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Hey all I am back with a few wee scraps, I have had some awfull comp problems had to get a new motherboard and fan then the mouse died and then I had a virus, but now I am here and thanks to the wonderful Edi have a few bits of Connor and Spike ala LA.

So what the hell happened?
Realising that his father was not addressing him, Connor continued to stare into the cooling tea before him.

Everything was fine; according to Connor the only souvenirs Spike uses are from beasts seen in visions. Not all the visions are relevant, but those that are he places in chorological order by the relevant site on his model. We duplicated the placements on an aerial map to see if we could get a clearer view.”
Taking a sip of his tea Wesley frowned. “The problem is that in some areas he has varying numbers of wooden beads tied with string in place of the tokens from defeated demons. When we tried to ascertain the relevance of the beads he became upset. The situation escalated until he began to harm himself and we were forced to leave… at that point you and Gunn returned.”

“Connor, any thoughts on these beads?”
Frowning, torn between pleasure at his opinion being requested and unwilling to speak in such a civil fashion to the thing at his side, Connor sat silent, weighing his options and turning the question over in his mind. He had been so caught in calming it that he had not paid much heed to the questions that had started the incident.
“The beads may be the visions that failed, those we didn’t save or could not get to. If, for example, it had been stolen and drugged it would be unable to tell of a seeing and those meant to be saved would have died.”
Satisfied with the uncomfortable silence his reply had created he relaxed in his seat and took a drink of the cold tea to hide the small smile pulling at his lips.
He glanced up as he heard a strange noise, then rapidly returned the cup to his lips as he realised his father was grinding his teeth.
Clearing his throat, Wesley nodded. “ Ah, yes that is a good hypothesis; each bead could be a person as a rosary is a prayer. After a century with Drusilla it’s entirely reasonable to suppose Spike would use iconology to represent events of importance. Right then, if we just use different pins for those areas we can stand back and see if anything jumps out at us.”

“Um. Is it me or is he kinda getting worse? Not that he is any trouble, or I’m one to talk cus you know, crazy cave gal for five years… but almost two weeks and…”

“It will be fine, it is unused to so many.”
“HE is also exhausted and starving. HE needs to sleep and feed.”
“IT often went into such humours, after a time IT would be appeased and return ITs wits.”
“Not that I want to intrude in this mature debate, but the visions themselves may be responsible for Spike’s disassociate behaviours. His soul has only recently returned and the strain of coping with his own guilt and the additional responsibility of the visions would be overwhelming. If you remember, last year when Cordelia had her out of body experience, she saw a world where you carried the burdens of the visions, Angel … and it drove you insane.”


Returning from another foraging session, Connor couldn’t help the small swell of pride as he looked at the bags of food in his hands. Due to his intervention the night before, a couple had been saved and had rewarded him with more money than he had ever had in all his time in this world. So now he was bringing home food, blood and tokens for it.
He told himself that the gifts were only to ensure that it was brought back to health; despite what his father and the others said Connor knew how best to care for it, he had learned well on Quortoth the value of caring for his weapons.
His father’s people talked too freely, they provided him with information on the seeing and those who had carried the images before it. The soiled humans only lasted a short time, but the vampire demons that saw were infinite. Its Drusilla still used her pictures, although now for evil. Connor knew that his duty was to ensure that it was not permitted to follow its nature and taint the purpose.
The madness was a possible problem; the demon resisted the path of the champion so much it would destroy itself to prevent the proper passage being taken. He would fight this. Holtz had told him that the Christ boy had expelled Legions into swine so a man could speak clearly. Connor had only one demon to suppress. He had been born to challenge demons and unholy minions, he had come to see this as his great trial. In all the tales he had been told, the champion had one great trial before he was granted enlightenment.

It had not woken fully from the time his father had enforced rest, it would accept sustenance then return to sleep.
Despite his father’s urgings it still refused human blood. His father claimed that this was necessary for recovery.
Connor knew better.
It would come to its wits when it was ready, and Connor would be the one to which it would turn for direction. They may be in his father’s house but it hated father as much as he did. They could live as before; it would see and Connor would strike. His father would be no more than a frustrated observer watching as his son usurped his place. Connor would show them what a true champion looked like.
Happy to have such weight of worry lifted from his shoulders, he laughed as he ran up the stairs to their room.
The sound of words paused was heavy in his room. His father and it were crouched by the puzzle, his father’s face was carefully blank as he and it looked at him.
It looked at him.
“So, brat, you’re back… is that chicken?”
Connor dropped the bag.

“I don’t know, it’s like havin a word just sitting on the back of my bloody tongue, I know what it means but I can’t quite catch hold of it. You should know how that feels, being as you have to point for items of three syllables or more at the store.”
“Spike, you’re rhyming; trying your hand at old professions?”
“Shut up, poof, at least I had a bloody profession. What was yours? Oh yes, I remember, you were developing the skills to take residence as the toothless crone begging for drink in the gutter.”

Sitting silently on the bed as it gnawed at the food he had bought and threw insults at his father, Connor watched silently the interaction and saw how little space there was left in a room when the two demons sat together.
He saw how smoothly the words swung back and forth and wondered if it had been waiting for such replies when it had baited him.
He wondered if he had been nothing more than a clumsy replacement.


“No. This doesn’t feel right, too new; in my head it feels older. Older than me, maybe even older than the city. Dru used to wear clothes that came before the time when she was alive. I used to wonder if she could feel the age of the demon and wanted to wear what it would want, though sometimes I think that perhaps she saw the cloth as a way to go back to the before of her birth. Like if she dressed like that she couldn’t have been born and it wasn’t her that was really in that skin. You know?”
Connor turned from the window to watch the group who had been studying the maps pinned to the wall. After so many months he was used to the way it would slip from clarity into oddity; he didn’t know any different. The others found it disconcerting. An uncomfortable silence would fill the room before someone either tried to answer the strange ramblings or avoided the subject altogether. He enjoyed their discomfort; he liked to see them at a loss so he watched.
“I always thought that she just imagined story princesses as wearing the gowns of long ago, it made them seem more magical. The same way little girls nowadays dress their dolls in crinolines and ball gown. They see the mystery without knowing the mechanics of wearing such clothes.”
It looked at Angel for a moment then, its eyes clearing back into the now, it shrugged and turned to the TV.
“Maybe, I don’t know, those maps are wrong they’re too young.” It giggled a little. “Need to go find maps of a more mature generation, or would it be a younger generation since those other maps would be chronicling a younger time? I don’t know, I don’t know, just wrong.” Connor found himself holding in a smirk as Fred and Wesley slid out of the room, obviously uncomfortable, mumbling about further research.
It shrugged, then suddenly swung around and pointed at Connor, “An You! You still going out for the oldest preschooler on the planet or what? We’re long past the time when you can sign your name with an X. You‘re shuffling around this place bored out of your skull, auditioning for the role of littlest psychopath. Unless you intend to make your money by joining the bloody circus you’re going to find yourself with very few prospects, my lad. Living in gutters playing stig of the dump won’t be such fun when you reach an age that lets you know when your bones hurt. How are you going to find yourself a nice wife, or husband if that’s your fancy, if you can’t converse past ‘kill now‘?”
Surprise twisting into a scowl when he realized he had stepped back in front of his father, Connor narrowed his eyes and stepped forward, only to be interrupted by his father’s growl.
“Don’t talk to him like that, Spike, he is my business not yours.”
“Is that right? Great job you’re doing there, leaving the kid to the wonders of the planet‘s underbelly. What’s that then, the new practical parenting from Dr Spock? If things get a little difficult shove them out the door an’ hope they don’t end up dead in the gutter? You reading Lord of the Flies when you came up with that gem, you gutless arse?”
Realizing that his mouth was hanging open, Connor closed it and, pushing his way between the two monsters, scowled at it. “I don’t need school, I don’t need him. I told you before, my father taught me all I need to survive, and I do know how to write my own name, demon.”
“That was not your father, that was some twisted nutter that should have been long buried who stole you then spent years making you into his very own Goel. He didn’t care about you; you were nothing more than a poison from his head. Get it? Because until you do, short arse, until you figure that out, you are going to spend your life as nothing more than the shadow of someone else’s revenge.”
His back pressed tight to his father‘s chest, Connor found himself panting as it glared at him. His father‘s arm snaked around his chest in support and he found that he was still too blank, shocked to shake the comfort away.
“Spike, I am warning you, enough. I may need you for the visions but I can easily keep you chained in the basement with a tape-recorder. You push any further and you will soon see how little I care for the whims of the powers these days.”
It sneered and, realizing where he was, Connor pulled away, turning to the window, reaching for calm only to turn back at the sound of a fist striking flesh.
It laughed. “You great lardy hypocrite, nothing much changed. ‘S ok for you to chuck him away like some abortion but god forbid he’s told a few home truths that might help him?”
The violence as his father’s demon emerged and attacked seemed almost predestined, as if he was watching a play of previous memories. There was almost a storm break relief in the air as it stumbled and fell under the weight of the blows As if it expected nothing more; as if it needed to be touched or absolved and this was they only way they knew. He understood that; he would like to learn new forms of discussion but doubted that any school could teach him.
The spray of blood had him shake away fanciful thought and he surged forward to protect what was his.
The struggle to pull his father away was short and vicious. He could feel the anger almost seeping from the demon‘s skin as he held him away from it, and he wondered if this was where he got the fury that boiled steadily in his gut. He wondered in those moments if his anger would ever find the battle that would allow the rage to dissipate.
It was bleeding again, sitting dizzily on the floor frowning at the mess of the pattern; it looked around and whined, then began once again to build the precious structures, murmuring with distress under its breath.
He stepped away as his father‘s face became human again and watched from the corner of his eye as the large shoulders slumped in regret. His father ran fingers through his hair and stared at it as it rocked on its knees and mourned the loss of the puzzle.
They spent the evening in silence, it between them as they helped repair the damage to the pattern. Connor found the quiet heavy with unsaid words that burned all their ears, still feeling the weight of his father‘s arm across his chest, and told himself that it was disgust, which had his skin prickling so warmly where he had been held.

Date: 2005-06-28 04:13 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Just a quickie - good to see you back online. It's been a long, long time. and nice to see more of this, too. It was a pleasure to hear Spike at his most lucid. Poor baby. He's got it rough, and Angel's still an ass.

**pets you**

Date: 2005-06-29 06:16 am (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Absolutely thrilled to see you back and with presents of more of your stories! :) Still absolutely loving the style in which you write in, it's just fantastic stuff.

Date: 2005-09-21 07:01 pm (UTC)
From: [identity profile]
Hey there, directed here by [ profile] drc1, and so very glad she did! This is confusing and brutal and raw and great. I love Connor's bassackwards adoption of insane Spike, I love the visions coming through Spike, I love what a trouble-maker and bigmouth he is when he's lucid. Very cool. Thanks for this much, and if there's any more, would you mind pointing me to it?


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