A Mournful Rustling
By Ralkana

The leaves of memory seemed to make
A mournful rustling in the dark

-- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, The Fire of Drift-wood

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The scenery blurred by the darkly tinted window, visible only to someone with Angel’s acute sense of vision. Connor would be able to see it, he thought, and the scenery was suddenly blurred by more than the speed of the limousine. Is he Steven now… again? he wondered idly. He sent out a silent plea. Please, God, Powers, whoever, let him still be Connor. Let me have that, please, if I can have nothing else.

The partition that separated him from the driver whirred down, and Angel tore his gaze away from the window to stare blankly at the driver. He was very faintly amused when the driver attempted to glance at him in the rearview mirror, sighing when he realized that wasn’t going to work. He settled for briefly craning his neck around to look at his passenger before turning to face the road again.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. Angel.”

Angel nodded wearily at him. He was so young, looked so innocent; it was difficult to remember that he worked for the immoral, and yet human – mostly, monsters who had plagued Angel since his arrival in LA. With a sigh, Angel realized the driver was no longer the only one in the car who was intimately involved with Wolfram and Hart.

“I… I’m used to driving around LA, but I’ve never driven this route before, and I’m embarrassed to say I can’t remember which junction to take. I could pull over and take a look at the map, but I thought asking you might be quicker. You have been to Sunnydale before, haven’t you? Do you remember?”

Angel closed his eyes against the sudden agony. Oh, God, yes. I remember. “Yes,” he answered tersely. “It’s the next one. Westbound connector.”

“Thank you, sir,” the driver said, and the partition whirred up again.

Do you remember?

I’ll never forget!

He clutched the amulet tightly in his hand, reveling in the sharp sting of the metal cutting into the flesh of his palm.

“Again,” he growled. “You fucking did it to me again!”

The keeper of memories no one else shared. Again. Not true, his mind whispered. Lilah… the Senior Partners…

“My mortal enemies.”

Your esteemed colleagues. Not so mortal. Any of them… or you.

Angel wondered briefly if the deal he’d made had an impact on his shanshu. After all, he’d sold his soul to the devil, again – and unlike the time it had unknowingly happened in a dark, fetid alley, when he’d offered his neck to the bright red lips and ivory fangs of a beautiful monster, this time, he’d done it willingly. And fully aware of his actions and what they meant.

He shrugged listlessly. Did it matter anymore, whether he shanshued or not? When he’d learned about the prophecy, what it meant for him, his thoughts had been simple and direct. Buffy. When he’d held his son in his arms for the first time, the thoughts had changed. Subtly, and gradually, but they had. His beloved, and his son, and him. A family. A real, human family. In a cozy home with lots of windows, maybe even a picket fence. The fantasies had been there; he hadn’t allowed himself to actively think of them, but they’d been there.

They’d disappeared for a while in the agony of losing his son to Holtz and Quortoth, and they’d only recently begun to return. The details had changed, but the core idea remained the same. His beloved, and his son, and him. He closed his eyes against the tears. The new dreams had included scenes much like the one he’d just seen.

Do you remember?

God, he remembered. He remembered the feel of ice cream on warm skin, the sound of a metal table leg giving way amidst startled cries of laughter. Sunlight on skin long cold, and twin heartbeats racing as one before slowing with bliss and satiation.

I want to stay awake… so this day can keep happening.

He remembered quiet breathing and gurgles in the dead of night, miniature hands and feet, so perfect, so soft. A milky smell that told of innocent contentment. A tiny hockey jersey, a snowglobe, a mobile above a crib.

Check me out! I’m Mr. Dad!

He remembered pain, real, human, physical pain, and salt in the wounds that stung and ached. He remembered a blindingly white hall, chiming voices that told him of destinies and fates. Tears, and sorrow, a final embrace, and a stomach that churned with despair.

I felt your heart beat!

He remembered the betrayal of a trusted friend and colleague, the agony of loss and grief, of nights suddenly silent, so silent, too silent, again. Light eyes, older – so much older than they should have been – blazing with rage, jealousy, contempt. Punches and kicks instead of hugs and slaps on the back. Months of torment at the bottom of the sea, bestowed by a son’s vengeful hands. A promise to bring final death made so easily, so uncaringly.

Killing is too good for you. You don’t get to die. You get to live… forever.

His fist clenched spastically around the amulet once more. Buffy. Connor. He was going to his beloved. To see her, to talk to her, to help her, to do whatever was needed. That day might be lost, but she wasn’t. She was still there, still alive, and he would do his damnedest to make sure she stayed that way. But his son… his son was gone. Forever. Again.

Do you remember?

“Remembering is all I do.”