CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
"Conor!" Fred cried out, stepping towards him. But she was stopped by Angel, who held out a restraining arm. This puzzled Fred, but she backed away obediently nevertheless.
Conor sighed, hunched his shoulders and dug his hands into his jeans' pocket.
"So, what? Do you wanna kill me now and get it over with?" Conor said, his tone dripping with derision.
"You know I can never do that," Angel said flatly.
"He said you wouldn't," Conor agreed.
Angel narrowed his eyes. He? He wanted to ask. Somehow he knew who "he" was.
"Why are you here?" Angel finally asked. "Certainly not to apologise."
Conor lifted his head in challenge. "Maybe a little."
"A little?" Angel's voice rose. "What you did to me … was unbelievable."
"Angel? What do you mean?" Fred asked, her voice soft.
Conor merely smiled. "Nothing less than what you deserved."
Fred shifted her gaze to Conor, realisation dawning. "You…you were the reason why Angel was missing? What did you do to him?" she took a step forward, as if to manhandle him – but Angel just placed a restraining hand on her shoulders.
"I gave him a bath," he mocked.
Angel felt his heart lurch with a mixture grief, hurt, anger, hatred … all directed at the child he once held lovingly in his hands. The child that was taken away by his best friend and turned into … this.
"Get out," he said. But it was a feeble attempt at best. He wanted so much, despite all that he had suffered at the hands of his son, to have him stay – preferably in his old room. With posters of whatever demented rock band decorating his walls.
Conor looked at him in surprise. "You don't even want to know why I'm here?"
Angel didn't answer him.
"Look," Conor said this to Fred. "You can kill me later. Right now, we got to stop him. The fires that you see on television? It was his doing."
"Who?" Fred asked.
Conor gave Angel a bitter smile. "The man you nearly smothered to death. Dad."
Another stab in his heart. Guilt, anger, hatred, sadness.
For a moment he stared numbly at Conor while Fred peppered him with questions. His mind was too busy remembering the feeling of soft pillow beneath his hands, the feeble, grasping hands that tried to push him away …
"What are you talking about? Is it Wesley? Is Wesley alive?" her voice rose.
"Yeah," said his son from a distance. "But screwed up like you won't believe. After his meeting with Koskov, he went off the rails. I told him not to go, that it was a trap, but he wouldn't listen. And he fell in the trap that the creature set for him. Fell hard. Went mad." his voice became hard.
Conor and Wesley. Hanging out together? It seemed ironic – but poetic at the same time. Conor and Wesley, side by side, fighting … Wesley, usurping his position as father …
"What happened? Conor, how did he get this way?" Fred was insisting. Angel was still staring at a spot vaguely above Conor's head.
"Why don't you start at the beginning?" a new voice interrupted.
This time, Angel did focus – to look at the face of Rupert Giles. The ex-Watcher stood at the doorway with his hands in his pockets, standing there as if it was the most natural place for him to be. He gave Conor a puzzled look and looked at Angel as if he was trying to grasp his relationship with Conor. Angel figured he probably strode in in time to hear Conor calling him Dad.
Willow Rosenberg appeared beside him then, her pale face puckered up with worry.
"Hi Angel," she said softly.
Angel didn't have the strength to return the greeting.
"Well now. Now that we're all together. Perhaps we could sit down and finally explain the mystery that is Wesley Wyndham-Pryce?" Giles said, removing his glasses to clean them.
"Who are you?" Connor growled, backing away. Earl backed away too – only from Connor. He took a seat on the far end of the sofa, away from all the crazy humans.
"I can ask you the same question, but apparently we don't have time. If what you're saying is true – that Wesley is…mad, we must act quickly. Especially since he is an Elemental," he said, taking a seat beside Earl – who hastily added space between him and the Watcher.
Everyone gave him blank glances except Willow.
"But that's like… the Phoenix or somethin'. They're not … it's like a myth!" Willow exclaimed.
"No Willow. Legend. Actually, fact. Took me a while to put two and two together. But thanks to my studies at the Watcher's Academy under a very eccentric professor, I remember what Elementals are very well."
"What's an Elemental?" Angel found himself asking. Somewhere inside, interest was rekindling, and he was not exactly sure why. For a week now he had been in a dazed stupor; uninterested in anything except Oprah.
"Simply put, the personification of the elements. Fire, Water, Earth, Wind – in Human form. This is an oversimplification. There's more to it than that. But right now. I need to know what happened. Start from the beginning," Giles was firm, his voice turning cold. "I especially want to know the interesting bit about Angel smothering Wesley nearly to death." He gave Angel a contemptuous look.
Angel looked away, stung despite himself. Giles never did trusted him. How could he when he – no Angelus - killed Jenny Calendar? Or tortured him nearly to death? What he did to Wesley cemented Giles' view of him: cold-blooded murderer – with or without the soul.
He felt so tired suddenly.
"He took away my son," Angel replied, tracing his fingers over the intricate carvings above the fireplace.
If he had turned then, he would've seen Connor's confused expression.
"If it's the beginning you want. The beginning you'll get," he muttered.
"Conor!" Fred cried out, stepping towards him. But she was stopped by Angel, who held out a restraining arm. This puzzled Fred, but she backed away obediently nevertheless.
Conor sighed, hunched his shoulders and dug his hands into his jeans' pocket.
"So, what? Do you wanna kill me now and get it over with?" Conor said, his tone dripping with derision.
"You know I can never do that," Angel said flatly.
"He said you wouldn't," Conor agreed.
Angel narrowed his eyes. He? He wanted to ask. Somehow he knew who "he" was.
"Why are you here?" Angel finally asked. "Certainly not to apologise."
Conor lifted his head in challenge. "Maybe a little."
"A little?" Angel's voice rose. "What you did to me … was unbelievable."
"Angel? What do you mean?" Fred asked, her voice soft.
Conor merely smiled. "Nothing less than what you deserved."
Fred shifted her gaze to Conor, realisation dawning. "You…you were the reason why Angel was missing? What did you do to him?" she took a step forward, as if to manhandle him – but Angel just placed a restraining hand on her shoulders.
"I gave him a bath," he mocked.
Angel felt his heart lurch with a mixture grief, hurt, anger, hatred … all directed at the child he once held lovingly in his hands. The child that was taken away by his best friend and turned into … this.
"Get out," he said. But it was a feeble attempt at best. He wanted so much, despite all that he had suffered at the hands of his son, to have him stay – preferably in his old room. With posters of whatever demented rock band decorating his walls.
Conor looked at him in surprise. "You don't even want to know why I'm here?"
Angel didn't answer him.
"Look," Conor said this to Fred. "You can kill me later. Right now, we got to stop him. The fires that you see on television? It was his doing."
"Who?" Fred asked.
Conor gave Angel a bitter smile. "The man you nearly smothered to death. Dad."
Another stab in his heart. Guilt, anger, hatred, sadness.
For a moment he stared numbly at Conor while Fred peppered him with questions. His mind was too busy remembering the feeling of soft pillow beneath his hands, the feeble, grasping hands that tried to push him away …
"What are you talking about? Is it Wesley? Is Wesley alive?" her voice rose.
"Yeah," said his son from a distance. "But screwed up like you won't believe. After his meeting with Koskov, he went off the rails. I told him not to go, that it was a trap, but he wouldn't listen. And he fell in the trap that the creature set for him. Fell hard. Went mad." his voice became hard.
Conor and Wesley. Hanging out together? It seemed ironic – but poetic at the same time. Conor and Wesley, side by side, fighting … Wesley, usurping his position as father …
"What happened? Conor, how did he get this way?" Fred was insisting. Angel was still staring at a spot vaguely above Conor's head.
"Why don't you start at the beginning?" a new voice interrupted.
This time, Angel did focus – to look at the face of Rupert Giles. The ex-Watcher stood at the doorway with his hands in his pockets, standing there as if it was the most natural place for him to be. He gave Conor a puzzled look and looked at Angel as if he was trying to grasp his relationship with Conor. Angel figured he probably strode in in time to hear Conor calling him Dad.
Willow Rosenberg appeared beside him then, her pale face puckered up with worry.
"Hi Angel," she said softly.
Angel didn't have the strength to return the greeting.
"Well now. Now that we're all together. Perhaps we could sit down and finally explain the mystery that is Wesley Wyndham-Pryce?" Giles said, removing his glasses to clean them.
"Who are you?" Connor growled, backing away. Earl backed away too – only from Connor. He took a seat on the far end of the sofa, away from all the crazy humans.
"I can ask you the same question, but apparently we don't have time. If what you're saying is true – that Wesley is…mad, we must act quickly. Especially since he is an Elemental," he said, taking a seat beside Earl – who hastily added space between him and the Watcher.
Everyone gave him blank glances except Willow.
"But that's like… the Phoenix or somethin'. They're not … it's like a myth!" Willow exclaimed.
"No Willow. Legend. Actually, fact. Took me a while to put two and two together. But thanks to my studies at the Watcher's Academy under a very eccentric professor, I remember what Elementals are very well."
"What's an Elemental?" Angel found himself asking. Somewhere inside, interest was rekindling, and he was not exactly sure why. For a week now he had been in a dazed stupor; uninterested in anything except Oprah.
"Simply put, the personification of the elements. Fire, Water, Earth, Wind – in Human form. This is an oversimplification. There's more to it than that. But right now. I need to know what happened. Start from the beginning," Giles was firm, his voice turning cold. "I especially want to know the interesting bit about Angel smothering Wesley nearly to death." He gave Angel a contemptuous look.
Angel looked away, stung despite himself. Giles never did trusted him. How could he when he – no Angelus - killed Jenny Calendar? Or tortured him nearly to death? What he did to Wesley cemented Giles' view of him: cold-blooded murderer – with or without the soul.
He felt so tired suddenly.
"He took away my son," Angel replied, tracing his fingers over the intricate carvings above the fireplace.
If he had turned then, he would've seen Connor's confused expression.
"If it's the beginning you want. The beginning you'll get," he muttered.