Disclaimer: the author does not claim ownership to the characters or plot development mentioned from "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" or "Angel". These properties expressly belong to Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, Greenwolf Corporation, 20th Century Fox Television, WB Network, etc. Any other characters contained in the original story are the author's.

Season One Historical Note: The action in this story takes place after "To Shanshu In L.A."





ON THE ROAD TOWARDS RECONCILIATION
by Evan Como



Chapter Four





Seated in front of the computer's monitor, Cordelia repeated her balletic arm movements while the program continued loading. Leaning into third position made surveillance of Wesley easier; lifting out of it made her wonder how he had more energy despite getting less sleep.

At least he didn't snore. At least, not that she had heard, anyway.

Animated hand gestures corresponded with the fight Wesley was relating. Gale's eyes were widely attentive. As Cordelia listened, she realized now much more interesting Wesley' story was in its newer, exaggerated version.

Upon their arrival, Gale had exclaimed "I-can't-believe-it's-*you*-guys-they-sent!" in almost one syllable. "Oh my God! Oh, God! O, God! Wesley! Ohmigod, Angel! Oh wow. Cordelia? Hi! Oh, man! Wesley, you look amazing!" Cordelia had wanted to slap Gale to make her stop bouncing. Swiveling at the waist, Cordy used her fifth position stretch to size up the calmer version of the female she'd met six hours earlier.

Until a pair of rambunctious eight year-olds blocked her view. "Mister! Mister!" The taller boy offered a crumpled sheet of paper to Wesley.

"Make us another!" his companion demanded.

Gale, laughing, shoved off the wall she'd been leaning against and strolled across the library's hardwood floor, slipping a sheet of paper out of the printer bin. "You'll have to be more careful, you two. Wesley is here to help me, not to make paper airplanes," she chided, handing the loose leaf to Wesley.

With uneaqualed dexterity, Wesley folded and crimped another prototype of paper aerodynamics. Smiling broadly, he lifted the dart and effortlessly flicked his wrist, sending the airplane sailing into the next room with the two boys drafting its wake.

"Well, I think we may have another two minutes of peace before they destroy *that* one," he proclaimed.

Gale tousled Wesley's hair. Wesley blushed.

Tibo appeared and pushed a glass of Kool-Aid at Cordelia's nose. "Her behavior is obscene," he commented under his breath before claiming the seat next to the bureau.

During a sip, Cordelia regarded her fellow Messenger. He was kind of a strange-looking guy, but she'd seen uglier. At least he didn't slobber or smell raunchy. Refreshed, she had nearly set the last third of the beverage down before Tibo whisked it from her hand and hurried back to where he'd come from -- probably to make a refill.

She smiled to herself. "My first fan," escaped Cordy's lips before she realized that Tibo's enthusiastic attentions were borderline fan*atic*.

"Excellent idea to bring along your Demon data base, Cordelia," Wesley commented over her shoulder while checking the installation's progress.

"I'm not sure there's enough memory on this system to hold it, though," she replied to no one in particular.

Wesley had moved in front of the built-in bookcase, its polished mahogany shelves stacked with row-upon-row of every subject suitable for children. He stroked a couple bindings as he read aloud the titles he recognized from his own childhood, greatly impressed with their preservation.

"You should read to the kids tonight," Gale said. "They'd get a kick out of hearing your voice."

"Really?" He turned and rested back. His arms, spread wide, gripped a shelf at hip-level. "I'm sure if you wanted to, you could find your own voice."

Cordelia didn't need a premonition to decide that whatever was happening around her was too weird to be good. INSTALLATION COMPLETE blipped across the monitor and she rebooted the system just as Trixie hurried the two boys through the room. She couldn't help but frown in kind when they held up yet another flight disaster.

"I'll get these two in the vanpool and then the house is all yours."

"Have you seen Angel?" Cordelia asked. Trixie pointed back to the room she'd come from before scuttling away.

A shriek from behind the draperies called attention to the room's huge front window. There, Gale was mummified in heavy floor-to-ceiling floral-printed damask while Wesley prodded her with two fingers. They giggled in unison, their voices nearly matched.

"Puh-leeze." Cordelia rolled her eyes away from the silliness before being bombarded with another beverage.

Tibo said nothing his face didn't already express.

"I think we're ready." Cordy subtly placed the glass to the side in an effort not to offend. "Lemme go get Angel."

"The Warrior communes," Tibo explained with one telling finger on top of Cordy's wrist.

Cordelia slipped away from Tibo's suggestion. Under the arch dividing the library from the living area, she located Angel curled atop a loveseat in the darkest corner. Deciding that 'commune' was as good a description as any for Angel's scribbling ferocity, she returned to her chair.

It was difficult to believe that it had been two months since Angel had lost his place and nearly lost both she and Wesley. Cordy had looked forward to Angel's company. She had offered the accommodations as a small way to repay Angel for everything he'd been doing for her since the almost-year they'd been in Los Angeles together. Hers was as good a place to hang as any while the vampire readjusted to Post-Scroll unlife and searched for a new home. And, for the first week, it had been fun.

Well, fun in an Angel kinda way, fun.

She knew how hard Angel worked at remaining in good spirits for her sake. Cheer, never his forté, became increasingly difficult as the relocation process moved into futility territory. She didn't doubt that not wanting to leave her unprotected played some part in his being unable to find a suitable apartment. That if Angel wasn't physically there, some great harm may befall her again.

Each Vision she received pained the Warrior, as well. Circumstances had gotten to the place where Wesley was nearly confined to her couch since Angel couldn't bear not knowing where either of them were at all times. By week six, the over-concern had become Angelically-obsessive and suffocating. Her efforts to become a more empathetic person had been teaching her to keep certain feelings to herself and she accepted that his mood swings were just additional pieces of the living-with-Angel puzzle. After all, Angel wouldn't be living with her forever. Which, as soon as it came to mind, didn't make much sense considering that Angel's forever would always be a heckuva lot longer than hers.

Cordelia sighed, impatient. The computer even had its version of forever.

Gale snickered against Wesley's arm. He tittered into her hair. She swatted him playfully and he elbowed her ribs.

If only Wesley got along as well with Phantom Dennis. Although, maybe with the help of a few paper airplanes, he and the ghost could bond. Or, she could install one of those behind-the-door basketball nets and they could Nerf their way to nivana. Cordelia smiled, then remembered that there was barely enough moving around space for two people to pass by one other. And, with Angel occupying the only bedroom during the day...

Man, she missed privacy.

When Whistler had shown up with the airline tickets and their new assignment, Cordy had decided to treat the excursion as a vacation. They'd all still be together but it would be a different type of togetherness. The whole idea of being someplace other than her apartment had been so thrill-worthy that she hadn't argued when Angel refused to let her call their wealthy acquaintance, David Nabbitt, to get their seats upgraded from coach.

And, Wesley had been "giddy" -- his exact word -- to be included. He'd verified three times and once again that it wasn't a fluke and he, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce, was not only an integral member of the Angel Investigations Team, his attendance had been directly requested by The Powers That Be. Wesley's grand whoopee had whee'd Angel for, like, all of a half-hour until reality hit: that not only Cordelia, with mind-numbing Visions, was tied to the demonic underworld, the ex-Watcher had been lassoed, too. With Angel pacing furiously, Cordelia's book-stacked and over-filled apartment / way-longer-than-originally-planned office became even more claustrophobic.

In front of a colorful star-pocked accomplishment chart, Wesley performed a sleight-of-hand with silk irises. After whipping the bouquet across Wesley's hip, Gale took them to heart.

It was during Cordelia's six-week auto show hostessing tour Gale had become her temporary replacement. Wesley had been tight-lipped about Gale's substitute Messengering, but something had visibly changed him. At the airport to pick Cordy up, the lanky man had been less awkward and an ultra-serioso maturity gloomied his eyes. Months after Angel's 100% recovery from necromongracy, Wesley still wore the look of the terminally angsty -- a look not unlike the one that Angel used to wear before taking a Spring turnaround trip to Sunnydale.

A look that fled Wesley's features faster than Gale had flown downstairs.

First Gale, then the apartment explosion cemented Wesley's and Angel's friendship. In the past, it had always been Wesley who felt excluded from Angel's and Cordelia's relationship. No one ever bothered examining how excluded she sometimes felt from theirs.

One more thing she'd learned to keep to herself.

"You slept with her, didn't you?" Cordelia probed often. But Wesley never confessed and Angel pretended as if Gale had been nothing more than a blip in their lives.

The DemonicChick of Discord wore her 475'ish immortal years well, as well as Angel wore his 245. Or 250. Or maybe he was older. Or younger. Cordy could never get a straight answer from Angel if his immortal age included alive time or not. And, then there was that whole extra century that got tacked on (and that he never included) by living in hell, courtesy of Buffy. Actually, including the Buffy hell-years...

Even without the math, it would take every ounce of Cordelia's ThoughtfulGirl effort to avoid pointing out how similar Angel and Gale were -- right down to their Pop-n-Fresh tummies.

"She will meet judgment."

Tibo's rasp sifted into Cordelia's subconscious and scraped along her nerves as the other Messenger leered at his Warrior.

One hour later the quartet had yet to make any logistical progress, a severe lack of information providing the explanation. "And the Hurricane Ridge location when you got there?" Wesley asked. His pencil's eraser tapped another location on the map draped across his lap.

Gale, seated straight-legged on the floor, leaned back onto her palms. "Like all the others -- empty. In fact, if it wasn't for the local Rangers, Wesley, I wouldn't have been able to confirm that there'd been any campers at all."

Wesley flipped the giant map of the Olympic National Park over to study its Pacific Ocean side, verifying three additional circled campsites before folding it back to the eastern section. One of the items on his sightseeing list was a visit to the forest -- for recreation, however, not over mysterious disappearances.

Cordelia scrawled onto her pad, "two adults and two teenagers. And you're not seeing any of this in your Visions, Tibo?" she asked, twisting her chair in his direction. Even though he diverted his eyes, Cordy knew what he'd been staring at -- Gale's foot knocking Wesley's.

"My Visions are incomplete," Tibo stated coarsely. Gale huffed at a light fixture.

Cordelia turned her back on Tibo. "You know, Wesley, it doesn't make any sense. How come I get Vision-rama in glorious sensory perception and Tibo only gets little bitty flashes? I bet they don't even hurt! It's not fair. Do you think we can trade Gifts?"

"*You* can see with all your senses," Gale remarked, dispatching a scowl past Cordelia's arm.

"Shhhhah-yeah!"

"Smell?" Tibo asked, awed.

"Smell is no prob. Smell, I can deal with. It's the tasting part that gets me." Cordy gagged for emphasis, as if coughing a fur-ball.

Tibo bowed his head. "Perhaps I do not yet have the experience to integrate these other perceptions."

Cordelia extended her arms above her head and rose into them. "Maybe. How long have you had your gift?"

"Only six."

"See? There ya go!" she said with a snap, commiserating, "that's about how long I've been getting 'em and I'm still learning lots."

"And six months is a relatively short span of time," Wesley absently commented. While sharing his cartography with Gale, his dulled pencil poked right through the plasticized paper when Tibo clarified the time frame as 'years'.

Wesley visually followed the two Messengers exiting the room -- with Tibo as Cordelia's unshakable shadow. "I don't claim to know everything about the Gift, Gale, but just my short exposure to it through Cordelia and then, you... Trixie had hinted that Tibo is inadequate, but surely you've tried to help him?"

Rage shrouded Gale's oval face; her eyes clouded with contempt. "Sorry, Wes, but I'm no help at all to Tibo," she spat. "You know, with me just being a low-life Warrior and all."

Before Wesley could respond, Gale ill-spirited from the room.

-0-

The two-story dwelling was filled with an eclectic mix of traditional furnishings and appointments from the world 'round. Atop the maternal sideboard sat a genuine Grecian Urn; between the paternal armchairs stood a maple table from The New World; and spread over the floors lay every size and shape of rug, from the simplest native sheepskin to intricate, loomed designs from the most exotic place of all -- The Orient.

Liam always found the rugs fascinating. Whenever a new one was delivered to the house it spent the first two weeks hanging in the stable to rid it of any strange odors -- like being at sea too long or, the natural scent of a country of origin, countries where the sun always shone.

The carpets were so bright, Liam reasoned that the sheep in foreign countries must come in different colors. He imagined ewes fattened on the Irish rainbows his father gathered and exported.

The rugs, after doing penance, would be allowed inside to decorate the hardwood floors for a while until they were eventually banished and replaced by others. It was a curious cycle that Liam enjoyed since it meant, every few months, he and his brother could sit by the hearth and be entertained by the yarns their father spun about each new acquisition -- tales of smuggling from funny-sounding foreign lands.

And the mighty Atlantic was the access to it all, whether by voyage or tale.

As a prominent port town, Galway, Ireland, by 1732 had become a burgeoning center of commerce and Liam's father, an astute businessman who spent long days toiling at his fledgling business, took part in the activity. No matter how hard he worked, the devout Roman Catholic reserved Sundays for his family, with his two boys always the center of his attention.

(Unbeknownst to his children, their father had applied considerable talent to protecting his family from the country's prevailing hostilities -- the result of English domination. That they lived in county Connacht, where most of the Roman Catholic population had been herded to, no doubt abetted his success. The edicts prevailing over the rest of the country were in effect there, too, but to a lesser degree, making life less harsh for a determined young householder.)

His children were given everything their father was physically capable of providing. Dressed in the finest clothing within their means, Liam rarely found himself wearing carefully mended hand-me-downs. He and his brother were never obliged to share.

Unless by their choosing.

With a barefaced smile and without reservation, their father accepted his associate's joking accusations of pride. He enjoyed showing off his sons on the rare excursions to the wharf where, piloted by harbor pelicans, boats sailed in and out of Galway Bay. Entertaining the boys were tall-masted ships dropping sails and easing into port or pitching schooners with fully-dressed riggings bulging with wind, departing for the vast open sea.

The gentle ocean lapped against vessels moored to the jetties. There was a sea of activity as fishermen straightened and repaired their nets, as cargo and livestock were landed or transferred. Bright canvas flags gaily flapped high above the heads of every size and nationality of men while Manannan Mac Lir ruled from the realm of his watery throne and his beautiful wife Bheara danced as the sunlit ripples of his crown. Anchored between his father and brother, Liam kicked up his heels and sailed over the landing. He helped with the sea god's watch by taking in every sight on shore, especially keeping an eye out for violet lambs.

It had been Liam's earliest memory to sail beyond the farthest known destination one day. He'd be a strong Captain, and brave. He'd defend his father's goods against all looters and, after each mighty conquest, would assume their plundered bounty. He'd always return bearing gifts for everyone -- new fixtures for the castle he would build with his brother, books for his father, a Sultan's hair for his pretend-Uncle Shay, beautiful hats for Shay's wife and dolls for their daughters.

And, after each exciting adventure, he'd put quill to parchment.

"Liam."

Liam blinked at his brother before realizing the address had been too deep. He turned to the man.

"I'm going through considerable expense and evasion of law to have your brother schooled with the Friars. Now, if I'm to review his studies, he'll be needing to concentrate. Which..." a generous smile almost made his father's lips disappear, "...I cannot do with you bound 'round his arm."

"I'll take him." Liam narrowly avoided the grabbing hands, but not the wrathful tone of "I declare that boy nurses his brother more than he ever did me!"

"Ma! Your words!" Their father admonished his wife, raising his voice and a wagging finger. Dropping his chin, he regarded the tot. "Liam can remain, Ma," said he, reaching forward and effortlessly lifting Liam off his slippered feet. "But..."

Liam winced and opened one eye warily.

He adjusted the little one on his lap. "...he'll be needing to still..." His lips mussed the mop of brown hair he spoke into.

Several minutes later and nearly asleep, Liam suddenly perked up and leaned forward. He waved his brother close to whisper in his ear.

"Dulcisono?" The older boy considered the word for a moment then shook his head, still unconvinced. "You're sure?"

Liam nodded affirmatively.

"Veritas," their father confirmed. He considered both children, finally turning to Liam's brother for an explanation. "Now, what have we here?"

A shrug came as the reply.

"Liam gave you the answer?" His father's head lowered to cast curiosity into his younger son's face. "Liam?"

Liam hid his face in his hands. Between the gaps in his fingers he saw his father still waiting for an answer. His shrug was an exact replica of his brother's.

"You're embarrassing Liam, Athair. Don't stare at him so."

Giggling, Liam squirmed while his brother pinched for his toes until their father reached forward and held his older son's hands at bay. "If you get him excited, I'll put him to bed," was a light-hearted threat punctuated with a weighty brow.

Hugging Liam's feet to his chest, his brother leaned forward and rested a forearm across Liam's knees. "Don't you ever just think, Da, 'how did we get so lucky to have him?'" he marveled.

The boys traded adulation.

"Not lucky, Son. Liam is a gift from God," came the correction as two firm lips settled above the littlest boy's hairline. After being quieted against his father's chest, at some point in time amidst poor conjugations and mispronunciations, Liam settled to sleep...

...

"Draw *me*!"

Angel gasped, but the two big brown eyes didn't disappear. He clasped his journal to his chest and shied away from the little brown girl.

"Go away," he said.

"I'm not allowed." As she shook her head, a multitude of dark braids clipped with colorful plastic bows whipped back and forth. She thrust her fists into the front pockets of her overalls. "House rules. When you're sad, you can't be sad alone."

She graced Angel with a snaggle-toothed grin and repeated her request.

"Chandi!" Trixie hurried over and immediately placed her lips on the child's cheek. "You're supposed to be in bed with this fever!"

A rosy bottom lip slid into a pout. "But I'm tired of being in bed," Chandi whined, stomping away. "I was just following rules!" she protested, marching upstairs.

Trixie took a seat on the hassock in front of Angel's chair and smiled at him.

"I'm not going to draw you either," Angel said gruffly. It became apparent to the vampire that everyone in the house probably didn't understand the two words 'go away' when Trixie adamantly remained where she was. "I just *really* need to be alone," he insisted.

"House rules," Trixie replied. "If I break them for you, I'll have to break them for the kids and, well..." she folded her hands on top of one knee, "I just can't play favorites."

"I don't want to talk. I just came here to do whatever it is I'm supposed to do." Angel closed his book and set it in his lap after straightening his legs. "You wouldn't happen to have any idea what that is so we can get out of here?"

"Not a clue." Trixie doted on the embroidered hem of her housedress. "And neither will you as long as you're not participating."

"That another house rule?"

The slight jut of Trixie's jaw became more pronounced with her eyes strictly narrowed. "In this house, you don't have to say what's on your mind, Angel, but you're not allowed to dwell on it by yourself. There are too many lonely people in this world and I'm not going to let any of these children grow up ignoring that. Consideration is the key to this home. That, and the children are to remain unaware of what we all are."

Angel stood in defiance. "So if I'm going to my room does that mean that you're coming to keep me company there, too?"

Trixie got up, too, but stepped to the window instead. "Your room is your sanctuary, vampire," she contended while cracking the blinds, "but don't, for one second, ever forget where you're at."

-0-

evancomo@netscape.net