A/N: I wish I could update quicker and more often for you guys. :( Such fabulous readers, the lot of you. (Don't you love how I compliment you with the self-serving intent of getting more reviews?)

Anyway, I don't usually do dedications, but...this is for Antares who was being slowly devoured by the long wait. And for Davey Jones Locker, who is an amazing writer (and I know how you feel all too well), and for Angelfirenze who is also an amazing writer and just plain amazing. And actually, for everyone who reviews, because I just heart you all big. Well...and you motivate me to write more. )

Onto the story:

Asphyxia

Chapter Seven

Cheerios got soggy pretty fast, especially when you waved them back and forth through the milk with your spoon. Connor didn't like Cheerios very much. They were bland, open little holes that tasted like cardboard. There were different kinds of Cheerios. The honey nut kind was alright, but Dad didn't have that kind. The frosted kind was alright, too, but that kind was also upsettingly absent from the Hyperion's food stock. No, Connor didn't get those kinds. He got the ordinary kind.

"Sugar," Dad had tried to persuade him. "Sometimes it tastes better with sugar." And the large, cold hand had shoved forth a bowl of sweet, white sugar to which Connor only stared. There wasn't only cereal, of course. There was still the toast and the orange juice and a fine array of doughnuts from which Connor could choose.

But he didn't choose. He just stared and swiped with his spoon. Dad was cleaning the broken plate and scrambled eggs from the floor and he must have accidentally cut himself because Connor could smell the blood, and at the scent, his stomach clenched.

"Connor," Dad pleaded. "Please eat something. Just..one thing. Anything."

Connor didn't want to eat. He might have wanted to eat, but Dad wanted him to eat, and that meant that Connor shouldn't eat. Because if Connor ate, Dad would be pleased and if Dad was pleased, he might feel relief.

And if Dad felt relief, then Dad might stop worrying.

Night fell early, or so it seemed. Connor wasn't sure anymore - counting the hours had turned mundane the moment everything started melding together. The stars were a blur in the black sky and the city lights dulled them significantly.

These were Connor's thoughts as he trailed behind his father on the rooftop.

"Are you sure you feel up to fighting, kiddo?" Dad asked for the third time. He'd asked it twice before. Connor didn't understand why questions were so often repeated.

"I'm sure," Connor replied for the third time. He'd answered that question twice before. Connor also didn't understand why he had to waste his breath in repeating himself.

It seemed he had so little breath to waste.

Dad stopped suddenly and Connor listened but didn't hear anything. He tried to take a step forward, but Dad grabbed his arm and stopped him from going any farther.

"What is it?"

"Shh."

So Connor snapped his mouth shut, although not without feeling that bitter little mite creeping up his skin. He waited, feeling increasingly impatient as the slow moments passed by, and Dad gripped his arm.

"Dad-"

But Angel hushed him and Connor sighed, tugging his arm out of the vampire's grasp. Then he heard it - the sounds of a scuffle and the whimpers and the pleading. Faintly. Growing louder as it went on.

Connor acted on instinct. That's what Connor did. That's what Connor had always been encouraged to do. Do the right thing. Destroy the evil. Be good.

So Connor was good and Connor destroyed the evil and Connor raced to the other side of the rooftop, Dad hissing his disapproval behind him, hot on his heels.

And Connor leapt, as Connor tended to do, off of the roof, into the alley. With the knife to his north, the victim to his south, and the damp brick of the alley walls to his east and west, Connor was right where he always seemed to find himself.

In the thick of the thorny bramble.

A mugging. Human against human. Nothing supernatural, just the everyday conflict of humanity. Just the reason why Connor hated this world- the harsh, cold, cruel L.A. night that proved that evil was in all.

"What in the hell?"

He sounded so surprised and confused, this mugger did. This evil person. A human, with a beating heart and blunt teeth and hair and nails that stopped growing after being extracted from the body.

A human, Connor thought. An inherently good being.

Connor's thoughts, the blur and the mold that he was caught in, threw him off of his game and he was stabbed in the arm before he even thought about blocking.

Before he could return the blow, Dad stepped in. As Dad always seemed to do. Twisted the guy's arm and threw him against the cold, urine-scented brick. Growled.

The victim was gone. Scrambled off, Connor guessed, when he had entered as the distraction. Humans were a cowardly sort who didn't stick around for the fight. Humans got rest and peace of mind and had real families and felt love and paid in paper currency. They had beds, real beds, which they slept in during the night while Connor crept about, murdering their imaginary monsters.

Connor was a good boy sometimes. He tried. Just like Father told him to do.

"Connor."

Other times, he was Dad's wicked boy. Or maybe he was still Father's good boy, as Dad was angry. It didn't matter anymore anyway. Father was dead and gone. Dad was dead, but not gone.

Connor was dead, too. It was just nobody realized it yet.

"You don't run off like that. You were hurt-"

And Dad ranted on and on and Connor blocked him out as was the way of Connor when it came to Dad. On and on and on, the cold lips moved and words poured out and the brown eyes bore angrily into the blue ones, which blinked in boredom as the dead hands tended to the fresh wound.

Which healed, of course, as fast as it was slashed.

Father used to scold Connor this way. Used to lecture on and on if Connor wasn't fast enough, if Connor didn't destroy the evil before the evil hurt him. On and on and on, Father's lips would move and if Connor didn't listen, the aging hand would strike the boy's tender, young cheek.

"Are you even listening to me?"

Out of habit, Connor flinched.

A chilled digit touched his cheek and Connor shivered, looked away.

"Hey...you don't have to listen. Just, uh...don't do it again...okay?"

Connor gave Dad a calculating look before nodding. Then smirking. Then responding with the age-old, "I could have taken him" causing Dad to chuckle. Then asking for Oreos, because Connor was hungry.

Dad looked delighted at the prospect and dragged his son to the closest convenience store.

Father was dead and gone. Dad was dead, but not gone. Connor was dead, too, but nobody seemed to realize it.

It's better to be dead.

Life is a bland, open, little hole

Sometimes it tastes better with sugar.

TBC...

Hmm...I'm not too sure about how I feel about that somewhat happy ending of a chapter. I suppose it wasn't TOO happy, but I do love my angst.