Body Disclaimers, etc., in Chapter 1 --

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THE QUALITY OF MERCY

by Yahtzee

Yahtzee63@aol.com

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Chapter 5: "Haunted"

"I thought you said this was the ghost of a clerk who was shot in a robbery two months ago."

Angel looks confused as he says this, like the big, stupid lug Xander always said he was. Unfortunately, Riley can't feel very superior at the moment, as he, too, is confused by what the store owner is telling them.

And he is angry that, after a solid year of being told by the army he served and the woman he loved that he couldn't help, couldn't understand, and couldn't be trusted, he's being asked to help by the one person whose opinion means the least to him in this world. And scared that even here, even now, he's going to screw up.

He used to think it was all so easy, that it all made sense --

The owner of the Gas-N-Go in what has got to be, absolutely, the worst neighborhood in all of L.A. -- and Riley knows this is saying something -- is shaking his head as he looks around the convenience store. "Not a clerk. It was a customer that was shot in a robbery two months ago."

"I was sure you said something about a clerk getting shot --" Angel begins.

"Yes, yes. But the last clerk who died was shot seven months ago. Not two months ago."

Riley is looking at the doorway. Next to the doors is a painted-on grid that shows the height in feet and inches of anyone standing near it, right where this information can be caught on the security camera. He's seen plenty of service stations with these grids before, but he's never been so aware that this information was definitely being used. He says his first words since getting into the car with Angel half an hour ago: "How long ago did the last clerk who DIDN'T die get shot?"

"Three weeks," the owner says.

"Okay," Angel says quietly, "let's try this. How many people, counting customers, clerks and robbers, have died in this store since you've owned it?"

The owner actually tallies this on his fingers. "Seven."

"Narrows it right down," Angel mutters.

"Can we tell which one is the ghost?" Riley says.

"Not sure," Angel says. "You've got the candle and the bundle of herbs? You remember the incantation I showed you back at the hotel?" When Riley nods, Angel motions toward the back. "We're going to start the exorcism. Mr. Patel, if you want to step outside --"

Mr. Patel takes one look at the neighborhood outside and decides he'll take his chances with the undead. "I -- I will wait in the ladies' bathroom."

Angel frowns. "Why not the men's room?"

"The ladies keep the bathroom cleaner," Mr. Patel says with a shrug, as though the responsibility for cleaning the bathrooms had nothing to do with the station's management. Riley makes a mental note that, no matter how long this exorcism takes, he's going to be able to hold it until later.

As Mr. Patel hurries into the women's bathroom, Riley hurriedly picks up the little pouch on a cord Angel gave him, puts it around his neck. A scapula, Angel called it. He used to see Buffy and her friends with these, from time to time, but nobody ever bothered to tell him the proper name. The scapula smells awful, but he's pretty sure that means something good. Everything Willow kept in her little bundles smelled terrible, as did half of the canisters of herbs Giles kept at his store --

Riley shuts his eyes for a moment as he experiences a piercing, vivid recollection of that shop. Before Giles bought it, he and Buffy had broken in one night. She'd looked up at him, bemused, when he told her there was a better way to get through the door than brute force. All they had to do was call his friends in the Initiative, and they'd slip in the skeleton key, make it easy for her.

Buffy didn't want things to be easy. She kept on smashing through doors and using fists instead of firepower and generally doing things the hard way. Maybe that's why she wanted this undead headcase with the candles and magic spells more than Riley.

In any case, she never did ask for Riley's help.

"This ghost," Riley says, "is it a customer or a robber?"

Angel half-glances over his shoulder as he walks to his chosen location, which seems to be in the vicinity of the Icee machine. "No idea. The disturbances Mr. Patel talked about -- flying objects, cold spots -- they don't offer any clue. It's just a spirit not at rest."

"But we have to know which one it is, right? What it wants, what it's here for?" This is one of those things you have to know. It's not a question Riley ever used to ask, but he has sworn that he will never, ever forget to ask it again. And that he will never, ever stop before he gets an answer --

For a moment he remembers heat, and darkness, and screaming. He remembers Graham grinning, his teeth white in the blackness of night. He remembers how heavy and correct his gun felt in his hands. Riley begins to shake. "We have to know what kind of ghost it is."

Angel is looking at him very strangely now. "What we do is the same," he says, with ill-concealed impatience. "We send the spirit off this plane."

"Where do we send it?" Riley says. He can hear his voice going higher, hates it, can't stop it. "Where? What if we send it to the wrong place?"

"We won't," Angel says, clearly ready to stop talking to Riley. "You wanted to help, right? You can help by getting in position and starting the incantation. That would be a good thing to do right about now."

One time, during basic training, when Riley was both a few years and many centuries younger, he was in combat exercises with Forrest. He remembers Forrest saying something the soliders used to yell in Vietnam: Kill 'em all, let God sort 'em out. Forrest was only joking then.

Don't think about that now, Riley tells himself. Besides, come on, it's a ghost. A ghost, for God's sake. You can't kill it; it's already dead. Certainly it should be okay to get rid of something that's dead --

Angel, the dead guy who saved his life last night, lifts up his candle and lights it. After one more moment's hesitation, Riley does the same.

Even as they do this, the electricity in the store fails. Just in the store -- outside, the sign proclaiming the sale price of six-packs is still glowing. Inside, the only light is filtered from outside or from the candles.

Riley catches a glimpse of Angel's face and has to stop himself from reacting. In that first flash, he thinks Angel has vamped out; then he realizes that the play of light on Angel's face can change everything about the way he looks. With the angles of his face outlined in light, he looks older, suddenly -- some of those hidden centuries are visible now, as shadows. The shape of his face is as much animal as human. But his voice is steady as he says, "I shall confront and expel all evil."

"I shall confront and expel all evil," Riley repeats. Evil, the chant says. That means they'll only cast out evil spirits. A good spirit wouldn't be affected -- would it?

"Out of marrow and bone --" Their voices overlap now, Angel's growing stronger as, out of nowhere, a breeze begins to blow. Riley tries to raise his voice as the breeze becomes a gale, but he can feel his throat constricting.

Don't, she had said. Yellow eyes shining up at him in the night, a bundle in her arms that might have been anything, anything at all, not necessarily a baby. Her quiet little voice rasped out, Please don't.

"Out of house and home --"

Riley gets out that word 'home,' and the wind goes mad. Displays of potato chips topple over. The stuff on the metal shelves -- BC Powders, packets of tissue, breath mints -- is sliding along, falling to the floor. Rolls of lottery tickets are unspooling behind the counter, curling up like vines. Somehow his and Angel's candles are still burning.

The ghost is fighting them, Riley realizes. But the ghost is losing --

Alone, Angel says, "Never to come here --"

Riley tackles him, hard, cutting off that last word and sending them both plowing into a wall of Dr. Pepper cans. They fall to the floor as the wind dies down to a flutter.

"What the hell are you doing?" Angel yells, all pretense at patience and cooperation gone.

"We can't do this!" Riley shouts over the din.

"You want to tell me why not?" Angel shoves Riley off him with far more force than is actually necessary.

"Because we don't know! We don't know if this ghost is a customer or a client --"

"We know it's a GHOST --"

"We don't know if it's good or evil!" Riley finally gets out. "What if it's good, Angel? We can't do that! Not until we know!"

Angel regards him silently for a minute; Riley is very aware that he is shaking, that tears are in his eyes, and he hates the idea that Angel may see his weakness.

Finally, Angel says, "Riley -- the spirit's going to go wherever it was headed in the first place. If it's a good spirit, then we're doing a good thing. We're setting it free."

"How can you be sure?"

"That's the way it works. We can't send the spirit anyplace it's not meant to be."

This sounds reasonable. But all the explanations always sounded so reasonable; Riley was always too quick to believe. "Then why is the spirit fighting us?"

"They always fight," Angel says, his impatience returning. "They never want to move on, even if it's for the best. That's just how it is. Are you ready to help me now? Or can't you get up?"

He's seen the shaking. Bastard. Riley forces himself to his feet. "I can get up."

Angel lights the candles again, and they repeat, in unison this time, "I shall confront and expel all evil -- out of marrow and bone -- out of house and home -- never to come here again."

The wind goes out. That's it -- no incandescent light show, no explosion, nothing. After a moment, the lights flicker back on. Angel mutters a couple words in a language Riley doesn't know, then calls out, "Mr. Patel! I think we're done!"

Done. Just like that. And the ghost is --

"Gone," Riley says. "Just gone."

"Are you all right?" Angel says, and only when he hears it does Riley realize that no, he's nowhere close to all right. His knees are turning to water, and everything he's been running from for the past six weeks seems to be right there, staring at him, wearing a vampire's face. Riley shakes his head -- answering aloud is beyond him at the moment -- and Angel says roughly, "Then go to the car. Sit down before you fall down."

Riley crosses the parking lot on shaking legs, slides into the Plymouth's seat, leans his head back to look at the sky. No stars. Just a dull, reddish glow. Far away, he can hear Latino music blaring from a passing car -- trumpets and drumbeats growing closer, then fading away. He breathes in sharply through his mouth, trying to calm himself.

After a few minutes, Angel comes out; he says nothing as he takes his place beside Riley and cranks the car. He puts the car in reverse -- then, before taking his foot off the brake -- puts it back in park. Slowly, calmly, almost as one might speak to a child, he says, "Do you want to tell me what's wrong?"

"Do you care?" Riley says.

"I want to help you," Angel says, which is not a yes. "I think it's important that I help you."

"I'm not your charity case."

"Keep it up, and you'll be somebody's charity case," Angel says. "Or maybe just a dead body. Is that what you're aiming for?"

"You'd like that," Riley says. "Wouldn't you?"

"If I wanted you dead, I would have left you to Drusilla," Angel says. "Are you going to tell me anything?"

What could Riley tell Angel? Many, many things that Angel wouldn't like. Riley would like to tell him what Buffy's like in bed -- really like, now that she's got some experience, some confidence. Angel got one night with her; Riley got one hundred, and he knows things about Buffy's body, her responses, her desires, that Angel does not and cannot know. Maybe Angel should hear about the lingerie she bought to celebrate Riley's birthday -- white silk, bra cups of translucent lace, skinny straps that fell right off her shoulders. Or maybe he'd prefer to know just how long it took her to learn to give the perfect blowjob, a skill she developed through practice Riley was only too glad to offer. That would wipe that sanctimonious, social-worker expression right off Angel's face, wouldn't it?

And if Riley thought that there had been even one of those hundred nights, just one time he'd made love to Buffy, that he could believe she wouldn't rather have been with Angel, he'd tell it all right now.

As it is, he remains silent.

Angel puts the car in reverse, takes them out on the streets. Riley at first thinks he's going to let this journey pass in silence, but finally Angel says, "I know what addiction does to you. I know that better than anybody. I -- I'm still mad about what you did to Buffy, but if you can't stop this, then you're sick. Not evil." Angel is saying all this in a tone of voice calculated to convince somebody, probably Angel himself. "If you want to beat this, you can."

"You think it's about the biting," Riley says dully.

"Isn't it?" Angel says. "Riley, what's wrong? Are you going to talk to me about this?"

Riley feels himself sinking even deeper into the darkness surrounding him, flowing through him. "No. I'm not going to talk."

Suddenly, unexpectedly, Angel smiles. "Have it your way."

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Continued in Chapter 6