This Is Your Life
It wasn't easy to blend in, especially when you dressed in a fashion cross between early Salvation Army and later Jackson Pollock. The Agent could've blended in claiming Irish heritage had his visit coincided with Saint Patrick's day. And while the city had once been a booming copper town, those days were past and claims to be scouting the area for work in mining wouldn't hold up.

So he played tourist cum amateur historian to the wandering eyes of the less than forty thousands who called Bute, Montana home. Every day Whistler pounded the streets, a slow walk through the Dumas Brothel Museum (had he visited there before? the red velvet felt familiar), the Berkeley Pit, Copper King Mansion, Venus Alley. And he certainly couldn't resist seeing where Daschell Hammett originally plied his trade at the Pinkerton National Detective Agency.

It was pure distraction, and he knew it. Every morning he'd wake, shower and shave, wave to Missus Bannister as he whizzed past the kitchen of her bed and breakfast, and hop in his Impala with intent to steer onto Anaconda Road and Meg's Amazing Edibles before exercising yet another cheesecloth-thin excuse to postpone. It's Saturday, probably a large catering order, won't have time for unfamiliar faces. No one should be shocked on a Monday. That cheesesteak from last night isn't sitting right.

He felt like a coward. Whistler could stare down an apocalypse, but not his own past. Hannah's words played over and over. "You know they're okay now. So you don't need to go ordering a sheet cake, just to get a look at Meg."

The Agent protested, as was his wont.

"I don't want you to get your feelings hurt."

And his feelings would be hurt. Not at seeing his daughter again. But to know she made a life for herself without his help. That she didn't need him. But maybe that was exactly what Whistler needed. To know Meg thrived in spite of him.

Stepping out of the Impala, feet firmly on Anaconda Road and a copy of the Montana Standard tucked under his right arm, the Agent strolled across the street and opened the door to the past.

The small catering business was located in a retail space with domestic quarters overtop, but sixty-five year old, twice divorced Margaret Alice Melone hadn't used those for living in for twenty odd years. She had a ranch house past the town limits now. On occasion when her son came home from his adventuring in the city, he took up residence above her shop, but he complained about the heat and going home smelling like cornbread muffins.

It was a little too homespun for a guy who tried to make a living playing a jazz instrument in clubs. He had a foolish head on his shoulders. The sturdy and practical Meg had no idea where her son got such hair-brained ideas. One day Aaron was obsessing over an upright bass and living the artist's life; the next he was scalping tickets to make rent. Always the reason for upheaval was some purple-haired, nose-pierced girl or another.

No such wanderlust for her. A childhood spent watching her mom struggle to make ends meet had planted Meg's feet firmly on the ground. She was a self-made woman, a businessperson of some financial security and an independent streak a mile long. She was also a small-time fortune teller. That went on in a room off the side of her catering shop, for privacy of her clientele.

For all her ability to see strangers' fortunes, she was no good at seeing her own. So it was with little fanfare that she greeted the man in the hat. He walked in and she barely looked up.

A cheery, "Good morning!" came at Whistler from the space beyond the counter, where a young girl mixed food coloring in a futile attempt to turn icing battleship gray.

The various scents of fresh-baked pastries wafted through the air, swirled together and parted only to recombine and entice the Agent's olfactory senses to detach themselves and float towards the counter before his feet could catch up. Few things stirred memory like smells. He smiled at the young girl as she hand-stirried food coloring into a mixing bowl and a low-spoken greeting in return.

His eyes continued onward, taking in elements of the shop. The lack of ovens in the main area suggested a larger operation in the back, while most of the 'glamorous' work, to entertain clientele, was done in the main. Prints of Butte in its prime adorned the slightly faded walls, along with an ancient Coca-Cola wall clock.

"I was hoping to--" Whistler began, and immediately closed his mouth. Meg. There wasn't any doubt. Despite time, a willing distance, he could feel a cursory connection. And upon closer examination, the color of her hair, the crinkle around the eyes. Her mother's daughter. A lump formed in his throat and he swallowed hard.

The young girl, whose name was Patricia, used her forearm to scratch her temple. "Would you like to see examples of our work?" She put down her icing-turned-science-experiment and pointed at a collection of glossy books near the window. "There's pictures and pricing in those, but we can take custom orders too."

Meg cleared her throat.

"If you give us a little time," Patricia corrected. She rolled her eyes behind Meg's back, which promptly earned her a pencil lobbed her way. She flinched and muttered, "Ow."

Either Meg had eyes in the back of her head, or she anticipated that kind of reaction out of her apprentice. She did look up, though, and focused pale blue eyes on the guy with the newspaper. "My son's got a hat like that," she told him matter-of-factly, and slid off her stool to approach the counter. "You're from out of town?"

"Try not to hold it against him." If he'd ever doubted, the pencil moment washed it away. Whistler supressed a smile and cleared his throat. "Yeah, recently from out west," he offered as answer to her question. "Kinda obvious, I guess."

Time had been kind to Meg. She looked healthy, strong. Just like Hannah said. She's got a thriving business, some measure of his innate talent, and a son who didn't fall too far from the family tree. "I dunno what that is you were workin' on, but it smells amazin'."

"Almond cake," she said. Upon standing, it was easier to see Meg's general size and stature. While she had inherited most of her facial features from her mother, she was a smaller woman than Alice had been, and those genes had definitely come from Whistler's side of the family tree. She moved to the rack where the cake had been left to cool and cut a piece for the customer, placing it in on a paper plate and sliding it across the counter.

"Go on and taste it. You're not allergic, are you?" She eyed him watchfully, not so much suspicious as generally concerned for the man's welfare. "I once served a customer a slice of hazelnut brown butter cake. She didn't know she was allergic. She figured it out pretty quick though; stuck her finger right down her throat and threw it up all over the place. You don't want to know what that looks like coming up."

Looking battle-worn from that experience, Meg tucked a napkin next to the plate.

"You don't want to know what that looks like coming up." And you don't wanna know what it looks like playing mid-wife to a Mok-Togar demon. Soul-suckers by nature, to prevent the mother being consumed at birth, they let that 'honor' fall to an unsuspecting third-party.

Whistler shook his head in reaction to allergies, and popped the piece of almond cake in his mouth. He slowly chewed the morsel, sliding the softly crumbling pieces from teeth to tongue, and down his throat. He was a mostly meat-and-potatoes man, whose idea of dessert was a coffee and cigarette, but this could make him a convert.

"Worth the drive from Vegas," he commented, using the napkin to dab the corners of his mouth. Using his sleeve wouldn't be seen in the best light.

Patricia piped up from the back. "Oh, man, I'd kill to go to Vegas!" Her tube of icing squirted an enormous, gray blob on the counter.

Meg snorted. "Your mother would kill you." She began to slice the almond cake into individual portions for retail. "I went once. I think that was...," her mind counted back, "1989? Stayed in the Stardust hotel. Post divorce celebration."

Patricia asked, "Aaron's dad?"

Meg confirmed with a grumble. "I had myself a fine time on his wallet. Of course I don't remember half of it." She had a laugh under her breath.

"Seems reasonable, good place for a new start." Whistler knew from experience. "Not like it was then, I'd imagine. They've cleaned it up a lot now, sure it's always been touristy, but they're really pushin' the family-friendliness of it these days." Which minorly disturbed the half-breed. Commerce had won out over common sense after the near-obliteration of McCarren Airport by The Scourge, and the rift that had opened over the Strip a year and a bit ago.

"Aaron, then. Your son? The one who wears hats?" The Agent gently steered the conversation, hoping to gleen more of Meg's life since he unceremoniously abandoned Alice and his toddler daughter in Seattle so many years ago.

"Mm." Meg nodded. "Kid's the embodiment of that old saying, 'a rolling stone gathers no moss'." She lifted her sturdy shoulders. "Don't know where he gets it from. Maybe his father." Capable hands dished pieces of cake onto dessert plates, and from there she set them in a display case.

Patricia made the requisite 'ick' face at the mention of the sperm donor. "Probably."

Whistler's daughter gave her apprentice a reserved smile. "You want to know something about Aaron, this one can tell you. Been friends since the eighth grade." She drastically lowered her voice and looked fully at the hatted customer for the first time. "I thought they might end up," she flicked her thumb against her left ring finger, "But no. Hmm hnn. Aaron's got his mind on other things, and by things I mean..." She wagged her eyebrows with the knowing cynicism of an aggravated mother.

Meg closed the case and looked at him. "You know, you look familiar. How long have you been in town?"

Whistler fished through his pockets for a stick of gum. He'd been trying to cut down on his Lucky Seven's since arriving in Butte, unconsciously trying to make a better first impression. He found a leftover Juicy Fruit, unwrapped the foil and popped it 'twixt his teeth.

"Better part of a week." No reason to lie, and if Meg had any faint memory of his face, that piece of information might be enough to quell any feeling of deja vu. "I was like your boy, did a helluva lot of travellin' but not so much with uh..." The Agent attempted to waggle his own eyebrows, managing to shift his hat slightly with the effort. "I'm sure he's worth the effort, even if it didn't work out for you and him," he offered the younger girl. "Suspect he'll be in your life -- on and off at least -- especially when ya need him."

He turned then, absently chewing the gum, to examine the plated pastries in the window. He didn't know art, but the hatted man recognized talent. "Must've got that from your mother," he slipped.

A look came over Meg's time-weathered face. "What?"

In the kitchen, Patricia didn't seem to notice anything awry. She was too busy contemplating whether the hatted guy was right and Aaron would come around. Well, if he expected her to wait around...

Meg assessed the man's age, wondering if he could be a family friend. But her mother had been dead and gone for thirtysome years, and the customer didn't look like he'd gotten to forty. With directness she said, "I'm Meg Melone," and reached across the counter. "And you are?"

Whistler wiped his hand on his coat, a move reserved for when nerves took hold, before taking his daughter's and shaking it firmly. Gods, a name. He hadn't considered a name! Would she know? Could he pull out the chestnut of Augustus Whittaker and hoped Meg hadn't watched television recently?

"A fan of your work," he smirked. Her gaze wasn't having it however. It was if, had Meg concentrated enough, she could reach inside his mind and pull out the information freely.

Just like her old man. "Augustus Whistler," he spoke. "But uh, everyone just calls me Whistler. Or 'hey you'."

Meg jerked her hand back. The sound was slick, a result of remnant cooking spray on her palm and perspiration on his. This was not a woman who questioned her instincts or gave second thoughts an audience. "Patricia, go next door please and find out when Dora wants her order in."

The tone of her voice must've struck a chord in the young girl, because she took off her apron and went outside without a word, though she did give their guest a worried look.

Warning bells. Big mother-fucking claxon alarms sounded off in his brain. He didn't need to be an Agent for the PTBs to know he said the exact wrong thing. "Shit," he muttered under his breath.

"I know you." It wasn't a revelation so much as a simple statement of acknowledgment. Not only did Meg not second-guess herself, she didn't startle easily. "I saw you in her cards." She stepped back and wiped her fingers on a towel. "What are you doing here?"

Whistler let out the breath he'd been holding. On the side, she reads palms. Totally not making that up. Hannah, you blessed pixie.

"Whose cards now?" he asked innocently. Better to know more information before offering more of his own.

Meg dropped the cloth next to the pie rack. "Patricia's." She turned her back on the customer, whom she now knew wouldn't be making an order, and reached into a drawer. The pink, kitchen-callused palm of her hand sifted beneath a phone book and a sheaf of paper. "You're the Agent, aren't you?" The woman cut a look over her shoulder.

"An Agent. There's uh, more than one." The gum had lost its flavor. Whistler grabbed a napkin from the counter and wrapped the gooey rolled up ball into the tissue and folded the paper before tucking it into his pocket. "But I suppose for uh, Patricia, I'm the definite article."

He leaned against the near wall. Meg was looking for an Agent, not her father. He'd played the former many times, it was a suit he wore well. "I could be here for her, sure. I've been sent out for a lot o' people. When it's their time."

"Ha. Their time. You people have a lot of nerve." She came out of the drawer with attitude befitting the brandishing of a weapon, but it only turned out to be a torn envelope. "We got the letter, for the gathering out in Helena. I talked her into keeping it from her folks. They don't know what you've managed to figure out."

Letter? Gathering in Helena?

Whistler opened up his mind. Not his first choice but he couldn't fish for more answers before providing more of his own. And it all flashed behind his eyes. Every last detail.

Why hadn't he seen it before? No wonder the Powers hadn't sent him here to usher the younger girl to her destiny when she was Called. Patricia already had someone looking after her...

"Whoa, whoa, wait," he replied, hands in the air. "You're only half right Meg. I am an Agent, but not for the Government."

"What then?" Meg put her hands on her hips and gave him her best steely-eye. "Insurance?"

She had her mother's death-glare. "I work for a higher power."

"Well wherever you came from, there's the door." Meg pointed. When he didn't budge she gave him a little more to chew on. "She's a good girl, but she's not sophisticated. Sometimes when God's giving out special gifts, he gets the address wrong. My ex-husband the auto parts salesman would make a better candidate for whatever you've got goin'."

"Sophisticated isn't a requirement." The hatted man stood his ground. "She got stronger, yeah? Reflexes off the charts. Has strange, maybe prophetic dreams? Feels like she's destined for somethin'? And you, Meg Melone, you see it. Not just in your Tarot cards. It's in your bones. Radiating out, tellin' ya this girl is part of somethin' bigger than this place. That it'll just stifle her if she doesn't stretch her limits."

Whistler removed his hat. "You've touched the shadows. You know there's more goin' on than what they write about in the daily newspaper." He slapped the newsprint onto the counter for emphasis. "Maybe even a war. And ask yourself this. Do ya think ignorin' a letter from the U.S. government is gonna make it go away? That they'll just leave her be to lead an ordinary life?"

"Now you listen to me here." The salt-and-pepper haired woman stuck her finger at him now, and used her best mother's voice, which she usually reserved for errant husbands, her son Aaron, and obnoxious old biddies from the local church. "I don't care what higher power you're speaking for. You've known that girl two minutes and you think you've got something to say about her destiny? I've known her one hell of a lot longer, and I'm tellin' you that Calling's the short road to a quick death. One quick battery of personality and IQ tests, and the suits will know it, too. Only then she'll have one more reason to think ill of herself. Now put your hat back on and go before she gets back."

"It's different now, dammit!" The spittle began to fly. Only one other woman could get under his skin like this. And right now he was missing her dearly. Showing Meg that Slayers could thrive in the world with the right training would've been a huge boon. "The government won't care about tests! They only care about sending her to the front lines and fighting their battles for 'em. They don't care about the girl, just the weapon. I've ferried enough Slayers in my time that I think I know a little bit more about what I'm talkin' about!"

He pushed the hat back on his head, but kept his gaze fixed. "You truly take after your mother, ya know that? Get it in your head that there's only one way to do things and the world should spin around it! You're not so old, Meg Alice Melone, that I wouldn't hesitate to put ya over your father's knee and give you a spankin' for talkin' back!"

Whistler facepalmed.

For once, Meg was flabbergasted. Her mouth made a few vague attempts at speech, most of them resembling W sounds, only nothing came out but air.

"Saints alive..." She put a hand over her heart.

Patricia chose that moment to burst through the door, looking visibly relieved that the guy in the hat wasn't lying on the floor with spatula marks all over his back. Of course, it was still early. "I'll just..." She thumbed at the street and hot-footed it right back out the way she came in.

Meg crept closer, still clutching her chest like a heart attack might be in store. The pale blue in her eyes was a perfect match to Whistler's. "Well I'll be damned. I'd ask for my cake back, and maybe some child support, but it's a little late for both!"

"Yeah." Always at a loss for words when it mattered most. "I wasn't comin' here to... No that's a lie. I did wanna see ya, Meg. However, I wasn't gonna reveal... I just..."

Whistler slowly slid half-way down the wall before catching himself. The wind knocked right out of his sails. "I had someone see if you were alright and she warned me not to come. Bright girl, Hannah, you'd like her. And as she's kinda between dead and alive, you'd probably end up communin' with her someday."

He didn't look up at his daughter. "I won't lie and say it was my job that took me away, 'cuz I'd be lyin'. Truth is, I wasn't meant to be a father. Not then. Maybe not ever. I was... different then, didn't care so much about people as I did about the job. And it cost me a fuck of a lot."

The Agent righted himself and adjusted his hat. "I'll go."

There was probably something dramatic Meg was meant to say to get him to stay. But she hadn't been given nearly the time to get used to this idea of a meeting as Whistler had, and was dumbfounded for the proper reaction to seeing her father (noticeably younger-looking than she) for the first time in over sixty years. Her mother Alice hadn't... well, in a word, 'demonized' him. She had explained some of what Meg hadn't as a girl, about the kind of being that Whistler was. But bitterness tinged the explanations, too.

For all the times Rhiannon Lee had resented Whistler for his disappearing acts, at least, in her case, Whistler had made a point to periodically stop by.

Meg swallowed and addressed the other issue at hand, because it was easier, and it allowed her to be self-righteous. "You weren't cut out to be a father, so you ignored your duty. Patricia's not cut out to carry a stake. It's plain to see the point here."

She had a way of looking down her nose without tipping her head. The caterer looked the man who'd been her father over another time. It seemed rather obvious to her now that he'd reminded her of her son. "You're shorter than I thought you'd be," she observed. A quiet moment passed and she came to a firm decision in her mind. "Well, for better or for worse, you're here now. Might as well sit down for a coffee."

That said, she disappeared into her kitchen.

Coffee. That was one thing they didn't exactly have in common. Whistler could really go for a beer right now. But coffee was a start. It might be an end as well. But it was infinitely better than never knowing.

Meg was right, Whistler wasn't cut out to be a parent back then. Maybe he wasn't now.

He took a chair and sat.

There was only one way to find out.

Meg Melone was written by Kate.