A bit of a bastard.

And I am a fool. For expecting something other than the usual contemptuous dismissal. That very particular brand of scorn he reserves exclusively for his son, the perpetual disappointment, the continual thorn in his side. The cyborg had got that much down pat, at least. Took pains to employ it at every available opportunity, choosing his audience with malicious delight.

The story he had shared with Fred, that was private, something that had happened within my home. How could the cyborg have known about that? And suddenly it is obvious. My father had shared the incident with other members of the council, making a subtle mockery of my innocently misguided efforts to resurrect the tiny bird. I wondered idly if he had shared the full story, if the anecdote recorded in the council file contained all the details of the episode.

*~*~*~*

A hot dull July afternoon, and I am in my room, reading.

Hiding.

Father is at home, but has spent the morning in his study. There have been telephone calls; angry conversations, my father's fury evidenced only in hissed sibilants. There has been dissension in the council recently, concerning the training of slayers, and my father is not happy. I hear his voice float up the stairs, speaking on the 'phone again, his tone arctic.

'You are aware of my reservations, Travers. The slayer does not choose, she is chosen. The job must be done, no matter what the cost.'

Tiptoe to my door and close it quietly. I know I need to keep out of his way today. I find my place in the text I have been set, and open my notebook, try to concentrate on the first book of the AEneis. I know there is a translation of this somewhere in the library, but I'm supposed to translate it myself. Besides, he'd know if I copied it. Time moves languidly, the lazy heat of the afternoon makes the tiny print blur, and I go to the window, fumbling with the stiff catch on the sash.

It hits with such force that I overbalance, stumble back, only just manage not to cry out with shock. I climb back up to the window, and cautiously peer out. A tiny sparrow, stilled by impact with the glass, lies on the stone sill. I struggle to unfasten the sash, shove the window up with shaking hands. I reach out and touch the still-warm body, but there is no movement, no beat in its breast. I slip my fingers under the small body; cradle it as tenderly as I can. Run my index finger under its throat very gently. It seems intact; it was the sheer shock of the collision that startled the life from its little frame.

I carry it over to the bed; lay it carefully on top of the covers. Such a tiny, insignificant creature, it makes childish tears well up, and I bring my hand to my mouth, stifling a sob. As I bite down on my lip, a sudden, reckless impulse seizes me. There is a manuscript, a scroll he has been studying recently. On resurrection.  It is kept in the library.

And now I am moving, opening the door, and before I realize it I am at the top of the stairs. It feels unreal, as if I were outside my own body, marvelling at the imprudence of my actions. Through the banisters I see his study, the door not quite closed, see him seated at his desk, copperplate script flowing from a silver fountain pen. I am so light, so terribly thin, that my footfalls barely register on the ominously creaky stairs. I tiptoe past the study door, and the man at the desk does not stir.

And suddenly I see myself, a painfully small child, (how did two such sturdy parents produce such pathetically weak offspring?) creeping into my father's library. Dark, foreboding, smelling of old books, ancient parchments, ink and leather, and very faintly of my father.  My senses hyperactive, adrenaline surging through my body, ready to react to the first hint of a threat.

What I am doing is incredibly foolhardy. Entrance to this room is expressly forbidden. And yet here I stand, reaching out to touch the scroll that lies atop my father's huge desk. Barely breathing, I clasp the manuscript gently; turn to leave the room and then freeze. He is standing in a thin shaft of late afternoon sunlight that has managed to evade the heavy velvet curtaining obscuring most of the window. Fine dust particles float around him as if suspended by his will.

I wonder if he can hear my heart.

I wonder if it is actually still beating.

He does not speak, does not yell (my father never yells, never raises his voice). Does not need to. Simply holds out his hand, palm upraised, waiting patiently for my compliance. I want to throw down the scroll and run (forever), but the instinct to obey him is deep-rooted, a reflex from early childhood. My body betrays me; I am suddenly standing in front of him, holding out the scroll for inspection.

It does not matter what I have taken, or the reasons for my crime. Caught in the act, I am already doomed. I hear my voice (so quiet, so very quiet), dwindling to nothing as I make my excuses. And still he remains silent; his flint blue eyes sweep over me, and I cannot move. There are no options open to me now; my fate was decided before I opened my mouth.

Before I stepped into this room.

Before I was born.

I have learned to expect pain. The things which hurt instruct – one of my father's favourite adages. On this occasion the method of instruction is the edge of a ruler, cracking onto trembling knuckles. He is calm, impassive, watching me intently for any sign of weakness. The expectation of pain unfortunately does nothing to lessen it.

I am seven years old and it hurts and I cry.

And so the yawning darkness below the stairs opens before me, swallows me whole, until I disappear. I do not cry, do not move, do not exist in this space. I am nothing.

These things are necessary, I know. I must learn not to cry, not to be afraid of the dark. Not to be weak. If I am to be a watcher, I must learn these lessons.

And my father is a dedicated teacher.

*~*~*~*

'Listen, I wanted to…'

We don't do this. Don't talk about feelings; the damned cyborg got that right. Our conversations, if you can call them that, tend to follow a pattern - he finds fault and picks holes, I make an abysmally inept job of defending myself. Listening to him now, I understand that this is how things are and ever will be.

'Nothing's wrong…'

He sounds almost concerned. Almost. I try to picture him sitting up in bed, tutting as I try to explain myself, but instead I succeed only in conjuring the image of him collapsing onto the roof, the force of the bullets jerking his frame brutally. The visceral thought causes the bile to rise in my throat once again. Whatever Angel and Fred say about big pictures and greater good and sacrifice and loyalty, nothing can change what I did.

What I am capable of.

'I just… wanted to call… and see how you were…'

I told her once that I didn't know what kind of man I was. Now I know, and wish I didn't.

I am my father's son.

FIN