The scent of burnt rubber and the wounded groan of the convertible's engine cut to the very quick of Angel's gypsy-cursed soul. In the back seat, he could see Fred clinging on for dear life, crossbow clasped between her knees as she braced herself against Gunn's reckless driving.

"Get in," Gunn called to him, roughly throwing the car into drive.

"Uh-uh," Angel replied, quickly moving round to the driver's side. "Move over."

Gunn hesitated, clearly not happy to relinquish control of the wheel. Then he saw Angel's face and let out an explosive sigh, sliding over the leather seat into the passenger side.

"Man, I swear, I've seen actual people have less meaningful relationships that you have with this car," he complained, as Angel hopped into the seat. "I knew I should have brought my truck."

Swinging his baby in a tight arc, Angel opened her up more gently that Gunn had done, hearing her purr her contentment as he did so. He resisted the urge to pat her dashboard and gave Gunn's comment the dignified silence it deserved.

"So, what's the deal?" he asked, instead, getting down to business.

"Bunch of vamps gate-crashed a party down at the westside industrial park, started snacking on the teeny boppers before you could say illegal rave."

"Crazy kids," Angel murmured, glancing in the rear-view mirror before making the necessary turn.

Fred leaned forward, resting her arms on the back of their seats. "And speaking of which," she began.

Angel glanced in the mirror, seeing her enquiring look, knowing she couldn't see his own. "He's doing ok," he replied, after a moment, turning his attention back to the road. "Got himself a place, now. Sure, it's a dump, but it's a start. And it's safe."

"When I was growing up," Gunn said, "you took what you could get. Any place safe was practically the Hilton for kids on the street."

"And he's fighting vamps and demons," Angel added, more brightly. "Saving lives, rescuing people…"

"Yeah, the kid's a real saint," Gunn interjected. "After what he did to you, putting you in a box, then sinking you to the bottom of the ocean…"

"I know…"

"Letting you starve," Fred added, helpfully, "hallucinate, go mad for all eternity…"

"I said, I know," Angel said, more sharply than he had intended. He felt Fred and Gunn share a look and gripped the wheel more tightly to prevent himself from snapping again. "I was there, remember?" he continued, more gently. "It's not like I need a recap."

"Look, all I'm saying," Gunn began, "is that I don't think he's quite the little crusader that you seem to think he is. Kid's got a real attitude adjustment problem."

Angel didn't reply, knowing Gunn was right. Connor did have problems, but having grown up in a hell dimension, what kid wouldn't have. Despite that, he also knew it was going to be a long time before Gunn and Fred accepted Connor back into the fold once more. Once bitten, he thought, twice shy. And they had every reason in the world to question the kid's motives.

But while they doubted, Angel still clung to the hope that, someday, Connor might come around, might come to understand that the harshness of the world, its fickle cruelties, couldn't be overcome by a blunt violence lacking either love or understanding. And, deeper still, was the hope that someday, Connor might turn to him for help or call him father without habitual contempt.

"How about a little music?" he suggested lightly to the others, more to break the sombre mood that had fallen over them.

They were about to head off into battle and the last thing they could afford was an unnecessary distraction. No more talk of Connor or how the boy had messed up so badly. They needed to be focused, united, and that meant no more of the protective daddy routine.

Reaching forward, Angel twisted the dial, found a station and settled back, hoping to stave off another round of Connor questions. His satisfied smile slowly died and another look passed between Gunn and Fred as the soulful strains of the Cat Stevens song 'Father to Son' drifted out of the radio to them.

Angel raised his eyes heavenwards, as if in supplication, wondering what kind of twisted, ironic joke the Powers that Be were playing. And if he didn't know better, he could almost swear he heard Cordelia's chiding tones speaking out between the strains.

*****

"We've come for you child."

The words reverberated around Connor's mind as he ducked the blade that whistled passed his head and pin-wheeled, backhanding his attacker as he did so. As he turned again, constantly shifting stratagems against his enemies, he could see the man who had issued the challenge standing to the rear of the alley, observing.

As another human lunged forward, Connor dealt him a swift, sharp jab to the solar plexus, then swung the gagging man away from him, the body rolling ungainly across the litter-strewn concrete to come up hard against the wall. They were more cautious of him now than when they had first begun, but attacking two or three at a time, they still couldn't get in close enough to use their batons or blades.

Even as Connor turned to face another threat, a man grabbed him from behind, locking his fists across Connor's chest so the boy's arms were trapped. The added height of his attacker nearly lifted Connor from his feet as the man straightened.

Before him, the others moved back and another human stepped forward, carrying a weapon Connor recognised as a gun, a device that spat pellets of metal at high velocity and with great accuracy and would tear through flesh and bone if he were not quick enough to evade it.

He didn't need his arms free to throw off the man holding him, instead snapped his head backwards so hard he heard the man's nose break. The arms loosened and Connor shrugged them off, just as the gun-bearer fired, the projectile that shot out of its metal sheath heading straight for Connor's chest. With a snap of his torso, Connor twisted and felt the feathered dart tug lightly at his shirt as it sped passed to embed itself in the man behind.

With a grunt, his assailant clutched the dart, eyes rolling up into his head before toppling backwards. In a second, Connor was on the gun wielder, wrenching the weapon from the man's grasp and punching him in quick succession to the face, torso and stomach, before tossing the weapon aside, dismissing it as useless in such close quarters.

Though he fought swiftly and silently, Connor's mind was in turmoil. Holtz had brought him up to believe that killing a human, no matter how deserving, was wrong. Like the lackeys of the law firm Wolfram and Hart, these men that he fought were all too human, fragile and breakable, and if Connor did not temper his blows, they could easily end up broken beyond all repair.

Yet the warrior inside him chafed against the restraint. The boy that had grown up in the harsh realities of Quor-Toth, a place where foolish mercies could very well equal death, would have slaughtered without question or remorse were his assailants anything other than human.

And, though Connor could have easily evaded his attackers, taking off into the night to disappear among the rat runs of the alleyways, his pride and certainty in his strength and skill kept him from fleeing. He would deal with the ones who now fought against him, then discover the meaning behind their assault.

When, finally, they had each had a taste of his fists and feet, they backed off, bruised and bleeding and with a new-found respect for the boy before them who was unmarked and barely out of breath. The speaker instead strode forward, little different than the others in appearance, yet possessed of a grace and surety, an economy of movement that spoke of training far beyond that of those Connor had already fought.

"Why are you doing this?" Connor demanded of him, angrily tossing the hair from his eyes. "I have done nothing to you."

"Not yet, child," was his cryptic reply. "But it is only a matter of time before the strength you display so eagerly becomes a weapon for our enemy. We would claim it for ourselves, first."

Hearing their intentions to subdue him voiced by the stranger, Connor felt his hands curl into fists. He had not asked to be born, never asked to be the child of two vampires of great evil, nor to be given strength and speed unnatural to ordinary humans. "What is this enemy that you speak of?"

Could they mean Angel? If that were so, Connor would be only too happy to correct the man. Father though he might be, Angel was still Connor's enemy, a creature of darkness that lurked beneath a beguiling mask of humanity.

"You will find out, soon enough," the man promised.

Connor jerked his head up at that, tired of being baited and attacked for something he had no control over. "Leave now," he advised the leader, sliding into a ready stance, allowing a smirk to grace his features, "and maybe I won't break you."

The man smiled and echoed his movement, brushing aside his dark cloak to slowly draw a blade. He pointed one hand towards Connor, then crooked the fingers, beckoning.

"Don't say I didn't warn you," Connor said, with a shrug, then sprang.

*****

"Ok, be ready guys," Angel warned, grimly, turning down the alleyway, careful not to let the wooden crates stacked against the wall scrape the convertible. "Our job is to get those kids out of there, safe and unharmed, then we deal with the vamps."

"Got it," Gunn snapped off, and glanced back at Fred.

"Me too," she piped in, brandishing her crossbow, already loaded with a bolt.

"Hey, watch where you point that," Angel chided, seeing her action in the mirror. "And don't scratch the leather."

Gunn rolled his eyes in exasperation. "You do realise that Darla's water broke all over that seat when she was giving birth to Connor, don't you?"

"It's different," Angel shot back. "And I still don't see why you didn't bring your truck."

"I told you, I'm still trying to get that damned window fixed. The one that got broke when we were trying to find you, I might add."

"Uh, guys?" Fred cut in, her hand pointing between them. "I think we're here."

"Ok, let's do this," Gunn said, opening the door to hop out as Angel hit the brakes. He extended a hand to Fred, who clasped it and jumped out. "I think I'll save me some snot-nosed kids whose rich daddies will be only to happy to pay for their precious babies safe return…father's being what they are."

Fred winced a little, turning to their leader. "Not that he's having another dig about Connor, mind you…uh, Angel?"

Angel didn't reply, but continued to stare at the sliding doors to the warehouse.

"What is it?" Gunn queried, softly, hands tightening on his axe.

"It's quiet," Angel replied, still not moving.

"Well, maybe their just keeping it down for the neighbours." As he made for the doors, Gunn was halted mid stride when Angel grasped his arm, hard.

"I mean," Angel explained, "that there's nothing coming from inside. No screams, no cries for mercy…and no music."

Gunn glanced at the doors, then walked over more cautiously, pressing an ear to the metal.

"Maybe it's soundproofed," Fred offered.

Gunn cursed and strode back over. "No, he's right," he said, disgustedly, gesturing with his axe towards Angel. "There's no one here."

"So it was a prank," Fred surmised, dejectedly.

"You think?" Gunn said, slumping down in the passenger seat of the car. "You know, I could almost smell that money."

Fred gave him a sympathetic smile and reached down to begin unloading her crossbow. "Not that you're unhappy that people aren't being killed or anything…"

"I don't think this was a prank."

The certainty in Angel's voice cut through Gunn's brooding and he straightened. "Then what would you call it?"

Angel turned to him, face troubled. "A set-up."

*****

NOTE: FYI, the Cat Stevens song 'Father to Son' was more recently a hit for the delectable Irish Singer Ronan Keating. I heard the original the other day and some of the lyrics reminded me of Angel's relationship with Connor, which led me to include a mention of the ditty in this fic.