria a open smile and then tamped it down a notch when she just stood there, expecting some sort of revelation from him.

"Illyria," Angel said, stepping in to referee the growing number of confused looks volleying around the room. "Go... find something else to do."

Illyria turned her head as if it sat on a mechanical spindle. Connor could practically hear the thrum of electricity in the air. "Nothing here is worthy of my attention." She moved out of the circle they'd made, leaving Connor and Angel to consider that she included them in her statement.

Connor waited until she had drifted out of earshot before he squinted at Angel. "You shouldn't talk to her like that."

"Like what?" Angel asked, glancing over his shoulder after her as she pressed both hands up to the glass of the popcorn dispenser as if she could levitate it with sheer willpower.

"She didn't do anything; she's just trying to fit in." Connor's lips thinned along with his patience.

"I know that," Angel said, keeping his voice and his expression even. "Look - is something wrong?" The corners of his eyes were beginning to crumple with concern.

Connor turned his head away. "Maybe I'll go," he said.

"You don't have to."

"Yeah, I do," Connor said, backing up and picking up his things. "I just remembered I told Wesley I'd drop by sometime tonight. He’s helping me with some homework."

"Wes is helping you with Biology homework?" Angel said, perplexed.

"I'm taking an Ancient Civilizations class." Connor crouched down on one knee to tie his sneakers. "It's my other elective this semester."

"Oh," Angel replied. "I could help you with your homework, you know. I've been around a while. I actually know some things."

"It's all right," Connor said, hoisting his bag on his shoulder as a gesture of finality.

Angel reached into his pocket for his keys. "Well, I'll drive you."

"Thanks," Connor said, "but you already saved me a buck fifty tonight. I'll just... I'll see you later." He started to walk away but stopped at the anxious look on Angel's face. "Hey," he said, smiling a little. "Maybe next time I'll let you win."

Angel smiled back. "Be careful," he said.

Connor gave him a curt nod. "See you later," he called out to Illyria.

"Hasta la vista," she said to the popcorn machine.

---

It was way past the end of the business day, and the halls of Wolfram & Hart were still bustling. Lawyers with briefcases and paralegals with notepads walked in groups of three and four, unaware of the maintenance crew trying to maneuver their carts around the hems of five thousand dollar suits. A man with a New York Yankees logo sewn on to his messenger bag passed a door marked 'Electrical Room,' his head lowered and both hands busy with his Blackberry. After his footfalls faded down the corridor, the door opened with the whispering snicker of a broken lock.

Connor walked out from behind the door, folding the sleeves of his jacket under so it didn’t hang past his wrists. The jacket was too big, and the elbows were patched with ovals of a lighter brown. He flattened out the creases down the front with his palm and zipped up his book bag, careful to check out both ends of the corridor before he started down the hallway.

A group of chattering associates rounded the corner, their clothes spotless and unwrinkled even after a full day of work. In his corduroy and khakis Connor still stood out in a ridiculously obvious manner, and he stopped in his tracks as if he was only just realizing it. He slipped his free arm through the other strap and spread the distance between his feet to shoulder wide, turning slightly so that his stronger arm was in front of him and bracing himself for their notice.

The group breezed past him with barely a glance, and he was left standing in the middle of the hallway, blinking back an embarrassed expression.

He hurried the rest of the way, fortunate enough not to have any more encounters. When he got to Wesley's door, he rapped his knuckles gently against the wood and then turned the handle when there was no response.

Wesley was sitting at his desk, both elbows resting on the surface. His gaze was fixed somewhere beyond the distance of the bookshelf on the far wall. Behind him, the city spilled out in an endless grid of lights bright enough to hide the stars. When Connor cleared his throat, Wesley turned his head and blinked once before he moved away from edge of his desk. The springs in his chair were perfectly quiet.

"You're getting very good at infiltrating Wolfram & Hart's executive suites," Wesley noted with some amusement.

"I knocked," Connor replied, walking the rest of the way in to the office. "You didn't hear me."

"Ah, yes," Wesley said. "I've been wrapped up in these books." He gestured vaguely toward the numerous texts on his desk.

"What is all that?" Connor took a few steps forward.

"Well, I could only get my hands on sixteen or seventeen volumes about ancient civilizations. It shouldn't take us more than a few weeks to cover everything."

Connor stared back at him. He opened his mouth and then clamped it shut again.

"Your father called," Wesley explained, tilting his head to the side and studying Connor. "You haven't told him what you've been coming here to talk to me about."

Connor lifted his chin up, his mouth thinning into a line. "Did you say anything?"

Wesley gave him a steady look. "No," he said, standing up and moving away from his desk. "And you used to have a sense of humor."

"When was that?" Connor asked, his brows knitting together.

"That one time you threatened to behead me was pretty funny," Wesley commented.

Connor's laughter was sharp with surprise. "Yeah, those were good times."

"I assume you're here to continue our conversation. We were rather rudely interrupted the last time." With a gesture, Wesley led Connor to a set of plush chairs on the other side of the room. They were covered in a fabric that imitated tainted gold. "Would you like some water? I'm reasonably certain the fruit basket isn't poisoned."

"No, thank you," Connor said, shaking his head as he sat down. He pulled a notebook out of his bag. The front of it was covered in scribbles, and the corners of loose leaves of paper jutted out from the edges, bent and frayed. There was a rubber band wrapped around the middle, holding everything together. He snapped the band off and shuffled through the pages until he was a quarter of the way through his notes.

"You've certainly done your research," Wesley said, sitting in the chair next to Connor's.

Connor glanced up from the notebook and turned a few more pages before he pushed the pile away from him. "Yeah, I'm getting really good at snooping around," he said. "They're just facts and figures, though. Angel did this, Angel did that. Sometimes he was evil, except when he wasn't."

"It's not a hard science, no," Wesley said, leaning forward to close some of the space between them so that he could take a better look at the notes. "There seems to be a low predictability factor. Although, there was always the curse to count on."

Connor tipped his head back until the bones of his neck cracked. "I hate magic."

Wesley chuckled, low and rasping. "You might have mentioned that once or twice."

When Connor smiled, it was only halfway. "Some things don't change, I guess."

He stood up, hands rolled into fists, and began to pace the length of the carpet between the chairs and Wesley's desk. "I thought I could find some answers," he said, voice distant.

"I'm still unsure of what the question is," Wesley replied.

"There must be a way to know for sure," Connor said. "I mean, is it like - what if he goes evil again? How would we be able to tell if there isn't some concrete sign?"

Wesley's mouth pulled into a thoughtful twist. "Most likely the dead bodies will clue us in."

Connor stopped in his tracks and laid a hand on the edge of Wesley' desk, a reluctant smile forming on his face. He switched to a more contemplative expression while he considered his next words. "Every time they catch a serial killer or something, his neighbors are always on the local news, talking about what a nice, quiet guy he was."

"Well, perhaps that's your answer right there," Wesley said. "I understand your focus, certainly. But have you considered that your father's actually a pretty safe bet? There are those who are evil, just a door down from you. And you'd never know it until it was too late. Angel, however, for all his faults, isn't exactly subtle. You'd see him coming."

Connor turned to face the window. In the glass, he could make out his reflection clearly. He stared at it as if he were trying to recognize himself. When he turned to face Wesley again, his eyes were still lowered.

"Wes, I'm - " Connor cut his sentence off, head tilting as he looked down at the piles of papers and books on the surface of the Wesley's desk. He lifted up a map and moved it so that the light of the desk lamp was shining more directly on it.

Wesley moved fast for a dead man. His expression shuttered, he walked over and took the map out of Connor's hand and placed it back on the desk.

"Not ancient civilizations after all, then," Connor said. "Unless the Peloponnesians built a city underneath Van Nuys."

"No," Wesley admitted. "Places where Drusilla's been spotted. I'm... keeping track of it. It seemed wise. She's been very active, unfortunately."

"Drusilla," Connor said. His tone was flat and smooth. He picked up the map again. "She's killing people?"

Wesley's hand drifted midair, and he closed his fingers around empty space before pulling it back. "Angel didn't tell you?"

"He didn't tell me she was killing people," Connor replied, concentrating on the map.

"She's always been a killer," Wesley said gently. "And now she's choosing to do it here. Again."

Connor nodded, his finger tracing the circles on the map that Wesley had made.

"Not always," he said quietly. He looked up to see Wesley watching him with wariness. "She hasn't always been a killer. Has she?"

Wesley continued to look at him for a moment and then reached out to retrieve the map. He folded it into a neat rectangle before he slid it between the covers of a book as he began to put things away.

"Drusilla's dangerous, Connor," he said. He began to close books and fit them back onto the shelf. "She's quite insane. I'm certain your father would - "

The rest of his sentence was cut off by the office door closing behind Connor as he left.

---

"Do you attend mass?"

The priest walked his fingertips along the borders of the books behind his desk. He was crouched down to peer at one of the lower shelves. When he pulled a volume out and opened it, the dust jacket crinkled along the bindings.

"Not recently," Connor replied. He was sitting on the edge of the coffee table, the empty cup beside his hip bouncing softly in its saucer when he shifted his weight. "I used to go pretty regularly. But that seems like a lifetime ago now."

The priest smiled kindly at him as he walked back towards the chairs. He handed Connor the book, open towards the middle.

"Summa Theologica," Connor read aloud, wrinkling his nose. "That sounds like a lot of fun."

With a small chuckle, the priest settled back down into his seat and tapped his lips with one finger. "I suppose it depends on who you were. These questions you have - I'm not a scholar. But luckily, those who are have written some extensive texts on the matter. The origins of sin, the permanence of evil. These are issues the church has grappled with since... well, since its inception."

Connor closed the book and laid it to balance on one knee. "So there are no answers."

"Certainly there are answers, Connor," the priest said, leaning forward to point to the book. "You just have to know where to look."

---

Angel slammed his fist into the punching bag hard enough to rattle the chains securing it to the ceiling. He frowned and hit it again, throwing his fists in rapid combination, fast enough to blur his punches.

He closed his eyes, listening to the rhythm of skin and bone, the satisfying crunch that followed their connection with something solid and unyielding. The bag groaned.

He held up a hand, stopping the swaying of the bag with a sudden thud against his palm. Opening his eyes, he licked the sweat off his upper lip. "Dru."

"Hello, Daddy," Drusilla replied as Angel turned to watch her glide out of the shadows. Behind her, the wall was lined with stakes and throwing stars. Angel's hands were empty.

She ran her fingertips over the pointed edges of each weapon and smiled. "You have so many pretty toys."

Angel tracked her as she made her way in a circle around the room, keeping to the corners with a careful kind of grace. Her slippers barely made a sound on the wooden floor, her movements were all stealth and hushed anticipation, like a kitten before it pounces.

"So pretty," she said again, "but you never share them. Not with me."

Angel's hands twitched at his sides while he watched her, unblinking. "I thought you’d come here, but then, I hoped you wouldn’t. You know that I have to - "

She was in front of him before he could finish the sentence, one small hand on his cheek. She'd cut her nails. "You won't kill me, my Angel. Not you. I used to be your favorite. So many hours you spent on me, Daddy.”

Angel grabbed her wrist with a growl, pinning her arm to her side. "You have no idea what I would do. Not anymore."

Drusilla smiled, wide and white, mischievous as a toddler. She licked the gloss off her red bottom lip and watched Angel watch her do it. He glanced over her shoulder, gauging how quickly he could get to the weapons after he let go of her arm, and she pressed closer to him, rolling her hips in a circle against his own.

"There you were," she whispered. "Isn't your Dru a clever girl? And she isn't greedy - just one little treat."

He let her go.

"All I want is what's mine," she said, pretended innocence twisting into genuine anger. Her voice and lower lip trembled, even as she clenched her fists hard enough to draw beads of blood from her skin. Angel's nostrils flared.

"I try to make it grow, over and over, but all my seedlings die. They all die," Drusilla said, holding her hands out and staring at her palms. "Don't you miss our garden, my Angel?" Her hands were open, palms up and bleeding, in front of Angel's eyes. "We could make new flowers, you and I. Strong ones. Beautiful ones."

Angel shook with the effort of taking a step back. "I don't like that kind of beauty anymore."

Drusilla swayed as she leaned in closer to him once more, pressing one hand against his chest. She whispered, "You're lying."

"You're wrong," Angel said. He sounded more tired than anything else.

Drusilla shook her head, shifting back into petulant. "You've done something to my William, and now he won't play."

"Leave Spike alone," he said, quick, purposeful steps stalking her into the corner.

"Isn't me that breaks all my toys," she said, gliding away on slippered feet. "His eyes are so blue. True blue, Daddy, but he's not so true anymore, is he?"

Drusilla moved around the room as if she were contemplating moving in. She ran her fingertips along the surface of the furniture and then examined her skin for traces of dust.

"So much death," she said, lips curled into a closed smile, and then she spun toward the door, through it before he could gather the will to hold her again, leaving behind a bloody palm print on his white shirt.

Angel turned around and slammed his fist into the bag. The chains snapped and the bag fell, spilling sand across his bare feet.

---

Spike walked out of one alley and into another. He stopped and looked behind him and then in front of him and back again.

"God, I hate this city," he said, digging in his coat pocket and coming up with his pack of cigarettes. He scratched a flame from his lighter and dipped his head, cigarette clamped between his lips.

Illyria dropped to the ground in front of him, the sound of her feet hitting the pavement shrouded in supernatural grace. Spike tried not to rear back.

"Hello to you, too," he said, smoke curling from his mouth.

"You are walking around in circles," she replied, her tones clipped and detached. She was examining him as if he was a specimen; sometimes the once-god she was now and the scientist she used to be didn’t seem all that different. "You waste precious time."

"Yeah, well, that's what I'm doing now," Spike said as he brushed past her. "It's my new hobby. Picked it up from Angel."

"Angel has taught me that you often speak with sarcasm," she informed him, matching her steps with his. "You say one thing but mean another. Why is this?"

"Look, pet, I'm not - " Spike put his arm out and then stared at Illyria in a beat of surprise when she actually stopped. He peered down the alley, past where the night settled into dark holes between the distant lights. The sound of laughter pitched in a familiar melody grew louder, right before a young woman in a fur coat completely unnecessary for the climate teetered past on the arm of a man three times her age. Her pink hair was bright enough to see with human eyes. Spike flicked the cigarette to the ground and crushed it underneath his boot.

"You were looking for the one who hurt Gunn's friend," Illyria said.

"Killed her," Spike corrected. "Soaked the carpet with her blood and all that."

"You were not successful in finding her."

Spike rotated his shoulders and shoved his fists in to the pockets of his jeans. "Used to be Dru'd come to me at a time like this," he said. "Burned that bridge to the ground, I suppose." He lifted his head up and half-shook himself. "What are you doing here?"

"Angel is... out of sorts," Illyria said, sounding out the vernacular like she was speaking a foreign language. "He sent me out of the workplace."

"Thought you didn't follow orders," Spike said, staring down the alleyway again.

"I chose to listen to his request," she said stiffly.

"Right."

Illyria drew herself up straighter, if that were possible. "He is not the boss of me."

"Got it." Spike said, chuffing out a laugh. "Actually, Angel's not the boss of anybody. Gunn's probably about to turn in his papers, and Wesley's building his own empire where the sun never sets. No one left on the payroll."

Illyria seemed to think about his statement, then blinked in her owlish way once she’d processed Spike's words. "He still has you."

"Yeah," Spike said quietly. "I guess he does."

---

Connor's footfalls were muted against the cement stairs in the landing, drowned out by the music filtering out from one of the other apartments in the building. Somebody was getting busy to a remix of "Let's Get It On." He reached the third floor, his back brushing against the wall as he inched closer to a door marked 375 in stenciled stickers. He checked the lock and found it already smashed.

When he pushed against the door with one hand, it cracked open easily. There wasn’t even a creak.

Drusilla was sitting on a cushioned chair in front of a vanity, peering into the absence of her reflection as she brushed her hair in slow strokes. She spun in her seat to face him, knees pressed together under the layers of her gown. Ballet slippers peeked out from under the hem of her dress.

"Red shoes," Connor said, staring at the floor. "I think I saw a movie about that once."

When Drusilla slapped the back of her brush against her palm, the sound snapped like a gunshot. Connor jumped in his skin and when he raised his right hand it was holding a stake.

"Spring has arrived," Drusilla said, voice pitched high in delight. She stood up and weaved towards him as in an imitation of some ancient ritual. She was still holding the brush in two loose fists as if she was about to break out into song. She stopped just shy of an arm’s distance from Connor, out of his reach. Her eyes fell towards the stake. "I told them I wanted pink flowers."

"I'm... sorry?" Connor asked, confusion slowing his response. "Maybe you can still get your money back."

"No going back," Drusilla said, shaking her head. The beginnings of a pout were forming against her lower lip. "Can't be undone, can it? The little prince always stays lost."

Two vampires dropped from their perch on the ceiling, landing easily on their feet. Their game faces were identically menacing, even their red hair curled in exactly the same manner over the ridges on their foreheads. Drusilla was a slip of a girl, her form still visible in the small space left between her minions' bodies.

"Twins," Connor noted, stepping back. "I have to admit, that's not really my thing."

The first vampire lunged, growling in anticipation. Connor sidestepped the assault and pushed the stake through the vampire's chest in a motion that only looked easy and fluid. The second vampire didn’t wait for the dust to clear before he toppled Connor over, arms wrapped around Connor's knees. They both hit the floor with a thud that shook the drywall on all four sides of the room.

Drusilla crowed like a fan from the sidelines. She couldn’t seem to decide who to root for, clapping each time either of them got the advantage over the other.

Connor was laying on his back, the remaining twin straddling him and keeping him pinned to the floor. The vampire had one hand wrapped around Connor's right wrist, with Connor's other hand wrapped around the vampire’s throat. They remained at that impasse until Connor managed to swing his free arm in a left hook that sent the vampire flying off of him.

He was the only one among the three of them breathing, and it was loud enough to punctuate the bass still booming out of someone's stereo one floor down.

"I just wanted to talk to you," Connor explained. The twin looked confused for a moment before he realized that Connor was addressing Drusilla.

"Isn't this a lovely conversation?" she replied with a dreamy smile.

This time when the vampire lunged Connor was prepared, and he caught the vampire's shirt with two hands, using the momentum behind the lunge to fling him against the wall. When the vampire ricocheted off of the impact, his chest met the end of Connor's stake.

Drusilla clapped until the last flakes of ash were drifting downward. "And now you're found," she said.

Connor stood in the middle of the room, chest rising and falling in rapid staccato. "I don't understand. You wanted me to kill them?"

"You understand," Drusilla said, straightening the bows on the front of her dress. She fussed with the ribbons until she was satisfied and then turned in a full circle to show off. When she stopped, she had one arm stretched outward, pointing to the side.

Connor followed the line of her arm until he saw the tips of brown loafers peaking out from under the sofa. He blinked in surprise when he turned back and realized that Drusilla was close enough to touch his face. She traced his cheek with her fingernail, and he gasped, reaching up to where she'd cut him. His fingers came back sheened with red.

"He tasted like peppermints," she said, reaching for Connor's hand. She made to lick it and then stopped, contemplating. She counted his fingers, tapping the curves of his nails one by one. "I will dress you up in blood and violence."

"They didn't tell you?" Connor asked. He pulled his arm away and stepped back, only to have Drusilla track him up against a wall. "Blood is so last year."

She made a disapproving sound. "So confused, poor boy. I can help you."

"You can?" he asked, trying not to notice the hand Drusilla was using to pet his chest.

"Be who you were," she said, and it sounded like a command. She sidled her mouth up towards his ear and whispered, "Natural born killer. I smell you. You're falling apart."

Connor pushed Drusilla hard enough for her to stumble backwards. She opened her mouth in laughter, one hand to her neck, the other spreading out the folds of her skirt. She curtsied to him as he ran out of the door.

---

It was a clear night, the moon casting a cold, blue light on all the puddles gathered in the potholes of LA's backstreets. Connor didn’t bother avoiding them, just stepped ankle-deep in muddy water while he hurried down the alley. He turned a corner, head down and his jacket wrapped around him like a robe. His shoes scraped against the broken pavement when he came to a halt.

Spike and Illyria were standing in front of him, watching him shake with two pairs of eyes gone black in the shadows.

"Where're you off to in such a hurry, then?" Spike asked. He didn’t actually sound curious at all. He was resting one shoulder on the wall, body cocked at an angle that seemed casual and was anything but.

"You keeping tabs on me now?" Connor asked.

"Have been, yeah," Spike said, shrugging deeper into nonchalance. "Haven't come up with anything to snitch about so far. Something tells me I'm about to get lucky, though."

"Like what?" Connor asked.

"Be happy to tell you," Spike bit back. "Been having a really rough night of it. Running into everyone except the one person I really need to find. Gets old, stalking around the same little grid over and over again."

"Yeah, that sucks," Connor said, mock sympathy evident in his tone.

Illyria was standing immobile at Spike's side, eyes fixed on Connor's face. "You remind me of those who would come before me to beg my forgiveness for their disobedience."

"And what did you do with them?" Connor asked, stopping his attempt to move Spike through mental telepathy long enough to address Illyria with the question.

"Mercy is a weakness," Illyria replied. "It breeds contempt."

Connor nodded, shoulders sloping downwards. "What's this got to do with me?"

"Just seems like a bit of a coincidence," Spike chimed in. "What with you nosing around Angel's past and then Drusilla deciding to pay a little visit." He stepped in to Connor's space until they're close enough to touch noses. "Where is she?"

"You don't know anything," Connor said. He turned around and walked away.

---

The doors of the Walden slammed open, hinges snapping back as Connor entered the lobby at full speed. Spike was right on his heels, mouth set in a grim line. Illyria followed, her strides slower somehow and still covering the same amount of distance as the two figures in front of her.

Connor was holding one of the straps of his bag to his shoulder as he swiveled around to face Spike.

"Anybody ever tell you to mind your own business?" Connor asked.

"Angel is family, mate," Spike tossed back. "He is my business."

"What's going on?" Angel asked. He was slipping on a clean shirt as he walked out from his office. There was a bandage wrapped around his right hand.

"Kid's been playing at Hardy Boys," Spike said, pointing in Connor's direction. "Got something up his sleeve. Probably made of wood."

"What?" Angel said, confused.

"Kid's been - "

" - spying on you," Connor finished. There was a lengthening pause as Spike scowled at him. Connor pulled his shoulders back and tugged the zipper of his bag open. He took his notebook out and let the bag fall on the ground as he held the book out to Angel. "I was doing a little digging around. Your background and stuff."

Angel took the book and then laid it on the counter, unread. "Why?"

"Who, actually," Connor said. "I was just - trying to figure some stuff out. Find out who you really were."

"You could have just asked me." Angel crossed the space between them and slid a hand over the top of Connor's head then cradled the back of his neck. "I'd have told you anything you'd wanted to know."

"No, you wouldn't have," Connor said. His voice was quiet and stripped of any real accusation.

"Why's he owe you any answers?" Spike asked Connor.

"Because, guess who else was family. Mate." Connor stepped away from Angel and stared Spike down.

Spike stared back. "What the bloody hell are you on about?"

Both Connor and Spike turned to look back at Angel. The three of them were standing at odd angles from each other, Illyria off to the side, quiet with knowing expectation. Angel asked a question that he didn’t form into words and when Connor gave him a small, short nod, he let out a breath that he didn’t need.

"Connor's my son," Angel said, not looking at Spike.

"What?" The word was sharp, cutting through the air from the opposite side of the room from where Spike was standing. They all turned toward the front of the lobby, where the doors were still standing open. Gunn filled the doorway, one foot still touching pavement.

---

"These sins you've committed, are you sorry for them?" the priest asked.

"Yes," Connor replied.

"Will you commit them again?"

"I don't know," Connor said.

"Do you want forgiveness?"

Connor pressed his thumb between his fingers until the skin under the nail turned white. He closed his eyes. "Do I deserve it?"

---

"What does that mean?" Gunn asked, his voice rising. "You did this thing - without asking us, without... Fred is dead."

"I don't hold the only blame for that," Angel countered, his words clipped. His brows snapped together, and he visibly let the tension out of his body. "I'm sorry. Try and understand. He’s my son. He’s my family."

The silence on both sides thickened. Angel stepped towards Gunn, hand out, conciliatory and hopeful. Gunn slapped Angel's hand away, his mouth set in angry lines.

"You brainwashed us, is what you're saying." There wasn’t any room left for denial in Gunn's tone.

"It's not like that," Angel said. Connor could see the muscle jumping at Angel’s jaw all the way from his perch on the sofa.

Spike and Connor watched the exchange of words, Connor bent in on himself. Spike was sitting on the couch with one foot flat on the cushion.

"I suppose you're angry too," Connor said to Spike.

"Believe it or not, this isn't the weirdest thing that's happened in my life," Spike replied. "Got burned alive once, remember. Well, not alive, but..."

Connor didn’t say anything to that, just latched his eyes back on Gunn. Angel was pressing his fists under his crossed arms as they spoke.

"Still don't know if I trust you, though," Spike said. "After all, means you're Darla's kid, doesn’t it?"

"I wonder if he'll start remembering things now," Connor said to vaguely.

"Who? Charlie?" Spike glanced over to where Gunn was spreading more distance between his body and Angel's. "Don't know. Still a little fuzzy on the details."

"Yeah, me, too," Connor said. There was a brief pause. "I've done some pretty terrible things."

"Haven't we all," Spike intoned.

"I thought I was doing what was best," Angel explained from the other side of the room.

"Right," Gunn spit out. "Because you always know what's best. Especially when it comes to you and yours. Always so clearheaded about that, aren't you?" With the anger vibrating through his body, Gunn's greater height was strikingly obvious. "What's it like to lobotomize your own son?"

By the time Angel moved to reach for Gunn, Spike was there, flinging Angel's arm away before his hand touched Gunn's shirt. Then Spike used both his palms to make the space between Angel and Gunn as big as he possibly could. Considering that the soles of Angel's shoes were squeaking with his effort to gain forward momentum, he changed tactics mid-push.

"You don't want to do this," Spike said, laying his knuckles into Angel's shoulder to punctuate the word.

When Angel punched Spike, fist connecting with cheek, bone to bone, Spike's head swiveled so far around that Connor could see his whole face. He saw the hard line of his jaw and the bumps and contours of his forehead as he shifted into game face. Spike blinked, lashes shuttering over gold, and when he turned back to Angel he was blue-eyed again.

"Good thing your boy's here," Spike said, walking his fingertips over the line of his cheekbone, exploring, "or I'd kick your ass."

Angel's eyes flickered towards Connor, not even long enough to hold Connor's own, but he didn't move toward Gunn, the sound of the backs of his teeth grinding against each other cutting into the air. Spike pushed Angel away again, and this time Angel let him.

"Get out," Angel said.

Gunn didn't bother finding out if the words were for him. As he marched towards the doors, he and Connor stared at each other for just long enough for Connor’s face to crumble as he saw the expression in Gunn’s eyes.

"I'm sorry," Connor said.

Gunn didn't reply. When he closed the door behind him, it hit the frame with a clear, final sound.

"And then there were three," Spike said, eyes still on the exit, long enough to see it first when Connor pulled the door open again.

"Connor, wait," Angel called out. "Son, this isn't your fault."

Connor stood in the doorway, one hand on the knob. His shirt clung to his back. "Everything's my fault."

---

"And so you ended up here," the priest said. He folded his hands together. "Do you know what the first step towards attaining forgiveness is?"

"To forgive yourself?" Connor suggested.

"No," the priest answered. "Although that is important, too. It's to be willing to forgive others."

"I believe that," Connor said. "I want to. To give others a second chance."

The priest nodded.

"Thank you," Connor said, standing up. "You've been very helpful."

The priest stopped him as Connor turned to go.

"No one was born a demon," the priest said. "We all have a choice."

Connor gave him a watery smile. As he left the rectory, he unfolded the collar of his jacket up against the chill. He turned a corner and walked into the shadows. The street was empty. Drusilla stepped out from the darkness.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," he said.

She licked her fingertips one by one. “Winter always seems to last so long,” she said.

They walked down the alley together, and as she wound an arm through his she was singing.

THE END