A/N: Connor's seventeen. I wasn't a fan of how he went from sixteen to eighteen over a summer, so, uh...I'm rewinding that shit because I'm awesome. I didn't really want to update this soon, but I won't really have the time for a while so I might as well do it now. Thanks for all the reviews, kids. You're most encouraging.
Asphyxia
Chapter Two
Huge and barren, the Hyperion served as nothing but a bitter reminder to everything that had happened over the past months. Connor noted the messy disarray of papers and cloths and plates and glasses and kitchen utensils and thought about the aftermath of love – an abandoned battleground, littered with the bloody appendages of those who fell head over heels; and the detached digits of those who so desperately wanted out.
"We'll get it cleaned up. It won't be like this forever."
His dad's voice was a faraway whisper, but the cold hand was on his shoulder again and Connor shuddered, still unused to the close proximity of this...this thing.
"Whatever," was all he could say. It was such a simple word, which could solve the most complex situations; could so completely articulate his utter apathy or his inability and unwillingness to talk.
"Do you want something to eat?"
Connor felt his head shake, watched the room move left and right. His stomach clenched and turned at the thought of food – the thought of a half-masticated sandwich or a burnt waffle slivering down his throat was enough to almost send him reeling and puking into the closest flowerpot. Almost.
"Do you...do you want to go get cleaned up and ready for bed? Your bedroom's still in tact... and you left your Gameboy. Crafty little contraption, isn't it?"
Connor remembered his Gameboy. Remembered playing it for hours upon hours during the boring summer days while Fred made him sandwiches and Gunn repeatedly organized the weapons cabinet. It was so much fun...so different from anything he'd ever owned before. So entertaining for something so small and harmless.
"Connor? Please... talk to me?"
He felt himself being pulled back against his inhuman father's cold chest. His dad drank blood for sustenance. Blood was in people, in animals; in cats and dogs and horses and pigs and cows. In birds. Blood sustained life. His dad took life. That's why God abhorred Connor's parentage, Connor's roots. . . Connor's means of existence.
That's what Father had said.
He barely sensed when Angel took a hold of his hand; didn't react to the gentle grip, and numbly followed the vampire up the stairs.
Connor, thank God you're alive.
His dad had said that once. In a fleeting moment, he'd thanked God that his son was alive and he'd hugged Connor, quick and tight for the entirety of that moment. Paused and sighed into his hair.
Connor found himself being pushed down onto the little bed, found himself encompassed by the four blue walls of the tiny room where he had spent a guiltless summer relishing in his satisfying act of revenge.
He couldn't make himself feel sorry then. He still couldn't.
"Dad?" he asked quietly, looking at his father's bowed head as his wet, filthy shoes were tenderly extracted from his feet.
Connor shifted his eyes to focus on the chipped bedside table as Angel's head shot up a bit too quickly.
"Connor?"
But it was too late. Dad was always too late when it came to Connor and too quick to push him away, whether it be intentional or not.
Angel didn't press this time, and went back to undoing the laces on the first shoe's fellow.
"I love you, Connor."
It always came back to that. Always came back to how Dad loved him no matter what he did, no matter how much that love was returned with complete and utter loathing. But Dad never confirmed it in his actions, never tried, always pushed him out the door into the harsh, cruel world, filled with hate and pain.
"I'd never lie about that, son. You have to believe me when I say I love you."
Connor felt a cold fingertip caress his cheek and leaned into the touch, closed his eyes, and let the feeling linger. It never lingered long, always ended a few seconds too early; always ended with him feeling emptier than before.
"Look at me."
Connor trained his eyes on the floor, focusing on the dirt gathered along the edge of the wall.
"Connor, please."
And the finger returned, tilted his chin gently to the side and he found himself staring into Angel's pleading eyes.
"You do know I love you, right?"
The boy closed his lids, and behind them, found the months rewinding. Felt the excitement and the rush of new crushes and felt the heartache of how they crushed him; the slow, steady buildup of rage, which furiously coursed through his veins; the fast-paced, overwhelming confusion that opened up and swallowed him whole.
"Connor?"
The harsh ache of his cheeks, the aftermath of Dad's beating, the bruises and the cuts and the wash of abandonment, the waves of emptiness, the solace of nothing.
"I don't," Connor whispered. "I don't."
And he bit down hard on his lip and strangled the sob, but let his tears go. He flinched and jerked away when his dad tried to touch him this time, feeling no tolerance for the feigned paternal affection he'd been receiving for the past few hours.
"Shh, Con..."
"Don't...don't..."
And when the cold hand rested on his knee, he could smell the smoke in the air and hear the quiet. The screams were gone and the air was thick with the scent of blood and death and the flesh was scorched so completely, so blackened, and they were home now. Snug and tight and cozy in their beds.
It was these thoughts, these abstract reflections, which allowed Angel to lay his son out on the mattress. Connor curled instantly into the fetal position, shivered, ducked his face into the pillow and cried. He shuddered under the warm weight of the blanket, quick thoughts flashing through his head, informing him that he was seventeen years old and this was his first time being tucked in.
"You'll feel better in the morning, Con. Just get some sleep."
He'd feel better in the morning, when the sun came up and splashed the sky in unreal hues. When it rose above the hills and burned Dad to ash and left him alone, shivering underneath this blanket, in this hotel filthy with dirt and vermin and the post-chaos cleanup of Jasmine's love.
In the morning, he'd feel the tingling after the numbness.
TBC...