THE LABOUR & THE WOUNDS

By Allegra

See Part One for disclaimers etc.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: OK, I know there are no excuses, except perhaps being in traction for months on end, to get me out of how long this has taken to write. Call it stress and be done with it. I really hope you guys haven't given up on me! Thank you sooooo much to the people who e-mailed & bugged me. Your threats were very moving. I hope this part doesn't disappoint too much, especially at 11 pages long!!

CHAPTER 9

Californian rain pattered onto the ground around Connor as he conjured up his dwindling strength to lever himself out of the passenger seat of Fax's beaten up chevrolet. Wesley's apartment block loomed ominously above him in the darkness and the sheer angle gave it a precarious appearance, as if it were about to tumble down on top of the hapless teenager. "What you waiting for, kid?" Fax grumbled from the driver's side.

Connor moved towards the front door as acknowledgement, using too much of his quickly expendable energy just to propel his legs onwards. He raised one shaking finger to the intercom and took shelter under the narrow porch roof. The action was done before the teenager had a chance to repent of it. His bruised ego could just about handle seeing Wesley, probably Fred, Cordelia at a push. Even then, she would be full of 'I told you so's' and mollycoddling he could do without. Gunn would be insufferable and treat him like some stupid wayward child who needed a good spanking rather than proper aid. Most of all, though, it was Angel who inspired the most grief in Connor's poison-addled brain. One word, no, make that one glance, from his father was more than the young man could bear right now. As if they hadn't argued their way through their entire relationship, the same old crap had to be brought up time and again but nearly always publicly. Until tonight, though, rarely had Connor been at such a disadvantage - beaten, poisoned and generally taken unawares by the gang's arrival at The Cage. If there was one paragraph in a chapter of his life Connor would appreciate distancing himself from, it was arguing with Angel earlier in the night.

"Hello?" Wesley's confident voice came through the intercom, laced with a morsel of suspicion.

"It's Connor." He was greeted with silence and for a moment the teenager wondered if Wesley was going to let him in at all. Then, just as he was about to leave, the buzzer sounded like an angry bee stuck behind a curtain and the front door swung open readily against his bruised knuckles.

The elevator was slow coming and Connor found himself leaning heavily against the adjacent wall just to keep himself upright. He tried closing his eyes briefly to dispel the stars dancing before them but he felt even worse, as if he were spiralling down into a black well. He still struggling to reorient himself when the shrill bell signalled the arrival of the elevator and Connor dragged himself into it, sinking gratefully down onto the floor as he hit the button for the correct floor.

After what felt like an age, the doors slid open and he staggered towards Wesley's door sitting ajar a few yards away. As if the sight of sanctuary so nearly within reach, it was all the youngster could do to get down the hall where he practically fell into Wesley's waiting arms.

"Connor! Come on, let's get you on the couch." Strong arms guided the teenager towards the cushioned comfort of the lounge area. Without protest, Connor lay back and Wesley arranged his leaden limbs before drawing a blanket over him. The older man resisted the urge to ask him where he had been for the past hours. The youngster's face was ashen, skin clammy with the heat of infection. Already, his mouth moved to form fractured words and thoughts as delusional fever claimed him.

Wesley prayed that the others found some trace which would help create an effective antidote swiftly. When it came to demonic infections, there was no diagnosing how far along the line between life and death a victim lay. Someone could be perfectly healthy one second and dead the next, sweating one moment, apparently well the next and dead just when the worst appeared to be over. In the middle of his musings, Connor's glazed eyes opened and he spoke. "Where are they?"

"Getting the antidote."

"Angel?"

"Looking for you." Connor's brow furrowed at this and Wesley assured him, "He wouldn't give up on you, Connor. He cares more than you know. It'll be all right, this will all be over soon."

Connor's eyes closed and fluttered open a moment later; he shook his head. "I've just got to get..."

Wesley leaned closer as the teenager's voice grew fainter and less coherent. "What have you got to do? Connor?"

"Get well...to fight again..." It was evident that the boy had no real grasp on what he was saying; there was no defensive posturing, just plain speaking as if he were simply telling Wesley the most innocent fact. Based on the chastisement he had endured earlier, Connor would have been wily enough to avoid giving his plans away if it were possible. The fact that he had been so honest was only testament to his frail health.

Acknowledging this fact, Wesley chose to let the matter pass. Nothing good would be gained from grilling the teenager when he could barely remain conscious. He moved to the kitchen sink for a glass of water and returned to Connor's side. The best he could hope for was to help boost his immune system by flushing toxins out, "Drink this," he commanded gently and shifted a feebly protesting Connor into a half sitting position. "How are you feeling?"

Connor eyed the older man as if he were completely crazy. "How do you think?"

Wesley smiled grimly at his return to form. "Describe the symptoms to me."

"Kind of woozy, I guess, my head is pounding. Cold..."

"Well, I sent Fred for supplies just after you left. She should be back soon then we can get started on the antidote." Connor nodded in feeble acknowledgement. He wanted to sleep, regardless of whatever poison was slowly eating away at his insides but Wesley's voice brought him insistently back to reality.

"Connor, if you need help getting out of this...predicament...just tell me."

Connor's eyes flew open, the old fire still burning in their depths. "No! I don't want any help."

"Except to make you fit to fight again? Connor, I know I don't need to give you a list of reasons not to do this, but aren't there better ways to live your life?"

The teenager rubbed the heel of his hand against his forehead, massaging away another onslaught of dizziness. "I don't plan on doing this forever."

Wesley nodded, already seeing the first step on a very dangerous path. "Are you sure you're going to be able to get out when you choose to?"

"Hey, if I don't fight, what else can they do? Leave me in the cage to die?!" He spoke the words in half jest but the expression settling on Wesley's face told him the idea was not entirely preposterous. "They wouldn't do that. Besides, I could break my way out whenever I felt like it. No one can take me."

Wesley's brow furrowed into a frown of concern. "Connor," his voice pleadingly tinged, willing the boy to come to his senses. "Far be it from me to patronise you or tell you what to do, but you haven't lived here very long and..."

"And what?" came the defensive reply.

"Well, there are some areas where you lack expertise and experience. Getting involved with those sorts of people inevitably leads to misery. They are only ever on the look-out for number one. When the chips are down, your welfare won't figure anywhere in their plans."

"I know that. You think I'm looking out for them?" Connor's angry glared subsided into something which more closely resembled gratitude for the Englishman's concern. "But maybe you're right. I didn't want to be in the game that much longer anyway. It's just..."

"Just...?" Wesley inquired, aware that he was balancing on a fine precipice, teetering between reeling Connor back into the fold and tipping him off the edge into an abyss of back stabbing and grief.

"Just Fax, the guy I'm working for. He was the one who brought me here." The teenager affected nonchalance but that in itself was enough to make Wesley suspicious. "We kind of made a deal before he'd bring me."

Wesley's heart sank with the terrible notion of what Connor had got himself into. "A contract?"

"Kind of, I guess."

"Did you sign something?" Wesley asked, carefully concealing the deeper threat he felt looming, depending on the boy's answer.

Connor thought for a moment. "I can't remember. I don't think so...but maybe."

Wesley closed his eyes in a moment of contemplation. It didn't take a genius to know that placing one's signature on a document proffered by a demon of any variety was not a wise move. It reeked of repayment, eternal burning in the fires of hell and hooded wraiths appearing at the foot of the bed with demands and scythes. Slowly, returning his gaze to the rapidly fading teenager on his sofa, Wesley cleared his throat uncertainly and asked, "Does this Fax think that you have an agreement?"

Connor nodded, instantly regretting the rapidity of the action when his head spun with unwelcome force. Wesley sighed inwardly in relief. "Well, that bides us some time at least. If he doesn't suspect anything then we should be okay here until you have recovered. Then, when you're well, we can deal with the situation."

"No, I can handle this..." Connor struggled to force the words from his lips as the poison claimed another organ in his frail body. "I don't want Angel..." but the words died on his lips and the white knuckled fingers which clutched at Wesley's sleeve limply unfurled and fell to the sofa.

"Connor?" Wesley placed his head against the youngster's chest and was relieved to hear the heart beating fairly strongly, albeit erratically. He just prayed that Cordelia and Fred made it back with a poison sample and antidote ingredients before his condition worsened.

**********

Fax Torrance had been sitting in his car for nearly half an hour before it dawned on him that it might easily be another four or five before the Kid emerged from that apartment block. He considered wandering up there to find him or perhaps just drive off, especially since Fax had no idea which apartment the kid had gone to.

However, being the suspicious kind of guy that he was, he couldn't contain his curiosity, or rather mistrust, of anything new and unknown so Fax headed for the fire escape staircase which snaked up from the refuge area behind the block. He moved as quietly as his clunky boots against metal mesh would allow in order to listen out for any signs of his charge. One of the large sash windows stood open on the second floor so the robust man checked that the coast was clear before easing himself through the window frame and into a rather plush bedroom. On any other occasion, he would have taken advantage of being in such a fortuitous position; there were certainly a fair few items worth stealing from this pad. Perhaps his hosts would be gracious enough to leave their window open another night for him. Right now, there were more pressing matters to deal with.

Keeping a careful watch on the glow of the television screen in the adjacent room, Fax slid into the hallway and exited the front door onto a line of apartment doors. Taking a left turn, he quickly came across one front door which was flung open with no apparent care for the kind of strangers who might wander past. Peering round the frame, Fax was pleasantly surprised to find that his work was done. The kid was lying, face ashen, asleep on the couch. Sounds could be heard from the kitchen of someone getting water.

He waited, scoping the scene out fully before considering entering. One could never be too careful and the older man had lost his desire to be in the middle of the fray long ago. His tool was patience, lulling victims before administering a fatal strike. Tonight's dealings would be no different.

The Kid looked no greater than his stage name suggested, an innocent child, one hand clasped lightly against his chest, following the gentle rise and fall of his rib cage. For a moment, Fax enjoyed the calm sight before him with almost fatherly interest. His family were long in their graves, their flesh no more than food for the bellies of scavengers. Even their bones would be little more than dust now. There would never be a future in his name; the line ended when Angel tore them from him.

Ironic, then, that as Fax's gaze settled on Connor's peaceful face, all he felt was a swell of warmth and pride. This was a boy worth a man's time and hard work – a worthy successor to everything Fax had built. That it was Angelus' own offspring was a briar rose, bitter sweet. The Kid could be a constant reminder of all which had been scooped out of Fax's soul but he could also become like a son to him. What better revenge to wreak on the demon who had stolen so much and felt no remorse? A small smile crept across the aged man's face.

A second later, a man appeared beside the sofa with a glass of water and gently manoeuvred the boy into a semi-sitting position, murmuring words of encouragement. Fax couldn't help a grin at the indefatigable defiance in the younger man's voice. Even weakened by fever and poison, the Kid remained undiminished in his angry rhetoric. Fax listened with interest to the exchange between the two younger men, his ear quickly adjusting to the clipped tones of the Englishman. There was a tangible energy between the two, as if something deeply affecting had passed between them sometime earlier and the Kid listened to the older man's words with an interest Fax had not seen in him before. In fact, for the first time in Fax's presence, Connor ceded way with the deference of a son to a father he both respected but defied.

Quickly though, the conversation turned from Connor's health and lifestyle choices to a theme Fax found less enthralling. The Englishman was clearly trying to dissuade the Kid from returning to The Cage and fighting. At first, the boy wasn't swayed, but whether it was his weakened state or some deeper influence, Fax could hear the uncertainty in his voice. If he did not step in soon, Connor would try to run or worse – he would gather a small but potent army of comrades to extricate him from an eternal contract. It would always end the same way but Fax preferred to avoid a confrontation if possible. The Englishman would tire of his vigil soon enough and he would have his chance. Patience.

Sure enough, the Kid was soon unconscious. Fax considered leaving the boy where he was clearly safe until this antidote they referred to saved him a job or two. Then again, if the Englishman persuaded Connor to leave fighting, he would be tackling an unbeaten champion of the ring. Weak and sick, the Kid posed no problem. But, the antidote was his entire reason for bringing the boy back to his friends. He would be no use dead. No, patience could have been tattooed across his forehead for the help it provided. It seemed to be the solution to everything, even wreaking his revenge on Angelus.

**********

Wesley waited as patiently as his racing brain would allow for Angel and the others to return. His emotions alternated between a state of calm rationality and terror for what the future might hold. A dam of feelings which had remained dormant inside him for months was waking up with every glance over at the fragile boy sleeping on his sofa.

He knew only too well how his friends felt towards him – unsettled and uncertain. They recognised the change in him after his betrayal, their betrayal. He was a changed man, all because of Connor's entrance into his life. Yet, stranger than reason, a bond stronger than he could ever have imagined existed between the two. Wesley knew Connor felt it, too. Both had garnered the respect of the other, something Angel had never succeeded in achieving with his son. Wesley had rarely made any demands on Connor; in fact, their relationship was primarily based on remaining a dignified distance from one another.

Now, there was a very real chance Connor would be lost to them forever. Somehow, the Englishman had always been prepared for the possibility of losing any of his friends in battle – particularly Connor. With his enthusiasm and heady energy for blood letting, it was only a matter of time before the odds got the better of him. The prospect of the teenager dying in an apartment from poisoning was something Wesley had been unprepared for. Foolish really, after all, death was death no matter what colour you painted it.

By the time he had escaped his reverie, Wesley found himself kneeling beside the young invalid, his brow furrowed in concern. He watched the erratic rise and fall of Connor's chest and heard the rasping breaths heaved in. Where was Angel?

**********

Cordelia wiped her hands distastefully on a tissue, studying the viscous liquid still clinging to her fingertips with an element of gross fascination. It had been quite a while since she could last remember having to wash her hands, quite literally, of a demon's blood – or was this his innards? She stood up smartly, not allowing her brain to proceed any further along that particular train of thought. Her mission was complete.

Using her feminine wiles to get back into the scuzzy club had been the easy part. In fact, it had felt good to exercise those attributes Cordelia had put aside in favour of warrior queen antics for so long. She had flashed a convincing smile, flattered the ugly mugs in front of her. Hell, she had even given them a rare glimpse of the wiggle as she strode across the club's hall to the central cage. Buffy would probably have sneered at her for setting women's lib back a step or two but somehow it had given Cordy the boost she needed.

So much had happened in the past few months, losing her memory being a pretty big part of it, and there was something incredibly reassuring about rediscovering an aspect of herself which she had grown up using. The Cordy of Los Angeles was a far cry from the snob of Sunnydale. In some ways, she had been afraid that when her memory returned, the recent Cordy would be the only one left. Whatever person she had been earlier in life would have been discarded on the journey as unimportant. It felt good to know all the bits of her still existed. Plus, of course, they had the desired effect on the club's owners. She had retrieved demon goo with no trouble whatsoever.

Tottering back across the arena space with her smile fixed firmly in place, Cordelia prayed she could get back out of the place intact. She was almost as far as the door when a shadow fell across her path. Ignoring the sudden palpitation in her chest, Cordy looked up breezily into the face of a particularly ugly biker with what appeared to be two black eyes and a couple of missing teeth.

"Leaving already, darlin'? How's about a drink for the road with me?"

Cordy hoped her nerves didn't show. "That's really sweet but my boyfriend's waiting just outside…"

The biker glanced distractedly towards the rear door. "I didn't see no one with ya."

"No, well, he doesn't like crowds." Her mind raced over possible stories to lever out of this.

"Sounds like a pussy to me."

"No, no, he's really strong and muscular and dark and kind of broody…" Cordy's voice tailed off as she realised the man she was describing. A small frown flickered across her face.

"I think you're lyin' to me. Come on now, I ain't going to bite. Just one drink."

Cordy snapped out of her momentary reverie. "Actually, he got chucked out of this place, banned, for rioting and smashing glasses and stuff. But I swear, if he hears me scream, he'll be in here like a shot. You won't know what hit you if you lay a finger on me!" She wished her voice hadn't hit that unnecessary high note at the end. It only made her look even more petrified, an even easier target.

"Whose talkin' 'bout fingers being laid? I'm just askin' you to join me for a drink."

"I think the lady made it pretty clear she wasn't interested." The familiar gravely voice made Cordelia's heart quicken for a moment as relief poured into her. She moved instinctively backwards to the shelter of her saviour's sturdy frame.

Angel's hand moved protectively across her back in reassurance but his eyes remained fixed on the biker in front of him. It still astounded Cordelia how he could give out all the protection and comfort she could ask for while he simultaneously struck fear deep into the core of any aggressor. It was like his friends could only see the man in him but a foe was given a momentary glimpse of the demon hibernating inside.

The biker cut his losses. "Hey man, I didn't mean no harm. I didn't know she was with someone…I just…" His frightened eyes darted around the room, looking for an escape route. They found one and the man began to back away, stumbling on broken bottle shards strewn around the floor. Angel merely held his gaze with cold detachment until the biker finally turned and fled from the establishment.

Angel turned to his recovering charge. "You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. I was handling that, you know." Cordelia pulled away from his touch, unwilling to acknowledge she had been on the losing side of that particular exchange. "I got the poison. Did you find Connor?"

Angel shook his head, not giving away one iota of emotion. "No. I lost his scent somewhere round LaBrea."

"Well, we should get this gunk back to Wesley's so he can fix up an antidote. I'm sure Connor will show up soon enough. He may be headstrong but he's not stupid. He knows that venom could kill him."

"I hope you're right," was all Angel said in response as he held the door open for her.

**********

Cordelia and Angel returned to the apartment in low spirits. Only one part of the mission had been accomplished and try as she might to make Angel feel better about the situation, Cordy had to admit the truth. Connor might not return of his own volition. She couldn't even begin to imagine how awful that prospect must seem to Angel. Their last words had been spoken in anger and nobody would be able to rectify that.

"Guys, I've got the sample…" she began, glancing towards the kitchen where Fred and Wesley were unpacking various stinky herbs from paper bags. Then, Cordy's gaze drifted over to the fragile form of Angel's son resting on the couch. "Oh my God, Connor! You found him!"

Wesley lowered his voice considerably, prompting her to do the same. "He found us actually. He's very weak. I don't know how much longer he's got. We'll have to work fast."

Cordelia nodded, moving towards the sofa and running a gentle hand over the boy's heated forehead. Angel stood motionless in the doorway, his eyes strangely detached and distant. For a moment his hand rested on the door frame then fell to his side where his fingers twitched uselessly. It was clear what he wanted – to take his son in his arms, to protect him, to save him. But there was nothing he could do aside from wait. Wesley and Fred were the experts in the book and potion department and Cordy was the bedside manner. He was the one they called on to risk his life in a fight, to bring some action to the scene. Besides, Angel knew in his heart, Connor wanted nothing more than his father's absence. Opening his fevered eyes to Angel's face would do nothing to help him survive.

He caught Cordelia's pleading expression and she whispered, "Angel, why don't you sit with him for a while?"

Angel swallowed hard, biting back the sudden panic which was taking hold. Strange that when confronted with a demon of immeasurable size, he harboured no fear, but faced with his own ailing son, he was rendered powerless over his own emotions.

Cordelia's voice was insistent. "Angel…"

He took one step after another leadenly forward, his mind racing with thoughts of what he could say if Connor opened his eyes. Cordy moved aside to make room for him beside his son's head, releasing the boy's pale, bony hand onto the blanket. Angel made no move to take it in his own but his dark eyes were fixed on the drained face below him, a picture of fragility.

Cordelia desperately wanted to force him to make that small gesture of affection but she knew it was not her place. Angel's relationship with his son was complex to say the least and it would take many years of healing to move forward. Both men had their guards up, separating them completely from one another except by words or violence – neither of which incited them to trust.

"How's it looking?" she asked Fred, purposely distracting herself from the frustrating scene.

Fred pulled an uncertain face. "Unfortunately, Wesley was right about it being a hybrid poison. We've made a few adjustments to the antidote but there's no guarantee it'll work."

Wesley tried a more assuring version. "I'm quite confident. During my time as a rogue demon hunter, I came across several venoms for which I had no antidote. My access to books was limited so I was forced to devise my own versions. Some were more successful than others. I remember suffering from those boils for nearly…. Anyway, the point is that I've had some practice. Even if it doesn't work completely, hopefully it will bide us enough time to find the true purging mixture we need."

Fred looked at him dreamily for a second, caught up in his academic words. "You were a rogue demon hunter? By yourself?"

"When my job as Watcher was terminated, I could hardly leave my calling. I simply had to find my own way of dealing with the monsters put before me. It wasn't as attractive as it might sound." Wesley held Fred's gaze for a moment, enjoying the attention while Gunn wasn't looking over his shoulder. Speaking of which… "Where is Gunn?"

Fred averted her gaze, sheepishly. "Maybe I should try his cell. He's probably still looking for Connor." She reached for the phone and punched in her boyfriend's number. Wesley tried to be engrossed in grinding some amerita root into a fine powder for dissolving but he couldn't help but overhear the conversation. Gunn's voice was raised above normal speaking volume and, from the sound of it, he was exasperated. Fred tried to calm him and told him Connor had found his way back to the apartment. Gunn sounded both relieved and a little pissed. He didn't like wasting his time. Wesley felt a slight pleasure thrill course through him at the way his rival spoke to Fred – hardly treating her the way he would do if she were his.

Fred put down the receiver and caught Wesley's eye. He cleared his throat uncertainly. "Is everything okay?"

"He's on his way back." Fred's hands slid reflexively into the pockets of her jeans, forcing her shoulders up into a tense, hunched position which reminded Wesley of a child about to be chastised.

"If we boil up some water, the mixture will be diluted enough for Connor to drink…if he's able."

**********

"Thanks for the heads up, guys!" Gunn blurted out, angrily, as he entered the apartment. "How long were you here before you decided to let me in on the big party?"

Fred moved towards him and relieved Gunn of the axe he was toting. "Charles, we only just got back ourselves."

Wesley stepped in once more. "Forgive us if Connor's health was higher on the list of priorities than you walking the streets of Los Angeles alone."

Gunn opened his mouth to retort but Cordelia silenced him with an angry glare. "If you don't stop whinging and start helping, you'll understand exactly why we didn't bother calling you. Here…" She handed him a pestle and mortar containing a stinky yellow mixture. "…mix that. My arm's killing me."

Within five minutes, the full potion was complete and the apartment smelled about as rank as a pig's backside, but at least the group had achieved something. Wesley put the finishing touches to the substance with a chant and healing crystals. Then, with bated breath, the group watched as the Englishman knelt carefully beside Connor.

Supporting the boy's head, Wes tilted the glass of pungent liquid towards his mouth. A small frown passed over Connor's brow but his lips parted weakly to receive the antidote. "That's it," Wesley whispered. "Just a bit more." The youngster was no more than halfway through when his hand moved to cover Wesley's wrist, forcing the glass away from his lips.

He spluttered, "No more…"

Wesley forced the glass closer again. "Connor, it's vital that you drink it all." Connor's eyes opened a fraction, fixing Wesley with an ever-suspicious, mistrustful watch. "Connor…" the older man began, his tone verging on chastisement. No sooner had the word left his mouth than Connor drew himself laboriously into a sitting position and drained the last of the foul mixture, grimacing as he did so. He fell back panting as Wesley examined the dregs to ensure all the essential nutrients had been ingested. "Good."

Angel uncrossed his arms where they had rested defensively. "So what happens now?"

Wesley looked from Connor to the patient group around him. "Now we wait…and just pray this concoction does its job properly."

"Great," Cordelia sighed, rearranging herself on the adjacent chair and plumping up the cushion. To the unknowing eye, she might have appeared uncaring but to her friends, it was clear she was only trying to hide her nervousness. But she was not the only one trying to save face. Over the next few hours, little was said but to a casual observer the scene would have been perfectly average. Everyone was engrossed in their own little activity – flicking through magazines, washing up, polishing weapons. It was only the atmosphere which could have been cut with a knife that gave anything away as to the gravity of the situation.

Occasionally, Wesley would check Connor's pulse, hoping for some sign that the teenager was on the mend. If the antidote was working at all, it was working slowly. It was approaching the third hour when Connor stirred and Wesley's hand reached for his wrist again. "Connor? How are you feeling?"

Before the boy had a chance to answer, Angel was at his side, anxious and paler than usual. "Son? Thank God you're awake. Are you feeling better?"

If the teenager had been able to move any further away from his father, he would have been down the back of the sofa, but he could only put on his usual bravado. "Yeah, I'm feeling better. Thanks." The last word was directed pointedly at Wesley and the Englishman returned a half smile, aware of how Connor's words cut Angel to the quick. "It wasn't just me…" he offered weakly.

**********

By the close of the evening, everyone's mood had lightened considerably, even Gunn was cracking jokes in spite of his foul mood earlier. Fred, ever concerned about the welfare of her stomach, offered to get in some food and even Connor managed to eat a startling amount of noodles given the fragile state of his health. Finally, it was decided that everyone should go their separate ways for the night but that Connor would stay at Wesley's, under the watchful eye of someone who best knew how to counter attack any unexpected relapses.

Angel had been reluctant to leave his son's side, even when it was quite clear Connor didn't want him there. "Wes…" he began.

"I'll call you if anything happens. Go home, get some rest. We could all do with some."

"Okay, but…"

Wesley clapped a hand across his friend's shoulder, a gesture he had not done since before Connor was born. "Angel, just go. I'll take good care of him."

But, as in all things, there was no guarantee. Connor was no safer with Wesley now than he had been all those months ago. Someone was waiting for this moment, someone who had made a bargain he intended to see through, and nobody was going to get in the way of it. It was only a matter of time – of waiting patiently for an hour or so more, of creeping in that door with a handkerchief of chloroform and quietly slinging the Kid's light body over his shoulder. A bargain had been struck and Fax was a man of his word and by the first light of dawn, Connor was gone.

**********

END OF PART 9