Ineluctable

by prodigy77

When a Watcher meets his prodigal....

Four years ago

"Morning."

Sleep-soaked eyes flutter open, like a bird gingerly flapping its wings before take off. His eyelids squint and narrow in feeble dissent to the blinding morning sun shining unfiltered into his eyes.

Ow, he thinks, resentfully. That really does hurt. Stupid vampires.

"Nguh," he grumbles back in response, and shoves his head under the pillows with teenage defiance, burying his face into the bed. The spice of aftershave and fragrant cologne on the sheets fills his nostrils, and he recognizes the scent even before it fully processes. It smells like whisky, cider, and the warmth from a breezeless summer afternoon.

It smells like…

"Devon," the same voice calls, and he pulls the pillow off; letting the scent linger lazily inside his nostrils before sitting up.

His voice is thick with sleep. "This had better be good, Watcher. What is it?"

He looks back at him from the window with a childish, smug little grin across his face. "Come here. Look at this."

Devon blinks at him once, then just shakes his head and lets out a long, breathy laugh, almost stumbling as he pads across the room. "You know, just once I'd like to see you let me sleep in – just for the hell of it."

Derek smiles when he hears the breath stop softly in Devon's throat as he approaches, and sees the two snow-white birds waddling carefully along the edge of the balcony. Both are gold-beaked and impeccably plumed; nuzzling each other's heads and sporadically flapping their wings, as if trying to smother each other in a tender embrace.

"Whoa. Doves…"

Derek nods. "Streptopelia risoria Pure, white doves. As rare as an empty road on a public holiday."

Devon looks at him, watching the way his eyes glimmer and tinge with erudite fascination. "What are you thinking about?"

The older man smiles, his eyes never leaving the doves still perched precariously on the windowsill. His voice is the same; low-toned and affable, "Porn. What else would I be thinking about so early in the morning?"

"Shut up, I'm serious."

Derek's eyes waver for only a moment; but in a whirling flap of feather and dust, the birds are gone – leaving behind only an imperceptible trail of white fluff. His gaze ticks over, soft with warmth, contemplation filling his rough, unshaven features.

"Honestly?" he says, running a coarse hand through Devon's tousled hair, as if cherishing the fact that he's still a few breadths taller. His voice is husky, almost smoke-like, "I was thinking that I would never like to have to leave this room," he admits, looking in his eye for some kind of answer.

"What do you think about that, Dev? We've got cable, beer and a bed. Let's just stay here. What do you say?"

Devon smiles. "That would be nice."

Now

Bullets sliced through the air like hornets, peppering the walls and ceiling of the narrow corridor with holes. Three had grazed the skin above his arm, but the sting was nothing – so superficial compared to the burning in his chest and legs as he ran.

Panic shot through him as he rounded the corner, his heart pounding relentlessly in his ears, drowning out the sound of gunfire and his short, haggard breaths.

More bullets exploded around him as he barreled through the plywood door, shattering it to splinters – the room was some sort of office, with two stocky filing cabinets lined against the right wall and a sprawling slab of varnished wood standing proudly in the center, before a large, regal window that encompassed almost the entire length of the back wall.

The sound of guns erupted behind him once more, as did the sound of thunderous footsteps and coarse, loutish voices. With no time to think, he acted on instinct, leaping forward and tucking into a somersault that carried him behind the desk; the tips of his feet catching the edge of the desk and knocking it over.

The room flooded under a rain of metal, chain after chain of slugs erupting into the space, shattering the fluorescent lights like fireworks and blasting enormous chunks of plaster free from the ceiling. The massive oak table shuddered and creaked as it absorbed the brunt of the wave, but even behind his back, he could feel the barrier beginning to weaken – already cracking open with holes and cavities where bullets had driven through.

The world gyrated and he cursed, feeling the blood from his wound run fresh down his arm. The shout was lost to the cacophony; but in the middle of the barrage, a sound loud as thunder shook the room, drowning out the fusillade of gunfire with its roar. Shards of glass pelted him, cutting and imbedding at his skin, but when he looked up, his eyes hung open in disbelief.

The window had been shattered open.

With a burst of adrenalin, in one fluid movement he picked up the heavy desk and flung it like a cannonball at the gunmen – knocking four of them over and startling the other two long enough to divert their attention. His heart pounded as he raced toward the window; pulse racing and eyes blurring, knowing full well that he could die in the next ten seconds. But he didn't care.

And in one ephemeral moment, the world seemed to stop. Devon jumped.

"We need you to acquire something. A device, from a company which calls itself OptiTron – we have reason to believe that the head of their corporation is a terrorist named Terence Yin, alias Jonathan Wu. The device -"

"Why did you call me here?" he interjected, cutting him off immediately. His dark chestnut eyes scowled icily across the shining metal table; his coffee still sitting, steaming and untouched, in front of him.

The older man sighed, leaning back in his chair and rubbing the corners of his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

"Bloody hell, Devon, can we please just get down to business. This is an urgent -"

"No, Derek, we can not 'just get down to business'," he snapped bitterly, "you contact me after two years without so much as a Christmas greeting, and for what? Because you need something?"

A look flashed in the older man's eyes, one he knew that meant 'it's not as simple as that.' Like it ever was, "Listen, Devon, I know that there's a lot of…unresolved business between us, but we can talk about it afterwards, alright? The reason I contacted you was because the mission is a politically sensitive one, and we need an operative who's…experienced enough to handle this kind of situation."

A pocket of silence dripped by like molasses.

"You're kidding, right?"

Derek's eyebrows drew together. "No, actually, I'm not. This is a very –"

Devon's scowl didn't change. "You have a million contacts and associates from here to Brazil, Derek. You know more people in the spy business than Elton John does in the beauty industry. 'Experienced enough'? I don't give two stones about you or any government spy crap that you happen to be caught in the middle of. What makes you think I'd help you?"

"Yin is a vampire."

A trickle of comprehension slipped over his face. "Oh."

"Right, so if you'd let me continue, as I was saying –" Derek said, sliding a manila folder packed with files and dossiers towards him, "Yin is actually a vampire with the ability to psychically mesmerize people. Ordinarily, he wouldn't be able to control more than two, three people at most – but our intel says that the bugger's taken control of the entire staff of OptiTron. Turning its employees one by one.

"He's been able to do this because of a device built by OptiTron called Prometheus, which enhances mental capacity, or in Yin's case –"

"Increases psychic ability," Devon said, more or less finishing Derek's train of thought. He flipped through the various sheets in the folder, skimming through the different write-ups and evidence, all of which asserted what Derek was saying. "So why not just burn down the building?"

Derek sighed, and took a sip of his coffee. "We don't know if Yin's turned all of the employees and inhabitants of the building as of yet, and the OptiTron building is a highly conspicuous and recognized landmark in the London business world. A solution like that would cause unparalleled scandal and attract too much attention."

"And you wouldn't want to risk losing all the pecuniary assets of the company, not when you could embezzle them into your account, right?" Derek's face glowered, as if Devon had just spat at him.

"Tell me, Derek, who are you working for now, huh? Which black ops group finally managed to match your price? Hydra? Fenris? Black Air?" Devon said bitingly, and Derek's eyes narrowed to a dangerous line.

Devon knew that look well. And for a fleeting moment, it still sent a hot frisson of fear through his chest.

For a moment.

"I don't work for any of them anymore, Devon. I haven't now for almost four years." He said, with a tone that sent the burn in Devon's chest down to his stomach. Their eyes met silently before either of them spoke again.

"That doesn't answer my question, Derek. Who are you working for? Or is this another detail which is conveniently confidential?"

Derek gestured pointedly to the folder, and Devon glanced down once again at the portfolio of sheets, flicking through the haphazard collection of files and papers. His eyes and hand stopped when he came upon the back flap of the folder, which was emblazoned with an indelible, watermarked logo with the letters S.T.R.I.K.E stamped across an eagle.

S.T.R.I.K.E. The British counterpart of the most prestigious, renowned espionage agency in the United States, S.H.I.E.L.D.

Shit.

Devon exhaled hotly. "So what is it exactly that you want me to steal?"

Derek sighed angrily. "Not steal, acquire. We need you to acquire Prometheus, and the only way to do that is by terminating Yin. It's fused to his left wrist, and nearly impossible to remove unless the user is dead."

Derek sipped his coffee, doing his best to cool down. "I contacted you through our old line because you're virtually the perfect candidate for this mission. You're a level 6 S.H.I.E.L.D agent; you have more than enough experience in espionage missions, as a former Excalibur member and X-Man, and with your psychic defenses, you'd be impervious to Yin's telepathy," he said, a flicker of nostalgia crossing his eyes as he paused.

"And of course, there's nobody better suited to handle a vampire than the Prodigal." His dark brown eyes stayed fixed on Devon as he spoke; even as the younger man's gaze ticked angrily from him to the wall to the greasy, possibly infected, stain on the table.

"So what do you say? Will you do it?"

Devon closed the beige folder and slid it back across the table.

"No."

Derek was silent for a moment, incredulous, as if he didn't believe what he'd just heard. Devon took a long drag of his coffee, took out his wallet and slapped a five pound note down on the table; pushing his chair back to leave.

"Devon, wait. Please, think about –"

"Think about what, Derek?" Devon shot back angrily, his eyes narrow with disgust. "Think about how I should help you just because you're playing on the side of the angels this time? Forget it! I'm not about to become a pawn on your chessboard of spies, to be manipulated by governments and shadows again, only to be left with nothing at the end of it. Does it look like I'm retarded?"

"Goddammit, Devon, this is not about us!" Derek exploded, bursting forward from his seat. A couple of the patrons in the diner looked his way. "People are going to die if we don't do something; if he turns the entire company, who knows what he'll do next!"

Their faces were almost eye to eye. Devon could almost feel his stubble rasping against his skin.

"Get out of my face, Derek, before I move you myself." Devon threatened icily. Derek's face reddened in response.

"I don't care what you say. You've got a lot of nerve contacting me, thinking that I'd just go along with your cockamamie kamikaze scheme," he said in as low a voice as he could manage. His throat clenched angrily, desperately, and it was all he could do to bite back thirty-odd expletives raging to get out. "Who do you think you are, telling me what to do after what you did to me? You have no call over me – you're not my Watcher anymore, Derek," Devon said, draining the last drops of his coffee, "and all of a sudden, I'm glad."

He stood up and banged the cup down on the table so hard it shook. He lifted his hand to reveal a fault line sized fracture that splintered into three branches near the rim. He turned to leave. "Find some other idiot for your spy games, Wisdom. And never contact me again."

The first thing that crossed his mind was that he wasn't in a dumpster.

Ordinarily, he wouldn't have thought of something so…random, but after that fateful night with Bobby and Remy in that bar in New Orleans; he'd learned how to count his blessings almost frugally. And, as he'd learned, regaining consciousness without a bra full of mice in your face was definitely, definitely one of them.

Except it seemed to lose its value when he considered the fact he was bound and tied tighter than a witch at the stake in the middle of a chrome-plated holding room; with the mother of all migraines, and what was most unmistakably an industrial-sized nosebleed.

He looked up, and three burly, putrid men stood before him, each dressed in the same rent-a-thug berets, with slime-green fatigues and knee-high boots. On each of their hips sat fat leather belts, with thick pouches stuffed with everything from transistor radios to grenades the size of his fist.

Suddenly the dumpster didn't seem quite so bad anymore.

To his right, he could hear the squawk of his radio, lying on the floor, buzzing with static; and could almost make out the voice on the other end. It sounded like Derek, calling out his name over and over again, "Mountaineer, this is –lue F- - con, report; repeat, Mou- - eer, th- -s"

The crackling, garbling voice suddenly fell dead underneath a large, loud crunch.

Devon lifted his heavy eyes and saw the radio crumbling to pieces underneath an enormous leather boot. He followed the trail of leather upwards, passing the length of his legs and torso, all covered by an ornate, silk robe.

Devon took a good look at his captor. His face was a gaunt and pallid shape, with painfully protrusive cheekbones jutting out either side of his narrow face. He had an aquiline nose and thin, coal-black eyes that marked him Asian in origin. His skin was whiter than marble, and in the dimness of the nonexistent light; he looked more like a statue with a robe fastened around him, rather than a man.

But then again, he had a feeling that this wasn't a man at all.

Devon's mind remained thoughtless until his eyes trailed down to his left arm, where he saw a silver console, almost like a watch, clasped tightly around his wrist.

Derek's words echoed in his head; "It's fused to his left wrist, and nearly impossible to remove unless the user is dead."

Yin.

"I don't take kindly to intruders trespassing in my building, much less decimating it," Yin said slowly, cold reptilian eyes resonating with the dark, calculating hiss of his voice.

"I will ask you this only once. Who do you work for?"

Devon remained silent. Yin's jaw tightened and made a gesture so imperceptible Devon barely saw it.

Before he even registered what was happening, one of the guards stepped forward and lashed him across the face with all the force of a lumberjack. Devon bit back a sharp sound and grunted, swearing as the whip scraped away skin and muscle. A long trickle of blood zigzagged achingly down his face.

Yin's finger came out and swiped along the trail of blood. With nauseating slowness, he brought it to his tongue and licked it clean.

Devon grimaced in revulsion. "I ask you again. Who are you working for?"

"Your mama," Devon hissed past gritted teeth, and spat a long, translucent glob of saliva at his face.

But if he wanted to see the vampire recoil in disgust, he was disappointed – Yin simply let the droplet slither down his cheek, with nothing more than a sneer to acknowledge its passing. He clicked his tongue, and made the same signal to the guards behind him.

The guard struck him again, but this time with a rifle, driving into the space just beneath the ribs where the ribcage and diaphragm didn't quite meet. Devon growled at the blunt edge of the handle as it drove into his chest with the force of a sledgehammer, rolling all the breath from his lungs. Shapes as dark as nightfall danced hazily before his eyes, but before he could react, the guard hit him again, harder, this time along the sternum, breaking one of his ribs with a wet, excruciating pop.

His head, still buzzing with remnants of pain, instantly exploded with raw, unceasing agony. Blood rose up at the back of his mouth like flood water; and this time a hoarse, guttural cry tumbled out of his lips.

That did it.

"I will ask you one final time. Who do you work for?"

His eyes narrowed ferociously at the ghost-like vampire and his head began to spin. Ignore the pain, Devon told himself, trying to block out the feeling his chest, Hang on for just a little longer, a little longer…

"P-puh…"he gasped out, making the guard draw back in surprise, shocked that he could still speak. "Puh…paper…." Devon choked out, coughing up blood.

Yin yelled at the other three, in what sounded like Arabic, gesturing at them to hand him something, and soon, the guard in front of him was holding a pad of paper and a pen. It looked almost comical; floating misplaced and miniscule in his bloated, callused fingers.

Almost.

"Write this down," Devon blurted clumsily, holding his breath as he spoke. "E, M, E, T, I, B." He recited, hissing at the pain in his ribs every time he breathed. He watched through delirious eyes as the Arab furiously scribbled down the letters, and bit back a laugh as he stared at it, bewildered. He looked at Devon, confusion and outrage in his beady, mole-like eyes.

"Now reverse it." He said huskily.

A silent second ticked past – then in a burst of movement, the guard shot up; red-faced and angrier than a boatful of sailors. In a flash of green and skin, he reached for the gun at his waist; but with a single flex of his hand, Yin stopped him. The anger on his face was still seething like a million kettles; but Yin murmured something in rapid Arabic, and at once, all three of them filed out and left the room so fast it was as if they'd never even existed.

Yin stepped forward; his eyes burning with exasperation and an infinite capacity for malice. "Stubborn until the very end," he orated, "just like a Prodigal."

Devon's eyed widened. How the hell does he know who I am?

The corners of his mouth curled into a macabre smile. "Arrogant. Just like the rest of your sanctimonious kind. Words cannot fathom the joy I will reap bleeding the life out of your meaty, jellied carcass and making you beg for death. But first…" he said carefully, and in a whirr of movement the console on his left hand lit up like a neon bulb, "…let the fires of Prometheus burn your mind clean."

With a mighty thrust, he grabbed the sides of Devon's head; burning him. Invading him.

Devon screamed.

"Here's the plan, team," Derek announced, spreading out the blueprints of the OptiTron building on the top of a large wooden crate, as the rest of the S.T.R.I.K.E force gathered around the map, most of them already dressed or halfway into their infiltration gear.

"We move in from the north gate, at exactly 0100 hours. We split into two teams once we get in, I'll take the Alpha team up through the third floor and Baz takes the Beta team through the west staircase. Intel tells us that Yin will most likely be in the main office, with the head of the building. We find Yin, kill him, get Prometheus, get out. Any questions?"

"Just one," replied a familiar voice, and immediately all eyes flicked towards the source. Devon's eyes mirrored the remoteness of his voice, and his arms seemed to fold tighter across his chest. "How do we know who and who not to kill?"

Derek shot him a look that was half grimace, half smile. "Ladies and Gentlemen, this is the man I was telling you about, the Prodigal," each member of the unit gave a gesture of acknowledgement and greeting, a wave or a nod, before turning their attention back to their leader. "As I was alluding to, we don't know who the enemy is, save for Yin. They could be anyone, so we shoot to wound, not to kill."

Derision sparked faintly across his eyes. "Sorta like the G.I.'s in Vietnam, huh?" the younger man retorted, stepping forward. He turned around the drawing and scanned the layout, studying it; ignoring the looks of annoyance and disapproval from the rest of the team. Derek made an expression that convinced them to bite their tongues, or at the very least, hold it in.

"Dismissed, team; we reconvene in 30 minutes sharp." The team disbanded, moving off into various parts of the hangar, leaving only Derek and Devon alone at the crate, still hovering over the blueprints.

Devon shot a glance at the various men and women as they dispersed. "Nice team you got there, Wis. Looks like they'd follow you into the depths of Hell itself. Then again, you've never had any trouble convincing people to trust you, have you?"

Derek's teeth ground against each other. A small snort escaped his lips, "I've gotta say Devon, besides Courtney Love, you're the last person I expected, or wanted, to see right now, especially after what happened at the café." His countenance immediately hardened. "What's with the game playing, Devon? Are you in or out?"

"I'm in. On one condition."

"Name it."

"I go in by myself, alone. Your team stands by in reserve; I'll radio if I need backup."

Derek let out a dismissive scoff. "No way. We go in altogether, two squads, end of story."

He turned to face the other way, but Devon caught him by his bicep. "This isn't a request, Derek. I work alone; the rest of the team will just get in my way. I can find Yin in under –"

"The answer is no, Devon," Derek repeated impatiently, shifting to face him; shrugging his hand off with his shoulder. "We go in together, all at once; otherwise, the mission will be compromi-"

"Listen to me, dammit!' Devon shouted, slamming his hands on the crate. "The team can't handle the job! There's too many of them – he'll see them on surveillance before they even reach the first floor. You need an agent who can get in and get out without being detected. The surveillance system is too sensitive; if cut, it'll reboot itself in fifteen minutes. Have your tech hack into their server and cut the feed just as I enter the building, that way I can move without being spotted."

The former Watcher's eyebrows converged in a frown. "What makes you think you can do it in fifteen minutes? And why not just phase through the walls instead of having surveillance cut?"

"Yin's laced the entire building with power inhibitor fields that can't be deactivated from outside the building. I don't have time to disable the switch and get Prometheus, so I have to do it powerless." Derek's brow unfurled slightly, comprehending the other mutant's strategy. "I still have my strength and speed; the inhibitors won't cancel out my Prodigal powers, and I'm the only one who can tell vampire from human." He let out a small laugh, "hell, five bucks says I can do the job in ten."

Derek's eyes narrowed. "Don't get cocky."

A look of resentment burned across his features. "Look, I'll keep in touch via radio. If you don't hear from me for more than three seconds, it means I'm dead. Okay?" A hush rolled over them, terse and tense, as they mulled over the situation. Devon spoke once more, "And one more thing. I don't do this gig for free. So what do you say, Wisdom? Got room on your team for one more misfit?"

Derek sighed grudgingly, knowing full well that there would be a price to pay later on, but he would deal with that bridge once he met it. Devon's strategy was sensible, better than his, in any case, and he was too valuable an asset to bargain with; they needed an ace up their sleeve badly. He let out a reluctant breath and pulled out a uniform from the crate.

He held it firmly in one hand and tossed it towards him. "Suit up. Be back here in 30 minutes sharp," he said, "I need to re-brief the team on our plan."

Devon nodded and turned to leave, but Derek called out to him. "Out of curiosity, Devon, what brought about the change of mind?

Devon shot him a wry smile. "Let's just say I was feeling nostalgic."

Over his years as the Prodigal, Devon had learned that pain was a lot like ice cream. Not that it tasted remotely good, or that you could pile it up in a cone; but because it came in all sorts of flavors. And through the years, Devon had tasted many of them in his calling.

Bones shattered beyond recognition. The agony as they slowly knitted themselves back to life. The pistachio-like dandiness of being stabbed with a sixteen inch energy spear and electrocuted from the molecules out; but by far the worst and most mind-numbing flavor, without a doubt, was that of the psychic variety.

Fortunately, the forces of darkness had little telepaths on their side.

But one was all they needed.

Even as his brain fruitlessly tried to reincorporate itself from the psychic hammering, he could make out Yin's iniquitous giggles, echoing all across the room, laughing at the fruits of his torture.

He tentatively opened his eyes again, and saw Yin's grisly countenance staring down at him like a bat's. His dark, repugnant eyes bored into his own. "I must say, I am impressed. I didn't expect your mind to be so…resilient…" he said lovingly; with a perverted admiration, "…even Prometheus couldn't penetrate it."

Devon fought back the overwhelming urge to vomit. "Yeah, guess I'm just special that way."

A transient smirk wisped his lips. Special.

He had been trained and sculpted by the world's greatest telepath with psi-shields that could block out static.

Special was a little bit of an understatement.

"I've heard legends about the blood of a Prodigal," Yin said, approaching him, "of the power and the ecstasy it contains. I've always been curious as to how it would taste." Revulsion filled Devon's face. Yin smokily stretched out his hand to touch his face, but Devon wrenched his head away. He laughed.

"Defiance. I like that," he said, genuinely impressed. A brief blackness danced in the vampire's eyes; as if recalling some blood-ridden memory. His smile grew even wider. Then he shot out and seized Devon's throat in a wordless blur.

Devon's immediate reaction was to swing his neck free, but Yin's strength was astounding – his fingers crushed Devon's throat like it was made of plastic, slowly squeezing every last breath of air from his lungs. Yin licked his lips, baring his fangs in a predatory smile.

"Don't worry," he whispered eagerly, "it only hurts for a second."

His mouth yawned open, exposing twin rows of dagger-like teeth, almost orange in places where bloodstains still danced across the enamel. A flame of desperation licked at Devon's stomach; summoning all the strength of the Prodigal, he gave a mighty thrash with his neck, but felt something in his throat give way with an elastic pop. The copper tang of blood filled his nostrils; and whatever lingering delirium the conditioning had on him melted under the iron weight of Yin's grasp.

Then it dawned on him with the full weight of a belated morning sun – he was killing him.

Yin was slowly killing him.

The darkness around his eyes began to close in like a black vise. In the drowning haze, the tips of his fangs grazed the nape of his neck. He cursed quietly and clenched his eyes and jaw shut.

At least he wouldn't die screaming.

"– hhkk"

Without warning, a sharp, staccato shudder exploded out of nowhere and stopped the vampire cold in half-bite. Devon felt it thud through Yin's pallid corpse like an arrow – and just as the air began to trickle back into his lungs, another lurch gasped through Yin, and the constrictor-like grip on his neck faded completely.

He gasped down the air in lungfuls. "Guh-"

He coughed, hacking free the last remnants of undead-induced-tightness in his throat. Hhkk'? He thought, opening his eyes and blinking back the spots. What kind of moronic, damneder-than-thou spiel is –

"Don't touch him," spat a furious, raging hiss of a voice.

Devon's heart froze in his chest.

– that?

Porn. What else would I be thinking about so early in the morning?

No way.

His eyes simultaneously sharpened and watered as the bloody, wooden point of the stake jutting from the center of Yin's chest became unbearably clear. The smoky rasp of the voice echoed inside his ears loud enough to hurt; and a palpable, chilling weight sank like a stone to the pit of his stomach.

No, he thought viciously to himself, it can't be. It's impossible; and yet – every fiber, every instinct, in his body screamed out in protest;

'It is him.'

'It is.'

Because he could feel the smell of a million summer afternoons permeating the room.

Because he's heard that voice too many damn times to even pretend to lie: it's the same voice that used to warm him with just the sanctuary of its rasp, and the same one that could crush him with just a single word.

He knew that it was Derek, standing in front of him – stake still clutched in his hand, saving his very bloody, very busted behind.

Because it sure as hell wasn't Captain America.

Shit.

And right on cue, Yin exploded in a black ashen cloud of cinders and graveyard dust. Prometheus clattered to the floor with a hollow, harmless crash.

The oxygen hitched in Devon's throat as the clouds and dust pelt his face, making him cough and sputter messily over his lap. The raucous, embarrassing gagging echoed deafeningly around the room. Devon realized with an acerbic wryness that this was by far the most humiliating situation that he could've found him in. But he didn't care.

Because Derek had just saved his narrow Filipino butt from becoming just another statistic in a book, and right then, he had never been so glad to see Derek. Not since…

Since…

"Are you okay?" Derek's husky voice asked, splitting the silence, and snapped Devon from his reverie.

"I…How did…where – but how did you-? The inhibitor-"

Derek knelt down beside him at the base of the chair and pulled out a small, silver cylinder from the back of his belt. He gave it a sharp twist and a steaming ruby laser ignited, blazing out from the tip; and with a steady, cautioned hand he aimed it down along the expanse of the chains and manacles binding Devon to the chair, burning through them like fire across a path of oil.

The chains and shackles collapsed in a tangled pool around his feet.

He pocketed the laser and reached again behind his back. At first, Devon thought he was reaching for a carrying case for Prometheus – but instead, a small surge of surprise bubbled through him as instead, he pulled out a small, neatly folded square of cloth, the tint of a white dove on a summer morning; and with infinite tentativeness, brought it to Devon's face and started wiping the blood from his wounds.

Even from where he was sitting, Devon could smell the cologne on the cloth.

"Are you okay?" Derek repeated, this time catching him with receptive ears. The younger man nodded, albeit fractionally.

He paused, as if trying to regain some composure. "H-how did you know that I was –"

The piercing hazel of his eyes seemed to burn with a mix of irony and ruefulness. "That was longer than three seconds."

Noise exploded around them like a grenade as the sharp banshee-like wail of an alarm siren screamed through the building; alerting every single person in the compound to their presence. The walls and ceiling started to shake with the force of a million armed footsteps.

Derek cursed loudly with all the force of an angry landslide.

He wiped the final traces of blood off his face, and stood up. "Dammit – Tech must've lost control of the surveillance," he said, eyes turning to Devon. "Do you think you can stand?"

You've got to be kidding me, Devon thought dryly. His body had just begun to remember the concept of balance, let alone movement; but he would be damned if he was going to sit on his ass and let the guards use him as their new punching toy. Biting back the pain of his shattered ribs, he pulled himself up and started moving towards the door – Derek already three steps ahead; shouting feverishly into the comm-link at his wrist.

He made it two steps before the world around him grew hazy once again.

And on the third, everything went black.

"Hey."

Laconic pause as he glances up from the not-quite ocean of books on his desk and does his best to disguise his bemusement. "Hey."

Devon shifts awkwardly on his feet, as if hesitant about what he's going to say. "I, um…kinda sorta need a favor," he mumbles, barely coherent enough for him to understand.

"You wanna come in?" he proffers, and the younger man plops himself into one of the cushioned chairs in front of his desk.

Derek has never felt quite so awkward as he has now. Sitting in his office – or what currently passes as his office, what with the small mouse hole that Excalibur has given him for a room – with his latest charge; the same one who he'd just told three days ago would never – never, ever, ever – have what it takes to be the Chosen One.

What he wouldn't give for a pint of beer right about now.

"So, yeah…" the kid speaks, in a voice which is half reluctant and half…hesitant? His mind belts out several other synonyms; moody, unsure, tentative – scared? – but the majority of him listens, or tries to listen, to what he has to say. "I um…need some help with, uh…"

Derek's lips move without him even thinking. "Look kid, I don't got any rubbers if that's what you're asking for,"

The look on the Prodigal's face whiplashes from borderline cautious to insulted in a nanosecond, and immediately makes him want to kick himself. "Sorry to disappoint you, Horny McPounce-a-lot, but that's not what I was alluding to."

An eyebrow rises curiously. "So then what is this favor that you so desperately need then, Pryde?"

The scowl on his face is practiced; honed. "What makes you think I'm desperate, Wisdom?"

And just like that, miasmic tension is rife in the air once again. Not exactly a conversational aphrodisiac, or even a low grade stimulant, but he's relieved nonetheless because at least there's something: Conflict, chaos and arguing to the point of bloodshed he can handle – it's the silence, awkward and yawning, that kills him. He hates the silence. "The fact that you came to me, out of all your little superplonk friends, boyo, suggests that either the world has gone topsy-turvy and you suddenly no longer have the attitude of a menstrual lion, or that there's something you need that only I can provide. Especially given the fact that you and I are far from peas in a pod."

Devon's face quirks microscopically. "You always this glib with your new students, Wis?"

"Only the pretty ones, mate," he drawls with equal snide, then leans over his books, looking at him eye to eye. "So what is it? Because I have more important things to do than play bitch-n'-bite with a teenager."

Devon looks back with that same decisive, defiant fire in his eyes – the one that seems to flare brighter in the face of every challenge. For a moment, he half expects the kid to cock back his fist and knock out his front teeth – but instead, he simply looks sideways and purses his lips, then looks back again with an even expression and holds up a length of patterned blue-and-beige silk, and weighs it almost childishly in his hands. A ripple of surprise and embarrassment bubbles through Derek.

"Can you teach me how to tie one of these?"

"Okay, then tuck the right side over the left – no, no, under – no, wait, not crookedly-"

In a blur of movement, the younger man rips off the now very crumpled strip of cloth from his neck and throws it down to the floor, "Aaagh! Dammit, I give UP!"

Derek looks at him with an irritated kind of exhaustion; and furtively looks at his watch. 1:35 a.m. They've been at this now for almost seventy minutes; over twenty different variations, and still the kid hadn't managed to get it right. The same kid who, according to the Council, had more power in him than a seventy ton freight train and was their ultimate bastion in the war against darkness.

All that and a childhood full of superheroes, and the kid couldn't even tie a damn tie.

This was torturous. Worse, it was bordering on Sisyphean.

Devon grabs the tie from the rug and stomps off toward the door.

"Hey! Where do you think you're going?"

Devon's eyes are narrow with resentment, "To bed, Watcher. What do you think?"

Derek grabs his shoulder and spins him around so fast that for a moment, Devon is briefly reminded of Logan and the man's own incredible speed and reflexes – and the sudden surge of memory makes him go silent. Derek looks at him steely in the eye, "And here I thought I was the stubborn one. What are you doing, Pryde? I thought you said you wanted to tie a tie."

Devon sighs at him with exasperated incredulity. "Derek, we've been at this for hours now. I don't get it. And this is obviously not going to work –"

Before he even finishes his sentence, Derek grabs the tie – now a blue-and-beige crumple beyond recognition – from Devon's hand and flings it away to some unseen corner of the room. With equal agility, he unfastens the silk strap around his own neck and loops it perfunctorily around Devon's neck.

"What are you doing!"

Derek hastily adjusts the length of both straps along the front of Devon's shirt from behind, all the while forcing the Prodigal's head forward in the direction of the mirror, "Tying a bloody tie, Pryde. Now watch,"

"Cross," he instructs, repeating the same motion that he's made at least thirteen times in the past hour, pulling the length of the tie into the beginning of its shape. "Then loop," he continues, making a curl around the now-twin lengths of black silk, and then inserting the fatter end into the knot. Just as he opens his mouth for the final instruction, Devon's hands come up and cover his own, smaller palms following his motions seamlessly as the tie finally falls into place.

"And pull." Devon finishes, touching the tie almost hesitantly, running his fingers over the smooth surface.

A curl flickers at the corner of his lips. "You did listen."

Devon turns around so that they're face to face, and starts to pull at the knot. Derek stops him, catching his wrists in his callused palms, "Whoa! The hell do you think y're doing?"

Devon looks at him with a simple kind of puzzlement, like he's just stopped him in the middle of taking a piss. "Uh…taking off the tie?"

"Yes, genius, I can see that, but why?"

"To give it back to you, dumbass." There's a playfulness there somewhere, and a tiny twinkle of a grin that whistles across Devon's face.

"Keep it."

A small 'o' of surprise form at Devon's lips. "What?"

"Keep it," he repeats, and stretches his arms in an overly-tired pose and moves toward the bed. It's late, he's tired, and he is in no mood to argue with the kid, so if he says so much as one-

"Thanks." He says quietly, sincerely, and gives him a genuine, grateful smile –as if Derek's just given him a bike; or a brand new crossbow for Christmas, instead of a plain, black tie that took him a whole night to tie. He looks over his shoulder, and pauses at the warmth, almost radiant, of Devon's smile; and a small, forgotten feeling stirs in the depths of his chest. He smiles back.

"Anytime, kid."

"Devon!"

The word hit him hard across the face, waking him with a jolt, only seconds before Derek's hand followed – leaving behind a sharp sting of flesh against flesh. But it did the trick – and soon, he was up like a rocket, and feeling every bleeding, aching inch of his painful waking.

This passing out thing is getting really, really old.

The first thing he saw was Derek's crouched figure; hunching downwards behind a steel partition that just barely covered the crown of his head, like a fearless soldier in a trench. His midnight blue uniform was already tattered and hanging in places where the material was literally shredded through; and the skin underneath darkened with blood. His first instinct was to reach up and wipe away the blood from his wounds, but Derek caught his hand before it even made it past his side.

"We need to get out of here-" he shouted, barely audible over the enfilade of gunfire. Behind them, an explosion rocketed outwards with a fiery burst; and a stray shard of metal whizzed by and sliced Derek across the face.

"Derek!"

A dark, zigzag gash bleeds angrily across Derek's cheek, "-now!"

Devon slid forward and slammed his foot into the makeshift steel barricade, catapulting it into the air, and hurtled it edge-first into the row of snipers and gunmen across the expanse of the hallway. The rigid metal surface connected with a bone-breaking crunch, instantly cutting off the deafening bombard of noise in the hall. Neither of them waited a second longer; both of them scrambled to their feet, and ran like there was no tomorrow.

An affray of emotions tore through Devon, concernangerdesperationfeargamefaceON, but he ignored it, blanking them from his mind, biting back the axe-sharp tear of his bones, broken and grinding, and forced himself to keep on moving, to keep on running, even as every muscle in his body threatened to tear apart with the force of a chainsaw.

If there was anything seven years of being the Prodigal had taught him, it was this: there was no drug like adrenaline.

Derek rounded the corner and jumped, cat-like, over three of the guards, slamming his foot into the helmet of the fourth; shattering it and knocking the bastard onto the floor. Devon followed suit, turning and using the spin of his momentum to drive his elbow into the neck of the leftmost henchman, caving in his trachea with a single strike, crushing him to the wall so hard it crumbled under the force of the blow.

The guard on his right lashed out with a salvo of bullets from his AK, blasting so hard that craters erupted into the plaster of the wall. Devon ducked beneath the arc and kicked up and out, snapping the gun from his hands, and snatched it in his palm before it hit the floor. He threw it to Derek, who caught it, and rammed the bone of his knee into the guard's solar plexus, breaking his lower ribs, and Derek ended it with a shot of the rifle to the neck, severing the vertebrae with a wet, messy splack.

Just as the final guard pulled out his .45, Derek cocked the semiautomatic and pulled the trigger.

"Derek, NO!" Devon shouted, pushing the ex-Watcher's arm, ruining his aim, barely dodging as the bullet skimmed a whisker past their faces and imbedded itself harmlessly into the length of the wall. Devon turned and smashed the guard's kneecap with a well-placed snap kick and broke the visor of his helmet with a turning long so graceful it was more of a sweep than an attack. He knocked him out with a fist to the face that could take out a bull.

He turned to Derek, gun still in hand, standing amidst three steaming piles of ash and dust. "Human."

He raised an eyebrow with contained astonishment. "So I see."

The storm of bullets erupted behind them once more. Derek threw the gun to the floor, sprinting once more down the narrow ingress of the hallway. Explosions of glass and plaster ricochet off the ceiling and rain down around them like a hail of metal. They round the corner, Yin's bodyguards less than meters away from them, but the shout of Devon's voice in desperation stops him cold, and he sees with chilling finality the one enemy which neither of them can overcome.

A dead end.

Devon cursed loudly, grunting and doing his best not to lean against the wall; but even through the near-black uniform, Derek could practically see the swelling and welts where the bones were almost piercing through his skin. Blood smeared acidly over the white surface where his body had touched the wall, and a surge of trepidation shot through his spine – they needed to get out of here.

Fast.

Derek looked around in panic, desperately searching for a fire escape, an air vent, an opening – anything that will get them out, but the only way out is the way the came.

And it was currently occupied by, oh, only a hundred and fifty armed guards; pretty much all of whom were vampires.

There were no words for how much this sucked.

The mob stopped in front of them, at the mouth of the impasse, and in the glint of the fluorescent light, the former Watcher could almost see the smiles through their helmets as they cocked their 47's and raised them with a sadistic, predatory slowness. He pulled Devon behind him and began to regress, backing down the length of the hallway; but just as he started moving, the most beautiful words in the English language came squawking, crackled and incoherent, down his ear.

"Sir, Tech has successfully deactivated the inhibitors – repeat, Tech has successfully deactivated the power inhibitors-"

In a surge of light so bright it momentarily blinded him, Devon's eyes grew wide with unbridled astonishment as Derek's hands ignited with an almost holy blaze, flaring into dagger-like tips at the end of each finger. With a sweeping so majestic it was like he was fanning the sun, they extended into a giant, fiery lattice as he raised his arms forward and formed a shield of white-hot fire around them.

The bullets turned to slag as they hit the field.

The guards, nonplussed by the barrier, kept firing; and even against the blaze of the flame, Devon could see the ripples in the surface of the shield where the bullets where entering and melting with rapid speed.

Derek grunted as the strain immediately hit him like a horse kick to the lungs. His voice was a hoarse, almost incomprehensible wheeze, but Devon was close enough that he could smell the sweat coursing down Derek's forehead;

"Devon…nnnggh…can't…hold this for much…agh…longer-"

Devon winced as the throbbing in his head seemed to get fiercer and more vociferous. For a moment, shapes as bright as sunlight danced in front of his eyes. He bit it back, "Derek, you have to – the bullets, they'll-"

Sweat ran down his face in rivulets, drenching his skin and stinging his eyes. "Devon-! Listen! Wh-when this thing gives…t-take my hand-"

"What!"

"Take my hand, dammit!" Derek yelled, so loud he was sure it must've penetrated through the shield. The barrier of flame was unmistakably weakening now; the wall behind them peppering with random holes where the bullets had punched through the barricade, and the vivacity of the flames were rapidly fading from orange to translucent.

Devon's mouth curled in acquiescence.

A small scream ripped through the hall as Derek's shield faded, and he all but collapsed against Devon's shorter frame, as through some miraculous concurrence, about a hundred and fifty rifles all dropped, empty and spent, to the floor.

Derek's hand clasped Devon's, and he lessened his weight on the younger man. He glanced down at him, "All fangs?"

Devon's eyes looked straight ahead and didn't waver when every one of them ripped off their helmets and threw them to the ground. More than a hundred ashen, human countenances glared back at them; then with a snarl so feral it defined their depravity, they morphed, all at once, into the immortal, rapacious visage of the vampire. Their fangs seemed to glint with a preternatural life of their own.

He grinned. "Oh yeah. All fangs."

The vampires rushed forward like a mighty wave of bodies, mouths already wide in hunger, but with a swiftness so fluid it was sublime, both men let go of each other's hand and a tangled length of string fell from their once-clasped hands. With devastating quickness, they both pulled the string taut, turning away from each other, stretching it upwards, at neck-level, and charged forward. Like the snowy mass of an avalanche, the vampires collapsed onto the tight ivory wire, realizing all too late, as their necks gave way under the resilient steel thread and their bodies crumbled into dust. One by one, the vampires collapsed onto each other, their mass and momentum pushing the swarm forward into the length of gleaming metal string and decapitating themselves with a final, craven howl.

Soon, a hundred and fifty piles of dust lay swirling at their feet.

He turned and breathed an airy laugh. "St. Petersburg, 1996."

Derek smiled back, hands on his knees, still panting heavily. "Thought you'd forgotten."

"Not a chance."

Silence fell over the corridor as both of them looked at each other in full measure. Derek's eyes pored over him, his charge; his protégé – he had grown so different since he'd last seen him, since before he…

Devon would always remain in his mind as his fledgling Prodigal – full of power, morality and courage; and yet still naïve, still vitally, immeasurably young. The man standing in front of him was far from fledgling and very far from the teenager he remembered. It was something about the set of his face – it was harder, more weathered, and there was a darkness to his skin he didn't remember from before. Everything about him seemed older, armored, but most astonishing of all were his eyes – so dark and hard and steeled with aggression; almost like…

Almost like Logan's.

"We have to get out of here," Devon said matter-of-factly. An ordinary person would have assumed he was just desperate to get out of there, but he knew the narrowness of his eyes far too well. Devon was watching a painful memory; some bittersweet recollection from their past, and it was tearing him up inside.

Derek reached out to Devon, head still dizzy from fatigue. "Dev, look, I-"

"You should take the southern exit," Devon said, masterfully changing the subject, already moving to the exit of the corridor, "I'll cut my way through the seventh story office block. There's a row of offices along the western wing-"

"Devon, are you crazy? Look at you. You're injured and half-delirious with pain and at least four of your bones are broken. You're in no state to-"

"I'll create a distraction," Devon explained curtly, turning to face him. There was a bruise building on the side of his face the size of a shoeprint. "Once they see me, they'll immediately think I'm carrying Prometheus," he said, grabbing an empty case from the latch of Derek's belt, avoiding the pocket with the gleaming metal console inside it intentionally. "Which you need to get out of the building, and into S.T.R.I.K.E's base. This thing is too dangerous to wind up in a pretzel stall."

Devon started to walk off, already navigating his way through the labyrinth hallways of the building. He didn't even limp, he didn't even wince – just kept on going like that pink bunny in the battery commercial. Derek called out his name, not even really knowing why, and the look on his face was just…

Young.

Vulnerable.

Perfect.

"Derek," he said, in a voice so soft he wondered if he'd imagined it, "we have to go. The alarms, they'll sound off again and there'll be more-"

"Sometimes I-" Derek started, but his voice broke and embarrassed him. He chuckled inwardly, and wondered how Prudence made it look so easy to do this. She was always so certain, so resolute, when it came to emotion. He, on the other hand, ran from it like it was the goddamn plague.

He held his breath and didn't meet his eyes. "Sometimes I wish we'd never left that room."

And there was a pause, a moment of connection so succinct that it bordered on ethereal, before both of them took off. Devon ran away at full sprint, becoming smaller and smaller until he disappeared from sight completely, and Derek did the same; running so fast that he couldn't feel anything but his own hands and feet as they moved, blurring and pounding as if trying to shake free the last remnants of feeling he had left.

"Devon Pryde, this is your new Watcher – his name is Derek Wisdom."

He looks at the stouter, portly man with pure contempt; gaze ticking back and forth between him and the man who looks like he's just rolled out of a strip club.

"Are you shitting me, Travers?" Devon's voice is blunter than a hundred unsharpened pencils. Travers' bald head seems to glisten with agitation.

"Once again, Mister Pryde, I find myself at a loss with the brazenness of your response," the old man says, leaning against the impeccably white kitchen counter with a weariness which could only be described as British. "As you recall, we contacted you previously about this-"

"You sent me a letter, Quentin. A letter," he says scornfully, garnering an equally resentful look from both men, "Muir Island was attacked three times in the past month. Half of our HQ was burnt into rubble, including our supposedly bomb-proof hangar. You think your measly letter would have survived that?"

The other man, Wisdom, looks at him with an expression that he can't quite identify – but he can see the smirk crackling in the black of his eyes.

"Be that as it may, Mr. Pryde, this does not change nor affect the current situation. You are still the Prodigal, and you need a Watcher."

"And why precisely is that, Mr. Travers?" Devon can't help but grin as he sees the anathema on Travers' face as Kurt walks up behind him, yellow eyes and blue fur contrasting starkly against the pristine whiteness of the kitchen. He can almost see the lump in the Council member's throat as he swallows what must be three pounds of saliva down his throat and pulls at the collar of his shirt.

"Well," Travers replies, pompous and defensive, "not that it's any business of yours, Mr. Wagner, but it is Council policy, not to mention sacrosanct law, that the Chosen One be accompanied by a Watcher, a mentor who will guide the Prodigal through-"

"If I'm not mistaken," Kurt says almost conversationally, tail curling and wrapping itself around Devon's shoulder, "'Mr. Pryde' here survived for almost three years without a Watcher, not to mention, averted every disaster or menace, natural or super, that he has come across. Why has the Council only felt the need to intervene now, Mr. Travers?"

The color on Quentin's face is so red, Devon thinks he might catch fire. "That is absolutely none of your business, Mr. Wagner. This is a matter between Prodigal and Council-"

"Oh for God's sake Travers, grow up and tell them already."

Every eye in the room flicks, incredulously, to the brooding man's countenance. Travers reddens even more, and clears his throat again, "Very well, then. The Council has decided that in light of your recent exploits; the unauthorized dismissal of not one, but two Watchers and your…chosen lifestyle as a member of this affiliation, that your dedication to your calling may be in jeopardy.

"We have monitored your behavior and your activity over the years, Mr. Pryde, and have noted your absence on more than one occasion for several great crises which could have been prevented if only for your intervention; The Snow Valley Massacre, The Rising of Sabbac, pray tell where were you on all of these occasions?"

"What are you talking about, Travers? I've never heard of any of that crap."

"Precisely my point. All of these incidents should have been first priority for you as the Prodigal, but you failed to handle them because at one time or another, you were off, saving the world or campaigning for mutant rights alongside your team."

"That is the biggest load of hubris I've ever heard," Kurt says fiercely, in a voice that makes Devon smile. "Devon is one person. One. He can't be expected to deal with every single crisis that-"

"But that is exactly our point, Mr. Wagner. He is only one – "He alone can stand against the vampires," Travers argued, and Devon felt a coldness thrill up his spine, as the ground suddenly shifted between them. "There are over thirty X-Men currently in action, if I'm not mistaken – and that's not counting the several group factions operating worldwide. There will always be X-Men, Mr. Wagner, as there will always be mutants who share the same dream and earn the same right to join them; but there is and will forever be only one Prodigal."

"Joining the X-Men isn't some sort of sorority option, Travers," Devon hisses, "Our mentor chose us specifically. Each one of us has a reason-"

"But there is still an 'us' there, Devon. Do you not understand that? At the end of the day, you are ultimately expendable. You are not the only X-Man – were you to ever abdicate your duty, as you have in the past," at the mention of those words, Devon's eyes grow even thinner, "your team would survive. Perhaps be impeded, but they would most inevitably survive. There is no other option for the Council or the world. There are no other Prodigals. Your duty, your calling is immutable. And as you have discovered more than once before, it is ineluctable."

A dark look of hostility passes over Devon's face. Behind him, Kurt places a three-fingered hand on his shoulder, in a touch he knew that meant he has a point.

And a damn good one at that.

"And if I refuse?"

"This is not an option, Devon Pryde. Either you will accept Derek Wisdom as your Watcher for the rest of your tenure, or we will have you deported."

"What!"

"WHAT!"

Travers' scowl doesn't change. Devon felt like wiping it off with a big, fat punch. His hand quivers by his side. "I've heard a lot of threats in my day, baldy, but this is by far the shittiest. What makes you think that you can deport me?"

"The Council has many resources and many powerful assets, Mr. Pryde. Do not think because you are the Chosen One that you have any favor with us."

"So what, he just becomes part of Excalibur, just like that?"

"Yes."

"And what, now I have to bring him an apple every time I see him?"

"You will report to him after patrol; every morning for training and message from the council."

Kurt looks at Travers with a final look of derision. "I'll show you to the door, Mr. Travers."

As they leave, Devon looks at this new man with a new kind of hatred. Scraggy hair, nasty five-o-clock shadow, more attitude and more nastiness than a pit full of vipers, and a smell like booze and barf rolled into one. There's a slight irony in the fact that they have stood among and fought beside some of the world's greatest heroes, some of the strongest warriors, and now they have to fight alongside him. There is an irony in there somewhere, but he just can't see it.

He would never accept this man.

Never.

"Hey Derek?"

"Hn?"

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Go ahead."

"Why do you keep doing this?"

Annoyed, bemused expression across his face. "Doing what?"

"This," he replies, gesturing to the space round them and lifting his suture-covered shoulders in emphasis. Derek pauses with the thread in one hand and the needle in another, "the whole Florence Nightingale late night fix-a-rama. I mean, I thought you didn't like me."

Derek snorts derisively. "I don't like you. It's just Council policy."

"Really?" He says, completely disbelievingly. "Is that why you stay up until six thirty every morning and wait up for me to come home and stitch me up?"

"That, and the fact that if I didn't, you'd bleed yourself to death all over the kitchen floor, and the elf would not like to wake up in the morning and find you dead on the linoleum."

A small twinge of annoyance flickers to life behind his eye. Part of him still gets goaded by the coarseness of what Derek says. For the most part, he thinks he's still an asshole. Except…

Except there's something in the way Derek handles him when he's hurt that sometimes makes him think twice.

"You never answered my question. Why?"

The way he's the exact opposite of when he talks: soft, assuaging, comforting…

"I told you, it's just the damn policy. You come back from patrol, I clean you up. You piss off, I go to bed. There. Simple. Now did you say that was one or two Arasyian demons?"

…and the way he always checks, every night, without fail whether or not he's okay.

"God, what is it with you British people and turning to work when you want to avoid something? 'Policy' my ass, Watcher. If policy had anything to do with this, you'd also have me neck-deep in demon books and sharpening my own stakes."

The way he seems to discern almost empathically just what he needs.

"Which is not a bad idea, come to think of it, so shut up. And get to work on your training exercises."

The way he touches him over his injured skin – so soft, like he's made of paper instead of flesh –

"No. Come on. Tell me."

– that make him believe that maybe his Watcher is not a complete asshole.

"No."

"Tell me."

"No."

"Tell me."

"No."

"Tell me."

"No."

"Tell me."

"Oh for God's sake, Pryde, will you shut your mouth?"

'Tell me. Tell me, tell me, tell me, tell me, tell-"

"Oh for the love of – because I WANT to, okay? There – y'happy! Because I don't want to see you walkin' about with your arse smashed in and your head bleedin' three ways 'til Sunday, and because you're my responsibility, you unrelenting, sodding little prick!"

He glares at the shorter boy, his face almost as red as the scarlet-shaded hue of his wine, the exasperated puffs of his breath fogging the glass and the air between them ever so slightly. A miniature grin cracks Devon's face. "And here I thought we weren't friends."

Derek sighs angrily. "We're not. But it doesn't mean I can stand you drippin' blood all over me rug."

The older man sinks back into his seat, drained. Devon sits beside him.

"Four."

"What?"

His head inclines in his direction, and there is a warmness in his eyes. "There were four Arasyian demons."

"Tell me about her."

Derek's voice sparkles with a playful curiosity. "'Bout who, mate? Yoko Ono?"

He dithers, fearful that the question will extinguish the light. He takes a breath, "…the other one."

"The other who?"

"The other girl. The one you trained."

Silence settles like a blanket thrown across the ocean. "Oh."

Devon hesitates, and speaks hurriedly. "…Maybe this wasn't such a-"

"What do you want to know?"

Briefer silence. Disbelieving redness creeps across his face. "What was her name?"

He already knows the answer. Even now, in the quiet of his room, he can see it already written across every painful crease and line across Derek's face. He's heard whispers of it so many times from Giles, from the Council, and he's seen it on the tattoo emblazoned across his left shoulder. They all have. But still, some childlike being in him wants to hear him say it. And he does.

"Prudence," he replies, his voice both empty and raw with emotion. "Her name was Prudence."

"What was she like?"

"Strong," he whispers out, and the light from the fire makes the water in his eyes glow pink. "Fearless. The most graceful and intelligent fighter I ever trained."

"How old was she?"

He hesitates, and a tiny, bitter smile flits across his lips. "Seventeen."

He has to pause before he speaks again, and this time turns so that the light from the fireplace only catches a sliver of his jaw, turning a strip of the black turtleneck ochre and gray and his skin vermilion hued. His eyes flit to the ground as if they weigh a ton.

"She was a dancer. The first time I saw her, I knew right away she was the Slayer. Even before she was Chosen – she had a gift in her, a talent; like there was some sort of polish and gleam that shone in her, even without her powers." His eyes flick at him as he speaks, "She may have even been able to take you on. Every time she went on patrol, I didn't know whether to be proud or worried that she'd get hurt and crack apart like a porcelain doll.

"Smart girl, her. Every time she opened her mouth I never knew whether to be amazed or pissed off with how much she knew about damn near everything," he says, and a wistful frown creases his brow. "But she never once boasted. Never once complained about anything; about her calling, about training –just kept on going, like some sublime creature that was beyond pain."

"…Was she pretty?"

Derek laughs, a dry, sardonic sound, and the laugh is turned towards himself. "Like a goddess."

"How – how long did she…"

Derek looks at him, and for a second, the tightness in his chest is more suffocating than ever. He blots it out. "When did she die?"

He bites his lip. The darkness in his face is almost frightening in its intensity. "Her nineteenth birthday."

And he knows what Derek is feeling right now; how every single syllable is wrenching him apart inside, like someone is taking a blunt knife and hacking apart dead meat. He can see the unshed tears, the grief – so strong and screaming and palpable across his face that it's painful to look at, but most of all, he sees the guilt; the endless, self-reproachful abyss of anguish.

ishouldhavebeenthereishouldhavestoppeditishouldhavetoolatetoolatetoolateishouldhaveicouldhaveiwouldhavesavedher.

It is one that he knows intimately. Above all, he knows the one thing that Derek does not want to hear. The one question that, without question, will shatter the fragile veneer of calmness and shaking control that is barely hovering over his face. And yet, he asks it anyway.

"How?"

And a lone, solitary tear rises and falls down the curve of one bearded, darkened cheek.

"Sark."

The image of the blond man, his former teammate – the equivalent of a brother for him and more– flashes before Devon's eyes, Derek's bitterness and betrayal strong enough to kill. He says nothing, simply gets up and walks over to where Derek is standing, and holds him.

He doesn't let go.

"What?"

His voice sounds even younger as it echoes throughout the space. He has to close his eyes momentarily, and tell himself to suck it up. His eyes don't meet Devon's, as his lips mumble of their own volition.

Devon's eyes flare even wider. "What!"

"I said, I'm leaving, Devon!" He bellows now, his hands shaking from the force of the words. The room seems to darken and fade, leaving nothing but the enormous rectangle of light streaming in from the burgundy colored sky.

The words seem to echo deafeningly inside his ears. A dry, astringent taste wells up in his mouth, threatening to choke him with its bitterness. "You're…you're leaving?"

The hard line of his jaw is almost perpendicular as he looks to the side. It takes all his strength not to crumble and evaporate as the stiff, immutable line lowers and nods.

"Why!" He belts out, his voice a wild and uncontrolled wail. He grabs Derek by the shoulders and throws him up against the wall. "Why are you doing this! Is it because of what Logan said? What can you possibly-"

"For God's sake, Devon, it has nothing to do about your father," he says, shoving the younger man backwards, "or anyone else! This is about us and how this isn't-!"

"Isn't what, Derek? Isn't what!"

The fire inside his mahogany eyes sizzles to a dead hiss, and all that's left is a penitent, heartrending honesty. "This isn't what you need anymore."

Incredulity bordered with indignation electrocutes Devon's face. "Isn't-! Isn't what I need anymore! What are you talking about, Derek? I need you more than ever, now! You're my WATCHER!" He howls, and somewhere outside, the wind whips a tree branch violently against the glass. His expression softens into something suspiciously like despair. "How can I do this without you?"

Derek approaches him, his body heavy with despondence. "Because you don't need me anymore, Devon," he says solemnly, "and honestly, the more I stay here, the more obvious it is that you never did in the first place. I've…I've taught you everything I know about slaying. About fighting. You're strong enough now to stand on your own and-"

Devon's eyes are narrow with tears. "Don't patronize me, you bastard!" he hisses, and recoils from the closeness of his Watcher. Despite the fury, he still feels intoxicated from the warmth of the older man's breath. A melancholic finality sparkles in Derek's eyes, and it makes the fire in Devon's chest burn even brighter.

"Devon, I-"

"No!" He chokes out, and he has to spit out the words before his throat closes up and swallows them whole. "After everything we've been through, after everything I've told you, how can you just leave like this? Like none of it ever happened!"

"Devon, please," his voice bore a pleading tone of urgency; his face still inexpressibly dark, "don't make this any harder than it has to be."

"Then explain it to me, Wisdom!" Across the floor, watery, rust-colored light falls across the floorboards like dragons. Dusk. "Why does it have to end like this!"

"Do you think I'm even remotely okay with this, Devon?" the older man shouts, his own frustration and undeniable emotion now surging high, "do you think that it's easy to leave! To just pack up and go, and disappear from everything like the last two years never happened? But I have nothing else to give you, goddamn it! I have nothing left to teach you, and as long as I stay, you're going to turn to me every time you think there's something you can't handle, and…and…

His face contorts into a twisted, bitter mask of desolation. "And I'll step in, because I can't stand to see you suffer."

Devon's eyes begin to rim over with tears. He shudders, and his voice is nothing but a shaky, intangible rasp. "I can't believe you're doing this."

Derek feels his own walls of control beginning to crumble. His hand stretches out across him, fingers brushing against Devon's cheek. "Kiddo, please…"

"Please what, Derek? Please stop! Please don't love you? I'm sorry, no one told me I had a choice! I'm never gonna change," he says despairingly, every last emotion in his soul baring itself naked across his face. "I can't change. I'm always going to want to be with you."

The final vestige of sanity that lingers between them demolishes into nothing, and he crushes the boy into his arms, burying his face in his neck. The sun is already a distant memory, the only sound between them the awful, ragged sounds of the sobs in their throat, burning themselves dry. Outside the tower, the world around them fades to dark.

"I'm sorry, Devon," he whispers, feeling the very shape of the word inside him. "But I just can't stay."

The café hadn't changed a bit since the moment they left it no less than thirteen hours ago. The same metallic, dully-polished glint of the furniture still sparkled in the corner of his eye like cheaply varnished aluminum; and toward his right, the blaring and almost incandescent London sunlight streamed in endlessly from the far window.

He raised the plain, ivory-colored cup to his lips and tilted back the coffee, relishing the bitter sensation as it coursed down his throat and filled his insides with warmth. As he closed his eyes, his hand drifted to the inside of his jacket and clasped thoughtlessly around the tie, black silk and immaculate, tucked away in his inner pocket.

"Keep it."

A surge of trepidation, mild and thrumming as it was, hummed through his veins. He could feel every nuance of his figure, tall and purposeful, as it walked down the street toward him. And it wasn't something his five preternaturally heightened senses could pick up. It was something definitely, entirely, internal.

Derek's body sang to him.

The sunlight still flooded in, unabashedly, from the side, as Derek's footsteps crossed over the threshold. And as he neared, Devon couldn't help but feel a poignant sense of dissolution close over him; because he knew with certainty what this was. This was no longer a game of skulking in the shadows, or a battle between enemies. This was the Truth, at long last, finally coming home.

The clean lines of his blazer arrived, just inches away from his face. Derek's expression was empty, except for the hard, resolute line of his lips that meant he was here for no other reason except to fulfill an obligation.

But even in the cold, detached emptiness of his glare, he could see a flicker, a shivering hesitancy; because the Truth was, things between them had never been more uncertain.

"Devon," Derek began tentatively. "We need to talk."

"You're damn right we do," the younger man says, his piercing wood-colored eyes glancing pointedly across the table, "but first, you mind explaining exactly what the hell you're doing with that?"

He tilts his head and gestures to the elegant black leather briefcase, hanging incongruously beside his legs. The rich, polished surface reflected dully with the blue gleam of ambient light.

Derek reddened, and cleared his throat. "It's your…remuneration. For the assistance with-"

The younger man's eyes twitched, raw and disbelieving. "You brought money, Derek?"

The starchness of his collar wrinkled as his head tilted in confusion, "Isn't that what we discussed, prior to the mission?"

Devon paused pensively, recollection filling his ambiguously clouded features. He lifted the steaming mug of porcelain and tipped the contents back. His face didn't change so much as a whisker. "That wasn't what I meant when I said 'I don't do this gig for free', Wis."

"Then what precisely did you mean, Devon?" Derek's ruffled brows furled together in frustration. "Aside from the 'misunderstanding' that I had to practically beg S.T.R.I.K.E. for an indecent sum of money to pay you with?"

His voice was a reply that cut straight to the point. "When I said I wanted something, I didn't mean money. I didn't mean glory, and I certainly didn't mean some shiny, manicured trophy for you to give me because I played along. You know just as well as anyone I would have done that job for free Derek; so don't act oblivious and please don't treat me like a stupid child anymore."

"So tell me then, Devon, because I really want to know," he hissed, his voice emerging angrier, fiercer, than he intended. "What was worth getting both of us shot at and nearly flambéed by a hundred vampires? What the bloody hell is it you want from me!"

A plain, deliberate expression met him back: unmoving, unwavering. "Exactly what you said. To talk.

"Sit." He said, gesturing to the seat across him, with the authoritative tone of one accustomed to being obeyed. Derek pulled out the rigid and chrome-covered seat from under him, and took his place across the teenager. Devon's eyes flicked downwards toward the table, boiling with unspoken anticipation.

"Listen, Devon, I-"

"No," he said, firmly, finally. "This is how it's going to work. I'm going to talk. You're going to listen," and Derek's mouth flew open automatically in retort, but the younger man's unflinching stare caught him before he so much as uttered a breath. "I think you owe me that much at least, don't you?"

And with every conscious, begrudging force in his body; he forced himself to clamp his jaw shut.

Devon glimpsed at him almost docilely, before pursing his lips into a thin, self-depreciating line. He gave his head a little shake as if trying to lodge free all the excess emotions and thoughts that were flitting around in there. "You know I've been fantasizing about this moment for nigh on three years now?"

The dark-haired Watcher's eyebrows nearly met his hairline. Devon laughed. "It's true! The defining moment when I finally had your undivided attention, and I told you exactly just what was what. But after everything that's happened in the past twenty-four hours," he admitted, the peaks of his disappointment and regret piercing through the surface, "now that I'm finally face to face with you again…all the speeches and sermons and finger-wagging rants just seem so…pointless."

Devon felt the attempted beginnings of a dozen reprimands, queries and apologies on his Watcher's tongue, but not one made it past his lips. He smiled inwardly, thankful that at least one of them was keeping their cool, and their promise.

"We never knew what happened to you, you know." He began calmly, in the same casual tone as one commenting on the weather. "Travers, that bitch, was about as forthcoming as a bucket of spit. Up until yesterday, you could've been anywhere from Bolivia to the moon, and I still wouldn't've known where you were.

His mouth cracked open from pure instinct. "I always meant to tell you, kid. Every time I blinked my eyes, all I could think about was-" us, he doesn't say, because the very shape of the word is painful and edged.

"Really, Derek?" he says, with passive disbelief. 'Then that explains why you never called. Or contacted me, or even sent just a lousy, measly postcard my way just once."

"What difference would it have made?" Derek shot back hotly. "Can you honestly say you would have accepted me?"

"I don't know, you never gave me the chance!" he answered archly, the older man's vexation flaring in reply, like a laser through a magnifying glass. Devon cut him off, "Kurt, Amanda, Meggan – Excalibur –maybe we would have taken you back. Maybe we woulda tossed your ass back out on the street – but the fact is, you never gave us... me... the choice. You just made the decision for me, like you'd always done for two fucking years, and left without so much as a second glance."

Derek had the decency to look ashamed, and immediately, his anger evaporating like rain against a hot pavement. Devon's features melted similarly; and the tension in his eyebrows gave way to a melancholy, bitter sort of certainty. He lowered his head,

"You were everything to me, you know that? And that's not a sentence that I say or use lightly. You meant nothing short of the entire, goddamn world to me; and there was a time that I would have done anything - anything - at all if you'd just so much as asked me to. I would have jumped a friggin' motorcycle with a bomb strapped to my butt onto a train for you. I even fought my own dad for you, Derek," he said bitterly, and this time, his fingers clenched and fisted, and the quiver throughout his whole body was unmistakable.

And I would still do it again in a heartbeat, just as long as you asked me to.

Derek's eyes began to glaze over with moisture, but he drew the courage and fortitude to speak,

"Devon, listen. This…isn't the place for this right now – someone could hear us, and our secre-"

"I love you."

The words were so simple, so heartbreakingly bare that it was all Derek could do not to fall off the chair, paralyzed. Devon looked down at his fingers, a small, bitter smile curling his lips.

"I never lay claim to anything I was proud of before being Chosen. Couldn't even say I loved anyone, or was loved in return." he shrugged. "Even in the X-Men, nurtured as I was, there was still a gaping, yawning hole in me – the burden of being the Chosen One – that no one could understand.

"But then you came along, and all of a sudden, someone did. I felt complete in a way that I never before knew existed – you understood me in ways that nobody else could or did; not Giles, not Peter – not even Logan," he swallowed, the admission bringing a sharp, stinging sensation to Derek's chest. "Every single feeling, every torrential, hormonal emotion; and it wasn't just because you were my Watcher. And it wasn't because you were the only other person who had an inkling of what it meant to be the Prodigal.

"It was just because you were you."

Right on cue, his former Watcher's expression crumpled into one that was poisoned with sadness. Guilt stained across his features, and Devon couldn't help but think about how the sight should have filled him with some sort of fulfillment. But all it did was make him hurt more.

"Even after all this time, I still can't bring myself to hate you," the pulsing tone of his voice is one that makes Derek's own insides pang more with hurt. "Even after everything that's happened …even – even after so many nights of going back to your room after patrol, and remembering only the second that I reached your door that you weren't there.

He turned away, because it is more than he can bear to let Derek see the hard, crimson droplet of blood that seeps down his lip as he bites it.

"I still don't understand. I can't understand, Derek. It doesn't make sense to me, why you would leave me, if even for one nebulous, fleeting moment, I meant the tiniest shred of something to you. And yet," he gritted through clenched teeth, and there was an edge in his voice, and the edge was turned towards himself, "I still can't help who I am. I still love you."

A humid, throttling silence drew out between them. For the first time, Derek felt completely and utterly speechless. Derek looked out to the east, unable to meet Devon's eyes. He was overcome with the younger boy's emotion, as well as his own, and for a moment the breathing in his chest sounded like something very closely resembling agony.

"But this is it, Derek. I can't do this anymore," he paused, and looked back at his Watcher's face, so broken and painful with sorrow. "I won't do this anymore. This time, there is no more part two. No epic sequel. When I leave this café, I never want to see your face again. And I mean it."

Derek's face suddenly hardened, creased with dissent and desperation. "Devon, no – please, I know this is painful, but we can't finish everything we had like this-"

"How did you think this was going to end, huh?" Devon yelled with a burst of anger so pure, half of the bystanders around them glanced backwards. "What did you think would happen after everything was said and done? That we'd just be friends again, and act like none of this shit ever happened!

He said nothing. He didn't even blink; but the awkward, stony stiffness and silence was most telling.

"Let me enlighten you on something, Derek. We're not friends." Something cold and sickening wrapped around his heart as the words left the younger man's lips. "We'll never be friends. After all that we've seen and done, do you think that even for one second, we could pretend to be anything resemblant of it? We'll fight, and we'll scream and we'll kiss, and we'll hate each other until it makes us quiver," he pronounced with equal resignation and apathy, his bottom lip starting to shake. "We'll be in love until it kills us. But we'll never be friends."

He stopped then, and a soundless, mirror-colored tear ran down his skin. And it wasn't a tear of anger, or a tear born of sadness. The icy fingers around his chest grew even tighter, for Derek knew that it was a tear that was telling him goodbye.

He looked down at his Watcher's upraised face, watching those dark eyes become moist. "I tried to leave you so many times... but you probably didn't even know. You always found me, always brought me home. And home was wherever you were.

"But this time, home is wherever you aren't." Devon's voice was suddenly devoid of emotion, cold and calculating. "I never want to see you again, not dead, not living, not as a pile of ashes. I may love you, but I just don't care any more.

"Don't talk to me, don't track me down, and don't say you're sorry. Because it's too little, too fucking late." He stood up again, shoving out his chair, and thrust his hand into his pocket and whipped out the untouched length of shimmering tapered silk, the color of night. He threw it at Derek's lap, and the tie fluttered into a tangle, as if dancing with a final, beautiful wisp of glory.

"Something to forget me by."

It wasn't until Devon turned to leave that Derek finally regained his voice.

"Devon!" He cried, confused and desperate, not caring who turned to look or who noticed him. Receiving no reaction, he shocked his legs to run after his charge. "DEVON!" he called, the distress evident in his voice.

The teen turned and took one last look at his Watcher; disheveled, desperate and grief-stricken, a tear running down his perfect cheek, and in that final, heartwrenching instant – Derek felt the blunt, acid-coated hardness of his words finally resonate against his skin as he registered them. There would be no more second chances. No more tries. Because written in stone, across the planes of Devon's face, was his final and immutable message.

It's over.

"Goodbye, Derek."