Disclaimer: I don’t own them. I would certainly not be this cruel.
Spoilers: BtVS general 6th season, AtS through “Legacy”
Author’s Notes: Okay, that episode depressed me. And I had writer’s block. The two combined to produce this. I’m tired, it has not been beta-ed. It hasn’t even been proofread. Be nice . . .

I found him on the porch when I came home. He didn’t look good — well, compared to how I remembered him, looking like one giant pain in the ass, he looked great. But besides that . . . not good. Circles under the eyes. Gaunt. Hadn’t shaved in a couple days. He looked so . . . anti-Wesley, for a minute I thought my eyes were playing tricks on me. Surely that was not my ex-Watcher of the giant-stick-up-the-ass standing on my porch looking rumpled, haggard, slightly dangerous.

Holding a baby.

“Wesley?!” I demanded incredulously.

“Buffy,” he breathed, staring as if he couldn’t quite believe it was me either. I didn’t think I’d changed that much. He hadn’t seen me since I died.

“Uh . . . are you okay?” I asked, trying to shake off my surprise and act adult-like. He shook his head. I fumbled for my keys.

“Well, um . . . do you want to come in?”

“Yes, please,” he said with a sigh I interpreted as relief, whether it was or not. I nearly dropped my key chain, but managed not to look like a complete idiot as I opened the door and ushered him in, picking up his bag as I walked in behind him. I dropped my keys on the table and his bag on the floor and eyed him with trepidation. I had a feeling that whatever had brought him to my doorstep, it was not going to be good news. Because I so needed more complication in my life.

“Do you want . . . sit down?” I asked, losing my train of thought in the middle of the sentence as the baby cooed. Was this Wesley’s baby? I shuddered inwardly at the thought of Wesley actually creating life, though this new (improved?) version seemed more capable of it.

He looked startled at the suggestion. “Oh, thank you . . .” He adjusted the baby as he took a seat on the couch. My hands clenched and unclenched nervously.

“Can I get you something?” I asked helplessly. He looked up at me, straight at my face, a look of pain and determination and need on his face that cut right through me. I started.

“Buffy, I don’t want . . . I need to tell you why I’m here. If . . . if you can’t help me I need to leave immediately. Time is . . .”

“Of the essence?” I suggested.

“Short.”

“Okay.” I sat down on the edge of the table, opposite him and found myself distracted by the baby again. He was beginning to fuss and Wesley looked totally exhausted at the notion of calming him. I reached over and took him, ignoring Wesley’s exclamation, which promptly died on his lips. He watched me with haunted eyes, but didn’t try and take the baby back.

“He’s beautiful,” I said, gazing down at the big eyes and chubby cheeks. A little angel . . .

“He’s Angel’s,” Wesley said. I think I jumped — I’m sure I almost dropped the baby, it’s a good thing I was sitting, he just bumped my knees before I recovered him. Wesley’s hands were there immediately, just in case, cradling the baby’s head. Angel’s baby. Angel’s baby.

“H-how?” I stuttered, my mind reeling.

“The Powers,” Wesley said, “or . . . or something else. Angel slept with Darla last year . . . she was brought back—“

“He told me . . . a little.” Not that he slept with her. “So she . . . conceived?”

“Yes and . . . well, she couldn’t give birth. She killed herself and left Connor.”

Connor. I whispered the name, stroking his face softly. He mewed. Wesley shook himself.

“He’s probably hungry.” He slipped over to the bag and pulled out a bottle. “Do you have a . . .”

“Microwave’s in there,” I said numbly, unable to take my eyes from the baby. Connor. Angel’s baby. He nodded and went into the kitchen. Slowly I stood and followed, pausing in the doorway. Thought began to penetrate my stunned brain.

“Why are you here? Is Angel . . . ?”

“He’s all right,” Wesley assured me quickly, waiting for the microwave. “Probably quite frantic now, and . . . very angry with me. But not hurt.” My arms tightened involuntarily around Connor, who was fussing louder now.

“You took him. You stole Angel’s son.”

God, he looked so . . . weary. “The one thing he loves and treasures more than the world,” Wesley said softly. “Yes, I took him. Last week I found a prophecy about Angel. The gist was that . . . that he would kill his son.”

“Angel would never do that,” I said tightly, unconsciously holding the baby closer to myself.

“No . . . no, I didn’t believe it either. He loves him . . . so much. I consulted oracles. I demanded to know how to stop it. But there was no answer. No way. I was given signs to watch for, to know when the time was nigh. And they all came. The time is . . . now. So I took him, because if Angel killed him, he would not only be killing an innocent, a baby whom I love, but himself as well. He would never recover from the loss.”

“How do you know this isn’t a self-fulfilling prophecy? You run, he comes after and somehow in the chase there’s an accident, Angel kills his son?” I demanded, because I knew something about self-fulfilling prophecies.

“I was told that Angel will eat him,” Wesley said very calmly. The microwave beeped and I started. He reached in, tested the milk on his finger and took the baby back. Connor quieted and began eating immediately.

I thought about it. Thought about Angel, his guilt, his laughter, his need for redemption. Thought about the baby, so small, a pawn in a game far beyond his comprehension. Thought about myself, what I’d done with my life in the last . . . however many months.

“What can I do?” I asked.

Which is how I found myself on a plane to England, mother to a baby that was not, could never be mine. I didn’t even tell Dawn, or Willow — they all thought I was going to see Giles, I needed to get away and clear my head. Dawn screamed and threw a dish, accused me of running away, said I never wanted to come back. I closed my eyes and didn’t tell her, even though I wanted nothing so desperately as to take her in my arms and tell her I would never, never hurt her.

Wesley stayed on the ground, kept running. He figured Angel would follow him, if he could follow anyone. If Angel caught up to him, he was willing to die rather than tell where Connor was. Anyway, by then he wouldn’t know. Angel’s son would have vanished into air, vanished into . . . normality, reality. Maybe it would destroy Angel. But anything was better than . . . than that.

I did visit Giles of course. I didn’t know how else to go about it, and he was someone I could trust with a secret, to the end of the his days. I doubted Angel would even think to ask him, but if . . . just if . . . We sat in his living room, watching Connor sleep and talked about life. I didn’t confess everything I’d done but I confessed . . . some of it. We discussed prophecy, children, sacrifice. The next day he took me to a place he knew, an adoption service for those that had something to hide. There were no records, no traces to follow. In case the prophecy tries to fulfill itself in the future, the head of the agency, a sorceress Giles trusted, installed a memory in Connor’s mind, locked behind doors that would only be opened by his father’s face, or the word that is branded indelibly into my memory. That word is the only key that, in the future, will recall his placement, his new name and new home. Just in case. I have only to go to the right street corner in London, speak the word aloud and . . . I will know. I will find him.

Will I ever go? Will I ever speak that word? I don’t know. There’s too much uncertainty in this world, too much danger. Too much pain possible. Too much pain already.

Angel has lost his son. But that son has a life ahead of him. A life filled with sunlight and toys and maybe brothers and sisters. A life with soccer (no football there), girls, tests, lessons learned the hard way, a job, a family . . . A normal life. A real life.

A life without his father. Without the knowledge of the incredible love that made him. Without his heritage, without his true identity. But a real life.

Did I do the right thing? I don’t know. I suppose I’m the last person that should trust prophecy, but . . . but this was too precious a life too risk. There was too much at stake. Not just for Connor (he has a new name now . . . Irish, maybe, or Italian or Spanish). Not just for Angel. For . . . for everyone. It would have killed Angel, but in some way I think it would have killed me too, and Wesley, and Cordelia and . . . everyone. Because if anything, a baby is hope come to life. And everyone needs hope.

“Buf?”

I turn to look over my shoulder. Dawn has come outside, shivering slightly to see what I am doing. I beckon to her and she comes to sit beside me on the step, lean over and put her head on my shoulder. We huddle together for warmth, and look up at the stars.

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