Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters of BtVS or AtS.

Rating: PG-13

Pairing: Conner/Cordelia undertones (or is it overtones?) in this one, but this is not a C/C fic (yeuucch to ME for even introducing the idea). I'm just trying to stay true to the characters where ME left off.

Feedback: How many times can I say please? I appreciate those who have already given it; you're lovely!

Distribution: Only ask. Also soon to be archived at Rachel's site, www.darkprophecies.net/sinister

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Chapter 2: New Home, Same Place

He left, not with the roar they expected, but a silent scowl. It left them confounded and mystified.

They were gathered at the bus depot, awkwardly sending him off. He glowered at them wordlessly and boarded the Greyhound.

"I don't understand this at all," Fred whispered to Gunn as the bus waited to depart. "Why is he leaving?"

Gunn shook his head blankly. "My question is more like 'how?' I mean, this is Conner we're talking about. Punk-ass kid who lied to the people who took care of him for months. Boy who dumped his daddy ten fathoms under. Didn't expect him to leave without a fight. He's getting exiled and doesn't even flinch that ticky staking hand of his."

"He's a good kid," Angel suddenly defended grimly. "This isn't about exile. This is for his own good."

Wesley shrugged dubiously. "I understand that Angel, but Sunnydale? The universe's hot-spot for mystical convergence isn't exactly conducive to anyone's "own good"."

Angel sighed. "I know Sunnydale isn't very normal. Hell, there are mental institutions more normal than Sunnydale. But I know he'll be safe there. He'll be protected. Most of all, he'll be with people I trust." He stared intensely at Cordelia, who merely gazed at the ground with noticeable guilt.

Fred still frowned. "That doesn't explain why he's going. O-or like Gunn said, how . . . voluntarily."

"He's leaving because he's in love with me. That's why he's doing it. That's why he's not fighting for it. Because he knows I want him to leave." Cordy paled and her voice wavered uncontrollably. Angel clenched his teeth and said nothing.

Fred, Wesley and Gunn all exchanged curious glances, but remained silent. Cordelia edged up to the bus and tapped on Conner's window. He glowered down at her, but finally opened it.

"What?"

She held up a piece of paper. "Read it. It's a letter I wanted to give to you before you left. I know I'm a coward for not being able to say this to you face-to-face, but it's easier this way."

He took it from her, already knowing its contents. The paper seemed to sting his fingers to the quick. He put it into his pocket. When he looked down, she was holding out her hand. He was reluctant to take it, but he did. She was crying while she kissed his hand, pressing her lips to his skin. He felt like he would never be able to forget how soft her lips were.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, pressing the hand to her face.

He wanted to yank his hand back hatefully to slap her or strangle her or grab her onto the bus so that they could ride away together. But he couldn't. He just let her grasp it, wetting it with her tears. "That's okay," was all he could say.

She let him go and backed away, eyes filled with a mixture of regret, relief and guilt. His father took her place, approaching him. Conner let himself harden with loathing.

"I love you," Angel said.

"I hate you," Conner replied coldly.

His father sighed. "I know you think you do. But you'll thank me one day, believe me. I'm doing this for you, so that you can have a good life. Son----"

With the last little word, he slammed the window closed roughly and turned away from them.

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He read it ten times over during the three-hour ride. At first, he took it out of his pocket with the intention of ripping it into a million pieces, but he read it instead. Almost compulsively, he read it three more times in succession before stuffing it back into his bag. He would wait awhile, then draw it back out, hesitate, put it back, take it out again, then read it. That was the pattern of the trip. Now, it was his eleventh time reading it, but he didn't feel any better about the words on the page.

Dear Conner,

I know there's nothing I can possibly say that will make you hate me any less. But I have to try. I have to make you understand why I'm not stopping you from leaving. Why I think it's better this way.

I'm sorry for everything that has happened. I'm sorry for that night and I'm sorry for the consequences. I know now that I was wrong to encourage you that way. But I don't want you to think we made a mistake, Conner. Don't ever think that this is your fault. I was in pain and I was lost and I connected to you because you were in pain and lost too, probably in more ways than I can ever imagine. Plus, world ending. It always tends to do the wonky on your judgment. It was like the whole world stopped, and there was only us, and I didn't want to die in pain. I didn't want you to, either. But then real life happened again. And it made me realize that we don't have the luxury of thinking in easy black-and-white terms like that.

I love you Conner, but not in the way you want me to. Because when everything is said and done, I will always remember you as that beautiful baby I held in my arms only a short while ago. My heart breaks when I think of you giving your heart to me when I can't reciprocate. But at the same time I know that what you're feeling isn't real. I've always known and I was wrong not to set you straight. The fact is, you love the idea of me. You love me because I haven't lied to you or beaten you or let you down. Until now, that is. You love me because I've treated you like a human being. But that's no reason to fall in love.

I want so many things for you. I do want you to find the girl who can give her heart to you fully. I want you to live the life you deserve, a life free from pain and ugliness. I want you to forget everything that has happened before and remember that you are a good person, a loving and compassionate young man. And I know you can only realize these things away from L.A. And when you do, you'll finally understand how much your father loves you. And how much you really love him.

Lots of Love,

Cordy

He held it with a steady hand, but inside he was quaking with quiet fury and resentment. How dare she presume to know how he felt? How could she say that what he felt for her wasn't real? The parental attitude she assumed while telling him he didn't love her just made him rebelliously affirm that he did. He would love her until the day he died and nothing would change that. Not his father, not this Buffy, not Sunnydale, nothing.

He crumpled up the sheet and threw it out the window. The brightly painted sign emblazoned with the message "Welcome to Sunnydale" sped past the window, but he stared blankly at it. He didn't care if he was welcome at all.

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"Welcome!"

The skinny blonde girl held the door open with a plasticine smile. He looked her up and down suspiciously and concluded that she must have been The Buffy everyone was talking about. He was surprised with her. Here was the world-renowned slayer and she was as scrawny as Fred. She was pretty, though, in a generic way. She looked like many of the sunny, tanned waifs he had seen in Los Angeles. He wasn't that impressed.

He considered his words carefully, never altering his frown. Standing awkwardly in the door, he shuffled about and finally replied with a, "Hey."

Buffy fidgeted about and looked a little lost as she gazed up at the lanky, brooding teen. Like father like son. "Well . . . umm . . . come in!" She rushed him through the door.

He entered cautiously with light steps, as if he was entering a vampire's nest. He studied everything with a hunter's critical eye. The house was friendly and warm: a stark contrast to the Hyperion's massive roominess and cold, hotel halls. In the living room, four people stared at him with rabid interest, leaning forward as if they were gawking at a museum exhibit.

"Hi!" A short-haired brunette piped up loudly.

"Hi!" A taller brunette echoed.

"Hi!" A redhead agreed.

"Hi!" A brown-haired man concluded. They all sounded rushed and forced somehow and Conner decided that Sunnydale residents were insane.

Buffy gave an uneasy little laugh. "Okay so nothing will ever top that mind-blowing introduction, but I guess I should expound." She pointed at them respectively. "Conner, this is Anya, Dawn, Willow and Xander. Guys, this is Conner." They all opened their mouths to render a familiar response, but Buffy quickly cut in, "Yeah, I think we already covered the 'hi' business."

"Nice to meet you," Xander said, holding out his hand for a shake. Conner just glanced at it and glanced away. Brushed off, Xander made a miffed face at Willow. Nervous, Willow took initiative and put a friendly hand on Conner's shoulder.

"Glad to have you here, Conner." She smiled a little falteringly and waggled her head, reminding him of Fred. In fact, they all seemed to be a variation on the same people. Xander had the same thick, domineering air of Gunn, Willow, the agitated brainniness of Fred, Buffy, the stoic, superior-like resolution of Angel.

"Yes, I'm sure Buffy is ecstatic to house yet another other-worldly oddfellow in her humble abode whose mortgage is fast exceeding her income range," voiced Anya. She must have been the strange one, like Lorne.

Dawn approached him, holding up her hand, then bringing it down when she remembered he obviously didn't do that. "Ummm . . . hey. Didn't know you were staying here till a few hours ago since certain pain-in-the-ass sisters"-----Pointed glance at Buffy here----"Refuse to tell anybody anything ever."

Conner inspected Dawn closely. She was clearly very attractive like her sister, but in a different way. He got the sense that she didn't fit as easily as the rest of these people. He didn't know what it was, but he didn't bother trying to figure it out. It was probably because she was just a kid among adults.

"Where's my room?" he asked flatly, forgoing any response to the warm introductions.

Buffy exchanged anxious looks with everyone and led him to the stairs. "Here, I'll show you."

He picked up his bag and followed her up the stairs and down the hall. On the way, Buffy bumped into a very blonde, skinny man coming out of a bedroom. He clearly jumped when making contact with Buffy. Buffy looked similarly on edge.

"Oh, Spike . . . sorry. Umm, the . . . basement is ready for you." Conner noticed how thick the air became amongst the two, something chemical. He was a lot more perceptive than people thought.

"Right . . . well." The hall was crowded, so touching her to get by was inevitable. Spike gave her a lingering look that she quickly blushed and shrugged out of. He rushed by, but was momentarily blocked by Conner, who scrutinized him carefully. He frowned and quickly galloped down the stairs.

Conner stared after him and back at Buffy. She seemed restless and preoccupied. She opened the door quietly and he went into it without a word, throwing his bag carelessly onto the bed. She wavered by the door.

"If you need anything, just call me from downstairs. I'll let you get adjusted to the room."

He didn't know what to say so he nodded, closing the door after her. Alone, he collapsed onto his full bed and gazed around at his new surroundings. And he thought about what they meant.

The house was warm and light, not like Hyperion at all, but one thing was the same. It was a house of secrets. He already knew what that was like. And though he didn't like it, at least he knew what he was in for.

TBC…….