Letters from Home
Looking down at the envelope in his hands, Connor wondered if Whistler himself ever got letters. Was writing to a mind-reader redundant? He hadn't been inside the Agent's trailer since Hannah died. He wondered if the blonde's ghost ever lingered there. He hoped not, the thought of it made him itch.
His shoes left prints in the loosely-packed sand as he walked across the front yard, then up the steps to the door. He'd left a vague voicemail earlier about dropping by, but hadn't mentioned the reason.
Knock, knock...
He felt like an expectant father. Bags were packed at the foot of his bed, ready to jolt out of the double-wide at a moment's notice. Not an exact moment. When (if) Hannah returned from riding the Ghost Train with good news, Whistler planned a stop-over at Rhiannon's apartment to inform her of his road trip. In another time he'd have asked her to join, but it didn't seem right now that she was back with Joseph. The Agent didn't want to present the wrong image.
"What is... American Idol?," he shouted at the television.
"Sorry, the question is 'What is Survivor'? Survivor." Alex Trebek lived to mock the hatted man, he was sure of it.
A series of raps sounded against his screen door. Hannah would be so polite, but she wouldn't have needed to knock. And Rhiannon would've just barged in and taken a beer from the fridge. Corbett wasn't due back so soon.
"C'mon in, Connor," he shouted, and tossed a piece of popcorn at the flickering, pixelated image on his screen.
Jeopardy! was on when the Destroyer stepped inside the trailer, and he wasn't sure how he felt about Whistler already knowing it was him. He looked at the screen, then over at the curio cabinet where the fuzzy-haired trolls resided. Oddness. "Hey," he said in a muted voice, uncertain of if he should just take a seat or not. Then he decided to hell with it. Knocking was enough formality for one afternoon.
He settled his weight into a chair, resting his chin on his left palm. "No soap operas?" he asked with dry humor. "Figured you for the sort to tape them and watch later on."
Was this going to be awkward? He wasn't sure what terms he and the man in the hat were on these days. "You remember that thing you said? About being able to get a message to my...to Angel?"
"Days of Our Lives mostly, but not so hot since they killed off Marlena and John for the third time." If Connor was making a joke it was lost on the Agent. Whistler shovelled a handful of popcorn into his mouth, then shook the bag towards Connor.
"You can call him your father, ya know. I think he'd appreciate it." He glared back towards the television. "What is phosphorous?"
"Zinc sulfide," Trebek replied. "We were looking for--" CLICK
"Fuckin' Canadian," the Agent grumbled. "Holier than thou." He stroked his chin once, a vague off-distance look in his eyes. "Yeah, he's back guardin' the Deeper Well," came the reply. You got somethin' to tell him?"
"Its a problematic thing," Connor rsponded. "Sometimes I do, sometimes I don't."
He looked down at his tennis shoes, of which he could use a new pair. Thought about the contents of the pieces of paper he'd folded up and tucked into the plain white envelope that had no stamp or writing on it. Rubbed the back of his neck. "I dunno, I just wanted to let him know...stuff. Nothing really important, just that I'm out here and that I'm okay. He always worried. Before. And with these people around..."
Did Whistler know about the feds? Would Rhiannon have told him if he didn't already? What were their terms like these days? "I guess I got to thinking about it once it seemed like things might change around here. Wanted to let him know that no one was going to bother me if I didn't want them to."
"I think he'd wanna know that, Connor." Whistler popped another kernel into his mouth and enjoyed the extra butter within the nooks and crannies. "And when it comes to fathers and sons, stuff is always important."
Connor's mobile features shifted as his expression changed, and he shrugged one shoulder. "We've always tried to be close," he told Whistler. "At usually in exactly the wrong way or at exactly the wrong time, but we've always tried."
He looked at the silent television, pulled the letter out of his back pocket. Why did it feel like it weighed a ton? "Did you have a father?"
Whistler watched the television as well, and despite it's absence of power, a different story played out that only he could see.
"Once," was all he felt like sharing. The Agent spotted the letter in Connor's hand. "I'm guessin' that's it then."
"Yeah." Still no eye contact. It was almost like he was staring at the contents of his own head. His memories, both the real and the false. "I started it like four different times, kept tearing it up and throwing it away. Then I just sat down and wrote until I was done. Apparently its no easier to say things to him on paper than it is face to face."
He let out a slightly sour chuckle, shook hair out of his eyes. "If he tries to write back he'll probably have the same amount of luck."
"Your father's a pretty progressive guy, considerin' he's a vampire," Whistler chuckled. "Betcha he sends a response via DVD."
Whistler put down the popcorn now and grabbed hold of Connor's attention. "I'll get that to him, I made ya that promise. And now I'll make another. You'll see him soon enough."
Connor smiled, a genuine, unguarded smile. "I know," he said to Whislter, nodding. "If he can survive a few hundred demons bearing down on him in an alley, he can survive the Deeper Well. I can wait."
He handed the letter off to the Agent as if it were a hand grenade, then settled back a little. Like a weight had rolled off. "Have you talked to Rhiannon?" he asked, the main business for the visit having been taken care of. "I haven't heard from her since I got her email."
Whistler pocketed the envelope, giving Connor a silent nod that it was safe in his possession and that it would be delivered. "Haven't, uh, had the chance yet but ya know how it is. Busy girl. Absolutely on the top o' my list."
"Yeah. I probably should've answered back, but I hate email." The Destroyer made a mental note to catch up to Rhiannon in the coming week, just to touch base. He wondered if the suits were bothering her.
"Thanks," he added, pointing at the letter. "For that, I mean. It...helps to know where my dad is, or at least that he's alive."
"Scourge of technology, email is. Nothin' like the personal touch." Whistler considered providing more information, but reaffirming that Angel was at the Deeper Well was treading a fine line as it was. With enough digging, Connor could work out the rest."
"Anything else?" he asked. "Want me to send your dad a pound cake or somethin'?"
He lifted one eyebrow, regarding Whistler impassively. "Wow, you're funny," he remarked, his tone light and without rancor. Almost friendly. "I see why she likes you so much."
With that, the Destroyer got up from his chair, feeling a lot lighter. "Have a good afternoon. Glad to have you back as yourself."
The Agent offered his companion a warm smile. "Good to see you're finding out who you are too, Connor. You're welcome here any time.
"And oh. Hannah, I suspect she'd want me to give you her best."