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| a.connor a.doyle a.lindsey a.oz a.spike a.wesley a.xander a.other three.somes het.fic character.study |
| Title: Love Shall Not Author: My Happy Face Rating: PG-13 Setting: Post NFA * When you're being tortured, the first instinct is to hold onto the best and brightest parts of your life. For most people, this means their families, warm living rooms and halting baby steps and afternoon picnics in the park. It's a source of comfort even a dying man can appreciate. For Angel, there are two problems with this. One: the blood loss he is currently experiencing will not actually kill him. His fucking luck. Two: the first words his son ever said to him were, "Hi, dad." He realizes other fathers are allowed to be proud of things like this. * Anything without a medical degree that so much as looks at Gunn, Angel decides, is going to die. Considering what it had taken to get to the hospital, he's earned the right to be a little -- tetchy. No one looks too closely at the wounds covering his own body; the low growl that rumbles past his lips unnerves them. After surgery, he paces his way back and forth across Gunn's room; he's seen Gunn this still only once before, when he was still reeling from his part in Illyria’s resurrection, but he can hear a steady heartbeat. It’s enough. * Illyria and Spike turn up at three that afternoon. Angel is sitting next to Gunn’s bed, feet on the edge, blinds drawn, drowsing. Once they had cleared out most of the demons, Angel’s sole focus had been on getting Gunn medical attention, and the last time he saw them, she'd been helping Spike limp gingerly along. She had told him they would progress faster if she carried him; he had muttered something about still having some manly dignity, thanks ever so, and declined. He’s glad they made it through mostly intact. He's murdered enough of his family for this lifetime. * Angel feels a certain itch that means only one thing: the Slayer. Rather, a slayer. He steps out of Gunn's room and into the lobby, trusting that a former god king and a righteously pissed vampire will be enough to keep Gunn safe for the next few minutes. He sees Faith at the admitting desk and can't help the smile that stretches his bruised face, which fades a little as she rushes him, fist raised. She can’t quite hit him though, and winds up hugging him for the first time since he took a knife out of her trembling hand. * Which is how he wound up here. "Here" as in "here in Cleveland," though, not here as in "strapped to the table in the torture chamber of one of his former acquaintances who felt he had a serious grievance he wanted brought to light and paid for with a pound of flesh." Not an altogether unfamiliar situation. Otherwise, things were going okay, or as okay as they ever really go for him. Gunn had recovered nicely, Spike and Illyria were generally driving him less crazy than usual, and watching Faith kill things was always good times on a Saturday night. * * * Why he’s doing this he really can’t say. Even with his refitted memories, Connor’s still a little wary of his father. His first father. But a graduation held at night had seemed serendipitous, all things considered, and he found Angel without much trouble. There are only so many vampires with souls, and only one over six feet tall. His new parents don’t mind; they’re still grateful for the help Angel gave them – literally gave; although they had waited for a bill, none ever arrived – and they promise to save him a seat. They loan him their car for the trip. * So he pulls into the carport of a largish house near Cleveland's city limits and approaches the door, ready to ask a potentially awkward question. Before he can knock, though, the door jerks open under his hand and he’s staring into Faith's irritated face. Well. Eventually he’s staring into Faith's irritated face. Her eyes move over him, assessing, as if to confirm something to herself, and she quickly thrusts her hand toward his face. He catches the half-formed fist without thinking, and she nods. He passed. "Come in and load up, kid. Your dad got himself into some shit. Again." * "You’d think most of his enemies would be dead by now," Connor says reflectively. There’s a medium-sized duffle bag open at his feet. "I mean, he’s pretty old." He packs another knife. "That’s the problem with pissing off demons," Gunn replies, cutting his sword through the air. "They’re big into the blood vengeance deal. Think Hatfields and McCoys, only with horns." Grimacing, he adds, "Maybe less scales, though." Faith swings the bag onto her shoulder and says, "If you ladies are finished gossiping, there's rescuin' to be done." Connor ducks his head and smiles. You don’t get over some people. * After all the suiting up, the rescue is a little anticlimactic. The scaly, orange demon holding Angel captive is suitably cowed by their impressive arsenal, and barely puts up any fight at all. The worst part is pulling the cooled metal pokers from Angel’s chest: his preternatural flesh had already healed around the intrusions, and the noises are -- Angel blinks up at them a little. Connor figures he should say something, but he can’t think of what, so he settles for placing his hand over the place a normal man’s heart ought to beat. He doesn’t think Angel will mind. * Connor helps him up the stairs, one arm slung heavily across his shoulders, and somehow manages to get Angel onto a bed. This only happens because the aforementioned bed is the nearest flat surface. "How do you feel about Palo Alto?" he asks. The question seems to come out of nowhere, but he can count on Angel not to mind a nonsequitur. "I was ritually possessed and partially disemboweled there once. Not my favorite place ever." "Think you can put aside your petty differences long enough to see me graduate?" His voice is affectionately amused, and Angel's smile is blinding. -End Feedback |