"Angel" is owned by Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy Productions. No copyright infringement is intended.

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"Oh, for god's sake, Wesley. It's not like I asked you to swim naked through a pit of ravenous penis-eating demons. I just need you to watch Connor for an hour."

Wesley sighed in frustration. "Why don't you simply take him with you?"

"Because I can't. And anyway, he's asleep, it's not like -- "

"Well, why don't you ask --"

"Fred and Gunn are out on a job, that's why. And Angel's asleep. And believe it or not," she said dismissively, "I don't know any teenagers. So that leaves you." She propped her hands on her hips, and stared icily down to
where Wes sat hunched over his work. "What is the problem? I mean, you were a Watcher, weren't you?"

"It's hardly comparable, Cordelia."

"Please. It's exactly the same thing. More or less. Anyway, watching babies has got to be easier than watching you-know-who, so you're already ahead of the game." She pulled a mirror from her purse to give her face the once-over, then, satisfied, slipped it back in and picked up the carseat, settling it carefully on the table. "There's a bottle in the fridge. Make sure you test it. Bye."

"Cordel-" She was already gone. He slipped his glasses off and rubbed both eyes. She really was infuriating. How was he supposed to get any work done - important work, necessary work - if he had to care for an infant? He peered
cautiously over the edge of the carrier, where Connor slept on, oblivious to obligations and necessities. His eyes were screwed tight shut, his tiny mouth set in a little frown. Well, Angel certainly couldn't deny him; the child
already manifested some of his father's less attractive attributes.

Shaking his head, he returned to his books. He was certain this translation pertained to Connor's birth, if could only puzzle out the key. But he couldn't concentrate. He found himself hyper-sensitive to every little sound, every little movement. Would Connor wake? Should he fetch the bottle? Waiting for the other shoe to drop; it was a most unpleasant sensation. His eyes moved from the text to the carrier, and back again. He was never going to finish the translation at this rate.

He sighed, and contemplated the congealing liquid that passed for coffee. He'd prefer tea, but it was entirely too much trouble for a single cup. The thought produced a flash of longing, a tiny thrill of homesickness rippling through him. Odd, how it still lingered, even after he'd acclimated. Truth be told, he much preferred Los Angeles to the place of his birth. Sunny and mild, seldom truly cold – his boyhood memories stood in stark contrast. He couldn't remember home ever being anything but cold and dark, even in the summer. He gripped his pen tightly, bending once more to his work. He pushed away the unwelcome thought that perhaps the darkness of his memories didn't have anything to do with the weather.

Truly, he didn't miss England at all.

Connor shifted slightly, and gave a small whine, his frown deepening for a moment, before his face smoothed out once more. Wes hovered, indecisive. What was it Cordelia had said to do? Typical that she gave the most vague
instructions, as if caring for infants was something he did on a regular basis. When no wailing followed, he relaxed a bit, but still stood by the carrier, uncertain. He was dithering again, he noted with disgust. He really was ill-equipped for this sort of thing. It wasn't as though he helped care for siblings, or, really even entertained notions of eventual
fatherhood. Even in the abstract, the notion made him profoundly uncomfortable – in the concrete, lying here with tiny fists curled 'round the blankets, it terrified him. All he knew of fatherhood was tied up in disapproval – hard fists and harder words and icy silences. Father meant disappointment and malice and tears. Blood will out, his Grandmother used to say, and now Wesley knew what she meant. She'd been a harsh and unforgiving woman, and her son was just the same. And in him, their seeds had blossomed into rigidity that even he found suffocating, into darkness that shamed and frightened him.

He touched one fingertip to Connor's soft little hand, wondered what Angel had been like, truly, before he was turned. He very seldom talked about his human family life, even when asked. And Darla – not even Angel knew what she'd been like so many hundreds of years before. What secrets were waiting to grow inside this boy? What had their blood written on him, that he'd never be able to change? His eye wandered again to the manuscript; prophecy that might rule this poor innocent child as surely as it had ruled Oedipus.

It was certain that there'd be no help in the circumstances of his upbringing – his mother dead, his father barely able to cope with his own inadequacies, let alone another's. A motley crew of pseudo-relatives who might be dead this time next year...what good could that do anyone? Perhaps – No, he had to believe that miracles happened for a reason, that love could make some kind of difference. Otherwise – otherwise, they might as well stop fighting for anything.

Prophecies had been thwarted before, hadn't they? He bent to gently kiss Connor's downy head, where the morning sunlight had warmed it. Perhaps whatever darkness there was in him could be changed, whatever disappointments lay ahead could be forestalled. He had to hope. Not just for Connor's sake, but for his, as well.