Chapter Text
'There's no play,' Lilah said, she sat on the edge of the impressively large desk and crossed her long legs. 'No trick. You signed your life away to the Senior Partners - hey, been there - they like to treat their employees well. It's part of why we do it.'
'Not all their employees get treated well. I'm sure Linwood Murrow's widow could tell a tale or two … and then there's all the staff that got turned into zombies.' Angel said to her.
Lilah only gave a shrug, looking very smug with herself as she remembered the decapitation of Linwood and the way she had brought it about. 'Nothing in this life is risk free,' she pointed out, 'but then - you are a heck of a lot more valuable to the Senior Partners than the rest of us are. That was always the line. Even when we were trying to drive you crazy - we were expendable. You were not. Now...' she uncrossed her legs and then crossed them in the opposing direction, 'if you would feel happier locked in a cage, I'm sure we can come to some arrangement. But you won't be much use in the Wolfram and Hart vault.'
'I don't wanna be of use to Wolfram and Hart.'
'You've always been of use to us, sunshine - ever since you got here, but that's not what I meant. I meant you won't be much use out there, to them. The hopeless. Not if you're doing penance in a little cell, somewhere dark and gloomy. Sure, you might feel better - but at what cost?'
'How can I help the hopeless if I'm working for evil incorporated?'
She threw back her head and laughed out loud. 'With much greater efficiency than you ever did back in your crumbling old death trap of a hotel. That's for damn sure. Think of what you can do with the resources of Wolfram & Hart at your fingertips, the difference that would make. Nothing in this world is the way it ought to be. It's harsh, and it's cruel, but that's why there's you, Angel. You live as if the world were as it should be. With all this, you can make it that way. If nothing we do matters then all that matters is what we do. And you will have the resources, staff, funding, tech, helicopters and motorpool to do a hell of a lot of good - if that's what you want, white hat.'
'Helicopters?'
She smiled even more broadly. 'We do have one or two. Or four or five. And, as CEO of the L.A Branch, they're yours to command.'
He shook his head. 'Look, Lilah - you're trying to seduce me with the cars and the sunlight and the promise of helicopters. I get that. But why do The Senior Partners want me seduced? Why are they OK with me using their resources to fight my battle - when we've been fighting each other for the past four years? That's the part that doesn't make sense. Why on earth are The Senior Partners suddenly OK with handing the L.A branch of their evil law firm over to the good fight?'
'Because you're a long term investment, Angel. An asset to the team that they intend to keep for a very long time to come. And unlike a certain heavy browed, unyielding champion I can mention, they know the value of compromise. You can catch more flies with honey than vinegar.'
'You mean they want something from me …' he thought some more, furrowing the heavy brow Lilah had just made fun of. 'And in order to get it, they're gonna treat me right, give me everything I want, bribe me into being their lapdog,' he realised.
'Well … yeah.' She raised an eyebrow at him, like that should have been obvious from the get go. 'But see - here's the thing, champ. You already belong to them. You can huff and you can puff and you can refuse to play the game … but you still belong to them. Meanwhile, whilst we've been having this fascinating little discussion right here, 6 innocent people have died. But that doesn't matter, there's always 6000 more round the corner - or up the coast.' She reached behind her and picked up a manilla folder from the desk and handed it across to Angel. He opened it up - taking out a heavy amulet - and read the pages.
'Sunnydale,' he said.
'That nifty little bauble comes with the file,' Lilah told him, nodding at the locket in his hand. 'Apparently, it's crucial for some kind of final battle. Guess they're in short supply up Sunnydale way. A bit gauche for my taste, but, hey, not a slayer.'
'So The Senior Partners are happy for me to disappear off to Sunnydale and help stop the apocalypse?'
'Not our apocalypse,' Lilah told him, 'we're pretty keen on it being stopped, yeah. We are working towards our own timetable.'
'And now I'm on the clock?'
She grinned, 'well - yeah. But until showtime, The Senior Partners are happy for you to fight anyway you see fit. And you can make a big difference to a lot of lives using our intel and resources - starting in Sunnydale. Why would a champion give up that opportunity?'
'Because you're trying to seduce me.'
'Just call me Mrs. Robinson,' she winked.
'What if I refuse to be seduced?'
She laughed again, 'it's a really really nice motorpool.'
'Stop!' Doyle pressed on the brake and Cordelia pointed to what she'd just seen. There was a man on a rooftop - pacing up and down. They glanced at each other - could be a jumper. They'd already separated two young men who had got into a knife fight; taken a lost and weeping old lady home to her cats; Doyle had held a wailing and inconsolable baby whilst Cordelia had talked its sobbing mother into putting her own grief aside in order to take care of it; they'd backed their truck into three separate fire hydrants in order to release the gush of water and so put out street fires and they had talked all the people who just sat listlessly in their cars on 6th, not moving, into at the very least pulling to the side of the road and letting traffic flow freely again. All that and they'd been out less than two hours. The city was desperate. And now they had a jumper.
They parked up the car and headed for the building, scaling the fire escape to get to the roof as quickly as possible. The man was a cop - and he was pacing up and down by the edge of the roof, muttering to himself under his breath. His eyes were red rimmed and he was clutching his gun like he was a child and it was a teddy bear. 'Hey,' Cordelia said to him softly. She and Doyle stayed back - in case they spooked him - but close enough to reach him before he jumped. 'Are you OK?'
'I lost something,' the man said, half to himself, frantic and heartbroken. 'Something I need. I can't find it.' He stopped his pacing and stared at them. 'I can't find it!' he yelled at them, his sorrow bursting into anger.
'I know you have,' Cordelia said softly. 'I lost it too. But it's OK.'
'You can help me look for it,' the man said to them both, hope rising in him.
But Doyle, with a sad smile, dashed that hope. 'I don't think we can, bud,' he said to him, his voice was soft and sympathetic - even if he had never felt this awful, aching loss himself, he had witnessed it enough times in his friends to understand something of what this man must be feeling. 'It's gone. But that's OK. You'll be OK.'
'He's right,' Cordelia agreed, 'when I lost it - it was bad. But I'm better now. Time makes things better. I promise.'
But the cop didn't want to wait for time to heal all wounds. He had lost something - precious, special … wonderful. He didn't even remember exactly what it was, but he knew he couldn't live without it. And if "it'll get better in time" was all this world had to offer him, then he was done living in this world.
He looked at the gun in his hands. Doyle and Cordy exchanged an anxious glance and then - sure enough - the cop raised the pistol to his mouth, as if trying to swallow it. Doyle was there in a moment. He put his hand over the gun, and gently lowered the cop's own hand. 'hey, hey - you don't wanna do that, bud,' he said, gently. 'What you're feeling right now won't last. So let's just put this away, yeah?' He took the gun from the cop's hand and passed it across to Cordelia. She removed the clip and let the bullets spill out on the floor.
The cop was staring at Doyle, like he was a lost little boy hoping for help finding his mother. 'There you go,' Doyle said to him, once the gun was harmless, 'listen, you're gonna go home and you're not gonna do anythin' stupid, OK? You're gonna go home and remember all the million and one reasons you've got to live.'
'Home?' the cop asked - sounding dazed and confused.
'Sure,' Cordelia nodded, putting the now unloaded gun back into the cop's holster. 'Where is home?'
'Home,' he repeated. 'Yeah - yeah I can go home.' He reached into his pocket and took out his wallet. He opened it up and showed the young couple the photographs he kept there. 'That's Sarah,' he said, pointing to a little girl, 'and that's Jill' - it was a woman, who was probably his wife, 'and that's our home, right there,' he pointed to a house in the back of the picture.
'You have a beautiful family,' Cordelia said to him, 'they mean the world to you - and you mean the world to them. So you're gonna get right on home to them. 'Cause I know they're missing you right about now.'
'Yeah…' the man said, sounding dazed.
'Doesn't matter what you've lost,' Doyle said, leading him towards the door to the roof access. ''Cause you've got a whole lot more waitin' for you back at your house. So you're gonna go straight back to 'em, hold 'em tight and tell 'em you love 'em. And you're never gonna think about leavin' them ever again. You hear me?'
'Yeah…' the man said, starting down the stairs, 'Sarah…'
Once he'd disappeared from view, Cordelia wrapped her arms tightly around Doyle and kissed him. 'I love you,' she said, nuzzling into his neck.
He looked pleasantly surprised, 'I love you too. Y'know - we've done a lot of good today.'
'There's still a whole lot more people who need our help,' she said.
'I know. But we're makin' a difference.'
'One soul at a time,' Cordelia agreed, 'the way it's meant to be.' Then she frowned.
'What is it?' Doyle asked her, looking down and noticing her sudden look of consternation.
'It's just …' she pulled away from him slightly, and took a deep breath, 'we're doing a good job, today. I don't mean to be all self congratulatory or back patty - but we are.'
'Right …?'
'We can help people. We can make a difference. But today … today is a day where we're dealing with ordinary people's trauma. Mystical trauma - but still just trauma. No superpowers needed just to talk to them. Today isn't about fighting monsters - so we're up to the task at hand. But what about when it is fighting monsters?' she asked. 'How will just the two of us manage then? And how will that affect the innocent people we're supposed to be helping?'
Doyle didn't have an answer for her … and despite the fact they had just saved a man's life, they both looked troubled as they left the rooftop and went looking for the next person to help.
Gunn stood beside Lacey in the elevator - tinny music played in the background. They'd been standing here a while now and it was getting a little uncomfortable. He chuckled, awkwardly, wanting to break the silence. 'This is the longest damn elevator ride I ever took. How big is this place?'
But she didn't answer his question. She just looked at her watch and then up at him. 'It's time,' she told him.
'Time for what?'
All the buttons for the different floors lit up - and then another button appeared above the others, magically. This one was large - and white. Lacey reached out and pressed it. Gunn's eyebrows shot up his forehead. 'Oh, no. Hey, we better not be going where I think we're going.'
'The answers you seek lie within the room.'
'The only thing I seek is the lobby.' He began to hammer on the button for the lobby level - but nothing happened. 'Already rubbed elbows with Little Miss Muffet once. Don't need a repeat with her replacement, and here I am thinking I'm getting seduced. Well, I'm getting screwed all…'
The elevator faded away in a blinding flash of light. There was a moment when Gunn could see nothing but the brightness and then - when his surroundings faded back into existence - he was inside the White Room. It was as large and as empty and as blindingly white as it had been before. Like an airhanger minus the airplanes. And the purest of whites. He looked around him, turning 180 degrees trying to catch sight of something… though apprehensive as to what that something might be, and unsure as to whether he really wanted to see it.
'Right. Come on, you got the wrong guy in here. This room's for the big—' he was cut off by a growling sound. A roar like the MGM lion. '...cats.' A black panther materialised out of the whiteness and padded towards him. He swallowed. 'I think I preferred the little girl.'
The panther came to a stop a few feet away and then just sat and stared at the young man. Gunn stared back. He was feeling something, understanding something - though he didn't know what or how. He felt like he was sinking into the panther's green eyes, being swallowed by its stare. And then he saw himself reflected in the iris of each eye. Twin Gunns looking back at him from the panther's own gaze. His own expression of fear, and bewilderment and something he couldn't quite place, reflecting back at himself. He took a couple of steps towards the panther - their eyes remained locked. The twin Gunns got bigger as Gunn got closer - and he had the strangest feeling of falling into the big cat, or of the big cat falling into him… he wasn't quite sure. He began to smile. The panther opened its mouth - and roared.
Angel had left the office, he'd left Lilah behind - and he'd found his way, with some difficulty, to the Wolfram and Hart creche. He didn't go in, though - he stood by the large window and stared through at Connor, who was sat around a little craft table with a handful of other toddlers. One of the au pairs - not Greta - was crouched beside him. 'Péint dhearg?' she said to him, pointing at the red paint, 'nó péint ghorm?' or blue paint. This must be Bridget. She was already teaching him Irish. Connor pointed at the red paint. 'Dhearg,' Bridget repeated for him, not yet handing it over.
'Y..rig' Connor tried to copy her - not quite getting all the unfamiliar sounds, but a very good first attempt for a little boy still learning to talk.
'Buachaill maith,' Bridget clapped, all smiles. 'Good boy,' and she handed him the red paint. He dipped his little fingers in and then slapped his hand down on the paper.
Angel smiled. If nothing else - Connor seemed happy in there. He didn't get much of a chance to play with other children, usually. Ever - in fact. Angel had always been too busy saving the world, or fighting off people trying to kidnap his son, to actually take Connor on a playdate. That - and the whole daytime, sunlight issue. When they were working at the hotel, Connor was always just palmed off on to whichever one of the team wasn't busy at that moment. And sure they played with him and talked to him and loved him … but it wasn't the same as having other kids around. Here - though - there were people who were employed specifically to keep Connor as the centre of their attention, whilst Angel and his team got on with world saving, and these people were formally trained in child care and development. They would nurture and stimulate him in a way that his own team just didn't have the knowledge to do. And the little boy would have real friends his own age. He wouldn't grow up a weird, antisocial loner like his dad.
He smiled as he watched Connor bow his head, a serious expression on his face as he pressed each of his painty fingers to the paper, making marks. Bridget was counting them for him, 'aon, dó, Trí, ceathair, cuig.'
Connor was the reason he was here. Connor was the reason he'd signed that agreement in the first place and - watching him - he honestly couldn't say he regretted the decision. Sure - it hadn't worked - but he remembered the fury and the fear that had driven him that day. And he knew that he would feel it again, if Connor was ever taken from him or harmed ever again. He knew he would do the exact same thing again in a heartbeat that he didn't have. Anything for Connor. Always.
So here he was, trapped for eternity in Wolfram and Hart - for Connor - and you know, the little boy seemed to be doing quite well out of the deal. It could be a lot worse. If Connor were happy - Angel could withstand a whole lot.
Bridget looked up and saw him through the large window then. 'Féach!' she said to Connor, pointing towards Angel, 'Tá sé daidí… Tonn go daidí' she waved her hand and Connor copied her - his face breaking out into the broadest, biggest smile when he saw his father watching him. Angel couldn't help smiling back. He waved - and then pushed the door open and went into the creche.
He crouched down at the craft table and gave Connor a kiss, 'hey,' he said, 'there's my big guy. Is Bridget teaching you Irish?'
'He's a natural, Mr. Angel,' Bridget smiled at him.
He nodded at her in thanks. 'Yeah?' he said to Connor, 'are you having fun? What are you painting?'
'Dada,' Connor said, smashing the paper with the flat of his hand.
'You're painting me?' He tilted his head, looking at the red smush. 'You really captured me… great hair.' And he stayed in the room and watched Connor paint, as the warm sunlight fell on them through the necro tempered glass.
'There you are,' Lilah entered the library and found Wesley in there; sitting in a leather chair; reading a book; cup of tea in hand. 'I trust Sirk has been taking care of you?'
'Yes…' Wesley said, closing his book. He raised the mug, 'excellent tea.'
'I thought you'd enjoy the blends we keep here.'
'Darjeeling … Makes a nice change from all the godawful herbal stuff you yanks drink.'
'I think the secret is a little Assam - just for flavour. And what do you think of our ancient prophecy collection?'
'As impressive as the tea,' Wesley told her. He leaned back in his chair and looked thoughtful, 'at least - the amount of only known copies your firm has stolen, and lost copies they have acquired is truly the most impressive part. I had heard that the Baskretian Minh codex had been lost at the turn of the 16th century, somewhere in East India - and never seen again since. And yet here it is - and I've just been reading it. There are texts here that the watcher's council would chop their left hand off for a chance to take a peek.'
She raised a sardonic eyebrow and laughed. 'Surely you must have had some understanding of the depth of our library when your boss cut off my left hand to steal the Shanshu prophecy?'
'Oh - uhm -' he shifted awkwardly in his chair, 'right - bad choice of phrase, forgive me.'
She shrugged and smiled, 'I never blamed you in the first place.' It was Doyle she had always blamed for that. 'Besides … I got a shiny new one.' She waved her new hand in the air. 'So … you've had a peek behind the Wolfram and Hart curtain - but I want to show you where the real secrets are kept. Come with me?'
He put down his mug and his book and got out of the chair, following her out of the room.
She led him down the hallway and then through an internal door - which led to a narrow staircase going down. 'Basement,' she told him. 'Files and records.' She took him right the way down and then used her security clearance to open the door. The room was in darkness, but she flipped a switch and the lights flickered on, one at a time, illuminating rows and rows and rows of filing cabinets stretching away into the distance. Wesley stared - and then stared at her.
'The 30 cabinets to your right are the records we keep on Angel,' she said to him. 'Everything he's ever done, everyone he's ever killed - everyone he's ever saved. All here. But as you can see,' she gestured to the rest of the enormous room, 'Angel is not the only object of our interest.'
'So this is it,' Wesley said quietly.
Lilah nodded. 'Here it is, every dirty, little scheme. Every secret, all that evil, great and small,' she said. 'Just imagine what you could accomplish with that kind of information.'
'Why did you want me to see this?' he asked - his voice was low, unsure.
'Because I wanted to make sure you knew what you were letting yourself in for,' she told him. 'Angel has to stay, Wesley, but you - you can walk away. This is your choice. And I can't let you make it unless your eyes are fully open. I want you to understand the full extent and scope of what we do - what we manage - here at Wolfram and Hart, before you decide whether to join us. '
'You tried to get me to join your ranks before.'
'That was before.'
'Are you giving the others this little tour, as well?' he asked.
She rested her hand on his shoulder and her chin on her hand - so their faces were side by side. When she spoke, her voice was soft. 'I don't care about the others.'
'Why are we stopping?' Cordelia asked. They were on the road that led under the 6th street bridge - and Doyle had just pulled over and killed the engine. She looked around confused - there was no one here that needed help. This place was abandoned. It was almost eerily quiet.
'This is the spot,' Doyle said to her. He pointed through the windshield, to the crumpled sedan, the smashed up station wagon and the broken power line. 'Or at least over there is.'
'The spot?'
'Where I killed her.'
'Oh.'
He got out of the car and slammed the door, headed towards the scene of the fight. Cordelia followed him, 'why are we here, exactly?'
'I borrowed Groo's sword. I need to get it back for him...'
'Yeah - but…' she followed her boyfriend - but at a distance, not wanting to see the … remains.
Doyle approached cautiously. He could see the body lying in a heap. The blood she had always been so careful of was oozing in a puddle around her, dried now - with flies buzzing around it. Her magic blood - that could break her spell and free the people. Doyle's blood. No wonder she had kept him so well guarded.
As he got closer, he recoiled - from the sight, from the smell - it made him gag and he clapped his leather sleeve across his lower face for what little protection it could offer . Rotten whilst she was still alive, Jasmine's body was now putrefying quickly: a heap of crawling maggots and buzzing flies and stinking flesh. A lowly, lonely ending for one who had risen so high - and been so loved. But a fitting ending for one so decayed through and through. Who had harmed so many.
His sleeve still firmly clamped around his mouth and nose, he took a few tentative steps forward and grabbed the fallen sword. It was smeared with her blood - which had dried to make the blade look rusty. He would need to clean it before he returned it. Then he hopped back a couple of feet, putting distance between himself and the festering corpse, before he looked at it again. 'We should move her,' he said over his shoulder, still speaking through the leather sleeve that acted as a mask.
'What?' Cordelia sounded incredulous.
But Doyle stared up at the sky. There were no birds singing over head, wheeling through the air. There was no sound of crickets chirruping. There was no breath of wind. And of course - there were no people - no cars, no traffic. No life. 'Everythin's stayin' away,' he said, 'as long as she's here - this place - it's like it's cursed. No one wants to come here. Not the people, not the birds, not even the insects - except the ones feastin' on her. If the city's gonna get back to normal - we need to get this road back open. We need to get rid o' her.'
'Should we bury her?' Cordy asked.
But he shook his head. 'She doesn't deserve that - a burial. And anyway - she'd probably poison the water supply or somethin'. We can't risk her hurting more people. We should just throw her in the trash. Find the nearest dumpster...'
'We can't do that! Like being a garbageman or working at the dump isn't bad enough, as it is, without having to deal with that festering corpse. And she might be hazardous material - she might infect them… besides,' she shook her head, 'when the city goes back to normal - when everyone starts to repress - they might not remember who she is. Great gaping sword wound like that - they'd call the cops. And then the cops might remember the Svea family were killed with swords, as well. We can't risk a murder investigation.'
'Right,' Doyle said, still staring at the body - at the little cloud of flies buzzing around her. That was true enough - and would be just his luck. Jasmine's final revenge. Him up for multiple counts of murder one - and worse still, Cordelia being charged with accessory after the fact. They still had the death penalty in California. They really couldn't risk a murder investigation. 'We'll burn her then. It's probably for the best anyway - safer. To destroy her completely. Make sure there's nothin' of her left. Nothing she can cling onto and force her way back into the world.'
'I don't think she's coming back, Doyle.'
'I'd still rather be sure. We'll use the furniture from her room - chop it up into kindling - use it to build the pyre. We don't wanna keep nothin' of hers in the hotel.'
'OK,' Cordy said softly, 'there's a tarp in the back of the pickup - I'll just - I'll just get it.' She took the bloody sword off Doyle and carried it back to the car, exchanging it for the tarp.
Carefully, and with averted faces, trying not to wretch the whole way - they wrapped the festering corpse up in the tarpaulin - so it was covered completely- and then manhandled it between them and dumped it in the bed of the truck. Then they climbed back into the cab and Doyle started the engine. As they drove away - a starling flew over the bridge and began to sing.