Title: Passing Through: the other side
Rating – FR7
Disclaimer: Not mine. Belongs to Whedon and the Davis-Panzer Productions.
Summary: AU – missing scene after Angel knocks Xander out in “Enemies”. From the other person's perspective. Crossover.
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Passing Through: the other side
He was heading back to his motel room. He hadn't planned on staying long in Sunnydale, but his arrival had been earlier than expected, the man he needed to see wasn't available until nightfall, and he'd been exhausted from traveling.
He tucked the package his clansman had asked he collect into the inner pocket of his trench coat. How his cousin even knew about a man as utterly slimy as Willy – well, Connor didn't know. “Duncan is definitely going to owe me one for this.” The whole town gave made the hair stand on the back of his neck – he couldn't wait to leave, and he debated on whether the items he'd left in his room were worth returning for.
Half a block from his motel; he spotted two figures stalking down the street. The woman – girl actually, she couldn't have been more than fifteen or sixteen – wore tight brown leather pants and a revealing scarlet crop top. She carried a wooden stake tucked down one boot and the hilt of a dagger could be seen in the other. She moved like a predator and he narrowed his eyes. The man beside her wore a black silk shirt, black trousers, and a long trench coat. No visible weapons, but who knows what was hidden underneath. He also glided across the sidewalk – inhuman; panther-like.
Footsteps could be heard racing toward the couple and Connor faded back some, keeping a wary eye on the tableau. The two stopped beneath a lamp.
“Angel!” A teenaged boy came to a stop at the edge of the pool of light, panting slightly, and casting a wary eye at the girl. “Glad I found you. Buffy needs you.”
Without a word, the man – Angel – threw a punch that caught the lad in the jaw, knocking him unconscious. The teen fell to the ground, his head bouncing once on the concrete. Connor winced – that had to hurt.
“Let's go,”Angel turned to leave.
The girl looked mildly impressed. “We should take him with us. Could always use something to take the edge off,” she purred seductively. “At least have someone to hang over Ms. High and Mighty's head.”
“He's not worth the effort.” Angel had continued walking. “We're going to be late.”
The girl gave the unconscious boy another long look, then shrugged and moved to catch up with her partner.
Connor MacLeod stepped out of the shadows and toward the crumpled form. A few careful slaps on the cheeks showed the boy was well and truly out. A large knot on the back of his head from where he hit the sidewalk sported a cut that sluggishly oozed blood. “Can't just leave you here. As already attested, the streets are not safe. Can't take you to a hospital – too many questions I'm not in the mood to answer. You should be fine with a bit of rest. Guess you're going to have to come with me.”
He levered the boy up into a sitting position, draped his arms over his shoulders, and effortlessly hoisted him into a fireman's carry. Within moments he arrived at his hotel and made it into the room without being seen. He lay the teen on the bed, levered off his shoes and emptied his pockets. The stake and bottle of water received merely a raised brow. He knew what stalked the night, he was just surprised that someone so young knew as well, and would travel prepared. “'Course, it helps to know who or what you should be prepared for, doesn't it, boyo? From the looks of things, you weren't expecting to be attacked like that.”
Catching a glimpse at the medallion around the boy's neck, he smiled in bitter-sweet remembrance; his Heather had worn such a charm once. For protection, she had said. It had worked well, too. The only time harm had ever befallen her was the week she'd lost it and the Kurgan had taken her. “Seems your luck is holding, lad. Hope it continues.”
A quick glance through the teen's wallet yielded a name; Alexander Harris. “Well, Alexander. I'm in a bit of a hurry. Can't stick around. But I can at least lend you a helping hand.” Suiting actions to words, he walked to the the office and reserved the room for the rest of the week. The boy looked worn thin, and a bit of time away from his troubles might do him a world of good. He dashed down to the corner store and grabbed some necessities to stock the small motel refrigerator with. Back at the room, he looked in on the boy, glad to see he'd slipped into a more natural sleep.
He scrawled out a note to the lad; lay forty dollars out on the table; and gave a silent salute to the boy sleeping in the other room. Mortal lives were so brief, and those who engaged in the supernatural were usually even briefer. “Good luck, kid.”
He stepped out the door, closing it firmly behind him. After all, he was only passing through.