Pryde and Wisdom's House - School House Road

        The front door opens into a large pale-green living room, in which
there is quite possibly more furniture than there was in Pryde and
Wisdom's entire last apartment. On the left-hand wall from the door, a
couch covered with a plain white sheet is grouped with an armchair and a
low table and a bookcase, all by a stone fireplace. Off to the right, more
bookcases flank a computer table that looks slightly forlorn with just
Kitty's laptop and a printer set up on it. The bookcases are mostly empty,
though a scattering of paperbacks and an entire shelf of battered
textbooks occupy one, and a few videotapes and a brass sextant keep
another from looking entirely abandoned. The pirate flag from their last
place is missing from the walls. Neither has the usual state of mild chaos
quite reasserted itself - the stack of newspapers on the low table is
orderly, and the ashtray at the far end of it is kept, if not empty, not
overflowing either.
        Directly opposite the door, a staircase spirals up to the second
floor; by it are a small hallway and the doorway into the brightly-lit
kitchen.

******************************************************************************
                               Today's Weather:

The wind whips silently thru the streets and concrete canyons, smacking
flesh like a blast from an open freezer. The scuff of dirty snow drifts
under the wind's whip, blocking the visibility of drivers and pedestrians
alike. The sky above is clear and blue, but the hunched and scurrying
pedestrians don't stop to admire and everyone else is inside where it's
warm.

******************************************************************************


Kess left a phone message. And that is probably why the door is left
cracked open to show that it's unlocked - the glass of the screen door
keeps out the wind, at least. Car's in the driveway. Lights on in the
house. They're home, all right.

The wind is so horribly cold tonight, an unrelenting freezer blast. Liam
is so horribly cold. He's been flying, first for himself, and then to the
hospital. Where he was too late to catch Kitty. Now he descends, landing
on the snow-covered lawn, wings tucking back into his coat. The wind
catching his hair, tugging at the hem of the trench. Blonde again, that
hair, and hints of sapphire dancing in his eyes. So worried, so desperate
to help. And yet...now that he's here? He's afraid to move any closer.
Ashamed to knock. So he stands. And looks. And shivers.

Is that music inside? Yes, it is. The sound of two women singing, their
voices clinging close together in an almost-discordant harmony. A sliver
of light visible through the cracked-open door; other than that, the
curtains are drawn, blinds closed, as always. Other than that hint of
light, the blue house looks as if nothing might have happened at all.

Well... he has to know, doesn't he? And whatever Liam may be, even now,
with that darkness still twisting somewhere in his chest, he is ultimately
no coward. His sigh frosts in the air before the wind whips it away, and
then the little angel limps heavily forward. The door may be open but he's
not about to enter; in fact, after knocking, he takes a step back from the
door, hand tucking back into his pocket. The marks of bruises are faint
and dark around his throat.

The call from inside isn't loud, but it's clear enough. "'S open." There's
a fluttering sound that goes along with it, and after a moment the music
stops.

Liam doesn't know about Kess' call, and doesn't know he's the one Kitty's
expecting; he still won't enter. He stands there, blue eyes glimmering
with traces of power, and after a moment he says only, hoarsely, "Kitty?"

Something shifts inside, the creaking of springs and the sound of fabric,
and a brief unhappy noise from an other-than-human throat. "It's /still/
open," Kitty points out from inside, her tone reasonable if more than a
little ragged. "You'll have to get your own Guinness, though, I'm not
allowed up yet."

Oh, god. If he wasn't killing himself over the whole thing already, that
whole sad series of sounds would be enough to put the nails in the coffin
all on their own. Liam's absolutely stricken look is hidden from view,
naturally, and he does the best he can to clear it up before he opens the
door. It leaves him looking small, and lost, and terribly pale except for
the bruises. But there's no black to him, no creeping dark. At the moment.

The lights are on in the living room, making it far warmer - in appearance
as well as in temperature - than the pale coldness outside. Kitty's on the
couch, her feet propped up, wrapped in blankets; only her head and one arm
are really visible. That arm's wrapped about a certain small purple
dragon, fingers absently rubbing at the back of his head. She's shifted so
she can see the door more clearly - and so that, presumably, she could
relocate the laptop to the coffee table where it now rests. A couple of
bruises show dark on her exposed skin. "Hi, you," she says more gently.
"You want to come in? It's a lot warmer in here."

(Of course, she can afford to be gentle and welcoming. One thing that
she's very careful not to let Liam have any real way of noticing: her
other hand, under the blankets, is resting on Pete's gun.)

"No," replies Liam, very quietly, entering only far enough for the two of
them to be able to see each other. He only looks like Liam, miserably
concerned, but sliding that misery beneath the veneer of his calm. The
blue eyes take Kitty in, evaluating, and there's only a tic under his
right iris to betray his response. "It's still in me," he explains,
because she should know. Because he's in her house.

"Figured." Kitty props herself up a little straighter, tugging the pillows
she's leaning on into better alignment. "You've got a handle on it right
now, though?" It's not really a question, just one for form's sake.
Lockheed twitches uneasily; she strokes a hand down the length of his neck
and back, soothing.

"Aye," replies Liam, still ever so quietly. That faint hoarseness is still
there, not going away anytime soon. Oh, look. Even Lockheed is nervous of
him now. He doesn't blame the dragon, but the knowledge flickers somewhere
at the back of his gaze. "Only I didn't want.... I've no right to..."
Words. He's losing them. The angel slides his hands from his pockets in
order to wrap his arms around himself. "I'm /so/ sorry."

"Oh, for crying -" Kitty starts to prop herself up yet further, but
there's a warning nip for the dragon, and she reluctantly settles back
down. "Look. Liam. /Not your fault/, okay? It's not like you didn't /warn/
me." She might be about to keep going, but there's a hastily suppressed
cough, and she collars a glass of water off the table and takes a sip.

Pain flares, in the form of sapphire light and just the hint of
luminescence from pale white skin. She's hurt. He wants so much to help.
He doesn't move even a step closer. "I weren't strong enough to stop it."
Part of me laughed.

"You were," Kitty points out calmly. "Just not at /first/. You got better
at it - it looks from here like you're /still/ getting better at it. And
have you ever /had/ to do this kind of thing before?"

The angel is silent for a long moment, watching. Gleaming. "Not all at
once," he says, finally. "It's not... it's grief, an' anger, an' hatred,
an' jealousy, an'..." Thinking about it calls a ripple of dark across his
gaze, spots of unholy void to mar the jewelled blue. Gone soon enough,
because /Kitty is hurt/, and that's enough to keep all that's good in Liam
at the fore. He swallows. "It's nothin' what's /outside/ of me, if you
understand." Nothing he hasn't felt before. "Black an' white, they're two
sides of the same. Black's given in to grief."

"Grief and fear and anger." Kitty's brown eyes drop to the glass she's
holding, and to the uneasy creature next to her. "Yeah. That's ... why the
crows. What Claire was talking about. Constantine figured it out just a
little before we ran into each other." She watches the dragon again, not
Liam, not risking glancing up and seeing the black - but keeping him in
the edge of her vision, all the time. "Nothing that's evil or wrong in and
of itself. Just if it gets out of control."

Liam doesn't make a single move toward Kitty. "They can only be one or the
other," he says, finally. "I'm not like them. Only it.... were very
strong." He swallows. "Did the same to Lorne as.... as I did to you." It's
a horrible admission, so soft, so ashamed. "Couldn't stop it. Warned him
not to touch, an' he..." The angel looks down at his shoes. "It were Kess
called me back, with the ring. I could feel her need."

Kitty glances back up at that admission, eyes startlingly alert for
someone supposedly only just out of the hospital. "Is he all right?" she
asks. "Will he be?" Is, and will, not was. And there's a pause, and she
gives a very soft and brief laugh, and adds, "Maybe after this we'll know
to take you literally, huh."

Liam really doesn't find it funny. Not any of it. "He's.... not hurt." His
lips twist. "He's upset. I have to... I don't know if I can handle him. We
make it worse, he an' I... spirals, all the time. An' he can sense the
darkness in me." Kitty's laughing, and he'd really just like to cry. He
closes eyes gone shining with something other than power.

Sometimes you laugh, not because it's funny, but because you can't afford
to cry. "Being alone isn't exactly going to be good for you, either,"
Kitty says quietly. "We've got to find a better way to help you with
this."

"I'm alright." Liam lifts his lashes, fixes his gaze on Kitty again. "I
can be more'n one thing." He offers a faint, humourless smile. "My
wings've always been black."

"Yeah. But the kind that's alive. In balance - stop me before I start
talking weird theology at you; this isn't the time." Kitty sets down the
glass, leaning carefully across Lockheed's body to do so. "Are you /going/
to be all right." If he /were/ all right, she's not so sure he'd be
staying by the door.

"The only thing what's destroyin' me is what I did to you an' Lorne." So
soft, that. And Liam sighs, runs a hand through his hair; he won't
compound the damage he's done already by pouring his angst all over her.
That can wait until later. When he's flying again, and alone. There's a
pause. "I can heal you." Another pause, then, "I understand if..."

"Not your fault," Kitty repeats, calm. "You warned me off, remember? I did
it anyway. I don't know what happened with Lorne, but with me, it was
/not/ your fault." She hesitates herself, for a moment. "Would you be okay
with it? I know it's not all that easy on you. And it's not like what's
left isn't gonna heal up okay on its own. I mean, most of the stuff that
wasn't fixed by you was covered by the transfusions and just plain getting
/warm/ and /sleeping/ again."

"It wouldn't hurt me," is all the angel says. He doesn't press further.
Only his eyes watch, filled with his own silent need. To make amends.
Wondering if he's shattered trust forever. No blame on Kitty if he had. He
isn't sure he trusts himself.

Kitty answers that by nudging Lockheed with her elbow, gently. The dragon
squawks in protest, swinging his head to give her a woeful golden-eyed
gaze - and Kitty nudges again, firmer, prompting a flutter of wings till
her pet's perched sulkily on the back of the couch instead. Then Kitty
holds out her hand toward the angel, without saying a word.

He has, for once, forgotten about the snow on his boots; at least it's
mostly melted now, anyway. Liam draws a breath, and hobbles his way
forward. So very careful. He flips back the mitten part of his glove, a
deliberate motion, leaving white fingertips expose, and then he reaches
down for Kitty's hand. For her, all the darkness shoved away, and there is
only his usual flowing peace. It /is/ peace, because he can't change it
for her and heal her and keep the black at bay all at once. So it'll have
to be the healing, instead. He can feel the wounds the surgery left, and
it's a sound like pain from his lips, but then he's binding them, filling
them, soothing bruises and soreness.

Tiny wounds: tiny, little places where blood was let from where it'd
pooled inside her body, easing pressure on patches of nerves and organs.
He'd stemmed the bleeding himself before that, but there hadn't been time
to do everything. The stress on her body as a whole has been eased, too,
by the enforced rest. Here and there are sutures, but it's well enough to
close wounds around them - they'll dissolve away in their own time. Here
and there are bruises, leftover traces of blood from wounds he closed
before.

Her fingertips press his lightly when he touches them: no, no, see, it's
all right. She's watchful, because she can't be completely sure till after
he's done, but the worry is /for/ him - she's not afraid for herself, not
with plans in place, contingencies laid and agreed upon in advance. And
that peace is much less of a change for her than usual. Deeper than the
one she's briefly found for herself, and more lasting - hers /never/
lasts; sooner or later the need to be in motion overcomes it - but for the
moment she's calm enough that it's not of a different kind. Whatever's
going to happen over the next days or weeks, she's not afraid of it. Not
fighting against it. She feels as if she's found the rhythm, now, finally
gotten the choreography right, and though she may not be sure what'll
happen next, there's a certain serenity in that all the same.

In short, strangely enough, she's happy. And all the happier that Liam is
willing to touch her ... and that the gamble of letting him isn't lost.
("Try to see the joy," a burned angel told her. "It isn't rose-colored
glasses. It's just twilight eyes. See. Joy. /Life/.")

She'll make him cry again. His eyes are wet. Liam almost never cries,
extremes of emotion so often beyond him -- but not now, when darkness
stretches him tight and tense, and he's so guilty. Kitty, happy and
trusting and not so badly hurt, after all -- and he doesn't know about the
gun -- and there's that shining thing within her, that piece of another
angel's soul. The little angel braces his other hand on the edge of the
couch, and slides carefully to his knees, sapphire and light and peace.
Just holding her fingers.

The gun is just another contingency. Not important - well, not in her
head, anyway. Lorne (and probably Liam) would undoubtedly be rather upset
if he knew. (And half of the gun was just because /anyone/ might have come
to the door, not just Liam. But then there's the other half.) "You all
right?" she asks once, very quiet. Breathing easier, sitting up
straighter, the lingering pain faded and gone.

"I'm -- " Liam's voice is going to shake if he keeps going, and he cuts it
off to draw a breath. Looking at the floor. Not letting go, though his
grip is nothing that couldn't be easily disengaged. "I'm alright. Kitty,
I'm so sorry. You've no idea how... I'm so sorry." He could spend the next
thirty years apologizing. Can feel in her pattern the memory and traces of
every single thing he did to her.

Kitty eases her right hand carefully free of the blanket, reaching to lay
fingertips over his. "Liam," she says gently, "it's gonna be okay. It's
better, isn't it? And you know how often Pete and I get hurt - yeah, it
happened. But it's over. And the important thing now is just figuring out
ways you can keep this under control." So it doesn't happen again. Don't
have to say /that/ part out loud.

"I won't let it happen again," says the angel, very calmly. Too calmly.
He'll destroy himself rather than lose control again. "An' if I can't...
Pete promised, once. You're not to let me turn into a monster."

Kitty shifts on the couch, leaning carefully to lay her cheek against his.
"Doesn't mean we can't look for ways to help you. Idiot." That last is in
a tone fairly close to the one she uses with Pete; the 'I'm going to
malign you because you'd never forgive the sappiness' voice.

"Kess helped," replies Liam quietly, rubbing his own cheek against Kitty
lightly in turn. He's still a little chill from the winter outside. "An'
you're helpin' now." And Lorne helped, in the form of the bruises around
the angel's slender windpipe, but he's not sure at all what to make of the
demon now.

Well - it was practical in the short-term, anyway. "You're freezing,"
Kitty comments absently - yes, dear, it's still /winter/ out there, get a
/clue/. Ahem. "I think there's coffee in the kitchen. Or tea or hot
chocolate, but those aren't actually, you know, hot yet. Kess helped? 'M
glad." She ought to let go his hand, but she's not actually holding /on/
to it, just ... touching. Hopefully if it starts to wear on him, he'll
draw back himself.

Liam's doing alright -- he slept a lot, the past day or so, and Kitty's
injuries were minor. He's not actively pouring power into her now, only
the soft flow of peace that comes unbidden from his skin. And he very much
likes the feel of Kitty. "She had the ring. It... I could feel her need,
an' I'd stopped feelin' it. It reminded me." He feels the need to explain.
These things could be good to know. "An', ta, lass, but I should go."
Pause. "I'm surprised Wisdom's not down here wantin' my head."

They could. And there's Seishi's ring as well as Kess's: that's another
vague contingency plan settled contentedly into place in the back of her
head. At that last comment of Liam's, Kitty /does/ laugh, and it's not
half as quiet this time. Brighter, easier. "I told him to stay upstairs
and keep the kitten out of our hair," she admits. "He did some arguing,
but - well, the whole situation isn't all that unfamiliar to him, anyway.
Except that time /he/ was the one who got racked up. As usual. I'll tell
you about it over a couple of drinks sometime?" Because there will be a
sometime, and there will /definitely/ be some alcohol.

"Sometime," murmurs Liam. And, finally, he lets go of Kitty's hand,
leaving only the lingering sense of his peace as he moves to rise. "Tell
/him/ I'm sorry, too." He just can't let up, with the being sorry, though
his demeanor is easier now. "Goodnight. You call if you need anythin'."

"Will do." Kitty lets her own hands curl lightly, resting just off the
edge of the couch. "On both counts. D'you think - should I stop by Caritas
tomorrow, maybe?" It's uncertain; she doesn't know /how/ Lorne's taking
this.

"Ah..." Liam's not totally sure either, but after a moment's pause by the
door he decides, "He might appreciate that. Or at least, it'd not do any
harm. I might be there, I don't know; goin' back there now, but... he rips
at me, without meanin' to, an' it's hard just now." With this black thing
that wants to kill.

"I understand." Kitty crooks a quick little grin. "Sometimes telephones
are safer, huh?" She reaches up - still not letting the blanket over her
lap shift much - and runs a hand over her watchdragon's forepaw. See,
Lockheed? Was okay. "Thanks. And - Liam? Take care of yourself, huh? Try?
Please?"

The dragon gets a slightly sad look. I'm sorry to you, too. "Do my best,
lass. I'll not be on the streets, anyway, until I... until this's a bit
more ... well. Until. You be well." Exit the angel, shutting the door
carefully against the cold.

And Kitty murmurs aside to the dragon, very soft in the angel's wake,
"See? I told you it'd be okay." Lockheed sniffs a very soft 'pfui!' - and
eyes the door mournfully. "... okay," Kitty admits, "for a very warped
definition of 'okay,' yeah. Go knock upstairs for me so Pete knows he can
have his gun back, would you?" And she doesn't even notice for a moment
that the dragon hasn't moved - she's still watching the same thing he is.
The door, and the windows, and wondering just where the angel's going from
here.