When Connor pads barefoot into the kitchen at three in the morning, he is not surprised to see the slayer… Buffy raiding the fridge, adding to an assortment of snacks that is already piled on the counter.
She is a night person, and much as he would like to be in bed now, upstairs where Dawn is sleeping, hogging the covers, he is a night person, too, always has been, although he only recently got to remember why that is.

That much he has found out about the woman so far – but he still doesn’t know her that well, and so he lingers in the doorway, unsure of whether to walk in or leave her alone.
She cuts his indecisiveness short. “Come in,” she says, never turning around.
Connor smirks and settles down on one of the mismatched chairs. Warrior instincts do not fade away.
He tears open a box of cookies and digs in, the quiet crumbling the only sound in the room until Buffy slams the refrigerator door with excess force and turns to him.
“Can’t sleep?”

Her voice has a slight strain to it, and he wonders if he should have left her to her own thoughts after all. But brooding is of the bad, Dawn always says, and then he’ll catch himself and smile back at her grinning face.
Same goes for Buffy, even though he doesn’t yet know her that well. She shouldn’t brood. She’s not the type to.
So he cocks his head and faces her squarely.
“Don’t sleep much. You?”

She snorts and grabs a bag of chips, then hops up on the counter across from him. “I always thought once the fights were over…*really* over, I’d like to sleep during the nights. Turns out I can’t.”

She looks troubled beyond tiredness though. He tilts his head, pondering if he should just take a wild guess at the other reasons for her insomnia. Dawn told him that Buffy and Angel have been fighting ever since the girls returned from Rome and moved in at the hotel, and really, it’s kind of hard to miss the yelling. Stuff about spying and taking crazy chances with the apocalypse, and of course about the evil lawyers. And when they lower their voices and start hissing at each other about some immortal guy and werewolf Nina and that shanshu thing that’s supposed to happen some day, Connor usually withdraws quietly and firmly shuts them out from his sensitive hearing.
But maybe tonight…
An awkward pause. “You okay?” he finally settles.

“Yeah,” she shrugs, a little too quickly. “Sure.”

He stares at the cookie he is crumbling between his fingers. “Just…didn’t sound like it, earlier,” he ventures, and if she snaps at him now and tells him to mind his own business, he’ll get that, totally.

But she doesn’t walk away, doesn’t snap, just kind of deflates, hunched over with her elbows on her knees, staring at her toes. “Yeah.” Buffy sighs deeply, and Connor briefly wonders if they’re all just not made for peaceful living. If they always need something painful to worry about. “I don’t want to talk about it though,” she says, then.

“Okay.” He glances up at her quickly. She doesn’t look mad – which would be of the bad, because she’s Dawn’s sister, and his girlfriend’s sister being mad at him really is something he doesn’t need, again. Although, he must admit, Buffy has been cool lately, watching them together with a smile like she understands. “Should we just not talk, then?”
He winces a little at how that sounds. Maybe he has retained more from the anti-social routine he perfected in Quartoth than he thought.

But Buffy perks up, apparently glad that she’s given an out, focussing again on the chips in her lap. “Well, we can, if you want? I could tell you funny stories about Dawn…”
She trails off, and Connor realizes with a smirk that she is as bad at meta-communication as he.

“I don’t think she’d appreciate that,” he says in a very gentlemanlike way. Buffy chuckles, and the awkwardness melts a bit.
A moment of silence settles over the kitchen as he thinks. Buffy picks through the small bag without really eating. He’d wonder what she’s so worried about, this slayer, defender of mankind, victorious in countless battles, if he didn’t know so well how it feels to not belong anywhere. To be so desperate to settle into a new life that seems strange and without purpose, and everyone looks at you with either pity or fear.

Dawn talks a lot about her sister, but none of what she’s told him makes for good small talk at three a.m. Everything he can think of is inconsequential polite nothings that he’s grown good at, his fake memories say, but when she looks at him, her face is so weary, and he doesn’t want to give her those.
So he asks the next best thing that comes to mind, one of the things he’s wanted to know about since the new memories started fading bit by bit, and everything is so murky.
“Ever meet my mother?”

Buffy looks surprised. “Yeah. She’s really nice. Dawn says her apple pie is…”

“No,” he interrupts, startled at how detached he feels from this life of apple pie and nice moms. Life without pain and worries…and also, without Dawn. He shivers and quickly bans the thought. “My *real* mother. Did you know her?”

Buffy chokes on her chips and Connor realizes belatedly that maybe it’s not a good idea to ask *this*, of all things. But now it’s out, and even though he told Angel all those months ago that he didn’t have questions, he wants to know now. Everything’s blurry, getting more so every day, and his mother’s face, only a dim vision to start with, has been completely replaced by the still features of a blonde girl whose empty dead stare haunts him at night.

“Maybe,” Buffy’s reluctant voice pulls him from his thoughts, “you’d better ask Angel about that.”

“So you did know her?” he insists.

She sighs, setting her snack aside and rubbing her hands uneasily over the worn cotton of her sweat pants. “I wouldn’t say I *knew* her,” she says, then shrugs. “I met Darla. A long time ago.”

Buffy’s wary eyes make him nervous. Connor looks at the countertop and swipes a finger through the thin layer of dust that still lingers over the whole hotel and will only be chased away by living there for a while.
“What…was she like?” he asks hesitantly, wanting to hear even though he knows he doesn’t.

She meets his eyes for a moment, then looks around evasively and finally reaches for a can of soda. “She…” Buffy trails off, frowning in thought, then suddenly gives a half-smile. “Well. She was quite pretty, I guess.”
Connor stares at her, thrown off by the unexpected image that his mind conjures. A pretty woman with blonde hair and blue eyes, with a kind smile on her lips. He blinks in remembrance. It’s not the real thing, he knows, not the true picture of the vampire that was his mother, and so does Buffy.
But she’s actually found something nice to say to him, and her face is lit up in relief.
 
He snorts a grateful laugh that eases his tension with the sudden exhalation of breath. After a moment, Buffy chimes in with chuckles of her own, the lead-heavy atmosphere of the room slowly lifting.
“She really must’ve cared about you, to end her life to bring you into the world,” she says, and he knows what an effort she’s making for him.

He nods, and really, it doesn’t feel so sad. He has other family now, one constructed, one that he’s building for himself. His thoughts drift back to Dawn.

“I wasn’t crazy about you when I heard Angel and Darla had a son,” Buffy admits out of the blue, her gaze fixed openly on his now. He can’t exactly take offence to that. In fact, he kind of shares – shared the sentiment for a long time. “But now…I’m glad you’re making Dawn happy,” she says softly.

Yes. He understands the importance of family. “I’m glad you’re letting me.” That one was not an easy fight. Compared to Angel’s worried lectures and Buffy’s angry refusals to even let them go on dates, arguing with his parents about sleeping over at the hotel was fun.
But the Hyperion is like home, more so than it ever was before, now that they’ve all actually chosen to come here and their fights are over.

“I’m happy she gets to have that. Love.” Buffy sighs in what Connor thinks is almost a melancholy way. “Something normal. Or,” she amends wryly, “as normal as we all get.”

As if on cue, there’s shuffling on the stairs. Connor glances over his shoulders and nods a hello at Spike. He kind of likes the blonde vampire, because Dawn does, and because he rubs Angel the wrong way. It’s funny to watch. But Spike and Buffy…biiiig issues, Dawn would say, and spread her arms as if to encompass the whole room. And he’d go and take advantage of that by hugging her close, and…
“Hey,” Spike mutters a monosyllabic greeting around the cigarette that dangles from his lip.

He swaggers past them to grab a beer from the fridge and takes a long drink. For a moment, Buffy glances at him like she’s in desperate need of a drink and some punk music, but then she composes herself and crosses her legs in a ladylike position.
“Any interesting baddies out tonight?” she asks.

“You mean aside from me, love?” Spike grins, causing Buffy to sigh and roll her eyes dramatically, the way she’ll do. They are funny to watch too, with their companionable bickering and the constant hint of what-if. Connor’s kind of interested in hearing their whole story, one day, but right now, he’s happy not to meddle. Life’s complicated enough as it is.
“What are you two doing up?”

“Talking,” Buffy says, suddenly lighting up with an idea. “Hey. How about you give us the inside scoop on a question?”

“What question?” Spike asks, snuffing out his cigarette in the sink.

“Connor wants to know about Darla.”

Spike raises his eyebrows until they almost hit the ceiling. Connor shifts in his chair. Maybe coming down here wasn’t a good idea. He’s making everyone uncomfortable.
But then Spike shrugs and shuffles over to the liquor cabinet. “The old times. Need more booze for that.”
He pours himself a generous drink, then leans against the counter next to where Buffy sits.
“So what’s the question?” he asks after he’s downed half a cup of dark brown liquid.

Connor picks through the half-eaten box of cookies. “Don’t know…what was she like?”

“She was a demon, boy.” Yes, Connor thinks dryly, he knew that much. “She and Angelus…well, as much as I hate it, gotta give credit where it’s due – your parents were *evil*, and they were the best at what they did, together.”

Buffy looks just about ready to bolt. Connor can’t really blame her. “Can we not give credit? Please?” she says urgently, rubbing her hands together as if she’s itching to punch something. Or maybe for a stake.
One day, he wants to hear the whole story of Buffy and Angelus, too. But not tonight, definitely not tonight.

“You asked, love,” Spike says, refilling the cup he’s drained.

“And I wonder why I did, because I just knew I so don’t want to hear it.”

“I do.” They both look up, surprised, when Connor speaks up with resolve. “I mean,” he adds, shrugging uncertainly, “I’m pretty sure I don’t want to hear, but…I still need to, you know?”

“Yeah,” Spike says hoarsely, looking into the mug. Then he cracks a grin. “If it’s any consolation to you, my mum tried to shag me.”

“Oh, God,” Buffy mutters, reaching for a chocolate bar.

“Wow,” Connor says, awed. “I do feel better now.”

“Yeah.” Spike smirks dryly. “People love that story.”

“It’s also on the list of no-nos,” Buffy says resolutely.

Spike quirks an eyebrow. “What *can* I talk about, then? Dru?” He downs another swig of liquor with a hiss. “Oh yeah, Dru. She was a fine girl…”

“Yeah. She only, oh, killed one of my friends!” Buffy says, exasperated. Connor isn’t following any more, really, but he raises his eyes from his contemplation of the table’s surface to see Buffy give Spike a seriously pissed look. He’s kind of glad that her wrath is not directed at him.
Even though he brought up this particular topic of discussion, he realizes guiltily.

He takes a deep breath. “Right. Anyway. The good old times.” He raises his eyebrows to prompt Spike’s train of thought, and feels Buffy’s glare shift from the vampire to him.
“You were saying?”

“You are nosy, boy,” Spike mutters, then pushes off the counter to discard his cup in the sink and go for the bottle instead. “And ‘sides, we should really save this talk for when Angel’s around. Might be more fun.”

“*More* fun? I can hardly imagine that,” Buffy snaps.

“Maybe you should go to bed, love. I could tuck you in.” Spike flashes the slayer a smirk as he pulls the bottle from the cupboard.
Buffy only crosses her arms in front of her chest and glares, not bothering with an answer, and Connor makes a mental note to get a few snippets of those big issues out of Dawn tomorrow.
“What? This is man-talk. Leave if you can’t take it.”

“I can *so* take it,” Buffy practically growls. Spike just continues smirking. Takes balls, to smirk at her when she’s like this, Connor must admit. Especially as Spike seems quite aware that she could end his sorry unlife without breaking a sweat.
“Get on with it already.”

“Well. Darla.” Spike has a creepily wistful look in his eye, and Connor wonders, again, just why he brought this up. Right. Because creepy is still better than Angel’s beating around the bush. “A great beauty, she was, for sure. Angel’s always had good taste in little blondes…Ow!”

Buffy rubs her elbow, which she’d slammed into Spike’s ribs. “No unflattering generalizations, please.”

“Bloody hell,” Spike scowls. His glare shifts between Buffy and Connor, as if he can’t decide who he’s mad at for this late night conversation. But still, they all stay put, even though none of them could quite say why.
We’re a weird bunch, Connor thinks, all of us. This family.
He isn’t quite sure when that last bit has become so rooted inside his mind.
“Anyway,” Spike huffs in Buffy’s direction, “maybe you’d better say she had good taste – or, well, bad, if you’re asking for my opinion – in her man, because as far as I know, Darla picked *him*. She was his sire.”

“Yes,” Connor says. That much he knew already, and he clings to the stable – if creepy – facts. Easier to sift through than all that soul, love, emotions stuff.

“Well. Darla herself was the master’s pet. His favourite.”

“Master?”

“Yeah.” Spike shifts away from Buffy a little before he continues. Buffy looks pretty pale. Maybe he should put a stop to this, now, before the situation gets all fucked up. “The master. Big scary vamp guy. Ran a vampire clan called the Order of Aurelius.” Spike grimaces in dislike. “Tried to kill Buffy once, if I’m not mistaken – but then, who didn’t?”

“He did kill me,” Buffy says, all too lightly. Connor stares at her as uncomfortable silence settles over the room.

Finally, Spike lifts the bottle to his lips again, the splash of the amber liquid loud in the quiet kitchen. “Right. Well. Darla. She was one evil, scary, bloodthirsty, skanky whore of a vampire…”

“And if you don’t shut your mouth right now, you will be one big pile of ashes.”
Connor sees Buffy frown as Angel enters the kitchen, a dark, pissed-off scowl on his face. He folds his arms across his chest as he towers over Spike. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Hey. *They* asked me.” Spike throws up his arms in protest. “And ‘sides, it’s true.”

Angel looks over his shoulder at Connor, and his eyes soften a bit. “She wasn’t like that when Connor was born.”

“Oh, so she was just a skanky whore then?” Spike quips.

“Please tell me you’re just making that up,” Buffy interrupts. “She wasn’t really a…”

“A whore? She was one alright, wasn’t she, Angel?” For a moment, there is such a surge of dislike, of *hate* for the blonde vampire, so much white-hot rage bubbles up inside him, that Connor wants to throw Spike to the floor and beat him to a bloody pulp. He clenches his fists, draws in a deep breath, his body goes taut in his chair, ready to pounce, but then, his nails pierce his palms painfully and he is thrown back into reality.

God. Where did that come from? “You have no right to tell my son…” Angel starts, but Buffy is still hung up on the latest bit of overinformation.

“Oh, God. So it’s true? Angel?” Buffy says, desperately glancing at Connor. But there is no answer. With jerky movements, she jumps off the counter. “Oh, this is…It’s…” Buffy breaks off, pressing a hand to her forehead. “Gross.”

She turns away and crosses the kitchen, trying to get as far away as possible within the confines of the walls. The room is icily silent. Spike and Angel are locked in a dark glare. “Connor. Leave,” Angel forces out through clenched teeth.

But Connor is staring at his bloody palms, the intensity of the previous moment still making his head spin. All these lies. All these mixed up memories and pictures, the damned half-truths, all the crap that lurks at the backs of their minds and never gets said. It’s enough.
“No,” he says, startling the two vampires. “No.”

Angel turns, angry. “Leave. I’m telling you.”

“No,” Connor says with determination. “Aren’t you all sick of this? The constant circling each other, never saying anything, waiting for stuff to happen that never *will* happen, because no one ever makes it?”
Fleetingly, he realizes that his voice has risen in volume as he speaks, that he is yelling at them.

Angel stares at him, his face unreadable, still. Spike scowls. Buffy peeks over her shoulder tentatively, arms wrapped around herself.
Silence. The atmosphere in the kitchen is so loaded with anger and tension that Connor can feel goosebumps rise on his arms. Buffy stares at the tiles on the floor, rubbing at a dark spot with her toe. Angel has turned his back on them all, his shoulders tense. Spike is shifting the bottle from left hand to right. Left to right. Left to right.
It seems like no one will ever speak again.

But then fate steps in, in the shape of Dawn, and Connor jumps up to meet her halfway through the kitchen. He was never more glad to see her. And that is saying something.
Dawn gives a big yawn, half of the blanket she’s wrapped in trailing behind her. “What’s going on? I heard yelling.”

“Yeah. We were just...having a discussion.”

Dawn squints at the clock that hangs at the wall over the table and furrows her brow. “At four o’clock? You’re all mad.”

Truer words were never spoken. Connor can’t help himself. He snorts a laugh. She’s right, always is. It’s all so ridiculous. “Yeah. I guess we are,” he says, chuckling even as Angel turns and glares at him furiously.

“This is no laughing matter, Connor. It’s all very serious.”

“Oh please.” It’s time a few things were put on the table. “All of you have these big issues that no one is ever allowed to talk about, but how are they ever going to get resolved if you never *do* anything? So let’s go already. You two,” he points at Buffy and Spike, “have your stupid flirty denial thing. You,” he points at Angel, “are jealous as all hell, but no, you can never just say that. You have to go flirt with wolf girl. Then Buffy starts flirting with Spike again. Repeat endlessly. You,” pointing at Buffy, “are out of a day job…night job…whatever, and you don’t know what the heck to do with your life. Except that in between all the yelling, you two,” jerking his head at Angel, “sure seem to want to be together.  Dammit, people,” he breaks of, exasperated, “and I thought I was fucked up. Turns out my mom was not only a soulless demon, but a prostitute on top of it all. Do you see me freak out?”

They all stare at him, and he thinks they look kind of sheepish. Stupid adults. Dawn elbows him lightly. “Your mom was a prostitute? For real?” Her lips curve into a smile. “Ha! You *are* a greater freak than I! Yay!” She actually laughs.

And this, he thinks, is the only way to deal with life. He grins at his girlfriend. Dawn’s got it right. “Could everyone now *please* stop with the crazy and sort stuff out, quietly? *We’re* going to bed.”

For a moment, they all stare at him, dumbstruck. Connor moves to stand close to Dawn, a bit self-conscious now that the exasperation has dissipated with the passion of his speech. He started it, after all…but his question was only the trigger to kick off all the other stuff that has been boiling beneath the surface. Finally, he shrugs and takes Dawn’s hand. It’s said now, and it’s all true.

The silence is interrupted when Spike pushes off the counter and shuffles out of the kitchen, slapping Connor’s back as he passes. “Now, see, boy,” he says, smirking, “*that’s* what your mum was like. Kept the family in line. And got her way too, always.” A thin wisp of cigarette smoke hangs in the air as he disappears in the dark hall. “Night.” And just like that, all seems to be right in Spike’s world. Connor blinks. Now that was easy. One down, two to go.

Buffy and Angel glance at each other hesitantly, but at least they trade a look and don’t start yelling. Progress. All of a sudden, Connor feels pretty damn good about himself and this crazy night. Even if no one ever listens – he’s had his say. Let them all go to hell if they still don’t get it.

Connor heaves a relieved sigh. “Come on, let’s go sleep.” Draping his arm around Dawn, he leads her up the stairs without looking back, leaving Buffy and Angel behind.

When Connor comes downstairs only a few hours later, thin morning light is filtering in through the windows in the front door, and the hall is very quiet.
On a couch by the wall, Buffy is curled up against Angel’s side, his arms wrapped tightly around her. She is breathing deeply in her sleep, and when Connor walks past, she doesn’t stir, and Angel just opens his eyes to give him a contented look and a slight grin.

Connor nods and tiptoes into the kitchen to make breakfast for Dawn.
While he sifts through the refrigerator, he quirks a small, wry smile. Keeping the family in line, and together – not the worst talent to inherit.