Ceremonies of Innocence

by Persephone

Angel stared down at the phone he had just hung up. His mind was already playing and replaying his conversation with Giles.

'Who is this person? What exactly have you told her?'

He had expected that. It was only natural that Giles would be curious about Cat. It was his job to worry about things like that. What wasn't natural was his own reaction to the questions. He hadn't expected to be so defensive. No, he had been more than just defensive, he had been plain rude.

'Did you even try to convince her that what she saw might have been a trick of light? Or hysteria?'

'Cat's not like other people...'

Now why had he said that? Though it was true she wasn't, why was he so reluctant to tell Giles about the young woman and her special abilities?

Maybe it was because Angel didn't know enough yet about the young woman and those abilities. While it was true that she might be under the influence of the hellmouth, and Angel was finding that more and more difficult to believe by the moment, it was also possible that she was exactly what she appeared to be. And that was simply a psychic; a strong psychic, but a psychic never the less.

Why not? Drusilla had had her gifts long before he found her and embraced her. She had not been living on a hellmouth, but rather her talent had been born and innate. It followed her through life, making her family ostrasize her and making it so much easier to push her in the directions that led to her insanity.

Angel pushed back the thoughts of the mad vampire created by his hand and his blood. Those thoughts were dark thoughts that would send him along paths he would rather not travel at that moment. Besides, he had Cat to worry about. He had to find out *what* she was.

"Are ye ready ta talk ta me now?" The young woman's voice startled Angel.

'Speak of the devil,' Angel mused, then erased the thought. Devils were something best not spoken of or thought of on a hellmouth.

"How long have you been standing there?" he asked.

She shrugged. "Not long," she hedged.

He narrowed his eyes, trying to determine just how much of the truth she was telling. It did no good trying to read her face--she was purposefully giving him an innocently sweet smile. And her mind--well, all he could pick up was a surface scan really. Just a few fleeting impressions of feeling. She was agitated and trying to hide it. Curious, too. Maybe a little afraid. None of it surprised him very much except for the degree of agitation he was sensing in her. It belied her serene demeanor; she was hiding something and wasn't comfortable about hiding it. Interesting.

"Ye said that there were things ye needed ta tell me," she crossed her arms, "For my own protection, ye said."

"Are you thirsty?" Angel asked mildly. He felt the flash of impatience and bewilderment that statement engendered. "Can I get you anything?"

"Yes."

"What?" Angel padded towards the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and peered in it theatrically. A rather silly thing to do since there wasn't much there to look at.

"How about some straight answers?" she snapped, "I've a real thirst for that."

"Why are you so upset?" Angel leaned against the fridge.

"Oh, I dinna know--maybe because I was almost dinner tonight! And I'd like ta know why ye people are following me? What do I have a sign on me that says, 'Eat me! I'm delicious!'?"

Angel blanched. Her face showed instant contrition. "I'm sorry," she bit her lip, "That was uncalled for."

"No, it was true," Angel replied slowly.

"Which part? The sign or the uncalled for?"

Angel gave a slight and frustrated shake of his head. This was not going to be easy. She was not going to make this easy. Then again, why should she? She was right. She had been attacked by a vampire and he knew that before today she hadn't even believed that vampires existed. Her entire world had been turned inside out and upside down -- and all because she tried to read his mind in a mall food court. Because he had let her get too close to him. He had known better, only he had ignored his common sense and now they were both paying for it. But it wasn't fair that she was paying the price for his mistake.

The karmic wheel turned and once again deposited another fun situation in his lap. Joy. Angel wondered how many more of these moments it would take before he had even begun to balance the scales for the wrong he had done as Angelus.

"Cat, let's sit down."

She shook her head at once. "No. I dinna like ta sit down. That's when ye get the really bad news."

Well, Angel mused, she was certainly right on that count. What he had to tell her might be really bad news -- but it was also the sort of news that might just save her life. If he could get her to listen to him long enough to understand that.

"Cat, please."

He watched, surprised as some of the fight seemed to go out of her. "Okay, I'll sit. But it doesna mean that I like it."

Yes, but sitting was at least a start in the right direction.

Angel followed her back to the living area, noticing the tenseness with which she held herself. She was still wary, only now she was trying to hide it under a veil of belligerence. It wasn't working and they both knew it. She flopped down in the easy chair, staring up at him with blatant expectation as he eased down into a sitting position. He winced at the sitch in his side.

"How's the cut?" she asked, straightening in obvious concern.

"A little tender but I'll heal. That was quick thinking on your part--getting the blood and all," Angel grimaced at the thought of earlier. Not only had she been attacked but she had been subjected to watching him wig out over a bottle of blood. No wonder she was being so rebellious.

"Well, take it easy, okay? Ye're not Superman, ye ken," she chastised.

He wasn't sure whether to tread carefully or just get everything out on the table at once. With some thought, he decided option one might be the wiser course of action.

"You're a psychic," Angel began.

"I 'ave a friend that would say, Been there, done that, bought the the t-shirt. Can we get on with it, please?"

Angel felt his own ire begin to rise. "All right then. Your powers make you about as invisible as a nuclear reactor to me and my kind. You couldn't broadcast more clearly if you try."

Silence. Cat stared at him, then lowered her gaze to watch her fingers trace patterns on the arm of her chair. Angel frowned, but continued, "We live off of blood, yes. But we also live off the emotions from our victims. Psychic as well as physical vampires, if you want to get technical. It gives us a rush, sustains us. That's why vamps like to play with their victims before they feed, to get the blood stirring, to get that emotional outlet charged. Psychics are an even better source of nourishment than most."

"So basically I have the life expectancy of a bug?" she said at last, voice small.

Angel suddenly felt tired. "Not if you're careful."

"Careful?" she echoed. There was a secret pain in those gray eyes that made her seem positively ancient, a knowledge of...something that set her apart. Almost as if she were carrying a burden she could barely mange. It chilled him to see it. He had seen it before.

In Buffy.

But then the Slayer had good reason for that. It had been worn into her. Every night, her life was on the line, kill or be killed. Always knowing that one night she would walk out of her home and she might not come back. It had been hard enough for Angel to bear that but for Buffy... He marveled at her strength, her courage. And he worried for her because she carried that burden alone and was not inclined to let anyone ease the weight of it for her. Not even him. Not anymore, at least.

There had been a time once though, a time that was now dead, killed by Angelus, where that had not been the case. His former self would have been pleased to know that of all the damage Angel could not right, this was the one that hurt the most. Hurt both of them. In a perverse way, he supposed, it was Angelus' final triumph, his legacy to Angel.

It was, partly, why he had left Sunnydale. Seeing that haunted look grow year by year and knowing that he was part of the reason for it had been unbearable. Unbearable because they had crossed a line in which he could no longer help her assuage that pain. Knowing that as much as she loved him, trusted him, there would always be a part of her that was closed to him.

He had journey thousands of miles only to find it again--this time in the face of the young Scottish woman across from him.

It was completely unexpected. Unnerving.

"I'm sorry," Angel managed. He looked away, staring at his hands and cursing himself as a coward for doing so.

"Why?" she asked quietly, "It isn't yer fault. I owe ye my life."

"But I am like them," he replied bitterly.

"No," she said sharply, "Ye're nothing like them!"

"How would you know?" he retorted, "You know nothing about me or what I've done."

Cat slid out of her chair to the floor, catching his hand, "I know that you're good. Kind."

"Good? Kind?" he laughed. She flinched at the mocking sound in it. "This isn't some fairy tale. I'm not the woodsman come to save you from the Big Bad Wolf--I'm one of the wolves."

"No," she shook her head stubbornly, "I ken how ye feel ta me-- ye're different, Angel. I didna feel any sense of remorse or guilt from the other one."

"That's because I'm cursed." He hadn't intended to tell her that but it was clear he needed to adjust some of her perceptions before they got her killed. He couldn't let her walk around believing that some vampires were good and others weren't. As far as he knew, he was the exception, not the rule. And sometimes, he wasn't even sure how much of an exception he was.

Her forehead creased in confusion. "Cursed?"

"I was in Romania, almost a hundred years ago. Travelling through the countryside, killing whoever I could find," he kept his tone conversational, almost light-hearted, "Came about an encampment of gypsy and decided to have a little fun. Played up being a lost, wearily traveller to the hilt and got taken in for the night. I repaid their generosity by killing the daughter of the camp's leader. Pretty girl, very sweet and docile, though a little simple-minded. It was very easy to lure her to the edge of the encampment and suck her dry."

Cat stared at him in unmitigated horror. Angel felt it like a blow and wanted to hide but instead forced himself to look her squarely in the eye and continue. He had to make her understand.

"Unfortunately, or should I say fortunately for me? she was the favorite of her clan. I ran as fast as I could but their curse still found me."

"What sort o' curse?"

"They restored my soul," he replied flatly, "And nothing else they could have done to me would have caused as much pain as this has. I remember clearly the faces of each and every person I ever betrayed, tortured, and killed."

"And ye care," Cat whispered. There was pity in her voice now.

"I care." He agreed.

"Angel," she reached for him in obvious sympathy. He pushed her away, gliding to his feet and backing away from her.

"I'm dangerous, Cat. More dangerous than anything you'll ever meet. You should stay away from me."

"No, Angel," she said firmly, getting to her feet, "I'm not afraid o' ye. Ye're good--I can feel that--"

He took her roughly by the arms, drawing her forward. She pulled back at his sudden nearness but he held tight. "I killed my own family, Cat," he whispered intensely, "I tortured the last set of people who called me 'friend' and I killed one of them. What makes you think I won't do the same with you?"

"Because ye're trying to warn me off, " she lifted her chin in defiance, "Are ye really afraid for me, Angel? Or it is that ye're are afraid of me?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I think ye're afraid because I'm getting too close ta yer little secret and I'm not running screaming in terror. Well, I'm sorry ta throw off yer little pity party but I'm not going anywhere."

"Haven't you heard a word I've said?" Angel glowered at her.

"Aye, I have," Cat scowled just as darkly back at him, "Ye're an evil wretched person. Ye've done things in the past that yer ashamed of. And ye want me ta hate ye for that. Is that it?"

Angel pushed her away from him in annoyance. "You understand nothing."

"Oh, I think I do. If I understand ye correctly, ye lost yer soul when ye became a vampire? Which would imply that vampires dinna have souls? Is that right?"

"Yes."

She nodded at that, "Then I dinna why I should hate ye. It wasna ye who committed all those...terrible acts. It was someone else. Someone who ye used ta be."

Was it his imagination or did a shadow cross her face with that last statement? A sorrowing flash of understanding, as if she knew exactly what she was saying. As if she had first hand experience with it. How could someone her age have any idea what she was talking about, he denied it. Or tried to even as he remembered Buffy.

But Cat was not the Slayer. Nor was she a vampire cursed with a soul. He wasn't exactly sure who or what she was. And he wasn't exactly sure why he was putting up with this the way he was. Since the whole Sunnydale fiasco, he had avoided getting close to people, had pushed all closeness away.

Until now. And he couldn't figure out why now, with this person, was different.

Something Whistler had once 'casually' observed a few weeks previously came back to him. 'You ever think that sometimes certain people are meant to meet? That maybe Fate throws people into our lives at the right place and the right time for a reason. I mean, take the Slayer for instance. Ever stop to wonder what her life would have been like if she hadn't met up with Willow or Xander or even, my tormented friend, you."

'A lot happier, I imagine," he had said in response to the last.

Whistler had merely shaken his head, replying, 'Certain people touch us, they change us. Help us see beyond ourselves. You gave Buffy strength, confidence, and more importantly, you gave her your friendship and love.'

'That's nothing compared to the terror and heartbreak I put her through.'

'That's where you're wrong, my dour amigo. It was everything because you gave it to her. Because it changed the both of you. You have to watch out for those people, Angel. The ones who help your journey along.'

'What journey?'

'Of becoming.'

Becoming. At the time, he had discounted the whole conversation as nothing more than Whistler's cryptic ramblings. But now... Now he began to wonder just how much the demon/man actually knew--about him, his future. Had that whole conversation been a roundabout way of telling him that someone new would be coming into his life? Someone who he would have an impact on and vice versa? The more he thought about it, the more his head began to ache. One day, he promised, one day I am going to have a long talk with Whistler and get a straight answer out of him.

'Never happen,' a small voice in his mind whispered.

"Someone I used to be?" He echoed, "Cat, you're trying to simplify something that isn't simple at all."

"Isn't it?" Those gray eyes nailed him with their directness.

"No."

Angel studied her warily as she approached him once more. The jacket on her shoulders slid to the floor and she bared her neck. "Then kill me. I'll be willing ta bet that my blood's a good deal richer than the bottled stuff. Maybe it will even help ye heal faster."

He turned away from her, "Stop it."

"Why?" she continued, "If ye're still the man ye were then why will ye no' do it? I'm offering ye my life and if what ye have told me is true, I doubt that yer old self would turn it down."

"You're not wrong," he replied. No, Angelus would have reveled in this girl's self-destructive tendencies, would have played with her, and possibly, because of her powers, turned her.

"So do it," she touched his shoulders, "I'm willing--hell, I do owe ye my life and what better way ta repay my debt?"

"You like playing with fire, don't you?"

"Maybe more than ye think," she replied cryptically, "Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Are ye going ta do it or not? Could ye please hurry and make up yer mind? My neck is really starting ta get a crick in it," Cat replied tartly.

"No, thanks. I already ate," Angel replied sarcastically. He felt a surge of anger wash over him. Didn't this girl understand how dangerous a game she was playing? It was all he could do to clamp hold of the hunger rising in him. The fight and his wound had drained him more than he had anticipated. And here was this young, fresh woman offering her throat and the rich, copper river that ran beneath it....

"I take it that's a no?" she asked coyly.

Taking her firmly by the upper arm, Angel ignored her sharp intake of pain and surprise. He tugged her towards the door, his patience worn at last. "That's it. Get. Out."

Cat shook free; rather Cat attempted to shake her arm free, but his grip held firmly. "No, we're no done yet."

"Yes, Cat. We are."

"Angel," her voice held a warning in it, "Let me go right now."

"It's time for all good little girls to be in bed. Oh and you, too," he added as an afterthought.

"Let me go," she began pelting him with her free arm. "Angel, so help me...."

"You'll what?" he smirked. He had both the advantage of speed and strength; they both knew it. Angel had to admit he was interested to hear just what she thought she could do to him.

Her nostrils flared. "Ye may be stronger than me, Angel, but ye're not the only one who can bite."

His eyebrows shot up in surprise. "You wouldn't."

"Sure o' that, are ye?" she smiled coolly at him, a predatory flash of teeth.

"You little vixen," he whispered. Angel wasn't sure whether to be amused or vexed. After all, how often did he have to worry about someone biting him? The last time had been over two hundred and forty odd years ago.

Of course, he had still been human then. Unaware of the twists and turns his life was going to take as he glimsped the sight of a beautifully dressed stranger in a Galway alley.

People who live in glass houses shouldn't throw stones. Why that age old saying should suddenly occur to him, Angel didn't know. What he did know was that this girl was playing with fire, and that in the end fire always burned. She may have thought that she was holding her own with him -- her wisecracks and her calm facade, but the truth was she had no idea how close to a very dangerous edge that she walked. Just because he felt remorse didn't mean he wasn't dangerous. He was incredibly dangerous, and all the more so because he knew there was forever the possibility that he might lose his soul again.

How had Willow so elegantly put it?

"Well, we just have to be sure that you aren't happy. I mean, that you aren't happy happy, like romantic happy, like it's a drug. Happy's a drug and you have to quit cold turkey."

Well, it was elegant for Willow at any rate.

"I guess I win," Cat smiled smugly, her words interrupting his musings.

"This isn't a game where you win or lose--"

"Why don't ye just let it go, Angel? I'm no' yer enemy--"

In one swift fluid motion, he shifted his facial features and swept her up, backing her against the wall. His words were a low, feral growl, "But I could be yours. Anytime. Anywhere. Don't get cocky."

She stared back at him, unblinking, unwavering. But he could feel her heart rate pick up, the change in her scent at his action. "So we're back ta this, are we?" she asked flatly.

"Back to what?"

"Back ta ye trying ta frighten me because ye're so utterly wretched and depraved. I'm not impressed, Angel. We both know ye're not going ta bite me so I'd appreciate ye letting my feet touch the floor again," she could have been carved out of stone for all the reaction he was getting out of her. She was good at hiding how she felt, he would give her that, the best he'd seen in a while but she couldn't disguise the tension in her muscles or the taste of fear in her scent.

"Don't be so sure," Angel snarled.

A strange light entered those gray orbs and he felt her go slack in his grasp. "Then do it and be done with it, Angel," she said.

Consternation flashed through him. He drew back a bit, "You must have a death wish."

"Ye know, it's funny but I think I do," she shrugged carelessly or rather tried to, "Some things never change, I guess ."

"What are you talking about?" Angel asked warily.

"I'm sorry, am I distracting ye?" she feigned chagrin at that, "Ye were about ta kill me, remember? Not having second thoughts, are we?"

"This isn't funny," he said angrily.

"No, it isna," she was finally serious, voice cold. The sudden transformation startled him. "Ye're a killer, Angel. I got that. But ye're not a cold-blooded one. And ye're certainly not the same person who killed that gypsy girl. If ye're so loathesome, if life is so wretched then why do ye no' just spare yerself the agony and end it all?"

"You have no idea--"

"What I'm talking about? Aye, ye've said that several times. Well, surprise, Angel--I do know what it's like ta hate yerself and I know what it's like ta have a past yer no proud of," she suddenly reached out and jerked him forward until their faces were just centimeters apart. Angel found himself transfixed by the sudden fires burning in those gray eyes. "Ye think ye're dangerous, Angel? Ye think ye have self-destructive tendencies. Ye have no idea."

"I'm twenty years old and I've lived enough ta fill up several of yer lifetimes with regret," she continued in an intense voice, "Or so I thought. Of course, one's perspective changes a wee bit when ye've actually put the knife to yer wrists and done the deed. Something ye wouldna know about--ye dinna have the stones or the real inclination. Ye've just fooled yerself inta thinking ye have."

There was a moment of silence as realization began to set it. Angel found his hold on her loosening as he stared at her, at the pain etched in her face. The anger he had sensed in her was draining to be replaced by a desolateness that struck him to feel. Tears were welling in her eyes and he stepped back from her, feeling his face morph back. Cat, meanwhile was sliding to the floor, miserably hiding her face behind a curtain of blood red hair. Angel hovered over her, unsure of what to do or how to respond. His mind was still reeling from what she had just revealed to him...and that she had revealed it at all.

The idea of the self-prepossing girl ever trying to kill herself was impossible to imagine, much less believe. Yet there was something about it that rang true. It explained all the uncertainty and doubt that he thought he had sensed below the surface. That haunted expression he had caught earlier and sorrow that seemed so at odds with her almost blatant self-confidence.

Kneeling down beside her, he queried, "Cat? Are you--you all right?"

There was a muffled sound. Angel couldn't decide if it was a laugh or a sob. "All right? I am so far from being all right, Angel, that I don't even know what it is anymore."

He couldn't remember the last time he had felt this, well, this helpless. Reaching out one hand, he brushed some of that unruly hair out her face. She scooted out of his reach, muttering, "I shouldna be doing this--hell, I shouldna even be here. I'm sorry ta bother ye, Angel."

"Cat."

She got to her feet, keeping distance between them and firmly not looking at him, "I have ta go. I--"

"Cat," he caught her upper arms. Though it might be the best thing in the world for her to leave, Angel found he just couldn't let her leave like this. He wasn't heartless enough to ignore the obvious pain she was in. Maybe if he had been, none of this would be happening in the first place. "Stay."

She did look at him then, her gray eyes watery and huge, "Ye told me ta leave, remember?" she tried to sound tart but it fell short to his ears.

"And now, I'm telling you to stay."

"Angel, so far this evening, ye've ordered me ta leave ye alone, no' ta look at ye while ye feed, ta go, ta stay, ta go again, and now ta stay. Will ye please make up yer bloody mind? I'm starting ta know how a dog feels."

"Sit," he began, pushing her towards one of the chairs, ignoring the bite to her tone.

She rolled her eyes at him in soggy exasperation, "Woof!"

"Nice to see you haven't lost your sense of humor," Angel replied, "Now, I am not going to let you go running off into the night so I would appreciate it if you would...please...sit down."

She fell back into the seat he had cornered her in front of. Angel had to admit some degree of surprise and suspicion at that concession. It must have shown on his face for she protested, "I'm no' always difficult, Angel."

No, only about ninety-nine percent of the time, I'm willing to bet. But Angel didn't give voice to that thought. She would seize upon it, he knew, as a way to deflect the questions she obviously knew were coming. He would have, in her place.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked instead.

"No," she shook her head emphatically, "I dinna want ta talk about it. But...but I think I *need* ta."

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