His Father's Son - XL

'Sometimes the poorest man leaves his children the richest

inheritance' - Ruth E. Renkel

Seattle

One month later…

She watched the building from the shadows of a back alley, careful to keep her body as concealed as the oddly jutting walls would allow. Her palms rested against the cool brick and she chewed on her bottom lip with a ferocity that threatened to soon draw blood. Her heart hammered against her ribcage almost painfully, whilst the rush of her own pulse in her ears had risen to a deafening peak. Her palms began to moisten in a telling fashion and not before long droplets of perspiration dotted her brow. Gritting her teeth determinedly, she took a few deep and measured breaths in a bid to force her own body back into submission; after all, it was not as if the world of surveillance was alien to her.

Allowing her body to dip forward by an inch or so more, she squinted in an effort to pull the doorway of the library building her gaze was trained upon into sharper focus. Finding her target still absent, she sighed and sagged a little in defeat. He had been surprisingly easy to track down using only the fragments of information she had acquired and yet still she felt an increasing guilt at the methods she had employed to do so. Shaking her head in order to dispel the thought, she attempted to remind herself of the necessity of her ventures. And yet with every passing second, her very presence in this place seemed more and more like a betrayal of the man she loved.

It was with these thoughts at the forefront of her mind that she first noticed him. Just a hand pushing open the doorway at first, followed by a set of broad shoulders, and then a dark head that was slightly bowed against the relentless rain. His movements were fluid as he emerged from the library despite the hefty rucksack tucked under one arm and the fact that he had neglected to tie either of the laces of the combat boots he wore. His body was lean and long yet from beneath the thin cotton of his shirt a set of clearly defined muscles rippled. His eyes were obscured by the pair of unnecessary shades he hastily pulled down from his forehead, but the chiselled line of his jawbone was unmistakable in its origin. He was everything and yet nothing she had expected all at once and, for a moment, she stood locked in a stupor. It was as he began to disappear from view, propelled across the sidewalk by long, easy strides, that the woman forced her own feet into action.

Keeping close to the walls of the building, she ducked out of the alley and began to pursue her quarry. She found herself breaking into a gentle run in order to match his pace but she weaved her way through the crowd of pedestrians with her mouth set in a determined line. The sidewalks, slick with rain, generally required special negotiation but she had not nearly enough time to pay mind to caution.

As he rounded the corner, she bolted across the street, barely registering the blasting horns of the numerous cars that had skidded to a halt just inches short of hitting her. The angry cries of the drivers washed over her and yet she kept running, panting now with the effort. As her sneakers pounded out a desperate rhythm against the sidewalk, her head whipped from side to side as she attempted to bring the boy's figure back into focus. The quiet side-street that stretched before her was vacant and yet she was certain that this had been the route he had taken. The woman paused on the corner of the street raking both hands through her hair in a clear display of frustration and, deciding there were no better options, she continued onward.

She had barely reached a distance of three yards when the lid of the trashcan swept out from the side of a deserted building and connected squarely with her jaw. The force was enough to drop her to the ground but not to render her unconscious, and less than a second after the impact had occurred she was back on her feet, albeit slightly groggy. Her hands whipped up in front of her body in a defensive pose that by now was instinct alone. It did not take long for her to locate her attacker, whose stance mirrored her own as he dominated the sidewalk before her.

She gasped and drew back against the shelter of the building at her side. He stood and faced her brazenly, his poise both assured and deadly. She did not doubt either of these attributes after having watched him on the hunt these past few nights, unbeknown of course to Connor Reilly himself.

The rucksack had been abandoned recklessly at his side as though he expected this fray to last no longer than minutes, simply serving as a minor inconvenience to the rest of his day. His sunglasses had also been discarded, giving her a good view of his eyes which she was surprised to discover were a hazy blue in colour. Little of Angel was reflected within them and she found herself somewhat disappointed by that fact. She had always considered Angel's eyes to be among his best features. Now that she was finally able to regard Connor at close quarters, she was startled by the boy's undeniable resemblance to his mother. She had expected Angel's strong features to have dominated their son and yet so much of Connor reminded her of Darla, from the lips that seemed perpetually twisted into a pout to the slim and almost delicate nose.

Her brow furrowed in a perplexed fashion as she became lost in the contours of the boy's face and, for a moment, Connor seemed somewhat confused. In that split second, as his brow furrowed and his head tilted slightly to one side, he was so much Angel's son that she stumbled backward in awe. Finally, after a deep and hesitant breath, he spoke.

"So you're hotter than the average demon, I'll give you that," he offered, his velvet voice lilting in an amused manner as he surveyed the woman somewhat appreciatively. She stiffened and attempted to collect herself, grateful for the moment that in her confusion Connor seemed to be making no move to attack. It was almost as though he sensed something within her that threw his own judgement into question. Although rooted to the spot and still locked in his defensive pose, Connor seemed to be struggling to actually identify the woman as a threat.

"I-I'm not… a demon…" she stammered, suddenly allowing her hands to fall to her sides in favour of adopting a more relaxed and convincing demeanour. Connor arched a thick eyebrow and remained unmoving, clearly unwilling to take much on faith.

"So how come you've been following me for the past five hours?" Connor countered, a small smirk playing across his lips as an expression of surprise crossed the woman's features.

"More like the last week actually. I… er…" she faltered, pushing a lock of hair that had escaped her messy ponytail behind her ear. She sank her top teeth into her bottom lip as she struggled to form an explanation that would prove satisfactory. Connor finally lowered his balled fists, instead crossing his arms in front of his chest whilst he continued to gaze quizzically at the young woman.

"Overzealous parking warden?" she offered, wincing as she realised how lame she sounded even before the words had fully left her mouth.

"I don't drive and even if I did, there's no way my folks would let me near their car," Connor deflected almost instantly, his sceptical expression now giving way to faint amusement. As she opened her mouth in search of a more convincing argument, Connor's eyes suddenly widened, prompted by the ghost of realisation.

"You're her, aren't you?" he demanded, suddenly stepping forward and seizing the woman by the elbows. She was surprised to find the pressure of his grip somewhat painful and, unnerved, attempted to shake the boy's fingers from her arms. Determined, Connor dug his fingers into her skin with ferocity, his eyes narrowing as they searched her face for some kind of response. She could sense the familiarity in his eyes and the excitement that coursed through him as he stood rocking slightly on his heels.

"Who?" she replied, her voice quivering. Swiftly, as though a jolt of electricity coursed through his body, Connor released the woman from his grasp and took a step backward.

The words spilled from his lips in a rush, "You're Buffy Summers."

x-x-x

Buffy peered into the depths of the mug of steaming brown liquid before her that had rather dubiously been termed 'coffee', and frowned before emptying a third sachet of sugar into it. Grabbing a teaspoon from the table, she concentrated on stirring exaggerated circles in her mug, which allowed her to keep her gaze trained firmly downwards. Connor had not taken his eyes off the Slayer since they had arrived at the small, rundown coffee house. He seemed to be eyeing her with a range of emotions that went from stunned awe to scathing hostility in a five second window, and Buffy was uncertain as to which of these would ultimately win out. The thick and heavy silence had weighed down upon them since they had seated themselves at a table. Every passing second saw Buffy growing more and more uncomfortable until eventually she decided that breaking their mutually agreed silence would be for the better.

"So how did you know…" Buffy began, peering at Connor from beneath her lashes.

"Who you are?" Connor finished with unnerving certainty. Buffy arched an eyebrow, simultaneously impressed and irritated to discover that the boy seemed to possess the same penchant for finishing one's sentences as his father.

"How could I not know you?" Connor replied with evident glee, taking a small sip of his latte and curling his lip in distaste. He hastily placed the mug back onto the table. Buffy simply shook her head and shrugged a little, reluctant to probe the boy for more information than he seemed inclined to offer. Sensing her unwillingness, Connor sighed and leaned closer to Buffy across the table. Fighting the urge to withdraw, Buffy met Connor's gaze. There was something about the boy that still unnerved her, although Buffy was unable to pinpoint exactly what that was. She knew from her observations of late that he was in no way a threat to the forces of good, or indeed much beyond an average college student, but she was unable to shake the sense of unease that filled her every time their eyes met.

"As much as it hurts to say this, you are the only woman my father… my real father… has ever loved," Connor replied, his smile thin and somewhat pained as the thought of his biological mother flashed through his mind, "he used to keep a picture of you… when everyone else thought he was reading- there it was- right between the pages. He'd stare at you for hours… like you were his religion or something. I don't think he ever knew I knew."

Buffy's mouth dropped open to form a tiny 'o' of surprise and she felt her cheeks beginning to flush with embarrassment.

"Did he ever… talk about me?" Buffy inquired, mentally chiding herself for straying into a territory that she was not sure she was ready to revisit. Connor chuckled softly and inclined his head as he scrutinised Buffy. She stared levelly back at the boy, her body leaning forwards in a display of eagerness.

"Nope," he replied, his eyes narrowing as Buffy's shoulders slumped a little at the revelation. In the next breath, Connor continued unabashed, "Stare at your picture for hours… sketch you… call your house and then hang up… sure thing, all the time. But talk about you? Nope- never."

Buffy rolled her eyes and raised the coffee mug to her lips. As the pungent scent of un-dissolved granules assaulted her nose, she thought better of her decision and replaced the drink untouched.

"Last thing I heard," Connor began, reclining in his seat and hooking his hands behind his head, "Angel was in Sunnydale with you… a changed man. That true?"

"You mean he hasn't… he didn't…" Buffy stammered in disbelief, "does he ever call?"

Connor's responding smile was surprisingly bright as he shook his head.

"Write? Email? Twitter?" Buffy attempted, her eyes growing wider as Connor deflected each of her questions with a small shake of his head. "And you… don't you care?"

Connor shrugged and Buffy immediately sighed, expecting a monosyllabic response that would only add to the tension between the two.

"Look, Angel and I understand each other," Connor said quietly, resting clasped hands on the surface of the table, "the last time we saw each other was over a year ago but we have our ways of always knowing."

"You mean you spy on each other?" Buffy demanded, her lips pursing in displeasure at the very idea. Connor laughed and jabbed a finger playfully in Buffy's direction.

"And what exactly would you call what you've been doing to me for the past seven days?"

Buffy was silenced immediately and she lowered her gaze to the surface of the dirty table.

"I'm not… I wasn't spying," she managed, her tone obviously awkward. "I just needed to see you. To know…"

Connor nodded encouragingly at the Slayer, who simply shook her head as an adequate explanation for her behaviour escaped her. In truth, she had craved many things from her intended visit with Connor, but now that she was face to face with the boy, she found herself wondering if she had indeed answered any of the questions that had plagued her. She had hoped that observing Connor would perhaps prepare them all better for the nature of Dawn and Spike's impending child. The prophecy surrounding the baby was ominous at best and Buffy knew that although Giles would not rest until he had deciphered its true meaning, they were engaged in a race against time to determine whether the child would indeed prove a threat to them all. Buffy was certain that Dawn would be unwilling to consider these possibilities, as any mother naturally would. She also knew that any information they could acquire could prove invaluable, and she was reluctant to trust Angel's judgement in this matter.

However, Buffy could not deny that, upon learning of the existence of Angel's son, she had been filled with a kind of morbid curiosity that had refused to allow her a moments rest during her waking hours. She had decided to attempt to track the boy down using only the information she had managed to forage from Angel's belongings before leaving Sunnydale. Buffy knew that she had to see Connor with her own two eyes; and yet she was utterly clueless as to what satisfaction or peace she would gain from this.

"It's just… if I had a son," Buffy began softly, sweeping her arm to encompass them as she continued, "I couldn't imagine this. This isn't the way it's supposed to be."

"Angel and I aren't exactly your average relationship model," Connor replied, "I was stolen away to a demon dimension when I was weeks old and raised by a madman who taught me to hate everything I had ever come from… man, I did some bad things when I came back, Buffy. But Angel… in his own way… I guess he saved me. He made it so I could have everything he could never give me- or at least he made it so that's what I thought I had. The people that raised me are good people and I love them… and I love my father too… but we don't fit in each other's lives."

"Sometimes just knowing is enough I guess," Buffy said quietly, rubbing at her moistening eyes with balled fists and sniffing conspicuously. She flashed Connor a weak smile which he returned with slightly more enthusiasm.

"You look tired," he said with a startling bluntness that was not unkind. Buffy nodded, feeling every last drop of strength ebbing out of her body, which had moulded itself into the vinyl cushion of her seat. She reached once again for the coffee mug and this time drank deep despite the acrid sting that assaulted her throat.

"I better get going," Buffy said, pushing her chair hastily away from the table and beginning to gather her purse. Connor's hand closed over her own and he gently tugged Buffy back into her seat.

"I guess I can understand why you had to see me," Connor said, the smile he wore now beginning to fade as he peered instead in earnest at Buffy. "But I don't understand what you're running from."

"I'm not-…" Buffy began indignantly but was silenced by a single dubious glance from Connor.

"I know the look. It's not like I haven't ever run from things in the past," he replied pointedly. His tone adopted a more gentle quality as he continued, "He's a good man, Buffy. I can only guess that the reason you're here instead of there is because he hurt you, and I probably have something to do with that so I'm probably gonna be the last person you want to hear this from but… go home."

Buffy stared mutely at Connor, her expression similar to that of a pouting child. Her bottom lip protruded and her arms were crossed defensively before her.

"Everything he does- it's always because he thinks it's for the best. He had his reasons and maybe they were all wrong, but you would have to be a supreme idiot to think that one of those reasons could ever be that he just doesn't love you enough."

Buffy flashed Connor a wan smile and unconsciously tightened her grip on her purse. She gnawed on her bottom lip as she contemplated the boy's advice, desperately attempting to locate even the tiniest flaw in his reasoning.

"Gee, I'm kind of embarrassed I'm that transparent," Buffy finally managed with a sigh.

Connor chuckled and shook his head, an act that caused his brown bangs to fall across his eyes, although he made no move to displace them.

"Don't be," he answered, adding sheepishly, "I'm kinda embarrassed I called my 'stepmom' hot and hit her in the face with a trashcan lid."

Buffy reached hastily across the table for the one clean napkin she had spotted and, retrieving a pen from her pocket, scrawled a familiar number. When she was done, she pushed the paper across the table to Connor with an encouraging smile.

"If you ever…" she began. Connor interjected before her sentence had even neared completion, his tone and expression equally sober and yet neither containing the anger she would have expected.

"I won't."

Buffy nodded and, with a final backward glance at Connor, she headed towards the door of the café and into the uncharacteristic afternoon sunshine. For a moment she stood still, seemingly blinded and confused by the daylight. Then, with a smile that came surprisingly easily, Buffy disappeared into the crowd.

The ghost of a smirk played across Connor's lips as he watched the woman's retreating figure through the grimy windows of the street café.

Into his cup, he murmured with fondness, "It was nice to meet you, Buffy."