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 By Rhi Disclaimer: I don't own them. If I did, well, crossovers would be guaranteed for sweeps week and damn the contractual hassles. What are lawyers for, anyway? (Well, besides blood sacrifices, of course….) Spoilers/ships: This follows Ats ep "Forgiving" and contains spoilers thereto. Oh, and Spike is Angel's childe. He said he was in BtVS ep "School Hard" and I don't care how Joss twisted it later! B/A. I don't write C/A. Some B/S cause it's canon. C/G. Distribution: Sure, just let me know. Feedback: Is always nice. DarkRhiannon@aol.com Rating: NC-17 with eventual warnings for language, sex, torture, character death, and just general angst. Author's Note: This is dedicated to all those who've read Breaking a Slayer. Thanks for the feedback.
Angel was so furious he could barely restrain himself from killing every human in the hospital. His hands were shaking with the need to destroy, to maim and savage the stupid mortals blithering at him like so many dumb sheep. If Gunn or Fred said one word…ONE WORD to him about forgiveness or sympathy or any other fucking sentiment, he felt himself ready to lash out at them. They must have sensed the rage he kept barely leashed…they chose to stay in the hospital with Wesley. *JUDAS.* Snarling viciously, Angel leapt into his black convertible, knowing that he had to get away before he destroyed what was left of his human family. *Gods, Connor, Connor, my boy, my SON! He took my SON!* He longed to howl in anguish, to tear at his hair, weep tears of blood, anything at all to let loose the pain dwelling in his heart. *He could be dead, he could be in agony, Holtz could be doing anything to him right now. God knows, he's mad enough to torture a helpless babe just to wreak some twisted revenge on his father.* What could he do; where could he go to save his boy, his only child? Angel drove frantically through the dark city, desperate for answers, clinging to the barest thread of hope that he might find his boy before it was too late. * Lilah was pissed. Oh, not that she'd let on through the mask that had long ago become her true self. She was the ice queen, the one in control of all, regardless of the actuality of the situation and how she had to scramble to cover her ass. But Lilah hated Angel. For his broad chest and his flowing black duster, for that spiky dark hair and those deep chocolate eyes that drew her in, destroying her defenses and forcing her to abase herself before his god-like beauty. The one-with-the-angelic-face, indeed. What a bastard. An unmitigated, fucking bastard. How dare he not want her. How dare he move to snap her neck without a thought! She was going to bring him down, no matter what the senior partners commanded. And now, she had just the tool. Going over the surveillance records of Angel's "family" for the past year, Lilah had discovered that his one real weakness, namely the resurrected Slayer, Buffy Anne Summers, had a weakness of her own. Her sister, Dawn, wasn't human at all, but an otherworldly Key to alternate dimensions, made flesh by some highly misguided monks. *Well, that was what celibacy would get you,* Lilah thought to herself. *You just can't think clearly with all those hormones racing around with nowhere to go.* She amended that thought to make sure she got herself laid sometime soon, so she wouldn't have to consider herself one of the lonely celibates. No, Buffy was Angel's sure weakness, the one thing that could cause Angelus to appear on command, and Dawn was the card that would bring Buffy to hand. Lilah laughed coldly and picked up the phone. * Brrrrrring. Brrrrrring. *God, what time is it?* Buffy thought to herself as she reached dazedly for the phone. A double-shift at work yesterday plus closing, plus patrol meant she'd only been in bed 2 hours when the phone rang at 7. "Uuhhhh, hello?" she muttered, hoping that she had the handset correctly positioned and not backwards. "Buffy Summers?" a calm and collected voice on the other end sounded coldly amused at her obvious incapacitation. "Yeah, this is Buffy. Who's this?" she asked, trying to pull herself into the world of the conscious, with relative success. "This is Lilah Morgan. Of Wolfram and Hart. I believe we have a mutual acquaintance in common? Angel?" The voice got colder, if that was even possible. "Um, yeah, you're those guys who keep hassling Angel. What do you want with me?" Buffy had dragged herself to a sitting position and was fully awake, adrenaline flowing as the potential threat manifested itself. Phone or not, she was the Slayer first, a mortal with only 2 hours of sleep, second. "Angel's son Connor…you did know he had a son, right?" The condescension oozed from the voice on the other end of the line as if the woman relished every dig she delivered to Buffy's fragile ego. Yes. She knew of Connor. Knew that Angel had slept with Darla of all people. *Well, not people, really, Buffy.* Darla definitely fit the non-person category to a T, even if she had sacrificed herself to birth Angel's son. Angel's son. Without her. Buffy repressed a sob, unwilling to share her grief at not being in her soulmate's life…not being the mother of his child when she'd give anything and everything in her power to be the one who carried such a precious gift for him. He had told her to move on. And she'd tried. But substitutes, whether human like Parker and Riley or vampiric like Spike could never compare to the one night she'd shared with her love. It wasn't that they weren't good, god knew, Spike was unbelievable in bed…on the floor…against a wall…on a crypt…Buffy cringed to think of all the positions in which he'd had her….all the ways he'd taken her. It wasn't as if he'd forced her, she couldn't delude herself that way. No, she'd begged Spike to take her, again and again….anything to make her feel as if she were still alive, still anywhere but trapped inside a dank, dark coffin, struggling to rip her way to the surface before the air ran out. She slept with the light on now, unable to relax unless her body was so exhausted that it simply gave out. Spike, however unlikely, was her savior. Not that she wanted Angel to know that. God, what he'd been through. She could only guess…her love for Dawn was a weak second compared to what he must feel for Connor. Even her jealousy over his fucking Darla couldn't dim her happiness that Angel had managed, against all odds and every known law of vampires and demons, to create such a wondrous being. "Yah, I know he has a son…what about him? You haven't…don't you dare hurt Connor. What's wrong, what's happened?" Buffy managed to focus on the threat, pushing all yearning thoughts of Angel and his son to the side to focus, as she was so good at, on the threat she heard from this woman's cool, calm voice. "Connor has been kidnapped. He was taken to a dimension without portals by a man Angelus hurt terribly in the past. Angel has no way to get to his son unless you and your sister help him. He's trapped in Quortoth, the darkest of the dark worlds." The frigid clarity of the voice uttered the fatal words without pause, uncaring of the hurt inflicted with each syllable. "NO! Connor! Oh, God, poor Angel. What does he need, what can I do? Wait…why are you helping him? What's in this for you? You're his enemies!" Buffy wasn't stupid, despite her lack of time for college (or high school for that matter) she'd never been dumb. Lilah laughed, "Oh, we have our own interest in the child of two vampires. Angel may not be our ally…yet…but he holds a charm all his own…as I'm sure you'd agree." Her insinuating tone made it clear that Buffy and Angel's relationship (if you could even call it that at this point) was well-known to the entire firm and a source of deep amusement. Cringing at the intimacy of that chill voice, Buffy forced herself to focus on the now, reserving a thought for Ms. Morgan's later comeuppance. "Ok, what do you need? How can we get Connor back for Angel?" "It's simple, really, Buffy. May I call you Buffy?" Lilah jeered over the phone, continuing without regard to Buffy's response. "If you get some blood from your sister, the Key…a small vial should do…and you perform a simple ritual here in LA, at Angel's Hyperion Hotel, he'll be able to enter the dimension where his son is being held captive. Of course, this will be quite painful for you…you'll be the gate holding the portal open. I'll understand completely if you're unwilling to do this. After all, from what we've heard, Angel left you…" her voice trailed off in a snide insinuation. Buffy flinched, then shook her head, angry that her personal life should be such an open book to this bitch. "I'll do whatever it takes to help Angel. Does he know that you called me?" Lilah laughed. "Oh, my dear, innocent child, of course not. Angel would never trust us with something this important. But I assure you, it's the only way he's ever going to see his son again." "When should I meet you?" Buffy asked, not even questioning that she would do whatever it took to get Connor back for Angel. He didn't deserve this and if she could fix it for him, well, maybe it could begin to make up for sending him to Hell and flaunting her relationship with Riley in his face…not to mention fucking his childe. She shivered, thinking of Angel and Angelus's likely reaction to that little indiscretion and decided that she wouldn't be mentioning Spike to him, if she even saw him while she was in LA. "Bring the blood with you and meet me tonight in the Hyperion. 3 o'clock sharp. "Ok, I'll be there. And, Ms. Morgan, if you're thinking of screwing me over, let me remind you, you don't want to piss off a Slayer…" Buffy let her voice trail off, hoping that Lilah understood the threat implicit in the simple words. Lilah laughed again, amused at this child and her amazing arrogance. "Don't worry, Buffy, I'll be there. And you'll get exactly what I promised you…." Angel's cell phone rang as he was parking at the Hyperion. "What?" he grunted, turning off the ignition. "Angel. It's Lilah." "What do you want?" *bitch.* "I have a proposition for you, but you'll have to come here. Now." Lilah's voice was flat, no feeling evident at all. "It's two-thirty in the morning, what makes you think I'll set foot in your office to do anything but rip your throat out, Lilah?" Angel growled, relieved to have someone to focus his fury on. "Oh, I think you'll come, Angel. I doubt you had social plans for the rest of the night anyway. Of course, if you never want to see your little baby again, that's up to you" Lilah sneered. "Bring your green buddy along and have him read me. I'm telling the truth." She hung up. Angel paced restlessly back and forth in Lilah's office as Lorne tried unsuccessfully to calm him. The bitch wasn't even there. Her obsequious secretary informed them that she'd needed to pick up one more item for the spell personally, but would join them shortly. Angel didn't care what Lilah was plotting this time, as long as she could get him to Quortoth. He didn't trust her, but from Fred's research and Lorne's sources, Angel knew there was no other way, short of finding another of Sahjan's kind. That was unlikely in the extreme. So, he would use Wolfram and Hart just the way they planned to use him. At least, that was the plan. * Lilah met Buffy outside the Hyperion and directed a flunky to take Buffy's car elsewhere. Couldn't have Angel spotting that, although in his state of mind, he could probably drive right through it without noticing. Buffy held a syringe of Dawn's blood carefully in one hand. She'd lied to Dawnie and told her that it was for social services to confirm that Dawn wasn't using illicit drugs. Dawn seemed to buy the story, or was so apathetic towards anything Buffy did these days that it didn't matter anyway. *She was better off without me,* Buffy thought. *Tara, Willow and Spike took better care of her than I can. And they will again, if they need to. Let's face it, outside of Slaying, my life's a pretty big zero.* Lilah took Buffy to a room directly above the lobby of the hotel and painted a pentagram on the bare wood floor. "You need to strip and anoint your wrists, your feet and your lips with the blood, then place a drop of it at each point of the star. Then lie down and wait for me to return. You can't leave the room, or Angel will hear you." Buffy nodded numbly, hoping that Lilah was eager enough to get Connor back that she wasn't lying about the ritual. Still, once Lilah left, Buffy crept downstairs quietly to set in place a little insurance of her own on what she took to be Angel's desk in the office. Returning upstairs, she stripped quickly and squirted a small amount of Dawn's blood on herself as directed, then dripped it on the star as well. She lay down on the star with her head at one point and her hands and feet on the others and waited for Lilah to return. * Lilah hoped that Angel was too preoccupied to smell his former lover on her. She'd been careful not to touch Buffy, but Angel was known for the keenness of his senses, and it wouldn't do to underestimate him. She'd done that too often in the past. "Thank you for waiting…urgh!" she gasped as Angel whirled around and grabbed her by the throat, slamming her up against the expensive wood grain of her office wall. "I don't trust you, Lilah." Angel growled, his face inches from hers and his eyes glowing an uncanny gold. "Tell me how you're going to get me to Quortoth now, or maybe I'll just have myself a little snack." He loosened his grasp just enough for her to speak, but not nearly enough for comfort. "Angel," Lilah rasped. "It's simple really, we have a Key to alternate dimensions. We'll hold a Gate open in your hotel lobby while you get Connor and come back. But the Gate will only hold for a short while, so you'll have to be quick." "Lorne?" Angel asked, glancing away from the woman he still held pinned to the wall for confirmation of her words. "She's telling the truth, Big Guy, at least part of it. I can't tell if she's holding anything back, though…it doesn't work like that." Lorne smiled self-deprecatingly. Angel turned back to Lilah and leaned in closer. He lifted his left hand to her hair, stroking the silky dark strands away from her neck and leaning in close to her. He could hear the blood pounding through her veins, smell the sweet scent of her fear. He licked her jugular slowly with his cold tongue, relishing her abortive attempt to flinch. The scent of arousal joined the fear, churning together in a heady mix that made his fangs drop, aching to taste the precious fluid so close by. "Uh, Angel-baby? Sweetcheeks? Is it really the time or place for this right now?" Lorne asked nervously. Angel glared over at him in full gameface and snarled, then pulled himself back together and morphed back to human. "I'm sure Lilah is telling us everything we need to know, right?" He leaned in toward her neck and Lilah gulped frantically. "Yes, it will work, just try it and see. I'll set it up myself, personally." Lilah's heart was beating frantically, but she managed not to say anything that wasn't technically true. Lorne tilted his head to one side and gazed at the lawyer quizzically. There was something she wasn't saying, but he couldn't tell what it was. Perhaps just the lawyer mindset…always holding something back. *Please oh Spawner of us all, let that be it,* he though to himself. They strode from the room and Lorne and Angel drove back to the Hyperion in silence, with Lilah following behind in her black sedan. At the Hyperion, Lilah directed Angel to stand on a spot in the center of the lobby and wait. "I have to go directly above you for a minute and set these into the floor," she said, pulling four huge metal spikes from a black bag inscribed with alchemical symbols. Angel nodded, too concerned about which weapons he'd rather bring than the exact pattern of the ritual. Lorne hovered near Angel, more certain than ever that this was a really bad idea, but unsure what to do to stop it. Without Gunn and Fred, let alone Wes, he was unable to stop the whirlwind of fury and revenge that was Angel now. Lilah ascended the stairs to the room above the lobby and found Buffy naked and waiting in the pentagram. "Ok, Buffy, are you ready to open the gate?" she smiled pulling the spikes from behind her back. Buffy gazed up at her. "Do what you have to do, I'm ready." She'd known it couldn't possibly be as easy as Lilah had told her. The spikes just confirmed what she'd known in her heart when she left Sunnydale. One way or another, she was going to bleed. Lilah laughed giddily, "Oh, silly me, I forgot to mention, you can't scream, Buffy. The power of the Gate will be harnessed from each of the points of the pentagram that match your body, but the Gate will hold only for as long as you stay conscious and quiet. The second you say anything, the second you make any noise at all, the field will collapse and Angel will be trapped in Quortoth. So really, it's a winning situation for me no matter how you look at it. Still smiling, Lilah dabbed the end of the first spike in the blood that Buffy had smeared on her wrist then plunged the razor-sharp point through the Slayer's wrist and into the floor. Buffy shook with the effort not to cry out, but held in her scream as Lilah moved to her other wrist. Buffy held it still as Lilah dipped the point in Dawn's blood once again before driving the spike into the floor. Both arms were pinned now, and Buffy felt helpless as Lilah moved to her feet. Buffy shuddered in anticipation of the pain to come, the tearing burn of the spike ripping through her flesh, then the throbbing agony of the metal as she bled onto the pentagram. Lilah was enjoying herself tremendously. It was a rare day indeed that she got to sacrifice a willing participant. Especially one as powerful as Buffy. Dipping the point of the third spike in the blood on Buffy's right foot, Lilah positioned it carefully, then watched Buffy's face as she pushed it slowly through Buffy's foot. The foot hurt much worse than her wrists had, though Buffy couldn't tell if that was because she was expecting the pain now, or just because feet hurt more in general. Whatever the reason, she could barely hold in the agonized screams pulling at her throat. Afraid to even pant for fear that if she opened her mouth she'd cry out inadvertently, Buffy closed her eyes and tried to focus on Angel, Dawn, anything at all to take her mind off the torture being inflicted on her body. But Lilah didn't want Buffy missing one iota of the pain and tapped the final spike against her foot sharply to get her attention. "Last one, Buffy, sure you want to go through with this?" Buffy glared at her in stark hatred and nodded. Lilah smiled and drove the last spike into Buffy's tiny foot, completing the pattern and readying the Gate. Buffy bit through her lip in her effort not to scream as the combined pain from her wounds came near to breaking her. "Ah, just what I need for the final mark, thank you for thinking of me, Buffy." Lilah smirked as she bent down and drew one manicured finger through the blood dripping from the Slayer's mouth. Lilah jerked Buffy's head roughly to the side and dripped the precious blood on the last point of the pentagram. With a flash, an iridescent light spilled from Buffy's eyes and her mouth opened in agony. The light spilled from there as well, uniting with the beams now shining from each of the wounds in her limbs to form a glowing column of crystalline energy. The tormented girl was no longer even conscious of her surroundings. Every ounce of energy, every part of her will was focussed on not screaming…not breaking the spell…and not failing Angel. This time she would be true to him, whatever it took. Lilah gloried in the suffering of the Slayer, but didn't have time to gloat. Even that mighty will couldn't suffer this torment indefinitely. Eventually, Buffy would break. Dabbing her fingers in more of the blood now flowing copiously from the Slayer's many wounds, Lilah walked briskly to the door and left Buffy alone. Stepping quickly down the stairs, Lilah motioned Angel to the spot on the floor directly below his crucified lover. He complied, glaring at her as she dabbed blood on the floor around him. He knew that smell, knew it well, but he was so focussed on Connor…on getting him back…that he couldn't spare a thought for why the blood seemed so familiar. As Lilah finished inscribing the circle, a blinding light flashed from directly above Angel and enveloped him in a gateway to Quortoth. His passage was instantaneous and incredibly painful. Then he stepped away from the Gate into what could only be described as Hell. The landscape, if he could even call it that, glowed a livid black-orange around him as Angel stalked cautiously forward. The sky was black, starless and oppressive overhead, night time suddenly not the comforting freedom he was used to from over two centuries as a vampire. Stopping to scent his surroundings, Angel sensed nothing, so continued to pace forward picking up speed until he was loping across the wasteland. He would find Connor and bring him back. He'd wasted enough pity on Holtz already, there was none left in his heart for the twisted man who had threatened and stolen his son. * The moment the gate opened around Angel, Lorne fell to his knees on the lobby floor. An unvoiced scream ripped through his mind and he could barely think, let alone stand. The horror and agonized pain in the inaudible scream filled his head with inexplicable images. He saw Angel stepping from shadow in a dark alley, gaunt and glowering. He saw Angel again, looking sadly at him in a crypt. Angel fighting beside him, Angel half naked in a kitchen, Angel's kisses, Angel' lovemaking…Angelus sneering hateful words to rend and tear emotion, Angel dying, Angel drinking from him in exquisite torment, Angel walking away in swirls of smoke….those images and countless others twisted in Lorne's mind until all he could hear was one word beating over and over against his consciousness in Angel's rapt voice. Buffy. Now Lorne knew what Lilah had been hiding. He stood shakily, bolstering internal shielding to lock out the dreadful scream. He glanced around, but the lawyer had left. Clearly her work was done for the moment, though Lorne was certain that she would return in force to take Connor, should Angel actually manage to find his son and return with him. Lorne climbed the stairs to the floor above the lobby, dreading what he would find there. He opened the door to the room from whence he felt the scream emanating. He was unprepared for the sight that met him. A tiny blonde girl lay naked and bleeding in the center of a bloody pentagram. Her blood flowed into the lines of the pentagram, powering and preserving its dire magic. The agony the girl suffered was evident in her blindly staring eyes and open mouth, caught in a silent scream that only Lorne could hear. He knew that this must be Buffy, and was amazed at the strength she must possess to resist her desperate need to scream out loud. There was nothing he could do for her, he dared not put his hands into the gate to try to help her…for fear of destroying it and her, as well. Reluctantly, Lorne closed the door on the girl's suffering countenance and returned to the lobby. Entering the office to call Gunn and Fred back from the hospital, he noticed a large manila envelope with Angel's name scrawled in an unruly hand across it. *Well, Angel-cakes isn't here to read his mail right now,* Lorne thought and ripped open the envelope with trembling green hands. [Angel] the note began. [A lawyer named Lilah Morgan explained to me about Connor. I've never even met him, and I can only guess at what you're going through right now. Probably worse than I was when I thought I would have to kill Dawnie. Anyway, Ms. Morgan says I'm the only one who can help you. I know you'd never ask, but it's worth it to me if you can somehow reach Connor. I've left letters for everyone back in Sunnydale, too, because I know from experience you can never trust a lawyer to tell you everything. Anyway, I hope it works and I can finally meet your son. You have a SON! Wow. I bet he's great, Angel. I have to run now. I know I've hurt you in the past…we've hurt each other badly. I'm sorry. No matter what happens, I'll always be your girl. --Buffy P.S. Ms. Morgan seems awfully interested in Connor and not too interested in whether *you* make it. Be ready, Angel.] Lorne brushed sentimental tears from his red eyes and picked up the phone. He had favors to call in and friends to ready. * Vile swirling vortices of unspeakably foul substances surrounded Angel on nearly every front. The awful landscape stretched on in every direction. *Glad I read Dante's Inferno when I had the chance,* thought Angel, loping ever onward. *Didn't really need to experience Hell…again…though. Connor, Connor, Connor.* His son's name thrummed through Angel's mind with every step, urgency pushing him forward faster and faster. I've got to find my boy, my SON!* * Spike rolled to his side and pushed himself off of the sarcophagus that was all that remained whole in his crypt since the grenade went off. Patrol, not that he even understood why he still did it, and a nasty game of kitten poker had taken up all of the previous night. The telly was busted, so he couldn't watch Passions unless he crept into Buffy's house, and she might be home depending on what shift she was slaving today at the Double Meat grease trap. Bloody pillocks had no idea who was working there, slaving away at the counters, wiping spills and dying more every second of her third life. He'd heard that cats had nine lives and wondered idly if each one got subsequently worse. Sure seemed like it to him. Padding silently to the door, Spike saw an envelope on the floor. Wincing at memories of Angelus's fondness for velum notes, Spike lifted it cautiously. Didn't smell of his thrice-damned sire. Smelled of her. He held it to his face, inhaling the subtle vanilla scent and the even more elusive Buffy scent underneath it. Sunshine. She smelled like sunshine. Must have bathed before she wrote it, otherwise it would smell of Double Meat grease. He grimaced at the thought and ripped the envelope open without even checking to see if it had been sealed. [SpikeXXXXX William, I need you to look after Dawnie for me for a little while. I've been called to LA to help a friend. I'm not sure what will happen there, but there's a good chance I won't be coming back. I, I, I…seems like that's all I ever say to you. There I go again. Anyway *I* just wanted to say something about *you.* You're a man. Not a monster. I was wrong. I've been wrong a lot. There I go again. You…you deserve better than a shell of a person who never learned how not to be self-centered. You have boundless love in you. You are the most alive person I've ever met, which is odd, considering that technically you're not alive at all. You probably haven't noticed, but we gather around you, around that fire, around your passion for everything and nothing…from Wheatabix to bad soaps. Your fire warmed me when nothing else could. Your body kept me from crying alone in the dark. Your words have hurt me, hell, you've hurt me, but I know I've hurt you more. Your love is all that has saved me, and I'm grateful…more grateful than I could ever tell you in person. I'm sorry. Sorry that I couldn't be what *you* needed. You were wrong about one thing. I didn't come back wrong. I was wrong long before I died for the second time and I haven't been right since. Maybe what I'm doing will change that. If I come back, maybe I can finally be something better. I hope so. Anyway, thank you for never leaving me. It mattered...A lot. Buffy] Spike crumpled the messy letter in his hands then smoothed it out against his chest. He couldn't leave, couldn't get to LA until the sun went down in 4 hours. God only knew what she was doing, what was happening to her, but he was certain it had something to do with Angel. Only Angel could drive women this batty. He threw on his duster and raced for the sewer entrance to the crypt, praying to whatever deities or demons might listen to a chipped-vampire that the Slayer was still alive. * Buffy was praying for death. She'd thought, with whatever consciousness was left her in the midst of torment, that the pain would have to subside a little sooner or later. After all, it did when she got hit or stabbed, or bitten, or killed, or any of the other myriad ways she'd been hurt before. But this, this was soul-destroying. It went on and on, no change, no chance to catch her breath, to ready herself again for the onslaught. It just was. Her entire being was nothing but agony. It thrummed through every nerve, beat at her bones, ripped the strength from her muscles and forced them into convulsion after convulsion. She knew she was bleeding around the spikes impaling her to the floor, but couldn't even feel the sapping of her strength, just the mindless misery that had overpowered everything else. If she could only scream, just for a minute…release some of this pain from her body with a shout, she could continue. As it was, she was fighting her body and her need for relief, any relief. Fighting herself. And loosing. But if she lost, Angel would die and his innocent son with him. She had to hang on just a little longer. *Please, God, make me strong. Please Angel, hurry.* * Angel was running flat out now, heading for a change in the nearly endless miles of blighted landscape surrounding him. He couldn't tell for certain, but he thought he saw water ahead; and that would be a natural gathering place for any denizens of this terrible place. With a little luck, Holtz might have stopped there and left a scent to track or other sign to follow. *Connor, Connor, Connor… hang on baby, Daddy's coming and when he gets there, Hell better get out of the way.* Angel was slogging through knee high mire, his pace slowed to a laborious plodding gait. With each step, the malodorous bog sucked voraciously at his aching legs. Only thoughts of Connor kept him moving at any speed at all. He was closer now to a cluster of sere trees, if they were indeed trees. Their branches, bereft of any leaves or signs of life, stood out starkly against the now sickly green sky. Angel had feared a sunrise that might destroy any chance for him to see, let alone recover, his son, but his fears, at least in that regard, proved unfounded. Like Pylea, this place allowed him to walk in what passed for sunlight. He only hoped that the demon under his skin would not subsume him as it had for a time there. The very thought that Wesley might have been right about his ability to hurt his son -- his boy -- kindled his rage anew. He picked up his pace as the bog dwindled to ankle depth and then to marshy but solid ground underfoot. Pausing warily to study the…trees? Angel noted that they seemed to move of their own accord in the windless air. Discretion seemed the better part of valor in this ominous landscape, and he determined to give them wide berth. Just as he'd turned slightly away, a limb elongated sinuously and reached for him. Others followed suit and he realized he'd horribly underestimated their elasticity. Whipping the two-handed sword from his back sheath, Angel sliced expertly at the waving tenticular limbs, fiercely delighted to have a tangible foe at last. The elastic arms tore at him and he discovered they were tipped with razor sharp beaks, each biting at his flesh with vicious hunger. He lopped the ends from a dozen limbs or more before the creature drew back, shivering and shaking in what appeared to be pain. A sibilant hiss filled the air and the other tree-creatures drew their limbs tightly in to their trunks, giving him ample room to pass them in the now-rocky terrain. Angel sheathed his sword with a quick motion, but pulled the long dagger hanging at his hip and held it ready as he sped once more into his tireless lope toward the gray stone dwellings he now saw clearly near the base of a jutting mountain. * Spike sped through the night on his motorcycle. Clad in his black duster, helmetless, his only thought was Buffy and reaching her as fast as possible. He pushed the bike to its limit, wind threatening to rip him from his back, and he laughed joylessly at the wild sensation. Better than a hundred untamed horses, this. He only prayed, to whatever demons or gods might be listening, that he could reach the Slayer before something dire happened. He felt, in every inch of his undead bones, a wrongness in the air. Or not air, but the currents of supernatural power that ebbed and flowed near the hellmouth. Its normally charged substance had felt drained somehow as he was leaving, and he recognized that the drain was flowing in the same direction as him. LA. Something terrible was underway there, and he knew that it involved his Slayer. * Cordy woke in Gru's arms, the languor of their all-night loving leaving her in a heartbeat as vision after vision streaked across her mind. She realized with the waning of the potion she'd taken that it had prevented her visions, keeping the dreadful happenings in LA from her while she relaxed at ease in her lover's arms. *Oh, God, Angel! Wesley's throat's been cut. No, Connor. Angel, where is he? I can't see him….Oh, my God, Buffy what are you doing?* "Nooooo!" She shrieked ripping the light satin sheets from her and jumping to her feet as she searched for her clothes. Gru leapt from the bed as well, scanning the luxurious room for signs of the danger that his princess feared. "Gru, we've got to get back to LA now, today, before it's too late. Oh, God, I can't believe I just left them there!" *Selfish, Cordy, no matter how bad the visions had been,* she thought to herself as she threw her sundress on haphazardly, uncaring of her appearance as she realized that the fates of her friends hung in the balance and she was nowhere near to help them. * Buffy endured. Thought no longer possible, her eyes leaked tears as her body sluggishly leaked blood around the spikes impaling her. She'd ripped huge holes in each limb during her frenzied convulsions, but her Slayer power had sped what healing it could to the agonizing gashes. Her body no longer had the strength for convulsing, and her mind was going dark. She clung to consciousness unable to even remember why it was so important. The agony was all but overwhelming her. One tiny spark left clutched a name to it and held tenaciously to life. *Angel.* * Angel had reached the outskirts of a village of sorts crouched at the foot of the mountain. He'd seen squalor and filth aplenty in his long unlife, and frolicked in them, to be sure, but this…he couldn't understand anything sentient choosing to live like this. The stench reached him long before he set foot in the place. A foul miasma hung over the squalid huts and repulsive landscape. Wretched shapes crept, hunched over, through the noxious mud that served as a street, scurrying in their haste to remain unnoticed. Angel inhaled deeply, choking on the rank air as he sought the hoped-for scent of Connor and the detested scent of Holtz. Nothing yet, at least nothing that his overwrought senses could discern amid the reeking fumes surrounding him. Angel skulked, using every ounce of his ability, honed through years of predation, to stay out of sight so as not to alert his prey that he was close by. Slipping behind the miserable huts that seemed to pass for dwellings here, he searched each one with alert senses for a sign of his son. Nearing the last of the ramshackle hovels, he stopped dead in his tracks, overcome with grief/fear/love/hope/despair/joy as Connor's cry reached his sensitive ears. *My boy. MY BOY IS ALIVE. Connor is alive! Hmm, Connor is alive and very hungry…from the sound of him anyway. That's definitely his hungry cry, not his scared cry. What the fuck has Holtz been feeding him this whole time anyway? And where are they?* Angel crept closer peering through one of the many cracks in the crumbling stone wall of the hut. Inside was the baby carrier, looking completely incongruous with its white plastic shape and brightly colored fabric. Holtz stood at the doorway across from the wall, gazing out into the street as if awaiting something and holding Connor. Angel was unsure of how much time had passed since he'd entered the gate, but Holtz had certainly been here for a week at least. Connor looked dirty, tired and hungry, but unharmed, so far, at least. Perhaps Holtz hadn't been lying when he'd claimed he would raise Connor as his own, to replace the son that Angel had taken from him so long ago. Angel still winced at that recollection. His demon had relished the pain he'd inflicted on poor damned Holtz, and regretted that it wouldn't be prudent to stay and watch as Holtz discovered the presents he and Darla left for him in his house. His drained and ravished wife, his baby boy, neck snapped neatly in Angelus's strong hands, his little girl, hiding in the corner with her doll and starving for another taste of blood after Darla turned her. Angelus reveled in tormenting others physically, but the greatest pleasure of all was in breaking their minds and spirits before destroying their bodies. Holtz hadn't succumbed to despair, though, he'd used his loss to propel himself forward, ever searching for his nemeses. The return of Angel's soul had punished him for the crimes of his alter ego, but it was the birth of his son that truly brought home to him the irrevocable, unforgivable nature of his crimes against Holtz and other parents he'd tormented through the years. Angel knew, with every fiber of his undead being, that he would gladly suffer eternal torment and die a thousand bloody deaths to keep his boy safe from harm. Similarly, any who raised a hand to harm his son would receive swift and merciless death. If he felt like this now, having only had Connor a short time, what must Holtz have felt to lose not one but two children as well as their mother? Angel shuddered. It didn't matter, though. Nothing mattered any more but Connor. He could not stay in this dire place. He would grow as stunted as the hapless creatures dwelling in these feculent huts. No, for Connor's sake, and for his own, he must get Connor from Holtz and return to the Gate before it closed forever. Angel saw his chance as Holtz placed Connor into the carrier and left the hut, still searching the street for someone or something. Angel glided around the hut silently, keeping to the shadows by habit if not necessity. Holtz hadn't realized that he could walk in daylight here, Angel realized. It was the only reason he'd let his guard down, even for a moment. But it was enough. Before Holtz could react, Angel grabbed him with vampiric speed and pulled him into the shadows. Holtz's blood called to Angel, beating fiercely under his skin with all the rage, pain and hatred it always had. Angel was worn, wounded and hungry, but he would not drink from this font of insanity that used to be a man. He held the blade of his large dagger near the man's throat. "Holtz, you can thank God that you didn't harm my boy. I'll make this quick and painless. I'm sorry, but I can't let you live…I have to keep Connor safe from you. But I regret, with all my soul, the wrongs I did to you and yours. Take some comfort in the fact that I'll suffer for them eternally." Holtz laughed maniacally. "You can't win, Angelus. Go ahead and kill me, it won't get you your son. He's inside and you can't enter. And I won't invite you in. He'll die of thirst and starvation and you…you can just watch and listen to his pitiful cries as he grows weaker and weaker until finally he can't make a sound at all. And you'll know that it was you, and not me, who doomed him to such a slow and painful death." With that he pulled at Angel's hands and thrust his own throat against the dagger, slicing deeply into his trachea with the sharp blade. Angel pulled back, aghast, and watched in horror as Holtz expired before his eyes, mouthing, "Damn you to hell, Angelus, and your son, too." Dropping the dagger and racing to the hut door, Angel discovered that Holtz had told the truth. He'd lived in the dilapidated room long enough for it to be considered a dwelling by the powers that barred vampires from entering and because there was still a human resident alive inside, Angel couldn't enter. He battered his fists against the invisible barrier and fell to his knees screaming in rage, terror and despair while listening to his baby son cry within only a few steps away. "Connor…" * Spike rode his bike up onto the curve and through the front doors of Angel's hotel with a thundering crash. He spun to a stop before careening down the stairs and jumped off the motorcycle in a lithe leap. He could clearly see a scintillating column of energy projecting from the ceiling down to the floor of the lobby and he smelled blood. Not just any blood. Buffy's blood. He'd spilled enough of it in his time to recognize it anywhere. He raced for the stairs and took them three at a time, reaching the landing in a non-existent heartbeat. Kicking open the door to the room above the lobby, he gasped in horror at the sight of the room and raced inside. Buffy…his Buffy…lay naked and crucified in a glowing crimson pentagram, nailed in place with spikes similar to those he'd used so long ago to make a name for himself as a fledgling vampire. Spike reached Buffy and stretched one muscular white arm to pull the spike from her bloody wrist, but was thrown violently backwards when he tried to push his hand through the field of coherent energy emanating from her tortured body. Her lips were open in a silent scream and her eyes, streaming tears of pain, were black with magic. The light flowing from them bent and flowed into the spell she held in place. There was no mistaking what the spell was…Spike had felt the Gate that Dawn's blood created and Buffy's was identical in the tingling sense of power that overwhelmed every sense he turned in her direction. Buffy was a Gate now, but for whom and to where? Spike was twice-damned if he'd lose her to this. It was that poncy Angel's hotel, he was involved somehow, Spike was sure. Someone was going to pay for doing this to his Slayer. He practically flew from the room in search of someone to punish. * Angel's hands had long ago lost any skin remaining on them. At first, he'd simply pounded against the barrier in frustration and rage, but eventually his intellect surfaced and he began ripping apart the hovel, stone by stone. He had to be careful…he didn't want to bring the roof down on Connor and kill his son trying to save him. If he couldn't get in because it was a dwelling place, then the answer must be to make it a place no one could dwell…right? He'd never tried anything so crass before, preferring trickery and deceit back in his Angelus days. Though one time, Darla had set fire to a house that refused them entry and they'd feasted on the family as they tried to escape. How they'd laughed at the panic stricken humans, and mocked the ones who refused to leave the house after seeing the slaughter outside. He remembered the glee that filled his dead heart listening to the screams of those who chose to stay and burn rather than risk their souls in the care of the monsters outside. Now, he'd be satisfied with blunt force…anything…to get to his son. His nails ripped from his fingertips as he tore at the crudely placed stones that constituted the walls of the hut. He *would* get to his boy. Connor was *not* going to die, no matter what it took. Angel wrenched at the wall, his bloody fingers slipping and sliding before he could gain purchase on the stones. With one mighty pull, he tore the wall out, leaving one side bare to the elements. He surged forward, confident that he would now be able to enter, but the invisible force of the broken structure still stood strong against his desperation. Angel leapt to the roof and began ripping away the crude slate shingles. He knew he was running out of time, but could not think of a better way to save his crying son. * Cordy and Gru sat back in the seats on their flight and waited for the inanity of the cabin crew to commence. Cordy had traded their first class tickets and the remainder of their hotel stay to a young newlywed couple in exchange for their coach tickets back to LA. They had to get back right away, her visions were intensifying and, though no longer painful, they filled her with dread and despair. Everything was going wrong and she couldn't see a solution. Cordy saw Spike entering the hotel, saw Buffy bleeding and, god…was she dying…in an evil gate to a godforsaken dimension. She couldn't see Angel or Connor at all, as if they'd vanished from reality. She only prayed to the powers that be that she and Gru would get to LA in time to do something, anything, to help. * Lorne, Gunn and Fred checked the armaments carefully while waiting for hell to descend on them. After reading Buffy's note, Lorne knew that Wolfram and Hart would spare nothing to take Connor away if Angel could even get him back to LA in the first place. They had to be ready to protect Angel and his son. Who knew what shape they'd be in when they got back. Lorne didn't envy Angel-cakes this mess…especially the ex upstairs who was draining away her own life in order to help him save his son's. Lorne read remorse, love, sadness and acceptance in her silent scream, along with the agony that had so overwhelmed him earlier. She was dying and she knew it, but she would hang on…somehow…until Angel returned through the Gate. After that, well, Lorne gave her the odds of a cow in Pylea of surviving. * Connor cried. The familiar voices were gone, ripped away. He was too young to know much, too preverbal to form coherent thoughts or intentions. Instead he just felt…and what he felt was miserable. He was hungry, he was tired, he was dirty and he was cold in this alien place that he'd never seen before. A familiar presence called to him, but it was too far away. Why didn't it pick him up and comfort him. Why wasn't he sucking on the soft warm milk that soothed his tummy so? No answers, just longing…so he wailed. Angel's hands were so battered he could barely pick up the slates to throw them from the roof. Slipping and sliding on his blood, he nevertheless reached for more tiles to continued the slow and painstaking process of removing the roof above his delicate son's head without harming him. He was half finished, but feared that it would be too late, regardless. * Spike raced down the stairs and paced threateningly toward the three people in the lobby. He'd never seen them before. Were they friends or enemies? "Who the bloody hell are you and where is that fucking ponce, Angel?" he growled, game face rising in his anger. Gunn stepped forward angrily. "Whatta you think you're doing here, vamp, and why should we answer any of your questions instead of just stakin' your white ass?" Spike sneered at him snarkily, "I'd love to see you try. Now tell me where my Sire is, he's got my Slayer stapled to the floor upstairs and I want her the blinking hell out of here." "Your Slayer? What, do you have an appointment to die, bro? We can arrange that for ya, you don't need to bother Buffy," Gunn drawled, raising his crossbow and taking aim at Spike's heart. Lorne stepped between them before Gunn could shoot. "Boys, boys, really all this testosterone in the room is giving me hives. And you don't want to see what color they are on this skin, it's just too frightening! Look Blondie, Angel had to Gate to another dimension to get his son back, but you're welcome to add your chiseled good looks to the party just as soon as he gets back. Gunn, darling, don't shoot this one, he's got something singing along in his head that will keep him from attacking you anyway." Spike sprang onto Lorne in a moment. "I can still reach you, greenskin. Tell me why I shouldn't just rip your throat out right now?" "Um, how's about cause I'm holding a crossbow to your back," gritted Gunn, still unsure why he should let this bastard live. "Reason enough, White Fang?" Spike growled, but pulled back off of Lorne and allowed him to rise. "So I really gotta let this one live, too, Lorne? Sweet Jesus, aren't we killing any vamps anymore?" Gunn looked disgusted, but lowered the weapon to point at the floor. Fred hovered close by and noted, "Well, Charles, really if this vampire wants to help the Slayer, and why is that?" she added, cocking her head quizzically at Spike before returning to her track again. "We could certainly use his help especially once Wolfram and Hart gets here. You can't trust them at all and I know that they'll probably have lots of help. It could get really bad. I mean, we're supposed to help the hopeless but what about when the hopeless are us? That gets really confusing…though I suppose we could clone ourselves and then we'd be there to help if we got in a jam. But then what if the second group got in trouble too? Then we'd have to clone a third group…plus calculating the time it would take for them to grow to adulthood…and, of course, Angel might not be cloneable at all since technically he's dead…still I think they're doing really neat things with recovered fossils and DNA strands…there are just so many more possibilities than when I got sucked into Pylea…" Gunn leaned over and kissed Fred deeply, interrupting the stream of consciousness that flowed from her lips whenever she became nervous. He found it amazingly cute, but he couldn't let her distract him from the very real danger of the vampire in their lobby. "Look you stupid gits, I don't bloomin' care about anything but *my* Slayer. She's dying up there and I can't get through the bloody Gate field to help her. What're you doin' about it, huh?" Spike lit up a cigarette in shaking hands, trying to conceal his tremors from the Angel groupies. What if he couldn't get Buffy out? He wouldn't stand by and watch her sacrifice herself…again. She belonged with him, he needed her. Her beauty, her fire, the violence inherent in every lithe move of her tiny body possessed his every waking thought and most of his daytime dreams, as well. Unlife without her might as well be true death for him. Lorne looked sympathetically at the blond vampire. Anguish was coming off him in waves…even worse than the Broody One these days. "Hey, you're William the Bloody, aren't you?" he gasped, recognizing the telltale feel of Spike's sire in the aura surrounding him. "Angelus sired you, right? I can feel Angelcakes in you, somehow. Weird…" he cocked his head at the handsome vampire and smiled. "What is it about you lot and black, though, darling? And that hair…are you using straight peroxide on it?" Spike scowled at the green demon, taken aback at the perception he showed. "I go by Spike now, but yes, Angelus is my sire. You said he used the Gate. Did he do this to Buffy?" his voice dropped into a dangerous growl and every muscle tensed with his fury at his sire. "Nope, nothing like that, smootchkins," Lorne crooned at him. "Nasty lawyers, Wolfram and Hart, used Buffy to set up the gate from what we can tell from her note. She did it for Angel without telling him and he didn't ask the lawyers how they were doing it." "Bugger all. He would have smelled the blood," Spike snarled. "I could smell her the sec I got through the fucking door." "But Angel was really concerned about Connor right then, Spike," Fred added. "He was only thinking about getting his son back, and no wonder really, I mean he was a miracle in the first place coming from two vampires like that and then Angel had to protect him from that Holtz guy, and the vampire cult that wanted him plus all the other evil people who have been hanging around here, and it's really gotten nasty in the past couple of days, almost worse than Pylea, and that's saying a lot since they called me a cow there and I lived in cave…" she trailed off as Spike paced towards her with a frown. "Do you always talk as if you're vomiting your brain out your mouth or is it just stress?" he snarked nastily. Gunn grimaced and raised his crossbow again, turning to Lorne, "Are you sure I have to let this blood rat live…cause he's pushin' all my buttons here." "Sorry, sorry, I'm just a bit put off by this whole business." Spike backed away from the crossbow and toned down the rage a bit. "So, you're all just waitin' around for my bloody Sire to show his poncy face through that gate? What happens then?" "All hell breaks loose," Lorne said, his worried face even greener than normal. "We'll need your help if we want Angel and Connor to live." "Don't you buggers get it?" Spike yelled. "I don't give a fuck if my kid brother lives and I'd love to help my Sire off his immortal coil myself. I'm here to get the Slayer home safe. End of story." "Well, darlin'," Lorne answered, "You still have to wait for Angel-cakes to get back with Connor. The Gate won't come down till he's through, if I read the little girl upstairs right. She'll hold on till there's nothing left, and then hold on some more." Spike looked away in despair. "She's going to off herself again and there's nothing I can do about it?" He slammed his hand against the table and swore under his breath. * Angel's torn and bloody hands could barely grasp the beam of the roof he'd so painstakingly removed. All the crude slate shingles were off, now, and he'd ripped out all but one of the support beams, as well. He pulled the last one out of place and fell backwards to the ground with it still clutched in his aching hands. He scrambled slowly to his feet and stumbled forward to rip at the wall opposite the one he'd already removed earlier. Connor's wails from inside the hut had faded as he fell into a troubled sleep. Angel could see him tucked in his carrier under the dirty but still bright blankets that Cordy had bought for him in what seemed a century, not a few meager months ago. This wall came down faster than the first, and Angel hurried to remove the last of the misshapen blocks from it, kicking away the remains of the front door, as well. He stepped forward eagerly and was shocked to bounce back from the invisible barrier that still barred him from the dwelling. *NO! How can it still be there? There's no roof, there's only one wall left standing.* He screamed in fury, "Let me in, god damn you. LET ME IN!!!!" He fell to his knees in the rubble, then jumped to his throbbing feet and hurried to the last remaining wall. "Gotta get this one down, Connor. I'm coming little one, hang on. Daddy's coming, Connor." He was sobbing with distress as he ripped the final wall down around himself with three mighty heaves. He leapt forward in joy and screamed as he bounced off the still-present barrier. "NOOOOOOO! No, it can't be there, there's nothing there! Let me in. Give me my boy! Connor!" Angel fell to his knees, sliding down the barrier and gazing in abject pain at his son, only feet away but separated forever from him because of his dark nature. "Connor," he whispered, covering his eyes and howling in despair. Angel's broken, bloody hands slid down the barrier as he battered them hopelessly against it. Nothing worked. He pleaded to the PTB, begged heaven and hell alike to give him his son. He might as well have beseeched the missing sun and moon, for all the good it did him. He shuddered, realizing that Holtz would win this sick game, despite his death. Angel would have to crouch here and watch as his son grew weaker, starving slowly or perishing first of dreadful thirst…going into convulsions as his tiny body dried up and shriveled away. If that was fate, Angel could not hope to overcome it. Despair took hold of him and he stood, helplessly leaning against the barrier and gazing at his boy. The son he'd never thought to have. Connor was so beautiful, so perfect in every way. Angel had dreamed of watching him grow to manhood. Protecting him, teaching him right from wrong. Hoping that his son could learn to love the strange father that fate had seen fit to give him. More, even than Buffy's love or the Shansu he'd someday been promised, for Angel, Connor's very life was a precious and fragile gift. He'd held his boy in his large hands and wept with joy, afraid to love, yet forever smitten by this child of his. He looked as his poor doomed child and wept in utter grief. Connor had quieted when his father's voice called to him from outside the remains of the small stone hut. This…this sound was familiar in all the strangeness surrounding him. He might be cold, wet and hungry, but that well-known voice meant food, warmth, and cool strong hands caressing him, holding him close to a broad silent chest and cradling him in loving arms. That voice meant off-key lullabies and whispered Gaelic endearments he was too small to understand, but somehow sensed, deep inside, signified home. He looked up, clear blue eyes searching the haze for the familiar figure. A crouching shadow stood and watched him and Connor reached for it. That was home, that voice, that burly figure that strained at the edges of his limited sight. Connor stretched his other hand feebly towards the figure and cooed his need for comfort…for love…for the peace that came with those strong hands. "Da da da da da..." he gurgled. The figure leaned forward and Connor called again, reaching for it with all his tiny might. "DA da da da da!" Angel fell inward with no warning, crashing to the floor in surprise as the barrier disappeared. He stumbled to his feet, dazed and confused for a moment, then leapt forward and scooped his son from the carrier, hugging Connor to him in unbridled joy and happiness. Connor was safe. Connor was his again. He kissed his boy gladly, covering his face with loving caresses, stroking his hair and weeping in joy. Connor would be all right. His son, his boy was all right. Blazing love swept his soul and he laughed in blessed delight. It was a moment of bliss. A moment of perfect… To be continued… Now, fair reader, pay close attention before you travel onward. You have a choice of endings. Chapter 2 follows. It's the fluffy smut ending for B/Aers. Chapter 3 is fluffy smut for B/A/Sers. Chapter 4 is angsty.
Chapter 5 is the dire, angsty horrific ending.
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