Wild Days

Giles:

I watch Connor disappear in Angel's room, his shoulders hunched and weary in a way they shouldn't be in a sixteen year old, and suddenly needing to clear my head I step towards the window, breathing deeply. My mind is still reeling from the knowledge that Buffy gave Angel her blood - twice - out of her own free will.

When we found her in the hospital just before the mayor's ascension, we were quick to accuse the vampire, it was so much easier than any other option. And even now, years later, I can hardly stand the idea of Angel drinking from Buffy. Not because I'm jealous in any way, but because my deepest inner core insists it is wrong.

Buffy is the Slayer, the epitome of good and right, and she let a vampire do this to her. Granted, said vampire isn't the regular evil fiend but still everything in me revolts against it. Not even knowing she had sex with Spike can compare. With Spike she shared something animalistic, filled with pain and anger, but giving Angel her blood - the essence of life - her life - is something that's almost beyond my comprehension.

It's Slayer's blood, and the Slayer is the vampire's mortal enemy ever since they both existed. A Slayer giving a vampire her blood - I'm certain it's never happened before. It's unique. But of course Angel and Buffy are unique, too. They were in love, have been lovers, and if I'm not totally wrong then Buffy still feels the same, even though she might not realise it. I'm not sure how I feel about it, but I also see that since Angel left she's gone through Hell, and a part of me wonders if it hadn't been as bad if he'd been there with her.

When he left after Graduation, to say I was happy would have been a drastic exaggeration, but I wasn't exactly sad either. I saw the strain it put on Buffy to be near him, but not allowed to be *near* him. And of course a part of me was glad to see the man gone who bore the monster than had once killed my hopes for a future filled with family and children. We all expected Buffy to get over it, and after a while she seemed fine, she found Riley, she settled into college and everything was going along its path. But we all - including I, I have to admit with not a little amount of shame - missed the silent grief behind her happy façade, the pain she tried to hide behind playing the dutiful daughter, lover, friend, and Slayer.

Then Riley left and Joyce died, and for the first time she was facing an opponent who was not only stronger than any other she ever faced, but whose intension became close and personal. I know it was hard for Buffy to fight the demon who wore her lover's face, but with Dawn it was even worse. This time it was about her sister, it was about responsibility. Not just the Slayer protecting a human, but one sister protecting another, the only relative she had left in this world.

She felt herself that something was different, that she was changing. I still remember the night she told she was afraid she wasn't able to feel love anymore. I sent her on a quest then. Maybe sending her to Angel that night would have been the better idea.

"Slayer asked me to keep you out."

I turn and see Spike standing near, keeping himself in the shadows, away from the lethal rays of sunshine streaming through the window. I've always wondered why vampires even bother to come to California with all the sun and good weather. Maybe it's the warmth, with no body heat it must be uncomfortable after a while.

"Yes, I realise that," I reply, looking at him for a moment. He's been through a lot these last months, his usually cocky eyes are always serious now.

"So you know what she did?" When I nod, he does the same. "Think it's disgustin'?"

"That she gave him her blood?" I shake my head, chuckle slightly. "It should be, but strangely it isn't. But it's hard to accept nevertheless."

"The boy ran straight out of the house," he informs me. "Didn't take it nearly as well." He grins suddenly, unexpectedly, "Suppose the old jealousy returned."

"Xander is not-," I start, but then stop, not sure what I wanted to say. He is not a boy? In a way that's true, but in another, he is still the Xander Harris I remember from the first time he showed up in the library, more interested in Buffy than books or vampires. He's come a long way from there, but deep down there is still a lot of the old Xander left. And to say he isn't jealous?

I sigh, and have to chuckle as well, "I suppose it did. So," I look at him from the side, "did you encourage her to do this?"

He shrugs, and I see him reach into his pocket, fishing for a cigarette. It's like a nervous habit, the way I seem to clean my glasses whenever things get too uncomfortable. The hand comes out empty, and he frowns. "Forgot I gave it up." He shakes his head, "And yeah, I said it would do good. But she already knew it. I wouldn't have needed to say anything. Blondie loves the stupid wanker, she'd die for him."

The last words come out with strain, and for a moment I wonder how deep his feelings for Buffy are. Then I dismiss the thought. This isn't any of my business. Yet, his last words leave me disturbed, knowing they are absolutely true, but not knowing what to think of them.

Deep inside I already know it. When she offered him her blood before Graduation, she risked her life, and she knew. Angel was ill, he was dying, she must have known that forcing his mouth to her vein was like offering herself as a human sacrifice. He was weak, beyond the edge of rational thinking, and she did it anyway.

It's as if breathing suddenly becomes difficult as I stare into the bright light of the Californian sun, forgetting about the vampire standing near by, can't think of anything except the fact of how blind we all were. Buffy, the Slayer, offered her neck to Angel, the vampire. She made the ultimate sacrifice a Slayer can give, going against her very nature, for her dying lover, and we all missed its meaning, because we were too blind, or not ready to face it.

Suddenly it's like a veil being torn from my eyes. No wonder Buffy slipped into a depression, no wonder she was suddenly so serious and unhappy. I realise with startling awareness that losing Angel was the big cut in her life. After that nothing was the same. She wasn't just losing a lover, a loved one, the way we all thought. She was losing a part of her heart.

"Don't tell me you didn't know." I hear Spike say, and only with difficulty manage to pull myself back to the present.

My voice is grave, but also tinged with hope when I answer him. "No. Until today it seems I didn't. Not really."

*****

Xander:

I run out of the hotel, needing to get away form them, but in reality trying to escape the vivid images in my head, I've tried to deny for so long. Images of Angel's head lowering down to Buffy's neck, his fangs long and sharp, his eyes glowing demonic amber, while hers glaze over in a mixture of pain and passion.

A groan comes from my throat, and I don't care that people on the street turn and stare at me. I want to scream at them, rage at them, because of their ignorance. There is evil in this world, vampires, demons. And they have no idea. Their whole lives they live with their eyes closed, never knowing, never wanting to know. They don't know there is Buffy, the Slayer. Born to fight evil, she is the light in a world of darkness. Or at least that's what she's supposed to be. She should give us hope that there can be a better world, that they will not win in the end. But instead she does not only sleep with her mortal enemies, she even bares her throat to them.

Whenever I look at the far too slowly fading scar **will it ever disappear completely??**, I am reminded of it. But so far I managed to convince myself that she was the victim, that somehow Angel - even mortally wounded - overpowered her, forced himself on her. Of course, deep inside, I knew it wasn't possible. She is the stronger of them anyway, and he was barely conscious then. Still, I managed to keep my head in denial.

But seeing the tape on her wrist just before, knowing that once again she offered him the essence of her life, was too much. I could almost hear something inside of me snap. Buffy is supposed to be my hero. She was my hero from the moment she came to Sunnydale. My life was dull and boring, I was the outcast, the Zeppo, and then she was there. The woman, the superhero, the one I always wanted but knew I could never have. But at least I wanted her pure and good, not tainted by a vampire. Not falling in love with a vampire. I don't care if he has a soul or not, don't care if he is good. It's still wrong, and it still makes me sick to the core.

I don't slow down when I hear Willow's voice behind me, don't want to stop and talk. But she keeps following me and after three blocks I finally stop and wait for her to catch up.

"Wow, Xander, if it wasn't bright sunlight one could think that demons were chasing you just before," she pants when she comes to stand next to me.

"Something like that," I mutter, talking of my own demons. The ones I still haven't managed to lay to rest. I loved Anya with all my heart, and they still haunted me.

"Huh?" she asks, tilting her head.

I take a deep breath, comb my fingers through my hair, "She let him drink from her," I say finally, keeping my voice low, not wanting anyone to overhear our conversation.

"I know," she replies, giving me a slight smile. "Giles told me," she adds.

"Yeah," I nod once, then chuckle slightly. "Wow. Isn't that great. She let him drink. Even three years ago, it was her."

"I see," Willow gives me an understanding look, before she pulls me with her to a coffee shop across the street, pushes me in a booth and orders two cups for us. When she finally sits down, she looks at me long and hard, before she says, "You have to get over it."

I frown, not knowing where she's coming from, "That has nothing to do with me-"

"Xand," she smiles, her knowing Willow-smile, "Of course it is. So? Buffy let Angel drink from her. She's an adult, it's her decision. It's not for us to question it. Especially while we know that she loves him." She pauses, bites her lower lip, then asks, "You know that she loves him, do you?"

"They've been separated for three years-," I start to argue, but stop when she rolls her eyes, "What?"

"Are you blind? Look at her. Did you look at her when Gunn opened that box? Have you seen the expression in her eyes? The way she dared anyone to touch him but her, the daggers she shot at Connor? Xander, if that's not love … Besides, what does have love to do with … time and distance?" Her eyes are suddenly far away, and they take on that look they sometimes do since Tara died and she managed to pull herself out of the depth of despair. After a moment she snaps out of it, and goes on, "You are not still hoping to get together with her, are you? Because even if things between Angel and Buffy don't work out, you would never be anything but second best."

Second best? I feel anger rising inside of me. How can she say that? I have fought with Buffy for more than six years. Side by side, day after day. I've been her friend, her confidante. I've stood by her when others left, when she was nothing to them but something they could use and discard later. "You don't know that," I grit out between clenched teeth. We're in a coffee shop, I can't just start yelling at her.

"Of course I know," she replies gently, putting a hand on mine. I want to pull away, but she holds it fast. "Xander, why do you think Riley left? Because he felt it. She never loved him. She couldn't. She has given all to Angel, and even if he isn't there … it still doesn't change. She might live on, might even find some kind of happiness, but … for you … to live in Angel's shadow … Xander, you'd be terribly unhappy. And as your friend, I don't want that. You're too precious to become second best."

I suddenly feel a lump in my throat where I wanted to yell just before, looking into Willow's gentle eyes. She's been my friend since I can remember, and she's always been the most honest person I've known. And I know I can't lie to her - or to myself. Not anymore. "Will, it has nothing to do with …that kind of love. Yes, I love Buffy. But I've given up the idea of anything remotely "us"ish a long while ago. I'm not blind. But … I just can't think of Angel … and her … that way."

She looks puzzled for a moment, "You mean them having sex?"

"No," I reply quickly, "I mean yeah, it's gross and all, but I'm not a boy anymore. No, what I mean is the drinking-thing. The blood-sharing part. It freaks me out. I can't think about it without feeling sick."

Again there is this patented Willow-expression, "Because she shares something with him you never can? Maybe not even understand?"

Was she always that wise? I wonder. "Yeah," I answer, squeezing her hand. "Something like that. I …We shared everything, but with Angel …"

"That's the way it should be," Willow says gently, "There were things between Tara and I … well, things nobody else knows about. When two people love each other that way, it's only natural. I mean, I know Anya likes to share intimate details, but I'm sure there are things-"

I hold up a hand, feel suddenly sheepish. She's been right from the start. I am jealous. Just not in the obvious way, and that's why I've been denying it all the time. "Don't go there," I say. "And I think I've gotten your point. Finally." I take a deep breath, needing the air in my lungs desperately, "And besides," I laugh humourlessly, "Compared to Angel what could I offer her anyway?"

"Hey," she scowls suddenly, gives my hand a light pull, "Don't sell yourself short. If I had to chose, I'd take you any day over him."

I can't stop the grin that's blooming on my face, and she grins right back. "You would, huh?"

"Yeah. Of course."

Our coffee arrives, and we drink it in companionable silence, sharing glances and grins. And for a moment it's as if we're twelve again, young and careless. And I think of Angel and Buffy and everything they've been through. All the heartbreak and loss. And I realise maybe for the first time that sometimes being a good friend is more than fighting together and sharing. Sometimes understanding is the greatest gift of all.

*****

Connor:

My heart pounds like crazy when I quietly close the door behind me, and I feel sweat starting to tickle down my temples, and build between my shoulder-blades. I shouldn't be this nervous, shouldn't care in the first place. This is just a vampire lying on the suddenly too huge bed, reminding me more of a corpse than something resembling a human being. I feel the overwhelming urge to kill it, to plunge a stake into the demon's heart, the way I've been told since I could think. But the urge settles after just a short moment, replaced by the knowledge that this isn't just some random vampire, but my father, however strange that may sound.

Guilt clenches my gut at the thought that I did this to him. I put him into this box, closed it, and threw it into the sea. Do I even have a right to be here? And why am I? Can he ever forgive? And do I even want him to? Why do I not just turn my back and walk out of the hotel? The answer is, I simply don't know. I don't know what I want, what should be done, or what I feel. The last hours have been the most confusing of my life. Even more than the day when Holtz finally told me he wasn't my real father, that my real father was nothing but a monster. After he told me, I left the house and didn't come back for forty-eight hours, and when I returned all I wanted was to kill the demon, to erase the sin of my birth from the face of the earth.

But then I met Angel, and it got me thinking. I tried to block out his serious and honest looking eyes, tried to tell myself that it was mere deception I saw, that it simply couldn't be true. That nothing could be real or true. Yet, I didn't seem to be able to stay away. Then even Holtz encouraged me to stick with my real father. Little did I know that everything was just part of a sick mind's fantasy. A cruel play to have a son kill his father, to make a father watch his son turn against him.

Four weeks ago, when Gunn and Fred were out, I sneaked into Angel's room and in a drawer, underneath some shirts I found pictures. They were partly destroyed by fire, but I could still see what was on them. They were of me. As a baby. And of my father. Holding me. Smiling at me. Being happy. Then I didn't want to face what it might mean, quickly put them back into their hiding and left the room, overwhelmed with feelings I refused to have. But now, seeing him lying there, and even through the fresh shirt, seeing his bones stick out from underneath his skin, I simply want to weep. And it's such a strange feeling, I want to turn and run at the same time.

I must have made a noise, because right that moment, Buffy's head comes up, and she looks at me with her big eyes. While they were full of compassion before, they are now guarded, wary, and very tired. "Hey," she says, inviting me with a nod to sit down at the other side of the bed. "Giles said you were waiting in front of the door."

Her voice is melodic and beautiful, but like her eyes, it sounds tired now. "I … yes," I reply. "I …," I start, but don't know what to say. I don't have words to describe what I'm feeling right now. This strange muddle of guilt, fear, and the slightest hint of love, something I firmly try to push away, but that seems to sneak into my unconscious time and again, all this tears on my nerves. "This is … difficult," I say finally, swallowing hard. Sitting close to him, my father looks even worse. I have never seen anything like him before.

"Why, because you fear he's going to die or that he won't," she snaps, then obviously horrified by her own words, she quickly glances at Angel, a blush creeping up her neck. "Sorry, that was uncalled for," she mumbles.

"It's okay," I tell her, meaning it. Right now I think I'm earning everything that's thrown at me. What kind of a monster am I? I wonder. I put my own father in a box and with a smile in my heart watched it sinking into the sea. He might be a vampire, but does that really change anything? Does it justify what I did? I hardly believe I'm thinking these things. But they suddenly ring true in my ears.

"No, it's really not," she replies, softly this time. "Angel would be shocked if he knew. He loves you very much."

"How do you know? You never saw us together?" Is she a mind-reader? Is she telepathic? How can she say such a thing. Not that I really doubt it. I can still remember my father's last words before the box sunk into the ocean.

(('Some day you'll learn the truth - and you'll hate yourself. Don't. It's not your fault. I don't blame you.'

'Liar!'

'Listen to me. I love you! Never forget that. Connor?! Connor, never forget that I'm your father and that I love you. Connor? Con…'))

I swallow hard, finding the room suddenly too small, too sticky, too dark.

"No," she shakes her head ever so slightly. "But I know him." The smile that blossoms on her face fills me with the slightest envy. Not because I have … feelings for her, although she is … good looking, and way too old anyway, plus she's been my father's … whatever, but because I can't remember anyone looking at me that way. If I forget the times when my father, my real father, did, that is. Suddenly I want him to look at me that way again, and to my horror I feel my eyes moisten.

Quickly averting my face, I clear my throat, trying to swallow the lump there, "What do you mean?"

"That's just the way he is. He loves people he cares for. And you are his son. I can only imagine how much you mean to him."

(('Listen to me. I love you!'))

That really throws me, and I feel a tear slip from my eye making its path down my cheek. Hoping she hasn't seen it, I quickly wipe it away. I can't deal with this right now, while I'm still trying to sort through my feelings.

"It's no shame to love another person," she says and I realise I haven't been very successful in hiding my feelings. "I don't know a lot about you, but Wesley told me you were raised by a man who hated vampires. This must be hard. To find out your own father is one."

"Yeah," is all I manage because tears are clogging my throat. Right now the fact that Angel is a vampire is the last thought on my mind. And where the man is concerned who raised me … If he was in the room right now, I wasn't sure I could look at him without the urge to beat him up. "Is … he going to be … okay?" I can hardly squeeze the words out, but I just have to know.

"Yes," she replies, "He will be. Given enough time. He is a vampire, that means as long as he isn't dust, he's going to be fine." The words sound as if she's told them herself more than once before, and I wonder how much love there still is between my father and this Slayer. I've heard about their love-story from Gunn, but he didn't know a lot either. Yet, I got the impression that Angel was only having eyes for Cordelia before … Right now I can't understand how he could even think about Cordelia when there was Buffy. Theirs might be a forbidden love, but he'd mastered other things as well. I wonder what happened so that my father stopped believing.

My father.

It think for the first time this really sinks in. I look at the unmoving, pathetic looking form of my father, and I feel a sudden warmth, feel something expand around my heart. Slowly, ever so slowly I raise my hand, moving it towards Angel's then letting it hover over his.

"Go on."

I startle slightly, look at Buffy who is smiling at me, the guarded look in her eyes almost gone. "You can touch him," she encourages. "He won't break."

I swallow hard, then - my heart racing - I let the tips of my fingers touch his hand. It's bony, so thin I have the feeling it's hardly there. His skin feels dry and … well, dead. And I know how this sounds, but it isn't meant that way. I feel the coolness of him, but instead of revulsion as I would've felt only a few short weeks ago, I now feel … I don't exactly know what I feel, but it's not bad anymore, it's soothing, and warm, and gentle. I let my fingers curl around his, slightly only, careful not to hurt him, hoping against hope that he'll know I'm here, that I'm sorry, and that I'm…

And that's when I hear Buffy gasp, and I look up, and my breath suddenly sticks in my throat. My father's eyes, sunk in, still lifeless and somehow dazed, are watching me - even though with great difficulty. And his lips are moving, slowly, painfully, and they are forming a word. I can't understand it, it's toneless, his voice gone from exhaustion and starvation, but I can read it nevertheless. And I don't care anymore that tears are streaming down my face, that I'm here embarrassing myself in front of my father and the Slayer. All that matters is the word he is forming again now, and this time it's a mere whisper, but a whisper nevertheless. I look at Buffy and from the tears in her eyes I can see she heard it, too.

My father follows my eyes and something flickers through his when he becomes aware of Buffy's presence. Then his orbs travel back to me, and again he breathes the word he's been forming before.

"Son."