An Irish Touch

by MegK1978

Continued from my "Buffy" story arc. Fiona Gavin has arrived in LA from her stint in Sunnydale. Will she be able to bring Angel back from his darkness?

"An Irish Touch"

Summary: This is what would have happened if Fiona Gavin had arrived in LA as planned to draw Angel out. Set during "Blood Money", "Happy Anniversary", "The Thin Dead Line", and just before part one of "Epiphany." Could help if you read Fiona's adventures in Sunnydale first. "*-*-*-*-*-*-*" means change of episode. Lyrics property of Sarah McLaughlin. Spoilers for those episodes and "The Body" (BtVS).

Feedback: Want it, need it, gotta have it.

She walked out of the Los Angeles train station, combing nervous fingers through her shoulder-length hair. She closed her eyes a moment, remembering another hand that had done the same thing only in the last few days, feeling a pang in her heart. She missed him already.

"Hey." She turned to the owner of the voice, her companion from the train from Sunnydale. She was a young woman about her age, with dark-chocolate skin and eyes, night-black hair with a streak of blond an inch wide. She wore a violet tank top and tie-dyed jeans, topped with short jacket. "Thanks for the company. Hope you find who you're looking for."

"Me, too, Jasmine," the other young woman replied in her rich brogue, a smile coming easily to her lips. "An' y're welcome."

"Good luck." Jasmine turned away and headed toward her own family's dwelling.

The young Irishwoman tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, shoulder her carryon bag. She took the well wishing to heart; if this was going to be as difficult as it had been fleshed out to her, she would take all the luck she could get.

Before long, and with only a little difficulty, she found herself where she intended.

She looked at the apartment complex with a small smile, impressed. She took out the small slip of paper that had been given to her only two days ago, double-checking the address. This is it, then, she thought. This's where the infamous Cordelia Chase lives.

From what she'd been told, and the flashes of insight she got from time to time, the Irishwoman knew there was more to the former May Queen than met the eye.

Then again, the same could be said of others of her acquaintance.

She entered the outer hallway of the building, finding the door to Cordelia's apartment. She rapped soundly on the door; waited a moment to listen for anyone scurrying on the other side. More loud rapping. Nothing.

She let out a sigh of frustration. They must be at Angel Investigations. Too bad Rupert doesn't know where that is.

Seeing no other option available to her, she placed her bags on the floor, then slid down beside them. At that moment, she was grateful she had brought along some books and other things for her amusement. Being bored out of her mind with simply waiting would not bode well for the mission she had set for herself.

Her hand dipped into her carryon, searching, as she decided how best to occupy her time. Her brows knitted as her fingers encountered something unfamiliar.

Something she hadn't packed.

She withdrew a small package wrapped in white tissue paper, an envelope taped to it. The envelope read, in almost Victorian script, "Open the package first."

She put it to her ear. No ticking, it wasn't some miniscule bomb. A tear in the paper revealed a velvet-covered jeweler's box. In the box itself, suspended on a chain, was a St. George medallion.

The envelope revealed a folded piece of paper, with the same Victorian-like script:

Fiona,

If you're reading this, I haven't tried hard enough to keep you in Sunnyhell. Since you're determined to do this, I thought you could use all the help you can get. I hope St. Dragon-Slayer will help you with this particular dragon. Don't get yourself killed, and come back in one piece.

Yours, William.

She felt her eyes tear up, missing the storm-dark blue eyes, the bleached blonde hair, the pale face that could be open or closed from moment to the next. Her fingertips touched the medallion and she smiled softly. "Thank y', William," she whispered.

Cordelia Chase, Wesley Wyndham-Pryce, and Charles Gunn came back to Cordelia's apartment after looking over their new office, still arguing over the name of the agency. Anything but "Angel Investigations."

Wesley, who was in the lead, came to sudden stop, causing Gunn and Cordelia to crash into him. "Wesley!" Cordelia exclaimed.

"What's the big idea, English?" Gunn demanded.

"Shhh," the ex-Watcher hushed them, gesturing to the floor.

Beside a valise and carryon by Cordelia's door was a young woman, no older than her mid-20s, her eyes closed in sleep. The late-afternoon sun accentuated her red hair and its gold highlights. A small medallion, suspended from a chain around her neck, rested on her heart.

"One of your friends, Cordelia?" Wesley asked softly.

Cordelia shook her dark head. "Never seen her before."

"She's definitely not from my part of town," Gunn added.

"Y' could simply wake me up an' ask me, instead o' talkin' 'bout me like I'm not here," a new voice gently teased.

The trio jumped, whirling fast to see the strawberry-blonde look at them with amber eyes as she got to her feet.

Cordelia's breath caught in her throat as she realized what the woman's accent was. His image briefly flashed in her mind, right down to the way he looked at her and his major fashion impediment.

The amber eyes focused on the seer, the mouth smiling softly. "I remind y' of him, don't I?"

Wesley and Gunn exchanged looks, their gazes switching between the two women, wondering what the question meant.

Wesley cleared his throat. "May we help you?"

"Well, y' could start by invitin' me in an' offerin' me a cup," she replied, imminent laughter in her voice.

"We don't have any whiskey," Cordelia said as she unlocked the door.

"'S okay. Not m' drink o' choice anyway."

The trio entered the apartment while the newcomer gathered her stuff together. Cordelia called to the air, "Dennis, we have a guest. Be nice."

They turned expectantly to the door, relieved to see her step over the threshold without an explicit invitation.

She caught their looks with an understanding smile. "In my experience, vamps have a tendency t' be anywhere." She hauled her bags into an out-of-the-way corner. "Dennis?"

"My roommate," Cordelia replied. "He's a ghost. Soda, tea?"

"Soda's fine, thanks." Not knowing where to focus her attention, she addressed the air as Cordelia had done. "Nice t' meet y', Dennis." She took a breath. "Y' must be wonderin' why I'm even here, so I'll 'fess up', as y' say.

"M' name's Fiona Gavin, an' I'm fey, an Irish witch. That means," she glanced at Cordelia and Gunn, "I get flashes o' insight, people 'n' places where I could do some good. I came here from Sunnydale, where I'd been stayin' fer 'bout a month. I know a bit 'bout you, Cordelia, an' you, Mr. Wyndham-Pryce."

"From Buffy?" Cordelia asked.

"A bit, an' Rupert, an' William."

"William?" Wesley asked. He knew she was talking about Buffy Summers' Watcher, Rupert Giles, but he didn't know of any "William".

Fiona grinned. "Taller than m'self, bleached hair, cockney accent."

Cordelia, however, recognized the description immediately. "Spike?!" she exploded.

"Calm down, Cordelia. William didn't give me any nasty bits 'bout y', an' Rupert 'n' I've been friends fer ages, an' so've our families. Anyway," Fiona added, getting back on track, "a few days ago, I had a nightmare 'bout yer boss. Since Rupert didn't know where Angel hangs his duster lately, he gave me this address. I was hopin' t' find him."

"Well, for one thing, he ain't our boss anymore," Gunn commented.

Fiona paled with horror. "Oh God! Please don't tell I'm too late. He's no' dust, is he?"

"He might as well be to us," Cordelia replied, unable to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

At Fiona's confused expression, Wesley and Gunn outlined, in broad strokes, Darla's return from hell, Wolfram and Hart, and Angel's dismissal of them.

"I don't believe this!" Fiona pounded on the table with a fist, rattling the glass of soda Cordelia had given her during their respective narratives. "Now I know I should speak wi' him, an' soon."

"Good luck," Wesley commented. "Didn't do us, or him, a damn bit of good."

She smiled again in spite of herself. "Forgive me, Wesley, but none o' y' is a stubborn Irishwoman. Y' don't have t' help me; just give me Angel's address an' I'll take it from there."

"Alone?" Gunn's eyebrows arched skeptically. "Sure that's such a good idea, Irish?"

"It's time someone came in wi' a diff'rent perspective. Please?" She glanced at the faces around her. "Let me see if I c'n bring him out o' this."

The remaining members of Angel Investigations exchanged glances again, as if telepathically debating the issue. Cordelia spoke first. "Do you have a place to stay?"

"No. Came here straight from the station."

"I have a spare room here, and Dennis is a good roommate. You can stay, if you want."

Fiona smiled. "Thank y', Cordelia. I promise y', y' won't regret it."

It was well into night when Fiona arrived at the Hyperion Hotel. The first thing she noticed was the total disrepair of the lobby, as if a major storm front had blown through.

Or a major battle happened, she thought. She took a quick look around, seeing nothing that resembled vampire dust. Good sign. Well, no sense leavin' it like this. With that thought in mind, she set to the task of straightening furniture and kicking up clouds of dust. She was glad she'd left her sword with her luggage at Cordelia's. She had the feeling it was going to take more than steel to do this.

Angel trudged to the Hyperion, still hurting, significantly, from his fight with Boone. Every bruise and bleeding cut was a testament to demon's skill. But Angel had won, and Anne would make better use of the money than Wolfram and Hart ever could.

He entered the lobby, ready to go straight to bed, to heal, when something caught his nose: a combination of roses and balsam. He turned to see the strawberry-blonde sitting on the circular lounge chair, which had been straightened with other furniture.

"I don't recall hiring a housekeeper," he commented pointedly.

She smiled, throwing a plastic container to him, which he snatched in midair. "I'm not a caterer, either," she returned, "but I thought y' might need a bit t' eat."

He started slightly at the tones of Galway in her voice. He was even more surprised to smell real, honest-to-God human blood in the container.

"Y're the second person t' react t' m' accent," she went on. She got up and crossed the lobby, understanding in her eyes. "Which does it remind y' of more? The Galway y' knew, or yer first seer?"

"How do you know that?" he demanded.

She smiled softly. "I know a lot o' thin's. Like, I know y're in a very dark place right now."

Angel looked around the lobby. "I thought this was well-lit."

"No' physically. Spiritually." She stretched out a hand as if to touch his heart, stopping only an inch away. He hadn't moved. "In here. Y' can't escape who y' are, what y' have t' do."

He held up the container of blood in acknowledgement. "Thanks. I owe you." He began to climb the stairs to his room.

"I'm no' just gonna go away, Angel," she said, following him. "Or do I just call y' Angelus?"

Next thing Fiona knew, her back was against the wall, literally, her breath knocked from her lungs. He had her pinned by the upper arms, his demon out in full force. What is it wi' vamps an' knockin' people int' things? she thought in annoyance.

Angel caught the flashes of annoyance and pain in her eyes. But first and foremost, he noticed her eyes blazed amber defiance. "You're not afraid of me."

She shook her head.

"Which would beg the question, why not?"

"Fer one thing, I've seen an' fought enough vampires that they don't phase me anymore. Secondly," she dropped her voice, "no matter how much y' may deny it, I know there's a part o' y' that still cares. It's the same one that still loves Buffy, just as part o' her will always love you."

Angel released his grip, letting her feet fully touch the stair again. He hadn't expected anyone, let alone a complete stranger, to mention Buffy by name. Even Cordelia had only referred to her recently as the "little blonde".

"Get some rest," the Irishwoman now gently ordered him. "I'll come again." Sidling past him, she descended the stairs, then turned before going out the door. "Others may've given up on y', Angel, but I won't." She left, leaving Angel to do nothing more than what she'd ordered, even if he did need the rest.

And a question kept hovering in his mind: How does she know all this?

First contact, Fiona thought as she nursed the pint of Rocky Road ice cream she'd bought on the way to Cordelia's apartment. Now she sat at the kitchen table with only Dennis for company, Cordelia having gone to sleep only an hour before.

Seems I picked the right flavor, she thought ruefully. This won't be easy. On the other hand, I've never been known t' take any easy ways out. She smiled. "The road less traveled" seems t' fit.

I won't give up, Angel. I refuse t'. I can't.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*

Fiona had very easily inserted herself into everyone's life. For Cordelia and Dennis, she was a quiet, unassuming roommate who took it upon herself to shop and cook in lieu of rent, doing some things neither of them could do themselves. For Wesley, she was an eager and willing student and researcher, while she taught him a thing or two about her own gift. For Gunn, she was a welcome change of sparring partner, each of them learning from the other's style.

For Fiona, the three of them were welcome friends. She had chosen from the start to try and not involve them in her contacts and meetings with Angel.

After several days, her attempts to draw him out, even provoke him, were going unanswered. Her frustration welled, boiling up inside her until she wanted to scream. There's got t' be a way t' get through t' him! She put her face in her hands, shuddering sighs going through her body.

Cordelia found her new roommate in the same position when she awoke Wednesday morning. "Fiona?"

The strawberry-blond Irishwoman looked up with bleary eyes, offering a weary smile. "Mornin'."

"You okay?" the brunette turning blonde asked with concern. "No offense, but you look like hell."

"No offense taken." Fiona raked her fingers through her shoulder-length hair. "Didn't go t' sleep yet."

"Another all-nighter?" Cordelia knew where she'd been spending her nights and never asked details, and Fiona never volunteered them.

"Yeah. I just wish I knew if was makin' some kinda headway, some bit o' progress."

Cordelia hesitated a moment, internally debating whether or not to tell the Irish witch. The side of her that still cared for Angel, that missed him, won. "There is a way to find out."

Fiona's amber eyes locked onto her, suddenly alert and intent. "How?"

"Well, there's this place across town . . ."

Fiona walked into Caritas that night after a sound, solid sleep. She looked around at the various demons drinking, talking in various languages, and assaulting the different songs offered for singing. She fought the urge to clamp her hands over her ears as she watched a two-headed demon mangle "Bye Bye Love". Thank God I've a better singing voice than that, she thought.

She spotted the green-skinned demon who Cordelia had simply called "The Host", standing at the bar, apparently telling off the bartender about something.

At least I know what t' sing. Problem is all the . . . beings . . . ahead o' me.

To the relief of those who weren't tone deaf, the two-headed demon finished and stepped away from the microphone, only to be replaced by a brown-haired human in his 20s, a pair of round-lenses perched on his nose. He seemed almost drab in comparison to other people his age that Fiona had known.

When he spoke, it was almost a monotone, with nearly no inflection on his words. "This is a song I like, because . . ." He trailed off as the first strains of the piano came through the speakers.

He began to sing "All By Myself". His voice was decent, but not exactly remarkable. She got a sense that he had an infinite sadness in his heart, hovering around him like a cloud.

Before he could finish the first chorus, Fiona heard a loud thump! near the bar. She turned to see the Host lying on the floor.

He'd collapsed!

She rushed forward, noticing that the Host's fellow demons either hadn't noticed or didn't care, and knelt on the dirty floor beside him. "What's yer name?" she asked the bartender.

"Boss calls me Elian," he replied.

"Well, Elian, think y' c'n help me out here?"

The two got the Host lying on a sofa in his apartment behind the karaoke bar. "Clean cloths an' ice water, now!" she ordered. Elian did as she asked and went back out to keep doing his job.

Using half the water, she gently cleaned his mouth of saliva and vomit, wiping the sweat that had broken out on his red-horned forehead. After a few hours, there was an exhausted moan and he blinked his red eyes open.

Fiona smiled. "Hello there. Welcome back."

He struggled to sit up. Fiona slid an arm across his back to prop him up, her opposite hand holding a glass of water near his lips. "Here," she urged. "Wash yer mouth out a bit."

The Host took a sip and swished it around before swallowing. He drank slowly until the glass was empty.

"Better?"

"Much." He smiled. "Thanks, my little Florence Nightingale."

She quickly smothered an embarrassed giggle. "Y're welcome."

He slowly shook his head to clear some cobwebs. "Ooooh, what happened?"

"Y' conked out as someone sang," she explained. "Must've been a whopper of a future."

Then the Host remembered what he'd seen; or rather, what he hadn't seen. But this gracious little Irishwoman didn't need to know that. "It wasn't a reading," he lied. "I just felt so woozy. Next thing I know, everything's going black."

"'Tmight be some kinda demonic flu goin' 'round," Fiona commented.

The Host shrugged. "Could be. You wouldn't believe the kind of things some of the regulars bring in."

She nodded, hiding her disappointment. If the Host wasn't well enough to do a reading on a little drab of a graduate student, he would not be able to do a reading for her, and she wasn't about to force him. "Y' better stay here an' get some rest. I could come 'round in a couple o' days t' check on y'."

He smiled again. "Thanks again. Didn't know we had a demon medico in the house."

"I'm not. I just know one 'r two thin's 'bout demons." She patted his arm. "Now, rest up."

"Sure."

She nodded and left by way of the bar, reclaiming her stake at the coat-check room. Just this once, she thought, I'll bag off fer t'night. I think Angel could use the momentary break from me. She smiled at the thought.

Meanwhile, the Host decided to take at least part of her advice. He had to get a few hours of sleep before going to Angel to tell him about tonight. He's a champion. He should know. He has to know.

Fiona sat in the lobby of the Hyperion Friday night. It was the second night in a row that Angel had disappeared from his place of residence. She was ready to stay up all night again to wait for him; bound a determined to save him from the darkness. As she had told Wesley over a week before, she was a stubborn Irishwoman; and until someone told her she was making no progress, she'd continue to dog the vampire until his soul was infinitely lighter.

She glanced at her watch. Nearly ten. Where could he be?

Then she gasped, feeling the familiar disorientation that came with flashes from her second sight.

A dozen or so demons, mottled gray skin, pointed ears, sunken eyes, dressed in what looked like Puritan suits, were attacking Angel and the Host. Angel fell into a basement, turning off the machine that would literally have frozen the world and destroyed it.

She shook her head, regaining her breath. "Damn," she muttered.

Angel came into the lobby, the familiar scent of roses hitting his nose again. He glanced around, but there was no sign of her. He saw another small container of blood on the counter, a folded piece of paper pinned underneath it.

Know about the Lubber demons. You get another reprieve from me. Will see you soon.

She had been there. She must have left a few minutes ago, judging by what there is, he thought. Between her and working with the Host, he was beginning to reconsider his actions, especially when it came to Cordelia, Wesley, and Gunn. They're safer away from me, in any case. I won't let anyone else get hurt because of me.

He glanced around again. Although . . . I don't think this place seemed so big with them here. He heaved a sigh, trying to dispel the sudden twinge of loneliness that had crept into him.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*

She watched him pull up in front of the Hyperion in his black convertible. His long coat flapped around him like a cape as he moved. She crossed the street from where she'd been watching for him, looking through the glass in the double doors.

He walked the width of the lobby to the old check-in desk, surveying the dilapidation and dust. It had gotten so much . . . darker somehow. He pushed the papers off the flat surface, sending them fluttering to the floor. He turned and heaved a sigh, standing in the middle of the floor.

"Startin' t' feel it, yeah?"

He whirled around to see her standing just inside the double doors of the entrance. He'd been so lost in thought, he hadn't heard her come in. "Feel what?"

"How big 'n' lonely this place is wi'out them," she continued in her brogue. "How lonely you feel wi'out them. Y' may think y're protectin' them by stayin' away, but they still put themselves in harm's way. They're still fightin' the good fight while y've lost yerself in a war that doesn't exist."

"Wolfram and Hart exist," he countered. "They're a threat to everything."

"Includin' yer sanity," the strawberry-blonde replied. "But the fact they're doin' this . . ." She closed her amber eyes a moment to choose her next words. "They raised Darla, brought her back, just t' do this t' y'; drive y' mad, right int' that gray area y're in now. If the Apocalypse comes, they wanna blur yer choice as much 's possible. Y' have a place in this world, Angel." She approached him slowly, cautiously, as she spoke. "That's t' fight fer ev'ry soul. Take back two fer ev'ry one they take. That's how y' fight 'em. No' takin' revenge on them personally, but on ev'rythin' they do. Bring up ev'ryone they try t' break down. Startin' wi' yerself."

Angel simply stood there, rooted to the floor. He had to wonder what this girl (and she was just a child compared to him) would know about fighting for a redemption that will never come, fighting a losing battle with your own demons and the rest of the world's.

She sighed; closing her eyes again, opened them. "Try t' mend what y've broken. Talk t' them. Y' may not get another chance."

He started slightly at the certainty in her voice. "You know something I don't?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "Nothin' real, yet. If y' don't wanna know, just tell me an' I won't even bother wi' the rest."

He didn't make a move. She left.

Fiona stayed outside the hotel for a few moments, kneeling in the surprisingly immaculate grass, trying to breathe out her frustrations. God, please, she prayed. Let me know I'm gettin' through t' him. Let me know he's comin' back."

Fiona arrived at Cordelia's apartment, read and wrote until she heard the first stirrings of her roommate. As the water sprayed in the shower, she set up breakfast and coffee for the actress/seer.

Cordelia, dressed as chic as always, was pleasantly surprised that Fiona had made up her eggs the way she like them. The blond streaks she'd put in her hair were still new and not washed-out yet.

"Y've been workin' hard, so I thought y'd might like t' be spoiled a bit." Fiona smiled.

"Thanks, I really appreciate this." Cordelia sat and began to devour the eggs and toast the Irishwoman had placed in front of her. Between bites, she related to Fiona the case of Mrs. Francine Sharpe and her daughter, Stephanie, who had inexplicably grown a third eye in the back of her head.

Fiona couldn't help but wince, put a hand to the back of her own head. "Any idea what caused that?"

"Not yet, but if we're lucky, we'll find something in Wesley's books."

"Well, if y' need any help, lemme know? I c'n always contact a few o' m' demon friends fer info."

"Fiona, thanks for offering, but it's okay. We can handle this one. Besides," Cordelia's dark eyes narrowed, "you've got enough to deal with as it is." So far, she herself hadn't seen any sign of Angel changing, and she was afraid her friend was fighting a lost cause.

"Hey, I still have enough energy t' shop an' cook fer the two o' us, don't I?" Fiona challenged, her tone playfully serious.

Cordelia could only smile at her infectious attitude.

"Go on, of wi' y'," Fiona added, making a shooing motion with her hands. "I'll need some sleep b'fore I c'n function again."

Cordelia nodded, noting the time and gathering her jacket and purse. "Got the cell numbers, right?"

"Got 'em. I'll see y' later." Fiona heard the door close as she put the plate and silverware in the sink. She physically snatched the scouring pad and liquid soap from the air. "Dennis, I'll get this," she said sharply.

The plastic letter magnets on the refrigerator door moved:

I HAVE THIS

SLEEP NOW

Fiona let out an exasperated breath. There seemed to be no use in arguing with a single-minded spirit, especially one with no real voice to argue with. "Okay, but y' let me cook dinner, yeah?"

The letters rearranged themselves again:

DINNERS YOURS

SLEEP

"I'm goin', I'm goin'," she laughed.

Just before she let fatigue claim her, she wondered idly if Cordelia appreciated having a roommate like Dennis.

When she awoke again, she went on a shop-and-cook spree, making enough to last herself and Cordelia for a week; with some in the freezer, it could last conceivably last longer.

But all this was to distract herself from the uneasy feeling that had been with her since the previous night, when she'd blurted her cryptic statement to Angel. Even she didn't understand why she'd said it, or what it meant. Since she was young, she had learned to trust her second sight; right now, she wished it was a little less vague and mysterious. As far as she could tell, everything was all right.

And still the uneasy feeling persisted.

The uneasiness followed her to the Hyperion that night, causing her to pace and exercise, going through the motions with the sword her grandfather had given her. Where is he? she thought. This had to be at least the third time in three weeks that he'd just disappeared from the hotel.

It was really starting to annoy her.

Then she felt it: the familiar disorientation of a flash of insight.

"Wait, Officer, wait!" Wesley called, seeing Gunn and his two friends, the policeman turned away from him. "This man is a friend of mine, a very good friend. I'm sure he hasn't committed any—" He was cut off as the bullet ripped into his midsection; the cop, calm as death, had shot him! Wesley stood a moment, disbelief etched across his face, and toppled into the wall of the building nearby.

"Wesley!" Gunn shouted in panic.

Fiona doubled over and fell to her knees, crying out in pain that wasn't hers. "No," she whispered hoarsely. "Dear God, no."

She raced to the office phone, which was covered in dust, and dialed Wesley's cell-phone number. Let me be wrong, she prayed. Just this once, please, let me be wrong.

The line picked up on the second ring. "Wesley Wyndham-Pryce's cell phone. Can I take a message?"

"Cordelia, it's me. Where's Wesley? He okay?"

She heard Cordelia breathe an exhausted sigh. "Not really. He was—"

"Shot," Fiona supplied, cold fear settling in her belly, "the right side o' his midsection."

Apparently, no one had bothered to listen to her prayer.

There was silence for a moment. "Yes. He lost a lost of blood. They're transfusing him now."

"Where are y'?"

"Saint John's Hospital."

"I'll be there as soon's—"

"No, wait," Cordelia cut her off. "Go to the teen shelter on Crenshaw, talk to Anne Steele. Make sure everyone's okay. There's nothing you can do here that we're not doing already."

For a moment, Fiona was torn between seeing Wesley and conceding to Cordelia's request. "Okay," she agreed. "Where's this shelter?"

"You walked away. Do us a favor, and just stay away." Cordelia's words echoed in Angel's mind as he strode to the exit. He stopped as he caught the familiar flash of red-and-gold hair.

She also saw him, and stopped in surprise, exclaiming, "Angel!" A smile curled her lips. "Y' were checkin' on Wesley."

"Yeah," he replied shortly.

They stared at each other a moment before comprehension dawned in her eyes. "Y' didn't talk t' them, did y'?"

"Cordelia said all that needed saying." He sidestepped her to move to the door.

"Why didn't y' tell them about Graneth?"

That stopped him. He turned on his heel to see her looking at him with knowing eyes. "Y' stopped the zombie cops at the source," she continued. "Why didn't y' tell them?"

Angel knew that asking her how she knew would be pointless. "I didn't want them to owe me anything."

"What did Cordelia say?"

"She told me that Wesley—that they—don't need me." A smile of pride briefly flickered on his lips. "Maybe they never did."

She sighed in exasperation. "Angel, y're no' such an idjit!" She got a raised eyebrow from the vampire. "Maybe they didn't need you. But didn't y' even think about the fact that you need them?" She raised her own brows in challenge. "Think about it. I left another container fer y' at the hotel."

Their eyes locked a moment, deep brown to amber, before he turned away and walked out. Fiona turned away her self to but some flowers for Wesley.

*-*-*-*-*-*-*

//Spend all your time waiting for that second chance

For a break that would make it okay

There's always some reason to feel not good enough

And it's hard at the end of the day.

I need some distraction, oh, a beautiful release

Memories seep from my veins.

It may be empty, or weightless and maybe

I'll find some peace tonight.//

Fiona had been putting off coming back to Caritas until the Host had recovered from his "demonic flu". She knew and understood why he'd kept Gene Rainey's reading from her. Knowing her, she'd have probably rushed into the fray with them no matter what. On the other hand, maybe that would have made Angel pay more attention to what she had to say.

//In the arms of the angel, fly away from here.

From this dark, cold hotel room

And the endlessness that you feel.

You are pulled from the wreckage of your silent reverie.

You're in the arms of the angel.

May you find some comfort here.//

She'd also stayed away because part of her was afraid of what the Host would read from her soul, what he would see in her future.

//So tired of the straight line, and everywhere you turn.

There's vultures and thieves at your back.

The storm keeps on twistin'. Keep on buildin' the lies

That you make up for all that you lack.

Don't make no difference, inescapable as time

The easier to believe

In this sweet madness, oh this glorious sadness

That brings me to my knees.//

The Host's ears were given a treat as Fiona sang. Unlike some of the regulars, she had the double advantage of a beautiful voice and the ability to hit notes on key. And she chose the perfect song, considering who she'd attached herself to for three weeks straight.

//In the arms of the angel, fly away from here.

From this dark, cold hotel room

And the endlessness that you feel.

You are pulled from the wreckage of your silent reverie.

You're in the arms of the angel.

May you find some comfort here.//

For some reason, this song spoke to her, was very nearly written as music for her situation with the vampire. Ms. McLachlan, y're writing my life, she thought ruefully.

//You're in the arms of the angel

May you find some comfort here.//

She grinned as the bar suddenly erupted into applause, giving a gracious and grateful bow. She stepped down from the stage, sitting across from the empathic demon. He slid a shot glass to her. She took a whiff of the creamy liquid, her brows shooting up in surprise. "I thought y' read people's souls fer their futures, no' their alcohol o' choice," she teased before sipping the Bailey's Irish Cream.

"Sometimes it's essential to know those little details," the Host replied. "Especially when the seeker is about to hear something they don't want to hear."

Despite the liqueur warming her, Fiona felt a shiver accompany the sudden sense of foreboding.

"Whoa, easy, sweetheart," he said quickly, feeling her sudden emotional shift.

"Is it really as bad as that?" she asked, her voice a whisper.

"I didn't say it was bad," he corrected. "I said it's something you don't want to hear."

She leaned forward intently. "Don't spare m' feelin's. Just tell me, please."

The Host saw that she was ready for the worst. "All right, here's what I saw."

Everyone was surprised to see a small bouquet of roses stick through the door of Wesley's hospital room, followed by the hand that held them and the hand's owner. "I come bearin' gifts," Fiona announced with a smile.

"Fiona!" Cordelia came forward first to give her (living) roommate a quick hug.

"Hey, there, Irish," Gunn greeted easily.

Fiona noticed the slim woman who occupied the only other chair next to Wesley's bed. Her dark-red hair tumbled to her shoulders in tight ringlets, and looked up with luminous dark eyes.

"You're not a girlfriend of Wesley's he's kept hidden away, are you?" she asked jokingly.

Fiona let out a short peal of laughter. "He should be so lucky!" she joked in return. "No, I'm just a friend. Fiona Gavin."

The slim woman stood and shook her hand. "Virginia Bryce. Nice to meet you."

"Same here." The strawberry-blonde politely sidled to the bedside to see Wesley, who smiled up at her. "Hello, Fiona."

She smiled back gently. "How d' y' feel, Wesley?"

He shrugged a shoulder with difficulty. "They're taking me off morphine slowly," he said softly. "I expect to be screaming in pain anytime now."

Fiona chuckled. "Good t' know y've kept yer sense o' humor." Her smile faded slightly. "I need t' talk t' y'. It's part-business."

Virginia seemed to get the hint right away. "I'll wait outside." She gave Wesley's hand a gentle squeeze, bending down for a quick kiss. "Take it easy." A swirl of denim skirt, she was outside the room.

The trio, meanwhile, regarded Fiona with curiosity. "Part business?" Cordelia asked.

"Fer the Sharpes," the young Irishwoman replied. "I know what happened t' Stephanie."

Everyone perked up almost immediately. "So what kind of nasty did the deed?" Gunn asked.

"Somethin' called a Skilosh demon." She wrinkled her nose in disgust. "And nasty buggers they are indeed, Gunn. When they bite someone, an unsuspectin' host, they lay their spawn inside o' them. The third eye is a characteristic o' the spawn, an' its weakness. If y' put the right mix o' powdered herbs on the eye, say the right words, y' kill the spawn b'fore they c'n be born an' kill the host." She dug a piece of paper from her jeans. "Here's the recipe and the chant. Since Stephanie's so young, y've got another day an' a half b'fore it's critical."

Cordelia took the paper and glanced over the ingredients. "I can get these, no problem. Wes, I think the words are all yours."

Wesley ran his eyes over the incantation. "Fairly simple, yes. Thank you, Fiona."

"Consider it a 'thank you' gift o' m' own. I have t' do somethin' good fer y' b'fore I leave."

The statement caught the three investigators off-guard. "Leave? How come?" Gunn asked.

"I thought you were trying to bring Angel back," Cordelia added. "You're giving up?"

"I'll never really give up on 'im." Fiona smiled sadly. "I—have it on good authority that I've done all I can. The rest is up t' him now."

"Where will you go next?" Wesley asked.

"Well, I hear San Francisco's lovely, an' I've never been there."

"If you get the chance, try the Russian Renaissance," Cordelia suggested. "It's pricey, but some of the best food on Russian Hill."

"I'll keep it in mind. An' speakin' o' food, Cordelia, y've got enough in yer freezer and refrigerator t' last y' fer another week, at least. Think o' it as my share o' the rent. I left instructions fer reheatin' an' cookin' wi' Dennis, so y're set."

Cordelia was speechless a moment, unsure of what to say. She finally opted for another hug and a "Thank you."

"And Gunn," Fiona added, "I left somethin' fer y' at the office." She took out a photo and handed it to the young vampire hunter.

The picture was of a dagger with razor-sharp blade. Its hilt was ornately twisted, decorated with semi-precious stones.

"There's a tradition attached t' it, too," Fiona continued. "It's always given to someone who's proven to be a great warrior; not just in the body, but in the heart and the mind. One owner passes it on to the next, the one that they deem worthy." She smiled. "I've watched y' these weeks, Gunn. Y're no' just great in a battle, but y' have a quick wit and a big heart. Y're the perfect person t' have the dagger next."

Gunn was stunned, looking at the weapon with wide chocolate eyes. "Oh man," he whispered, and looked up. "Fiona, I can't take this!"

"Yes y' can. If y' refuse, I'll be insulted." She narrowed her amber eyes. "An' there's nothin' more inherently dangerous than an insulted sober Irishwoman."

Gunn could only smile. "Okay, Irish. I'll keep an eye out for the next owner, too."

"Hey, I've held ont' it fer ten years, old son. Don't be so quick t' get rid o' it."

Angel awoke from one of his few naps to see yet another container of blood, this time on his bedside table with a note. Since Darla, he'd been sleeping lighter and lighter, and the slightest out-of-place noise snapping him into full wakefulness. The barest trace of roses and balsam hung in the air.

She must have a lighter tread than a cat, he thought. He unfolded the note to read:

Angel,

Consider this the last you will hear from me. I have done everything short of giving you another soul, but that's not the problem. The two sides of your heart are at war within you. I'm merely a fey; I've never had the power to work miracles.

I said that I wouldn't give up on you, and I haven't. I just hope you haven't given up on yourself. You will be in my thoughts.

Your Galway native, Fiona Gavin.

Again, Angel had to wonder why the strawberry-blond Irish witch had clung to him for as long as she had in the first place. Thank you, anyway, wee one, he thought to her in his long-dropped brogue. Nice try.

Kate looks at Angel, smiling softly. "Yikes. Sounds like you had an epiphany."

"That's what I keep saying," Angel replies, "but nobody's listening."

Wesley shakily gets to his feet, leaning against the cane in his hand. "We talked it over. Just because you're back does not mean we'll return—"

"Wesley," Angel interrupts him before he can go any farther, "I don't want you to work for me."

Wesley's face falls in disappointment at this. "Oh," he said quietly.

"I want to work for you."

Cordelia recovers from her vision and reports the demon rising in the projects. Her brow furrows in confusion. Both Wesley and Gunn are still standing in front of her. "Why is it that I'm not on the floor this time?"

"I've got you," Angel says quietly from behind her. He reacted the fastest when her vision hit and now gently holds her until she is steady on her feet.

Cordelia glances at the vampire, then at Wesley and Gunn. "Maybe he should drive?"

Wesley can't help but grin. "Let's go!"

Many weren't around to hear the whoops, cheers, and cries of pure joy coming from a roof in LA's warehouse district. Nor did they see a young woman with red-and-gold hair dancing jigs, grinning like crazy.

"It's about fockin' time!" she called to the stars themselves. "Could y' be anymore mysterious?!" She gasped as she felt another spell of disorientation grip her, her hands pressed to her head.

Buffy sees her mother lying on the sofa. "Mom?" she asks quietly. "Mom?" Her tone becomes more worried and quiet. "Mommy?"

"The Hellmouth doesn't offer up enough problems?" Xander explodes angrily. "We gotta deal with quack doctors, too?!"

Dawn stares at her mother's body on the tray in the hospital morgue. "Is she cold?" she asks quietly.

"She's not there," Buffy says from the floor, recovering from the vampire that just turned to dust.

"Then where is she?" Dawn reaches a tentative hand out to touch her mother's cheek.

Her amber eyes blinked as she realized what the latest flash meant. "Noooo!" she howled. "Y' get one Warrior back 'n' take another's mum away? That's not fair!" One last thought passed through her mind:

She had to go back to Sunnydale.

Cordelia came into the office of Angel Investigations, still exhausted from that demon that had tried to take over the world from the projects. Yeah, she thought, like that would ever happen.

She looked over the various bills in the mail, and came across her name, hand-written, on a business-size envelope. She noted that Wesley and Gunn's names were also on it. She held it up to the light a moment; it didn't look as if it was life threatening.

She took out a folded piece of paper with typing on it. Glancing over it, she recognized the story of the Prodigal Son, remembering how stupid the younger brother had been. Underneath the story was a message, written in the same handwriting as on the envelope:

Obviously, Angel is the Prodigal Son, and you three are the older brothers who know how stupid he'd been acting. Which of you is willing to be the forgiving father, grateful just to have him back?