A/N: It was supposed to be a one shot, but then I started thinking. So here's more. I don't know how long this will continue… This might be the end of it, it might not. Please read and review.
Fly Away Home
The flight was too long. The sun was streaming through the window, the little boy behind her was kicking the seat, and she wanted just let it go and cry again, because really, an hour on the beach and another in bed was not enough to get over the man you lost without ever really knowing him.
Amanda was placidly sitting beside her, drawing in the sketchbook Angel had bought her for her birthday. Nina hadn't told her or Jill yet; it would be too hard to explain how she'd heard. It was a relief, almost, keeping the grief to herself, for the time being, at least. She knew Amanda wouldn't take the news well.
She started to look over at Amanda, instead of out the window, but Amanda stopped her. "I'm drawing you, Aunt Nina. You can't move."
Nina smiled, her lips tightening over her teeth. It felt strange; Nina didn't know if it was because of her ever-heightening senses, or if it was because smiling was wrong when Angel… and Wesley and Gunn and Spike and the not-Fred blue thing… were all dead.
"All right. You can look."
Amanda got better everyday. The harshness in the lines that made up her eyes had softened, and the shape of her nostrils was dead on. "That's really good, sweetie."
"Good enough to show?" Amanda asked, winking at Nina.
Nina felt the bagel she'd eaten that morning slam upward, toward her throat. She stood quickly and nearly ran for the bathroom, slamming the door just in time for the contents of her stomach to spill out in time with her tears.
And she stayed there, curled on the cold floor of the business class section bathroom, wondering just how she was going to explain that there would be no more art shows in the penthouse of Wolfram and Hart to an adoring little girl, when she didn't even understand it herself.
She'd never been to the Hyperion. Angel had mentioned it once or twice in the snippets of history he'd given her on Angel Investigations. She'd imagined it in black and white, like an old detective movie, with beat up leather couches and a desk, complete with typewriter and ancient phone. What she got was entirely different- elegant and modern, with smooth lines and colors that her artist's eye immediately latched onto and fell in love with. She could see them in this building, held in tight by its nurturing walls and safe in their "helpless-helping, dysfunctional family." Fred was perched at that counter, chewing on a pencil, glasses perched on her nose; Wesley sat behind that desk, reading a book in some ancient language; Angel was polishing an axe and talking cars with Gunn, who wasn't wearing a suit, but casual slacks and a sweater. Her imagination recreated them all, living, breathing, and it didn't matter that she wasn't in the vision. It mattered that they were alive there, because the world needed heroes.
The world needed Angel.
The stairs above her creaked, and her head snapped up. There was a man descending the stairs; he was young and skinny, brown hair messily spread across his forehead and blue eyes questioning. She took a deep breath, dormant werewolf inside testing the air, and was surprised at the words that left her mouth. "You aren't human."
The questioning left, turned to understanding, and he stepped off of the last stair. "You the art student?"
"Yes."
"I'm the… I'm Connor."
Angel hadn't told her about any Connor, but she nodded anyway. "Nina."
"Some of his things are upstairs. I can show you." Connor turned back around and started up the stairs. She followed without hesitating.
Angel's room smelled like him, even though it had been a year since he'd set foot in it. She closed her eyes and breathed it in for a moment, letting her head fall back and just remember. Too few memories, not enough time… Nina sighed and knelt down beside the box on the ground.
"I think he took everything else to Wolfram and Hart." Connor sat down across from her, eyes on the folded cardboard top of the box. "I've been trying to work up the guts to open it."
She didn't hesitate. A flick of her wrist and the flaps were open.
And they just stared into the box, neither daring to touch anything inside.
