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The light on the answering machine blinked for two days before Wesley finally turned the volume back up and pressed the play button.
He listened to Fred's soft, hesitant voice long enough to hear, "Wesley, something awful has happened and we wondered if you-" before he pushed fast forward.
The next one was Gunn. "Look, I know you said not to call, but Angel-"
He skipped to the next message. Fred. "You're upset. I understand you're upset, but we need-"
Again. Still Fred. "Please, just call. We don't know what to-"
And again. Gunn. "You want us to beg? Fine. Please. I'm begg-"
And Gunn again, almost shouting. "I bet you're sitting there laughing. Bet you think this is funny. Well fuck-"
Click, whir.
Fred again, her voice soft and thick, like she was whispering through tears. "Charles didn't mean that. If you would just talk to us-"
There were five more messages. He didn't listen to them, just pressed the delete button until the light stopped flashing. After a moment, he disconnected the machine. After considering for another moment, he unplugged the phone.
They wouldn't, he thought, turn up in person. If they were going to go that route, they would have done so already.
Even so, he ignored the tentative knock on his door an hour later. After a few moments, it stopped and he went back to his book. Demonology, and he didn't even know why he bothered, it wasn't as if he would ever--
There was a tinkle of breaking glass from his bedroom. Wesley placed a bookmark in his spot, then quietly fetched the shotgun from its place by the front door. He cocked it.
He paused in front of the bedroom and listened. Nothing. He considered calling out a warning, just for a second, then kicked the door in and threw the butt of the rifle to his shoulder, a finger already on the trigger.
And froze at the solemn stare under a ragged fringe of bangs that met him.
"You didn't answer the door," the boy said.
"I wasn't expecting you," Wesley answered.
*
He watched the boy wolf down two sandwiches and start to work on his third before Wesley felt capable of asking questions. He started with the most basic.
"Why are you here?"
"My father," the boy explained. "He said," and his eyes grew distant. "He said you were a good man." When Wesley raised an eyebrow, he said, "My real father. Holtz."
He forced himself to sit very still and ask very calmly, "Where is he?"
"Dead."
"I'm sorry."
"Are you? Justine didn't think you would be." The boy took another bite of sandwich, then said, after he chewed, "She told me to tell you no hard feelings."
"Did she."
He shrugged. "She's gone now."
"Wise girl."
"So." He finished the last of the sandwich, then neatly licked his fingers clean. "I don't have anyone anymore."
"You're alone."
He nodded, then said slowly, "I've never been alone before. I suppose it won't be too bad, but…" He gave Wesley that same, solemn look.
Wesley closed his eyes, then said, "You can stay here."
*
He let the boy have the bed. He supposed he needn't have bothered when he found the neat little pallet under it the next day.
"I like this better," the boy said when Wesley questioned him.
Well. Of course he would be conditioned to sleep somewhere dark and hidden. Safe. Not because he was afraid like-- No. Not afraid. Practical.
So that night Wesley resumed sleeping in his bed. He was almost asleep when Connor, below him, said, "Tell me a sleeping time story."
"A what?"
"A," he paused, then said, "a story for before you sleep."
"A bedtime story."
"I guess. Yes."
"Like what?"
"Tell me about Utah."
"I've never been. Sorry."
"Then tell me about the cliffs. The white cliffs back home."
"They're millions of years old, very tall and very white."
"Why are they white?"
"Because they're made from the skeletons of small animals."
"I like that," Connor said. "My father didn't know that."
"I suppose it wasn't known until after his time."
There was silence under the bed and Wesley thought Connor had fallen asleep until he said, "You sounded sad. Like my father."
"It was part of my home too."
"Do you miss it?"
"Sometimes."
"Can't you go back?"
"There's nothing for me there."
Connor was quiet for a moment, then said, "I can't go home either."
Wesley sighed, then said, "Go to sleep."
*
Connor went out the next night. Hunting, he said. He came back with a neatly skinned and cleaned pet shaped carcass. "Meat," he said proudly.
Wesley looked at it, dutifully jointed it, then cooked it. With enough garlic, it wasn't too bad. Even so, he told Connor not to touch the meat wearing tags.
"Are they talismans?"
"Of a sort, yes."
After that, Wesley started hunting with him, showed him where the most active demon nests were and Connor decided it was more entertaining to hunt prey that could fight back.
It wasn't the good fight, Wesley decided, as they beheaded a Breva demon. No mission except to kill and any help they gave was incidental. Still, it was…satisfying. When Connor pulled out his knife and determinedly pried one horn free for a trophy, Wesley just told him to mind the poisonous tip.
Later, he pulled out his leathers, frowned and removed all the decorative trim, then oiled them until they were dark and supple. Slipping into them felt both strange and oddly comforting, like falling back into a dream you thought you'd forgotten.
Not a Rogue Demon Hunter, he thought as he studied his reflection. Just him, or perhaps a pared down version of him, all the extraneous fluff stripped away with only the essentials left.
Sometimes they caught glimpses of Gunn's old gang.
"Clumsy," Connor said, after they watched five of them struggle to pull down one vampire. "Careless," he added one of them had his throat ripped open before the other four managed to pull the vamp off and dust it.
As they dragged their fallen comrade away, Connor asked, "Do we help them?"
"No," Wesley said. "They wouldn't want it."
Once they saw Gunn and Fred. Not fighting, just walking down the street. Holding hands. They looked…tired, Wesley thought.
Connor glanced at them, narrowed his eyes, then slipped back into the shadows of the alley. A moment later, Wesley joined him.
Connor gave him a curious look, then asked, "You don't want to talk to them?"
"No," he said shortly, and Connor seemed content to leave it at that.
*
Some nights Wesley woke up to the sound of muffled weeping from under the bed. Connor always seemed to sense his awareness and would immediately cease. Wesley would lie awake, listen to the boy's thick, uneven breathing, wonder if comforting would be required and if so, if he was even capable of offering it. Usually he fell asleep, still wondering.
One night the crying didn't stop. Wesley listened, eyes closed, then finally murmured, "Connor. What's troubling you?"
No answer but a choked off sound, like Connor was swallowing back tears over an impassable lump in his throat.
He really wasn't equipped to deal with this, he thought. The only experience he had to rely on was his own, and he rather doubted it would help at all to tell the boy to stop blubbering and for God's sake be a man. "It's all right," he finally said. "Sometimes a person needs to have a good cry."
A long silence, and then, thickly, "Do you?"
"Sometimes."
Another long silence, then a rustle and Connor stood beside the bed, his eyes bright and wet in the moonlight. He sniffed, then scrubbed at his face and looked at the floor.
Wesley sighed, then repeated, "It's all right."
The boy hesitated a moment, then swarmed into the bed and buried his face in Wesley's throat. "I miss him," he whispered.
Reluctantly, Wesley put his arms around him, patted his back and made 'there, there' noises. As comforting went, it wasn't anything particularly extraordinary, but it seemed enough to do the trick. Connor hitched in a breath, clutched a little at Wesley's back, then slowly fell back into sleep.
After that, it became common for Wesley to wake up in the middle of the night and find Connor wrapped around him like a blanket. It was uncomfortable and stifling, but he gradually became accustomed to Connor's slight weight against him, and perhaps even missed it the times when he woke up alone.
Ridiculous, he'd tell himself at those moments. Ridiculous and sentimental. So he'd ease himself out of bed, make a strong drink and read until his eyes burned and his head was so full of arcane information it didn't have room for anything else.
One night he'd looked up from his book to find Connor watching him from the doorway. "You weren't there," he said flatly.
"I couldn't sleep."
Connor wandered over to the table, curiously sniffed the glass, then raised it to his lips.
"Don't drink that."
"Why?"
"It's bad for you. Like poison."
Connor gave him a long, slow look. "You drink it. You're not dead."
"It takes time."
Silence for a while, then, "There are faster ways to die."
Wesley shrugged. "It's the journey that matters."
Still holding the glass, Connor sniffed it again, wrinkled his nose, then tossed the whiskey back like it was tepid tea. He swallowed and said, "Then I'll go with you."
*
Wesley went out if he wanted a drink after that.
There were any number of bars near his apartment, and he would pick one at random. Even so, he wasn't terribly surprised when Lilah sat next to him mid drink.
"I thought," she said with a slow smile, "that you would call me."
He swallowed, then answered shortly, "How extraordinarily unrealistic of you."
"Not really." She leaned forward. Wesley declined to notice her cleavage. "You know I was incredible."
"That is not the word I would have chosen." It was surprisingly unsatisfying to see her eyes widen and her lips compress. He sighed, then, "What do you want, Lilah?"
She painted a smile back on her face before smoothly replying, "The same thing I've always wanted. You on our team."
Wesley stood, pulled a few bills from his wallet and dropped them on the table. "Sorry, I'm too busy to play." He turned to walk away, but paused when she said:
"Yes, I imagine Steven is quite a handful. Or is he back to calling himself Connor now?"
Over his shoulder he replied, "Since you know where he is, you could ask him yourself, I imagine. If you really think he would answer, that is."
Her chair scraped, then she stood in front of him and shook her head. "For the moment he's strictly hands off. That's the directive from the Senior Partners, anyway. But Linwood would still really love to take him apart. See what makes him tick." She picked a piece of lint from his shirt, then slanted a look up at him. "If you were on my team, my entire staff would be at your disposal to protect him."
Wesley grabbed her wrist and easily forced her hand to her side. "He's actually quite capable of protecting himself."
She grimaced a little, but then leaned closer until her breasts were pressed firmly into his chest and her mouth was bare inches from his. "And you, Wesley? How good are you at protecting yourself?"
"Better than average, I suspect. I know enough to keep you away." He inhaled and felt half nauseated, half aroused at the scent of her distinctive perfume.
To his surprise, she laughed with genuine amusement. "I'm not the one you have to worry about."
"Really."
"Really." She pressed a light kiss to his lips, then whispered against them, "If you want to know who to look out for, ask Angel."
*
Connor audibly inhaled when he walked through the door. "You smell," he said baldly. He strode toward Wesley, leaned forward, sniffed again and added, "Like smoke and poison and flowers."
Throw in a little brimstone, Wesley thought, and that pretty much summed up the Lilah experience. "Sorry," he answered shortly. "I'll shower."
When he emerged from the bathroom, Connor was sitting on the bed, holding Wesley's shirt. "I don't like her."
"I don't much care for her either."
"She was with some people who tried to take me," Connor said as he turned the shirt over in his hands. "They wanted to cut me open and see my insides." He tilted his head up and gave Wesley an openly speculative look.
"They think you're not human," Wesley said evenly. He sat next to Connor, pulled the shirt from his hands, then threw it in the wastebasket.
"Because of my-- Because of him."
"Yes."
"Do think I'm human?"
Wesley met his openly anxious gaze directly and said, "Yes."
Connor searched his eyes, then subtly relaxed. He looked at Wesley's throat and said, "My father told me you tried to protect me. That you tried to take me away from…him."
"It seemed like the thing to do at the time."
"Is that how you got this?" He touched the scar on Wesley's throat.
"Yes."
"Does it still hurt?" He traced the scar with a fingertip, then followed it to where it ended in a hard knot, then fingered that gently.
"Yes. No. Don't."
Connor traced it again. "My father said each scar is proof that you're alive, like a trophy. This one belongs to both of us."
Wesley swallowed, hard, then said quietly, "I suppose it does."
"Did you love me?"
"You were a helpless baby."
"Do you love me?"
And it was impossible to keep from saying, "Yes."
Connor pressed his lips to the scar, then nudged Wesley until he laid back on the pillows, wriggled until Wesley carefully folded him in his arms, then fell asleep while Wesley stared dry eyed at the ceiling.
*
He watched the Hyperion. Gunn and Fred came and went during the day. No one left it at night. Next he checked the tunnels. They had a thick layer of dust on the floor. No footsteps had disturbed them for months.
Connor, by his side, yawned. "What are we looking for?"
"Angel." He felt Connor go still and gently asked, "Will you tell me where he is?"
After a moment Connor shrugged. "Gone."
"Dead?"
Connor shrugged again. "I don't know." Then he scuffed at the dust with the toe of one shoe and added, "I hope not."
"Connor. Where is he?"
"Why?"
"Because I want to know."
"He killed my father."
"How do you know?"
"Justine told me."
"Justine," Wesley said while pointing to his neck, "gave me this when she stole you from my arms."
A little doubt crept into his eyes, but then Connor shook his head and repeated, "He killed my father."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure. He killed my father and he's going to suffer forever because of it."
"Is that what your father taught you?"
"What?"
"Revenge."
"He taught me justice."
"And what is justice did Angel get?"
"He's gets to live forever."
"Where you put him."
"Yes."
"And you won't tell me where."
Connor silently shook his head.
Wesley studied him for a moment, took in the defiant posture, the wary eyes, and sighed. "Then we may as well go home."
*
The next morning Wesley packed his weapons. The crossbow with arrows, the short sword, and finally, the gutting knife.
Connor watched with shadowed eyes. "Are you angry with me?"
"No."
"Then why are you leaving?"
"It's only for a few days." He closed the bag, then stepped toward the door. A hand on his arm stopped him.
"Do you promise you'll come back?"
Wesley turned, met Connor's eyes and said, "I promise I'll come back."
The motorcycle thrummed beneath him when he left the city and headed north.
*
It took four days.
Wesley finally ran her to ground in a little coastal town where she neglected to hide her most recent kill; a Prosker demon and not a very big one. Still it looked as thought it had given her a decent fight.
He followed the trail of blood to a small cabin and there she was. Too tired and hurt to put up much of a fight, but even so, it felt…good to have his knife at her throat.
"It was nothing personal," Justine said when she finally felt the blade.
"Neither is this," Wesley said evenly.
"You tracked me all the way here to kill me? I thought you were better than that."
"I don't think you really know me at all." He pressed a little harder, felt her gasp when the knife bit.
Her head dropped back onto his shoulder. "Fine. Go ahead."
He obligingly dug the blade in a deeper and she shuddered. "I'm not quite sure you really want to die," he said conversationally. "However, I think I can manage to leave you as you did me. If you'll just hold very still..." He steadied his grip, felt her swallow, then she said:
"Don't." Very quietly, like she was refusing another sugar for her tea. And then, "What do you want?"
*
When he returned, Connor was asleep on his bed.
Wesley set his bag down with a deliberate thump and Connor bolted upright with a knife in each hand, then relaxed and smiled.
"You're back."
"I said I would be."
"Did you find what you were looking for?"
"I did, yes."
Connor casually sheathed his knives, then sat back against the pillows. "I had good hunting while you were gone. Four vampires and something with horns and," he wrinkled his nose, "slime."
"Chaos demon," Wesley said absently. "They usually don't come this far north."
"What did you hunt?"
"Deliverance."
*
When Connor fall back asleep, Wesley eased himself from the bed and walked into the living room. He looked at the phone for a long moment, then plugged it back in and dialed the Hyperion. It was a relief to get the machine. He listened to Cordelia's cheery greeting about helping the helpless, then spoke.
"Angel is at the bottom of the ocean, just off of Point Dume. I suggest you bring a welding torch with you." He paused, then said very deliberately, "This should conclude any business left between us. As Gunn would say, we're quits. I trust that neither of you will try to contact me again, under any circumstances. Goodbye."
He hung up, calmly yanked the cord from the wall, then walked back into the bedroom and sat at the foot of the bed.
Connor rolled over, patted the empty space beside him, then sat up and looked around until he saw Wesley.
"What?" he asked sleepily.
"I was wondering," Wesley said, "if you would like to see Utah."