To Remain or Fade Away
His father took the knife from his hand, shifted it slightly, and then squeezed his hand back around the hilt. "There," he said softly. "That grip will give you better leverage for thrusting, yet still allow you to slash and cut as before."
He tested the weight of the knife in his hand and smiled. As always, his father was right. Of course he was right; there was no way either of them would still be alive, with all the demons and other enemies around, unless his father knew what was right. He shifted his gaze from the knife to his father, basked in the smile he saw there. The background music started, "My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard, And they're like, it--"
--Wait. "Milkshake"?
His hand reached out from under the covers and grabbed his cell phone from the nightstand. He flipped it open and mumbled, "Yeah, it's Stephen."
"Yo, it's Faith," a female voice said. "Riley there? He called about Angel last night."
Connor sat up in bed, fully wakened by Faith's voice.
He'd thought about calling her for almost a week. When Angel told him to go home after the fight at Wolfram & Hart, he promptly disobeyed and followed him to the alley behind the Hyperion. He watched the demon army approach to destroy the remnant of Angel Investigations, and recalled his real father's last words to him: As long as you're okay, they can't.
So he ran.
No one understood why he was so morose the next few days, as he undertook Angel's favorite pastime and brooded. His mind ran through all the things which led to Angel working at Wolfram & Hart -- the central factor being, of course, Connor's own death. He didn't know the specifics, but he knew he was alive due to an agreement Angel came to with the law firm. He brooded over the last year of his life, when he fought against Angel as often or more than he fought with him, and naturally that led to thoughts of Angelus, which led him to Faith.
He remembered her well (a strong, sexy older woman -- of course he did), and he remembered what she went through to get Angel back, to restore his soul. He remembered her fighting through pain, always holding back from the kill and absorbing punishment to give the rest of the guys time to perform the spell to restore Angel's soul.
He decided she would want to know about Angel -- that she deserved to know. He spent the next few days scouring the internet for listings, and finally found her two days ago in Cleveland, Ohio. It took a full day to get the nerve to call her; she wouldn't remember him, would have no reason to believe him. Still, she deserved to know regardless of his discomfort, so he called last night.
And now, she called him back. At five in the morning.
"No, that was me who called, Faith," he said. "My name is Connor Reilly, I -- I was a client of Angel's at the law firm."
"Oh," she said. "So how the hell do you know about me?"
Connor considered his words for a moment before he spoke. "Angel and Wesley, they gave me the knowledge I needed to defeat a demon who wanted to kill me," he said, dancing lightly around the truth. "I got to know Angel pretty well then, how highly he thought of you."
"Yeah, that's great," she said. "So, what, you just wanted to call me, see if the legend measures up? I can assure you, it don't."
"No," Connor said. He took a deep breath; it was hard, even now, to think about what he had to tell her. "I've got bad news, Faith. About Angel."
Xander worked on the car's interior while Faith stood outside the garage. There was a small patch of good reception to the side of the garage, the only place on the entire block where cell phones seemed to get more than two bars of reception clarity.
She was close enough for him to hear her conversation, especially as the car's doors were leaned up against the garage walls rather than actually on the car, but he didn't pay attention. The car's engine was going slowly, but the interior was really starting to look nice. The newest addition was a wood steering wheel Xander made from scratch and attached to the steering column; he also designed and made a wooden dash display for the speedometer, odometer, and other gauges.
He stopped what he was doing, though, when he heard Faith's breathless, "Oh my God."
He strained to hear more, but there was nothing. The tone worried him; he'd never heard anything remotely like it from Faith, even after working with her for over a year in some pretty tight spots. He climbed out of the car and slowly made his way around to the side, where he found her.
She just stood there, in her workout clothes, with her phone at her side in her limp hand, about to drop. Her mouth was slightly open, and she stared across the street, her eyes vacant.
"Faith?" he said, hesitantly.
"He's dead," she said softly.
"Who's dead?"
"Angel." She blinked and turned to face him. "Angel's dead. Dead."
Xander closed his eyes for a brief second before he took a step closer. "I'm sorry," he said.
"He-- he took out Wolfram & Hart, him and his team, and the Senior Partners sent an army to kill them immediately afterwards," Faith said. "They went down fighting."
Xander bit his lips, unsure what to say. "I'm sorry," he said finally. Weak, useless words.
Faith shook her head. "I should've been there, with him."
"What?" Xander stepped up to her and put his hands on her shoulders. "Faith, that's crazy talk. You stay here, you belong here--"
"I belonged there, with him, fighting by his side!" she said.
She hit him in the chest with an open hand, not as hard as she could but hard enough to stagger Xander back half a step. "I should've believed in him! He believed in me! I should've been there! I should've died with him!" Xander stepped forward and put his hands back on her shoulders, even though each outburst was punctuated with another half-hearted strike to his chest. "I should've died, but I never do! I'm always the one who lives, but I'm the one who deserves to die!"
Xander pulled her close into his chest. She struggled, but not hard enough to get away. She pummeled his chest, but not hard enough to make him let go. "Shh, Faith, it's okay," he whispered into her hair. "You deserve to be alive, you deserve all the good things you have and more."
Faith hit him harder and harder as he continued to console her and reassure her. He didn't hear her anymore, and he doubted she heard him. It didn't matter, this time. It was like before -- not the time she tried to kill him, when he came to offer his help, but up on Kingman's Bluff with Willow. The point wasn't what was said, but what was done. To be there for her. He didn't back down there, on the edge of armageddon, and he won't back down for Faith, either.
Faith hit him one more time, hard against his chest -- hard enough to knock the breath from him -- before she collapsed against him completely. Her choking sobs wracked her body as she trembled and he held her.
How small she is startled him, as she sobbed in his arms; despite her superior strength and her swagger, he has a good six inches and probably near eighty pounds on her. It reminded him again of Kingman's Bluff, when Willow collapsed into his arms, also sobbing. So much power into such tiny women. He remembered how Willow sobbed, he remembered how Buffy cried when they mourned Spike and Anya the night after they left Sunnydale. The weight of the world on their shoulders, and they try to hold it all in until there's no more room for anything but pain.
Faith wiped her eyes after she stopped crying and looked around. "God, I hope no one saw that," she said.
"No worries," Xander said. "Just me, no one important."
"Hey, whatever, Harris. If I'm important, you're definitely important."
Xander rolled his eyes. "Sure thing."
Faith looked up at him, then looked at the ground. "Listen, uh, thanks," she said. "I'm sorry about that--"
"Don't be," Xander said. "I'm your Watcher, right? It's part of the job to be there for you."
Faith nodded and kicked the ground. "Right. Part of the job."
Xander grinned and bumped his shoulder into her. She looked up, confused, and he said, "I'm also your friend, Faith. It's part of that job description, too."
Faith smiled, obviously pleased, and quickly looked away. The smile stayed, though. "Yeah. Part of the job."
"You five-by-five?"
Faith laughed and punched his shoulder. "You're jacking my line, Harris."
"Ow!"
"I'm cool, though, yeah. Thanks." She pursed her lips and her smile faded. "Do me a favor, though? Don't tell anybody yet. About Angel, I mean. I... I wanna tell B when she gets back. I think she deserves to know first."
Xander nodded. "Sure you don't want me to tell her?"
"I'm sure. Thanks, again." She smiled one more time, looking him in the eye, and went inside to train.
Stockton thought it was weird that this guy, this Joseph Coleman, wanted to meet at ten-thirty at night. The guy called during the day, said he wanted to meet about some surveillance, and requested the odd meeting time. Said he'd pay well, then hung up.
Stockton didn't care much about getting paid well. Just getting paid would be a big step forward.
He lost his PI license four years ago as the result of a long string of bad luck. Most of the bad luck stemmed from alcohol and screwing over clients, but he didn't see it that way. The world was out to get him.
Joseph Coleman knocked on his door at exactly ten-thirty. "Yeah, come in," Stockton called out from behind his desk. He tried to act like Jack Nicholson from Chinatown; people seemed to expect that from a PI, and his business depended on people being happy with what they got.
The door opened and a guy in his early twenties stepped in. He wore a nice suit, charcoal gray, a little loose in the shoulders and waist. The guy obviously didn't get a lot of sun, and the dark suit and his dark hair only emphasized that.
"Hello," he said. "Joseph Coleman. I called earlier."
He held out his hand to shake, but Stockton ignored it. "Yeah, I remember. I'm Stockton. Whatcha need?"
Coleman tilted his head and stared; his eyes were hard, especially for a young kid. Eyes didn't lie, Stockton knew, and his evaluation of Coleman changed. The man was dangerous, intelligent, and merciless.
"I want some houses bugged," he said. "My sister joined some cult. She's eighteen, so the courts can't do anything about it. I want to get her back, make sure she's safe. I understand that you don't mind going around the law at times, so I called you."
"Residential neighborhood?" Stockton asked. If the guy wanted to get straight to business, he could deal with that.
"Yes."
"Unless you got a place we can set up near there, it'll be hard to stay outta sight," Stockton said. "Tinted vans on the curb ain't too subtle."
"I have resources," Coleman said. "Just not the knowledge or equipment. If you want a house, I can get it. Money is no object. I want my sister back, Mr. Stockton, and safely."
Stockton nodded. He tried to play it cool; this guy could make him some serious bank if he played it right. "I understand. If you can get us a base, bugging probably ain't the way to go. Directional mics can pick sound up from hundreds of feet away, and we don't gotta get inside the houses to set that up."
Coleman nodded. "Good." He passed a sheet of paper across the desk to Stockton. "Here are the addresses of the three houses, along with a phone number to contact me. When you have the plan together, call me and tell me what you require from me."
Stockton glanced down at the paper. Three addresses, all on streets he knew to be parallel to one another, and a phone number, probably a cell phone with the first three digits it had. He looked up at Coleman. "I'll call you tomorrow afternoon, sir."
Coleman nodded, and turned to leave.
"What type of cult is it?" Stockton asked. "If you don�t mind me asking."
"Doomsday cult," Coleman said. He opened the door to leave. "Vampires, demons, that sort of thing. Preys on young girls, fourteen to twenty-five. Nasty people, Mr. Stockton. Be very circumspect." He turned to stare at Stockton. "I would be very upset were they to learn of our activities."
Stockton swallowed hard, and nodded. Coleman left, and he pulled out a bottle of whiskey. He'd been threatened by many people over the years, but none held the quiet menace Joseph Coleman had.
Time to get drunk, he thought. He could price the equipment -- and his time -- in the morning when he woke up.