Disclaimers, etc., in Chapter 1 --
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THE QUALITY OF MERCY
by Yahtzee
Yahtzee63@aol.com
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Chapter 6: "Washed Away"
If Riley won't talk, Angel won't make him talk.
As he's learned over the past several months, there are better ways of getting information out of people.
"Like a rhinestone cowboy -- riding out on a horse in a star-spangled rodeo," Riley sings, staring fixedly at the karaoke prompter. "Like a rhinestone cowboy, gettin' cards and letters from people I don't even know, and offers comin' over the phone --"
"You've got something very interesting here," the Host mutters. "How'd you come across him again?"
"Long story," Angel says. "You could say we have mutual friends."
The Host snorts. "Yeah, you could. But I'd prefer to say 'you guys have a big, bad jones for the same girl,' because it's just so much more -- what's the word? -- true." He takes a sip of his Sea Breeze as he shakes his head at Riley. "Still doesn't explain why you guys are hanging out, doing the club scene."
"And I dream of the things I'll do," Riley sings, "with a subway token and a dollar tucked inside my shoe --" His voice is better than Angel's, but that's the most that can be said for it, and Angel's keenly aware that's not much. When Angel sings, many patrons in the bar react poorly, to say the least, but most of them are just ignoring Riley. He has one table of fans -- a rowdy group of Velga demons who either love the singer, the song or the dozen-or-so Heinekens they've drunk.
Riley's shoulders are slumped, his eyes dull. When Angel has to sing, he's invariably panicked. Riley just looks miserable. He went on stage without even a complaint; he doesn't care whether or not he's being humiliated. He doesn't seem to care about much of anything.
Angel knows this feeling very well --
He looks away from Riley to see the Host smirking at him. "Counting up the similarities? There's more than you think, babe."
"He's nothing like me," Angel says. "Just because we might -- feel the same way sometimes -- that doesn't make us anything alike."
"No," the Host agrees. "That's not it at all." His red eyes glint at Angel in the darkness of the bar.
"I have to help him," Angel says. "I think it's a test, set by the Powers. If I'll do something for him, maybe that proves I'll do whatever the Powers ask from now on."
"Bullseye on the test," the Host says. "But as for the form it's going to take -- well, you seem to think it's multiple choice. Try essay, big guy."
Some of these phrases are familiar to Angel from listening to Buffy and Willow and Xander fret about their high-school exams, but whatever meaning the Host is attempting to communicate isn't getting through. Angel, used to not catching references, goes back to looking at Riley.
"Rhinestone Cowboy" doesn't come to a big finish; it just keeps repeating the lines about the star-spangled rodeo over and over. Riley looks a little confused about how to handle this, but he gamely keeps going until the backing track fades and the Host stands up to lead the applause. The Velga demons pound on the table. Angel doesn't clap.
"Wasn't that terrific, folks?" the Host proclaims as he steps up on stage and hugs Riley around the shoulders. Riley visibly flinches from the contact. "Nothing says country like songs about misplaced masculinity, huh? Unless it's songs about pickup trucks and beer. Speaking of beer -- two for one special during the break!"
Riley comes back to Angel's table, half-escorted, half-steered by the Host. He says, quietly, "Now I see why you wanted me to do this. Puts all your other problems in perspective." Angel smiles at the joke before he can stop himself.
The Host sits down and pats the chair between him and Angel; Riley takes his seat, looks sideways at the Host. "And you were able to read my mind while I was -- doing that?" He can't quite say "sing."
"I got a peek," the Host says. "Though it's difficult to make out anything in that jumble. You're a regular crazy-quilt of problems, you know that? I haven't seen anybody this mixed up in a while." He jabs a thumb at Angel. "Not since Desperado here came down from his fences and opened the gate."
"I did know that, actually," Riley says. "So, thanks but no thanks for the news flash."
"We're just trying to help," Angel says.
For the first time since the exorcism, Riley actually displays emotion; anger twists his face as he glares back at Angel. "And that makes you a really, really good person. Can we get this over with already?"
Angel feels his own anger sparking into flame, but the Host holds up one hand. "Now, now, lads. Please save the territorial chest-thumping for another encounter. We're here to figure out just why the Powers brought you two together."
"The Powers?" Riley says.
"The Powers That Be," Angel says. "They -- determine things. Shape our lives. They know the future, the past. They choose our destinies."
"You're right up until that last part," the Host says. "We choose our destinies, by and large. I mean, nobody actually chooses to be squashed by a malfunctioning cement mixer -- accidents do happen -- but we live in a world with free will." He sips his Sea Breeze again while looking back and forth from Angel to Riley. "We have choices to make. And sometimes we make the wrong ones, don't we?"
Riley's whole body goes tense; odd, since Angel is pretty sure that last comment is directed at himself. The Host leans forward and says, "Listen, soldier boy. I know you're not big on the idea of sharing your problems with Angel. But truth is, you already share them. The time has come to admit it out loud."
For some reason, Angel is overcome with the urge to spare Riley the agony of saying -- whatever it is the Host thinks he would say -- out loud. Or is it that he wants to spare himself from hearing it? "I already know," he says, apparently surprising Riley, who starts at his words. "I've seen the scars. I know what his problem is."
"You know one problem," the Host agrees. "But that's always been the symptom. Not the disease." He takes the final swig of his drink, sets it down. "I have to call an end to this break before the Velga demons bankrupt me on the cheap beer. So here's the scoop." The Host stands up, puts his hands on the table, leans forward right into Riley's face and says, "Tell Angel why you left the army. Tell him what happened in Belize."
Riley shoves himself away from the table; Angel is shocked to see how white his face is, how wide his eyes. His heartbeat accelerates, and Angel can smell that not-quite-fear that was on him back at the Hyperion. "To hell with you," Riley says, and runs to the side door of the club.
"What are you waiting for?" the Host says. "Go after him!"
Angel obediently gets up, but he does ask, "And do what?"
"Listen."
**
Angel jogs out into an alleyway that smells like garbage and looks worse. There, at the end of the alley, Riley is leaning against a chain-link fence; his hands grip the fence so fiercely his fingers have to hurt. At first Angel thinks Riley doesn't hear him, but as he comes closer, Riley says, "Get away from me."
"I'd like to," Angel admits. "But I think you should do what the Host suggested. Apparently that's why we've been brought together."
"Oh, right. Our destiny from the higher powers, who guide us through life. Do they carry us in times of trouble? Footprints in the sand?"
Angel has no idea what Riley's going on about, but he understands sarcasm well enough. "Sometimes they do intervene," he says quietly, remembering a Christmas morning when the world was made white with snow. "Sometimes they help."
"And sometimes they don't," Riley says, and his voice is thick now. "Sometimes the most horrible things happen, things you can't even bring yourself to think about, and they don't do anything about it. Do they just not care?"
"I don't know," Angel says as he steps closer. He's wondered about this himself. If the Powers are so interested in him now, why didn't they catch on to him two centuries ago? Why didn't they send his soul ahead of the gypsies, or stop him from being vamped in the first place, or just strike him dead? He's stopped looking for this particular answer. "But when they do send a message, it's usually a good idea to listen."
"And you're these gods' official emissary here on earth? Forgive my disbelief."
"I don't think that's it," Angel says, truthfully enough. He's close enough now that he could lay a comforting hand on Riley's shoulder; he doesn't. "At all. I just -- I don't want to question why. I just want to do whatever it is they want us to do." Because he's learned now, he's better, he will obey the Powers, and they will see that he has changed, and then Wesley and Cordelia and Gunn will call --
"You want to get this over with," Riley says. He turns around from the chain-link fence at last, and Angel is not surprised to see the tears in his eyes. "Fine then. Let's get it over with."
This sudden acquiescence catches Angel off-guard, and for a moment he's not sure what to say. Finally, he comes up with, "Tell me how this all started."
Faster than Angel would have thought possible, Riley lashes out, his fist catching Angel right in the jaw. The force of the blow sends them both falling to the pavement. Every instinct Angel possesses -- human or vampiric -- tells him to hit back, and harder. Instead, he glares up at Riley, who is on his knees, panting, as though that one act took the rest of his remaining strength. "What the hell is your problem?"
"You," Riley says. "It all started with you. No matter how much I loved Buffy -- and I loved her so much -- she couldn't ever let me in. Because you hurt her so bad she couldn't stand the thought of letting anybody else hurt her again."
Angel wants this not to be true. Not that he hurt her -- that much is true, how well he knows it -- but that she can't trust again. Buffy is stronger than that, isn't she? He can't have crippled her forever.
"And she wouldn't let me into that world. The demons and the vampires and the curses and the spells -- she wouldn't talk to me about it. She said I didn't need to know."
Riley's breathing is ragged now, but he keeps going. "And see, that's the weird part. Because she always hated the army, hated that I was a part of it, but she treated me the exact same way they did. That's what the officers would always tell me, what Dr. Walsh always told me -- you don't need to know that. You know your mission. You know your duty. Carry it out. And I did. I did what I was supposed to do, and I did it better than anybody, and I was sure that we were right."
He pauses to gulp in some air; Angel pushes himself into a sitting position so that they are facing one another. Riley won't quite make eye contact, but he keeps talking, as if he can't push the information out fast enough. "One night Buffy and I were out patrolling, and we found these demons -- dark blue skin, and lots of black hair, and raspy voices --"
"Poveni demons," Angel supplies automatically.
Riley closes his eyes for a minute. "That's right. That's the name. I -- I couldn't remember the -- anyway. We were patrolling, and we found them camped out in this abandoned warehouse, and I wanted to attack. But Buffy said not to worry, that they would never hurt us. I mean, how can you know? How can you know if something like that would ever hurt you?"
"Poveni are peaceful," Angel says. "They feed off magnetic currents. The most they'd ever do to a human is throw off a compass, and even that would be an accident."
This is still just information, devoid of meaning, something Angel is supplying just to fill in the gaps. But whatever he's just said has been the wrong thing; Riley crumples, slumps over so that his head nearly touches the ground. "Oh, God," he says, the tone of his voice suggesting that this is not an empty phrase; Riley wishes that something, anything, would hear him. "Oh, God, no."
Riley is crying now, and Angel should feel embarrassed or awkward. Instead, he is overcome with the certainty that he must find out the rest of what Riley has to say. "What did you and Buffy do?"
"Nothing," Riley whispers. "We didn't do anything. And she didn't tell me anything more about them. Not even the magnet thing -- why didn't she tell me that? Why couldn't she just tell me that one thing?"
"Why does it matter?"
Riley finally looks up at Angel then, and Angel is startled to see the depth of the misery in his eyes. "After Buffy and I -- after that, I went back to the army. I figured, at least they needed me. At least they'd give me something to do, something worthwhile. And they said there were all these nests down in Central America. They needed people to deal with it. People with experience. So I figured everything I'd been through was worth something after all."
Angel hasn't spent a lot of time in Central America, but he knows plenty of vampires who have. It's warm down there, and less heavily policed than North America or Europe. Good hunting can be had if you want it, and most vampires do. "I'm sure there was a lot for you to do."
"At first it was all just the way it was supposed to be. Just the way they always said it would be. We were a team, and we would find our targets, and we would take them out. Being with my friends again helped a lot. I -- I was able to stop going to the vampires. I had thought I never would be able to stop, but I did. And I thought about how stupid it was, the way Buffy and I fell apart. Her birthday was coming up, and I thought, you know -- maybe I could send her a card or a letter. Just say -- say that I was sorry, that so much of what I said was wrong, that I'd gotten better, and that -- if she wanted --"
Buffy's birthday was almost six weeks ago. Angel doesn't try to reach her on her birthdays, because he can only remind her of the one birthday she would probably most like to forget. But he remembers the day, and imagines her having better times, surrounded by Willow and Xander and presents and cake. It helps. "Did you write to her?"
Riley shakes his head. "A few days before -- we were out on a patrol. In the jungle -- I mean, the depths of it, no villages, no nothing, just vines and trees and snakes. I thought we were wasting our time."
His voice is calmer now, more steady that it has been in a while now. But Angel thinks this is not necessarily a good sign; Riley is staring at him with unnerving eyes. "But we came across this -- nest or village or whatever. With these demons -- Poveni demons?" When Angel nods, Riley goes on, "There were a couple dozen of them. And they were -- they were so scared --"
Riley's hand clamps around Angel's forearm, so tightly it's hard to remember he's merely human. The pressure actually hurts, but Angel doesn't pull away. "They ran. We mobilized, ran after them. They had an underground lair -- I was the one who found the door and pulled it open. I was the one who found them. And I should have called for the others, but I didn't -- I didn't --"
Angel is going numb -- not just on his pressurized arm, but through the rest of his body, as Riley continues.
Because now, at last, he's beginning to realize why the Powers have brought them together.
"They looked up at me, and this one -- a female -- she begged me not to --" Riley is crying now in earnest. "She begged me not to do anything, and I didn't do anything. I just stood there with my gun in my hands and looked at them. And I remembered what Buffy said, but I still didn't understand why, and I -- I didn't trust my judgment enough to come out and call them off. Because I didn't understand enough to do that, to do anything. But then the others found us."
"The members of your unit. The other soldiers," Angel says, in a voice that seems to come from very far away.
Riley nods. His cheeks are shining in the light from the streetlamp. "They came in and they just started shooting. They cut them all down, and it didn't matter that they screamed and screamed. I could feel my gun in my hands, and I knew I was supposed to fire. I couldn't fire, and I couldn't yell for them to stop. So I just -- I just -- I climbed out and I shut the door behind me."
Angel remembers his hands pushing shut the doors to Holland Manners' wine cellar. Remembers the heavy brass lock sliding through his hands.
"I just stood there and listened to them scream, until there wasn't any more screaming --"
Angel could still hear screams as he went up the stairs. They were fading out as he stepped over the just-dead body of Mrs. Manners, but he still doesn't know if that was because Dru and Darla's victims were all dying or just because he was putting so much distance between them. He's pretty sure he stepped over a hobbyhorse on the way out. He'd never thought about Holland Manners having a child. He didn't think about it much at the time, either.
"They all died," Riley finally choked out. "They weren't people -- but they weren't animals, either. They could feel fear and pain, and they died because I didn't do anything. That night I handed in my resignation, and they flew me to L.A. to catch a flight back to Iowa -- but I didn't catch it. I couldn't look at my mother after that. I just wanted to disappear. And I did disappear."
For the past months, Angel has simply not thought about what he did, or didn't do, that night at Holland Manners'. Now, though, there's no running from it; the Powers have spoken to him, using the voice of Riley Finn, and reminded him about what he truly did that night he fell from grace. He knew it was wrong all along -- knew it even as he locked that door behind him -- but he didn't care. And since then he's had too much to think about, too much to contend with, to picture what happened behind the doors.
Why did he think his redemption was only a matter of mending fences with his friends? That long list of crimes he must atone for is even longer now; there are new faces to pass before his eyes as he tries to sleep each morning. Angel would never, ever have thought of his baby sister and Holland Manners in the same way, but now they belong together, eternally tethered by their shared deaths, the shared blame.
For a moment he opens himself up to it, feels a fraction of the pain and loss and hopelessness those people might have felt as he shut the doors. They were part of Wolfram & Hart, and maybe they knew the risks they were taking, deserved that much or worse. But maybe they didn't, and it wasn't Angel's place to judge.
Because he did, they're dead and gone.
Angel puts his face down in his hands, and for a few long minutes, he and Riley are both silent. Riley has stopped crying, and Angel doesn't think he's going to start, though it's a near thing. Probably they look like two drunks who have staggered into the alley to pass out.
Finally, Angel takes a deep breath -- just to clear his head -- and looks up. He is a man too used to guilt to let this destroy him; this is just one of the many burdens he'll be carrying for a long, long time to come. He can't change it now; all he can do is remember it, keep it close, learn from it. He had been in danger of forgetting, before Riley came along.
All this time he'd thought he was supposed to be helping Riley, and it's the other way around.
Riley looks at him for a minute. "What's the matter?"
Angel debates whether it would be better to tell Riley the whole truth or not; would it help him to hear it, or would Angel just be pushing his burdens off on a man who's already burdened enough? He settles for the middle road. "You're not alone, you know. What you've done, I've done."
"Killed people."
"And let them be killed. Both without my soul and with it." Riley's eyes widen slightly at this, but he says nothing. "After you -- wake up -- you don't want to face what you've done. You want to hide from it. You think you can just disappear, that if you don't matter anymore -- maybe what you did won't matter either. But it will."
Riley nods slowly, hearing this, accepting it, even as Angel does. Angel continues, "I used to think that maybe if I suffered the way my victims suffered, that this would help me atone for what I'd done. But the only way to pay off the debts of the past is with a different future -- a future that means something, for you and the people around you. And you have to work to create that. The one thing you can't do is disappear. That would be just one more crime, one more murder. Don't let it happen. You want to finally take a stand, well, take it now."
They consider that in silence for a while. Riley finally seems to pull himself together, to realize that it's Angel he's poured his heart out to, who's been lecturing him. He smiles wryly -- but the sentiment seems to be real. There's no bite to the sarcasm when he says, "You get paid for these platitudes?"
"It's a living," Angel replies in kind. "Which is sort of ironic, if you think about it."
Riley actually laughs at this, and they help each other to their feet, and they go back into Caritas, where the Host beams at them while belting out a killer version of "Last Dance." They drink two beers each and listen to the Velga demons bellow something that might be "My Way" and drive home through a night that is pleasantly cool, though Angel did not notice it before. They say very little to each other, but it is the closest thing to companionship Angel has known in far too long.
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Continued in Chapter 7
