They always said he looked like his father. The brow, the stance, the sneer. There were constant jokes about the broodiness being genetic.
They rarely said that he looked like his mother.
He had no photographs of her, but hidden in one of Uncle Wesley's books, he discovered a daguerreotype. She was beautiful, icily beautiful, proud, haughty. He studied her features, the thin, fine nose, the piercing blue eyes, lips which seemed to be laughing at him. He wondered if his father ever saw her in his face.
Connor studied his reflection, trying to see his mother in his own face, adjusting the lighting, the angles, the mirror, desperately trying to find Darla in his features, never telling anyone how badly he wanted to feel connected to her.
One day he flippantly snarked at his father, a response to one of Angel's many lectures, and his father abruptly stopped talking and looked at his son as if he'd never noticed him. Connor shuffled his feet uncomfortably, as Angel opened his mouth and spoke words Connor never thought he'd hear.
"You look so much like your mother."