By Minim Calibre
Notes: Angel Book of Days fic, gen, PG-13.
“Connor?” Fred’s voice slides into the edges of his consciousness. He doesn’t answer.
The film of grime on the window obscures an already-nondescript view, bleeding and dulling the reds and oranges of the sunset and twisting the shape of the palm trees. If he lets his focus slip for half a second, it almost looks like home.
She continues, her voice earnest and pained. He can hear the steady beating of her heart, the occasional catch of her breath between words. “We’ll find him.”
Forces a lie past his lips. “I know. Thank you.”
“I made you a sandwich.” She sets the plate down with a dull thud.
“Bologna and mustard, but you used sourdough this time.” Connor catches the slight shift in her scent as his words sink in. That’s why he said them, after all. Gunn wears his unease openly. Not Fred. Fred tries to hide it under sweet words and sandwiches.
It’s no fun reminding Gunn what he is, or, more accurately, what he isn’t–normal, human. Fred’s another story. He turns and smiles, innocent and guileless, and just another lie. She returns it, hesitating at first, and rushes from the room, babbling excuses.
The sandwich is good; he can still smell her touch on the crust when he bites into it. Fred told him she spent five years in a hell dimension; she was trying to show him they had something in common. Connor looks out the window again, and wonders what it would be like to have a home he’d miss. Home as a place of comfort is an alien concept.
Angel has been missing for nearly a month. So has Cordelia.
At first she tried to tell herself they’d gone off together, but they wouldn’t, not without a word. She checks Cordelia’s apartment twice a week, and tries to comfort Dennis while fighting her growing suspicion that something really awful has happened. Most nights, she and Connor and Charles go out looking for some clue as to their whereabouts. But almost a month with no word, nowhere to start…
Fred looks at the phone. They’ve talked about this. They’re not going to bring him into it. They’ve agreed. Of course, talking sounded more like fighting, and agreement more like Charles issuing an ultimatum. But Charles is off talking to some of his old contacts, and they’re running out of options.
She dials the number with shaky fingers, tells him everything in a rush and waits for his response.
It’s not what she’d hoped for.
“I don’t see what you expect me to do about it,” Wesley says, and hangs up. She thinks he sounded a little more cordial than cold. Somehow, that makes it worse.
When Charles gets back, she tells him about the phone call.
He swears under his breath. “I thought we’d agreed we weren’t telling him.”
“We need Angel, and Wesley’s our best chance at finding him. Or would be, if he still cared enough to help.” The last part comes out sounding more plaintive than she intended it to, and Charles narrows his eyes. “Any luck tonight?” Changing the subject seems like a good idea.
Or not. “No. Nobody’s seen or heard anything, and even if they had, I’m gettin’ the feeling that I’d be about the last person they’d tell.” He sounds tired and frustrated; she can’t blame him.
When they go up to bed, they don’t talk or touch. It’s worse than fighting, she thinks. Fighting feels temporary. This feels like something she can’t fix, maybe because she’s not sure what’s broken. She waits until she can tell Charles is asleep, then goes downstairs to what used to be Wesley’s office and goes back to making charts about everything and anything they’ve managed to learn.
Her fingers are itching to write things down and make them real again. Except she doesn’t want them to be real, not if they’re going to be like this. Tension and missing bosses and friends who turn on you. It’s better than Pylea, but it’s still not good.
Connor marks time by the changes of the moon and what Fred has brought him for dinner. He doesn’t think anything of it; it’s not far from how they marked the passage of time when he was growing up. Three days after she made the sandwich with sourdough, he goes to find Justine.
She’s gone. He pockets a discarded knife and takes a look around.
A picture of his father sits on top of her dresser, next to pictures of Justine and an identical girl. He picks it up and stares at it. Whispers to it, seeking answers. “I’ve remembered what you taught me, Father. Angelus has been punished for what he did. Now what?” But the picture is just an image of something that no longer exists, a lie captured on paper. His father cannot answer his questions. No one can.
He throws the picture across the room. The frame shatters in a crunch of wood and glass, and for a moment he feels a dull throb of satisfaction. The feeling passes quickly, leaving nothing in its wake. Justine’s scent is a few days old, and he loses it within a block. His father would be ashamed of him.
Before he returns to the hotel, he hunts. This, he knows, would have made his father proud. But the thin layer of dust that covers him by the time he gets to the Hyperion leaves him no closer to content than did shattering the picture frame.
A peanut butter sandwich is waiting in his room, along with a glass of still-cold milk. He puts his weapons down, drinks the milk, and seeks out Fred.
Fred smells like oranges and earth, so tracking her is easy. She’s in the room off the lobby, reading and making notes. He watches her, slowly chewing his sandwich. When she doesn’t think anyone is looking, she shimmers with nervousness and fear, reminding him of a trapped animal. Sharp teeth gnaw on the edge of a pencil, and on the edge of her knuckles when she’s writing.
The orange-earth smell grows stronger when she’s upset. It must be something she wears, or something in her soap. Some mornings, he can smell traces of it on Gunn. It wasn’t there this morning, or the morning before that. He suspects she’s upset about more than Angel and Cordelia.
As the night stretches on, he realizes she’s not planning on going up to her room. Connor watches until she falls asleep in the chair, and then goes back upstairs. He picks Justine’s knife up from off the bed, frowning as he tests the edge. She should never have let it get this dull. He pulls out the stone and begins to sharpen it. When he can draw blood from a feather-light touch, he stops, and wipes the fresh crimson from his fingertips.
Connor doesn’t sleep more than an hour or two each night. Night is a time for remembering his lessons, for remembering that evil can hide behind a kind face and kinder words. He closes his eyes and hears his father’s voice quietly explaining that his purpose is to destroy those like the demons who sired and birthed him, for the sake of everything that they have destroyed.
He pictures his father dead in Justine’s arms, destroyed by the devil with an angel’s face. Tries to recapture the grief and rage by focusing on the image: the harsh lines of his father’s face waxen and slack in death, Justine’s hair clinging like dried blood to tear-stained cheeks.
It doesn’t work. The image melts away, replaced by endless waves. Angel’s voice mingles with the other sounds, lies of love and promises of forgiveness.
***
“Tell me about the fireworks.”
They’re in her kitchen, preparing lunch. Connor sits on a chair in a graceless sprawl of teenaged limbs, chopping onions for the potato salad. His face looks eager and open. Sometimes he seems like just a normal boy, or as normal as a boy who grew up in a hell dimension and then lost two fathers can be, which, she reminds herself, is as normal as things get around here.
Fred starts with the history and finds herself detouring into the history of explosives in general, which keeps both Connor’s and Charles’s attention. Then she babbles for a while about the basic chemistry involved: antimony for glitter, copper to make things blue, barium to make them green. Charles rolls his eyes and goes back to cleaning an axe, but Connor at least seems interested. “Anyhow,” she finishes up lamely, “we’ll see plenty of them tonight.”
Last Fourth of July, she stayed in her room drawing the chemical formulas for various types of pyrotechnics on the walls instead of going out. Angel was gone then, too. She’s starting to get that summer really isn’t the best time for him. Which, with the long days and the vampire factor, was probably a given.
“Why do you people have them?” Connor stops chopping and grabs an apple. It’s supposed to go in the Waldorf salad, but he always looks likes he needs to eat, so she lets him have it. Besides, there’s another apple in the crisper.
“To celebrate our independence from the English.”
“Sentiment I can get behind one hundred percent,” Charles mutters. Fred bites her lip and wonders how long he’s going to stay angry about that phone call. It’s not like he had any better ideas.
Not that hers turned out to be all that great either, but he has to understand she had to try. What if Wesley had been willing to help them find Angel, but they hadn’t asked, and they’d lost their one chance at finding him?
Fred is becoming more and more certain that they’re never going to find him, that it’s just going to be her and Charles trying to keep everything afloat with the business and Connor, and she’s run the math. They can’t do it. Not for more than a couple of months, anyhow. Even if they stop paying for Cordelia’s apartment, that only gives them an extra month. Business has pretty well dried up, and when they run out of money, they won’t have anywhere to go, and they still won’t have found Angel or Cordelia.
Wesley should have helped. He owes it to Angel after what he did. Fred tries to stifle the voice in her head that’s saying it’s all her fault for what she said to him in the hospital room, even if every word was true. Twelve hot dogs, twelve buns. Divided by three, that was four each. Concentrating on the details does the trick, and she’s able to squish the worry back into place for a while.
Connor enjoys the fireworks. The bright streaks of color and light, the smell of sulphur, the crackle of the explosions, all of it. They feel familiar, and he feels less adrift until the last flare fades from the night sky, leaving it drained and dull.
He takes his eyes from the empty sky and turns them his companions. Fred is leaning against Gunn, her eyes still glittering, and her lips slightly parted. Her cheeks are flushed with lingering excitement, and he stares at her for a moment longer than he should. Gunn’s hand is large and dark against her shoulder, protective and possessive. Connor meets his eyes and finds both wariness and warning there.
It’s more than a mile back to the truck, but the walk does nothing to reduce the tension Connor can feel coming off of Gunn. Fred remains oblivious to the undercurrents. She relaxes between them, one leg on each side of the stick, still happily chattering about the display. Connor moves until his thigh presses against hers. When she doesn’t move away, he lets his hand brush the side of her knee. He feels her freeze, a slight hesitation interrupting her speech, as his fingers meet bare skin. Fred throws him an odd look, and he responds with one of practiced ignorance.
She shakes her head as if to clear her mind, and resumes talking like nothing happened. Gunn’s responses grow shorter, but if Fred notices, Connor sees no sign.
“Who’s up for dessert?” Fred’s voice borders on shrill, and in the light of the lobby, what looked like normal enthusiasm in the darkness of the truck is revealed to be something almost manic.
Gunn shakes his head. “I’m beat, and besides, after stuffing myself at lunch and dinner, there’s no room for it.”
“Connor?”
“Sure. Dessert sounds great.” He smiles broadly, which earns him another dirty look from Gunn.
Fred follows Charles to their room so she can bring the blueberries and vanilla ice cream down. She studs the scoops with patterns made of fruit, neat indigo bumps on off-white.
“I don’t like the way he was looking at you.” Charles isn’t looking at her, he’s looking out the window into the night sky, his back rigid and arms stuck stiffly in his pockets.
She can’t believe what she’s hearing. “Who, Connor?”
“Who else? Yeah, Connor.” Charles laughs, but there’s no humor in it.
“Charles, that’s ridiculous. He’s Angel’s son.” Who half a year ago was just a baby. A shudder passes through her so quickly she barely notices it; she doesn’t like to think of everything about Connor that’s changed, not when there’s still baby clothes he never grew into tucked away downstairs.
“Angel’s supernatural creepy teenaged son, more like.” When he turns around, he looks troubled, more so than usual. “Fred, you can’t keep pretending like he’s normal, ’cause he ain’t. You’ve been out on jobs with us; you’ve seen what he can do.” “Okay, granted, he’s got super-human strength and speed, but he’s still just a kid, Charles. He’s lost both Holtz and Angel, and he was raised in a hell dimension; of course he’s going to seem a little weird.” It’s not the first time they’ve had this talk, though it is the first time it’s been about more than just watching each other’s back when the three of them are out fighting.
“That kid is more than a little weird.” It’s just muttered to himself, though, not directed at her. Charles doesn’t seem interested in talking about it anymore, so she takes the bowls down to where Connor’s waiting.
It’s Charles’s fault she feels uneasy when he looks at her with eyes that are too big and too blue for his face. He’s Angel’s son, but he’s also Darla’s son. She doesn’t like to think about that, either. Connor smiles at her and grabs his bowl. This is ridiculous, she reminds herself. Connor doesn’t think of her that way. Connor doesn’t think of anyone that way.
Little prickles of paranoia start to make their way up her spine. She eats rapidly, not tasting the ice cream or the fruit. He didn’t mean anything by the way he touched her leg in the truck. It wasn’t even on purpose. Charles is imagining things.
“What’s wrong?” Connor takes another bite and keeps looking at her, not really blinking.
“It’s nothing,” she lies. “I’m just a little on edge from the fireworks and from the whole not finding Angel part of things.”
They never seem to remember he can hear almost everything they say. He hears them upstairs, fighting about him again. Fred looks shaky as she walks down the stairs, two bowls in hand. He takes his from her, careful to avoid touching her, and asks her what’s wrong as if he doesn’t know.
Connor listens to Fred lie to him, tell him its nothing. Her heart is beating faster, and her breathing is shallow and irregular. She’s fighting panic. Fred’s pretty when she’s panicking. Maybe that’s why he likes to startle her.
“I liked the fireworks.” That at least is the truth. “They were pretty. So are you.” Her spoon stops midway to her mouth, and she looks like she wants to escape. “Gunn’s very lucky.”
The last part relaxes her, catches her off guard. “Thanks,” she says slowly, the nervousness returning as his eyes remain on her. “It’s getting late, I should clean up and go to bed.”
She starts to leave, and he shoots a hand out to grab her wrist. “Stay. Tell me more about the fireworks.” Fred’s eyes dart back and forth as his thumb rubs over the pulse point he’s found. “They’ve made you nervous, but you still like them. Why?”
Fred hesitates, but she sits back down when he drops his hand. She doesn’t answer immediately. “Connor, are we still talking about fireworks?”
He deliberately misunderstands. “Of course. What else would we be talking about?” He knows that’s all he needs to say to set her at ease. Fred will believe what she wants for as long as he’ll let her.
“Nevermind, it’s not important.” She smiles at him, too wide and too cheerful for it to be real, and then talks more about chemistry and physics and the mechanics of explosives, going into great detail. He never knew they were so easy to make. It’s a wonder that humans haven’t blown each other to oblivion by now.
Connor says as much.
“Well, we’re not all bad, you know.”
He shrugs and pushes away his empty bowl, but her indignation makes him smile. “Yeah, I know. You and Gunn aren’t. Cordelia wasn’t. My father wasn’t.” He’s not talking about Angel, but Fred doesn’t need to know that. Connor goes out to the garden and waits to see if she’ll follow him. She does.
Fred puts a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll find him.” She says the words so often that he thinks they’ve lost their meaning and turned into a chant or a prayer for her. “Somehow.”
He sometimes worries that they will. If Justine talks to someone and word gets to Fred or Gunn, Angel could be freed, and his father’s death will once more be unavenged. Connor can’t let that happen. He turns and captures Fred’s arms, looks in her eyes before pressing his mouth against hers. She tastes like milk and sugar, and their tongues touch before she breaks away, hand flying up to cover her mouth.
“Connor…” Eyes wide with shock, she backs away.
“I’m sorry.” He’s not. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
“No, you shouldn’t have.”
“Are you going to tell Gunn?”
She shakes her head. “Connor, you’ve got to promise me you’ll never do something like that again. It’s wrong.”
“It won’t happen again, I promise.”
Fred nods and goes back into the hotel. Connor sits on a stone bench and listens to the sounds of night insects and passing cars. It won’t happen again because he doesn’t need it to. Once is enough to keep Fred nervous and on edge, enough to keep Gunn wondering what it is she’s not telling him. Once is enough to distract them both while Connor cleans up loose ends and keeps his promise to his father from becoming just another lie.