Brandy is asleep now, and Dylan has carried a cup of tea out onto the deck. She stands and watches the stars, and he stands only a few feet behind her. He should leave, but he can't. He hasn't been this close to her in sixteen years. A breeze stirs the strands of her hair, and he trembles, longing. "We could really use you now," she says. He can't tell if she's realized that he's there or not. "Boys. It'd be nice to have you around, sitting in the living room when they come over, cleaning your sword… You wouldn't even have to say anything."

Only a few moments ago, her voice was laughing. Now she wraps her arms around herself, her voice thick, choked with tears. "I think she's right, you know. I think you do watch us. I think you've been watching us all night, and I think you're watching me now. I hope you are - otherwise, I'm talking to myself. But I just… I wish I could see you again. You wouldn't even have to say anything. I just… I really need to know that you're still alive. I need to know that you haven't forgotten us."

He should leave her. He can't do it. His mouth opens, closes, opens again. "Never," he says, and his voice is harsh, a croak like a raven's. "Never… forget… you."

The mug of tea drops from her hands and falls to the deck, chipping but not breaking, the spilling tea staining the wood dark brown. She turns slowly, visibly trembling now, and he realizes that he, too, is shaking. It's been sixteen years, and there are lines on her face, but she's still so beautiful, so young. Has he changed much? He never could tell. "Anthony," she whispers, reaching out, laying her hands on his shoulders. "Anthony." It is the only name she has ever known him by. The moment is too perfect to be real. Then she's embracing him, almost crushing him, sobbing into his chest, and his arms rise slowly to hold her. At first, he's afraid to hold too tightly, afraid she'll melt away like a soap bubble, like a dream. But it is real; she is real, and he holds her like he'll never let her go. Even after all this time, the world dissolves when he's with her, and nothing else matters. He presses his nose into her hair, inhaling her scent, vanilla and spices. Home. The only home that's ever mattered.

Time stops as they cling to one another, and the world stands still. Eventually, she pulls away, and he feels things lurching into motion once more. She sniffles, and he wipes a tear away from her cheek. Her face is red and blotchy from crying, but she's still so beautiful. "Will you stay, this time?" she asks.

He takes a half-step back, doubtful, considering. He shouldn't. It was wrong of him to even come to her, to watch her, to approach her like this. He can only bring her pain. She takes his hands in hers. "Do you want to see her?" This he knows the answer to, and he nods quickly. "Okay," she says. "But don't wake her up. I don't want her to see you only to lose you again."

This stings, probably more than she meant it to, but he lets her lead him into the house, making no sound as they walk across the carpet. When he last came to Dylan, her home had looked like a teenager's - posters tacked to the wall, battered thrift store furniture, candles melted on every surface, and incense scattering ashes all over the floor. This is so clean, so domestic, such a surprise. They pause outside Brandy's room, her name printed in neat, black lettering on the door. He traces the writing with his fingers, barely breathing. Her handwriting is so much like his.

Dylan rests one hand on the doorknob, presses the other to his lips. He removes her hand from his face and sets it instead over his heart, nodding his understanding. He will be quiet as a mouse. He will not wake her. She opens the door and he slips inside, blending easily with the shadows.

His daughter's room - her private sanctum. Like her, it's caught halfway between the childish and the adult, lipstick nestling cozily on the dresser next to her collection of stuffed animals. She sprawls in the bed, hair splayed over her pillow, arms spread wide. He takes a few steps toward her, longing, his heart beating wildly in his chest. If he wakes her, he'll be caught. He'll have to stay with them forever. And why not, after all? It's been years since anyone has come for him. Surely by now, they've forgotten. Surely it must be safe. But as he reaches out to touch his daughter's hair, he sees her, splayed as she is now, but on the sidewalk somewhere, skin cold and blue, blood seeping from her throat. He snatches his hand away as though he's been burned, and she stirs uneasily in her slumber. He retreats from the room, shaking. He isn't ready. Not tonight.

Dylan is waiting for him in the hallway. If she's angry that he couldn't make up his mind, she doesn't show it. Instead, she takes him by the hand again and leads him into her own bedroom. This room belongs to her, more than anything in the house. Her clothes and records are scattered all over, and there's an AC/DC poster displayed prominently over the bed. She starts rummaging through the dresser as he sits down on the bed. One wall is covered with framed photographs - Dylan with the other Angels, Dylan with Max Bosley, Dylan with Brandy, Brandy alone, Brandy with friends… In the middle, not framed, held to the wall with sticky tape, is a picture he's never seen before. It's a picture of him, looking over his shoulder. "That's from the Red Star case," she says, coming back towards the bed with a large, plastic bag in her hands. "Natalie isolated it from the footage when you pretended to kidnap Eric Knox. I found it going through some old files after Brandy was born. I took it with me."

She plops down on the bed beside him, her hair brushing against his shoulder, and he turns to see what she's holding in her hands. She slides the zipper of the bag open and pulls out a tuft of hair, tied with a ribbon, labeled with a scrap of paper. "Anyway. This is Brandy's. I save a little piece of it when she gets a haircut; I've been doing it since her first one. I thought that… I thought you might want to have it, in case I ever saw you again. So…" He takes the lock of hair from her hands and studies it with wonder. The label reads "Brandy - July 9, 2007." He rubs it against his face, and feels the softness. It's so fine, so delicate. A child's hair. Then he replaces the lock in the bag and pulls Dylan's head down to his, twining his fingers in her hair. They breath together, raggedly, foreheads pressed against each other. He rubs the tip of his nose against hers, his way of thanking her.

She pulls away, looking very seriously into his eyes. "I want to tell you something. I just want you to think about it, okay?" He nods, not wanting to disappoint her. Besides, he's been listening to her for years. It's only better now that he can feel the warmth of her breath against his skin. "When we were doing the Madison Lee case, when I saw Seamus again, he threatened my friends. He said…" Her breath catches in her throat, and she drops her eyes. "He said he would kill them in front of me, just so I could hear them scream." He touches her cheek, trying to reassure her. "I freaked out. I mean, it was stupid; we'd been through so much together, and I knew what they were capable of, but… I couldn't stand the thought of them being hurt because of me. So I ran away.

"But then I met someone, someone who'd been an Angel a long time before I joined the agency. She made me realize that they were hurting more without me around than they would be when I was there, even if something did happen. And she made me realize that they were in more danger without me than they ever were with me. So I came back to them. I mean, I know how you feel, Anthony." Now it's his turn to look away, his turn to soothe him with a caress. "I know you're doing this because you love us. But you don't need to. Just… just think about it, okay?"

He stands; he needs to leave. There's a strange ache in his chest, a tightness. For sixteen years, he's watched them, never expecting any more. She should hate him. Why doesn't she hate him? He whirls around to face her, needing to see disappointment in her eyes, needing her to be angry with him. But she only looks serious. And despite years of caution, years of training, years of difficult lessons, he can't resist her. He falls to his knees in front of her, plunging his hands into her hair, and pulls her down to him. Their lips meet, and nothing matters anymore.

But he can't stay. Too much has happened, and there's too much for him to think about. He needs to lie alone in the darkness and sort things out. She walks him out through her garden, the bag of hair clutched tight against his chest, something for him to cherish forever, no matter what happens. Dylan kisses his cheek when they reach the sidewalk. "Take care of yourself," she says. "And don't wait sixteen years before you come see me again, okay? Come back next week. We'll play Scrabble. It'll be fun."

He brings a strand of her hair to his face and sniffs it, before leaning in to kiss her goodbye. As he turns to walk away, he tries to convince himself that he should never return to them. He isn't strong enough to watch. He needs to touch them, and his touch can only hurt them. He should have learned by now; he should know better. But he clutches his daughter's hair to his chest, and he thinks about Dylan and Seamus, and her fears, and the decision she came to, and he's not so sure that he's doing the right thing anymore. Nor is he at all sure that he could bear to stay away from them any longer. They were his family. They were the only home he'd ever known.

Behind him, he hears singing. "Brandy wears a braided chain made of finest silver from the north of Spain and a locket that bears the name of the man that Brandy loves…" No wonder she named their daughter Brandy; no wonder she's been singing that song as a lullaby for the past fifteen years. But the sailor in the song never comes back. Is that really who he is anymore?

And even as he walks away, he knows he'll be back again. He's not like the sailor in the song. He knows where his home is.