******************
Title: Kindling
Author: evan como 
(evancomo@netscape.net)
URL: 
http://angeljournal.mybravenet.com/
Disclaimer: the author does not claim 
ownership to the characters or plot 
development mentioned from "Angel" or 
"Buffy the Vampire Slayer" or "Fray". 
These properties expressly belong to 
Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, 
Greenwolf Corporation, 20th Century 
Fox Television, WB Network, the UPN 
Network, Dark Horse Comics, etc. Any 
other characters contained in the original 
story are the author's.

Historical Note: Season three, after 
"Birthday". e.c. 20 Jan 02

Author's Notes: This is my first attempt 
at the Improv Group thing. #34: cater, 
spill, wisp, ginger. It was fun. And look, 
Mom, no dictionary!
******************
Holding the stuffed, ginger-colored bear 
in front of Connor's face like a steering 
wheel, Cordelia drives the baby into a fit 
of elation. The weeks-old arms and legs 
flail maniacally and he sputters with what 
he's learning is glee. Cordelia laughs and 
laughs; her voice travels out of the 
nursery and down the corridor and waits 
at the doorways to burst into the street.

First, the bear gnaws the precious tummy 
and then Cordy takes her turn. She fills 
her cheeks with air and blows. And lifts 
her head quickly. "Ew! Connor," she 
chides.

He is still too undeveloped to understand 
why she's stopped. His eyebrows worm 
and his eyelids smear the flood of 
incomprehension down his newborn-blue 
eyes. When they open again, he focuses 
on her.

Connor is a doll and Cordelia can't help 
but squeeze him.

"Let's see what kind of mess you've got 
this time." She undoes the tapes from his 
diaper and unfurls. "What a good boy, 
you are, Connor! Waiting with the poopy 
stuff for your Daddy. He needs to get it 
through that thick-gelled head of his that 
certain people aren't always gonna be his 
mess picker-uppers."

Her toothy, approving smile is pursed 
inside glossy lips and she makes num-
num where Connor's head meets his 
body. "One day you'll grow a neck and 
this'll be even more funner," she 
promises.

Connor squirms, latches onto her ear and 
doesn't let go. 

***

Rapid breaths wisp across Wesley's 
throat. Rubbing his eyes, the infant-
Watcher leans back in his office chair 
and unhinges his right leg from over his 
left knee. He steadies Connor against his 
chest as he reaches for the glasses he'd 
tossed onto the desktop's blotter.

Inhalations blubbery, Wesley sniffles. All 
week he's been plagued by the irrational 
thought that he may be allergic to 
Connor. He wants to do everything right 
by him, to make sure everything's in 
place: Scrollwork and Training with a 
keen eye on Destiny. 


Careful not to wake his sleeping charge, 
he rises cautiously and moves through his 
and Cordy's offices towards the 
basement stairwell. Between the constant 
tip-toeing and shuffling, Wesley cannot 
remember the last time he's walked 
naturally. He notes with some delight that 
he's nearly perfected Angel's method of 
getting from points A to B in a silent 
moment.

As he watches from the top of the 
basement staircase while The Warrior 
and his Seer spar, he is unnerved that 
Cordelia has been emulating Angel as 
well, more deceptively so.

Connor jerks. An unhappy noise escapes 
him.

Before Wesley can be soothing, Cordelia 
has flown up the staircase and swiped 
the baby. Empty arms folded across his 
chest, Wesley meets Angel's eyes. With 
Connor demanding so much attention, 
they have yet to address Cordelia's 
beguiling metamorphosis other than to 
exchange bewildered glances and uneasy 
sighs.

***

"OK. Just this once, but don't think I'ma 
cater to you all the time, ev'ry time." 
Gunn glances over one shoulder, then the 
other. With the lobby peeps-free, he 
plants his lips on Connor's forehead.

He rears away, indignant, and tenderly 
buffs the baby with his fleecy pullover's 
cuff. "Do *not* tell me that Cordelia's 
been butterin' you with that fruity girl 
lotion she wears. MAN! Gotta get some 
boy-smells up in here for you."

It strikes him that he cannot think of what 
a pleasant boy-smell would be, but he's 
sure it wouldn't be raspberry. Maybe... 
Maybe a baby should smell like iced 
cinnamon grahams.

Connor's eyes roll inside their sockets 
like one of those gumball games where 
the little silver beads never stay inside the 
tiny holes. For the most part, he's a 
content little guy, not a big fusser like 
Alonna had been. "You don't care how 
funked up you get, though, do you? You 
jus' roll wit it. Right, Lil' C?"

"Gosh. His first nickname: Lil' C."

Concealing the grin that immediately 
hijacks his face, Gunn keeps his head 
low, watching Fred's shoes approach.

"I think it's adorable. And tight," she 
drawls, embarrassed her cheeks flush at 
every attempt to include reasonably 
recent colloquial speech. The waif-thin 
young woman plops onto the sofa and 
Connor complacently rides the swell of 
red felt. 

Gunn can't help but feel alarmed each 
time Fred picks up the baby. She's never 
in a position to scoop him correctly. At 
some point during the trip from horizontal 
to vertical, Connor does a loop-de-loop 
and a side-winding something-or- other. 
Gunn is for sure thinkin' that Fred needs 
a lesson in proper handling; although, 
Connor doesn't seem to mind the 
gyrations and the kid's already fronted 
and whupped several enemies.

Maybe Fred'll just keep him in practice.

"Hey, Lil' C." Giggling, Fred blows at the 
only two real strands of hair that it seems 
the baby will ever own. "So, does this 
mean we should we start calling 
Cordelia: Big C?"

Gunn straightens the neckline of 
Connor's onesie, which is actually his 
discreet way of nudging the baby's 
wobbly head against Fred's upper arm.

Fred scrunches her nose and shifts her 
shoulders. "Sorry," she says, tucking her 
chin so contritely that the word is barely 
audible.

"Don't worry 'bout it; he's cool, Fred," 
Gunn smiles. His hand slips away, 
accidentally brushing her forearm.

But Fred's too wrapped up in self-
consciousness to notice anything except 
how to hold the baby, giving Gunn time 
to count how many more types of cutes 
she's got than the two C's put together.

***

Angel cannot spill out his sheets fast 
enough at the first sound of Connor's cry 
and stumbles half the distance before 
finding his balance. Panting for air he 
doesn't need, he's still unsure whether it's 
an involuntary overreaction or due to the 
fact that Connor's existence thrills him to 
life.

"Shhhhh, baby, baby," Angel coos 
against his son's crown. The rocking 
journey to the kitchenette diminishes 
Connor's squalling. Not that he stops 
crying altogether; he's a persistent whelp.

As the baby bottle-nurses -- either post-
breakfast or pre-pre-lunch, Angel 
becomes one with the wing chair's 
contours. He doesn't mind that Connor's 
arrival has sucked the vampire out of 
him. That the baby is so perfect is what 
he reflects on most often...
 
 

Jolting upright, Angel bounds from the 
chair. His arms are freezing and he 
cannot think of where to start searching 
for Holtz.

Connor's nearby burble pardons his 
anxiety.

Angel leans inside the bathroom 
doorframe, enraptured by the pinkish 
child splashing in the sink. There are suds 
on the mirror and water pouring over the 
Pullman. Cordy's yoga pants are soaked 
from their rollover-waist down; beads of 
water embellish her lacquered toes like 
diamond chips.

"You're up!" She glances into the mirror 
and, as if she can actually spot him, her 
hazel sight lands on Angel.

Arms rising instinctively, he steps 
forward but she averts his advance. 
"Here. Hold him," she orders, clasping 
his wrist and thrusting his hand beneath 
the navel-high water to secure Connor's 
place. She threads under the crook of his 
arm and scurries into the bedroom.

A flash later, Connor kicks at her return, 
sprinkling bathwater everywhere. He is 
fixed on her and reaches for the 
enormous towel she is flagging.

Angel recognizes the dampness between 
his toes; his hand floats in tepidness. And 
he cannot form sentences for any of the 
emotions causing his brain to malfunction. 
It is all he can do to keep from joining 
the other puddles on the floor as 
Connor's cherubic face glows from the 
depths of its terrycloth cocoon.

"Here, Angel." Cordy punches Angel in 
the stomach, pinching his chin as he 
doubles over. "Hold Merl."

"You named my son's toy Merl?" he 
asks, incredulous. He scuttles across the 
carpet to catch up with her, wiping his 
hand down his thigh. Without caution, he 
judges, "I think that towel is big enough 
for us both."

Cordy stops. She appraises the excess 
fabric, Connor and Angel. "You're right!" 
she agrees.

Beaming, Angel stands prepared.

Or so he thought. Connor's disapproval 
blinks up from Angel's arms. They both 
got the short end of whatever that wasn't. 
And, the baby smells like... Peaches?

Cordelia holds the stuffed, ginger-
colored bear in front of her chest like a 
steering wheel and attacks. She laughs 
and she laughs; her voice travels out of 
the nursery and down the corridor and 
waits at the doors to burst into the 
streets.

The father smiles and coaches his son, 
both chiming in with what they're learning 
is love.

-0-