Disclaimer: Joss and Mutant Enemy own Angel; I own William (and his mother).

Rating: For some mild language.

Author's Notes: This is a short story about a child's first brush with death, and what happens when it happens in the presence of a cynical, reclusive vampire.

This takes place in the Interaction series, sometime during the beginning of The Art of Human Interaction. You do not need to read that one first. All you need to know is that this takes places about 200 years in the future (so Angel's alone and grumpy) and that William is a 9-year-old boy who thinks Angel is one of his very best friends. Angel does not agree, but he's learned to tolerate William's presence, and thus, their relationship has a rather…interesting dynamic. William knows that Angel is a vampire.

Dedication: To my beta and writer-in-crime, Babblefest. She only has one story up for Heroes right now, but I'm pushing her to publish a short Doctor Who/Angel crossover that is fantastic, so if that's your cup of tea, put her on your author alert list.

The Martin

Most of Angel's visitors knocked timidly, a few boldly, and every so often, one or two would knock urgently. But today, Angel's visitor broke the blessed silence of Angel's book and freshly-brewed tea on a late spring evening with a crashing thud. Angel jumped, spilling a few drops of tea on his book and cursing.

Whoever it was thudded again and a little boy's voice cried out, "Angel! It's an emergency!"

Angel sighed to himself and stood up, setting the book and the tea on the apothecary table before he went over to open the door.

William pushed his way into the apartment, and at first Angel smelled rather than saw the salty tears streaking down the boy's face as he bent protectively over something in his hands. Something that was alive (if barely), wild, and now in Angel's apartment.

Before Angel could ask, William spun around to face Angel and looked up with eyes that spoke of utter heartbreak and despair and held out his cupped hands. In them was a tiny baby bird with a heartbeat so faint Angel almost couldn't hear it over William's pounding one, and a smell like the outdoors tinged with rottenness.

Angel cursed to himself.

"Angel, it's hurt," William sobbed. "Save it, please."

Angel tried to think what to do. He didn't know nor care to learn how to doctor a baby bird, but he felt like he couldn't really say it. Honestly, the best way to save it at this point, Angel thought, was to crush its head between his fingers, but he couldn't really say that, either.

Angel sighed and held out his hands. "Give it to me," he said, "and then go wash your hands." The boy's mother would kill Angel if William contracted some sort of disease from handling a dying animal. William slid the bird into Angel's palms as delicately as if it were a wet tissue, and then, once the bird was safely transferred, dashed off to the kitchen, wiping his nose on his sleeve.

Angel stood alone in the room with the bird, wondering if this was what his life had become now. Saving little boys one day, little birds the next?

Angel glanced toward the kitchen, listening to the water run in the sink. It would be easy to end this all right now: suffocate the bird and tell William it just died naturally. Angel could see the rest of the situation unfolding as if he'd already done it: William would cry for a while and then perhaps ask if they could bury the thing, and then they'd have to sit down and have that conversation about death. Angel really didn't want to do that. And anyway, wasn't that the boy's parents' job?

He could send the bird home in a little box with William and not have to worry about it at all. Yes, that was the best plan. Let Judith Cole deal with the inevitable death of the bird and the resulting conversation.

Angel cursed to himself again: he didn't have a little box. Not an empty one, anyway, that he wouldn't mind giving up to a nearly-dead animal.

"So will you save it?" William asked from the kitchen doorway. Angel looked up and swallowed.

"William...I don't know anything about baby birds."

The look of devastation on William's face was almost enough to make Angel swear to heal the bird, and the brief thought of using magic crossed his mind. But then, a light of realization dawned on William's face and he pulled out his Palm, dashing over to the couch.

"I'll look it up!"

Or that. Yeah, that was better.

Angel continued to stand in the middle of his living room, holding the baby bird like a statue of St. Francis of Assisi. A very reluctant St. Francis of Assisi. He held the bird up to get a better look at it. Angel decided it either fell out of the nest or tried to fly too early. It's body looked more broken than diseased, although there was a small wound on one side that Angel identified as the source of the rotten-ish smell. There was no way he'd be able to fix it. Without magic. Which wasn't an option, because then the boys would be wanting magical solutions to anything.

"Bring it here, Angel, I want to see what kind it is."

Angel went over to the couch obligingly and sat down next to William, who framed the bird with his camera, and, two beeps later, identified it as a House Martin. Kids had it so easy these days.

"Their nests are made of mud," William read, "and-wow!-they spend the winter in Africa! I wish Mum would take me to Africa every winter. Okay, here, it says that they eat mayflies and aphids and other insects...that they catch in-flight?" William looked up at Angel with a horrified expression. "Angel, I can't fly! How am I supposed to get it food?"

"Er..." Angel looked at the bird and covered gently it with his other hand in a vain attempt to keep it warm in his dead hands. It wasn't going to last much longer. "William..." Angel started.

"Maybe we could put it back in its nest," William said. "Do you think? I remember where I found it, just outside Pete's building. Can we go look?"

"It's daylight, William," Angel pointed out. The heartbeat was getting fainter.

"Not for too much longer. Do you think Jasper will be okay until then? Let me see him."

"Jasper?" Angel asked, opening his hands again.

"That's what I've named him. I think Jasper's mum will be able to take care of him, don't you?"

Oh god, the kid had named the thing.

"I..." Angel started, pulling the bird back a bit from William's face. "No, I don't."

Angel cursed to himself again. He hadn't actually meant to say that out loud.

William looked up, startled. "What? Why?" The tears started pooling at the corners of his eyes again.

Angel sighed. "It doesn't have much time left. Look at it: its wing is broken, it's got an open wound," which was oozing onto Angel's hand... "Birds don't know how to fix stuff like that."

"But we do!" William insisted. "We could save it!"

"William, at this point, I don't even think a vet could save it. It's too weak."

A tear rolled down William's cheek and he looked back at the bird. "But then...Why'd I find it? If I can't help..." he sniffed, placing his hand lightly on Angel's wrist and tugging the hand closer. His warm pulse beat strong on Angel's skin and they watched the labored breathing of the martin for a moment. Finally, Angel let out a small sigh.

"Maybe you can help a bit," he said, and William looked up hopefully. "Go put some water on the stove."

William leapt up and dashed into the kitchen, Angel following behind at a slower pace. While William put on the kettle, which was still warm from Angel's tea, Angel took out a bowl and a mug from the cupboard and a dishcloth from the drawer, placing them on the table. He draped the cloth single-layer in the bowl and carefully tipped the bird into it under William's watchful and curious eyes.

The water was soon boiling and William hurried to bring it over with the urgency of one bringing life-saving oxygen to a fire victim.

"Pour it in here," Angel said, pushing the mug toward him, and William filled the mug with the steaming water, dashed away to return it to the stove, and ran back to watch Angel place the bowl over the mug.

"We're keeping him warm," William said when he'd figured it out.

Angel nodded and pulled out one of the chairs for William to sit in. "Maybe you found it," Angel said as William sat down, "so you could help it die instead of help it live. Often, that's just as important."

William looked up at Angel suddenly, working out exactly what that might mean. He sniffed and several more tears fell, but finally he nodded solemnly, as if he realized what a sacred duty he was taking up. Angel slid the hot mug and the warming bowl with the baby martin in it in front of William, who looked at the bird as if it were both a stranger and a life-long friend, both brand new and utterly loved. William gently picked up one edge of the dishcloth with a trembling hand and draped it over the bird as if tucking it in bed, leaving only the head exposed. He stared at it awhile longer, and then said, "Now what do I do?"

"Well," Angel said, thinking. He sure didn't know. "You could talk to it, or sing to it...I don't know."

"You've never helped anything die before, either?"

Angel hesitated. "Not like this."

William let out a shaky breath and leaned farther over the bowl. He lifted a hand to touch the outside of the bowl and test its warmth and then gingerly touched the dishcloth just inside the bowl next to the martin and gave an uncertain nod of approval. "It's okay, Jasper..." William crooned softly. "You'll be...Well, it won't hurt anymore, so I guess that's not so bad."

Angel left. He would later claim it was to let the boy and the bird have their moment, but really, the scene was nearly bringing a tear to his eye. It was a dumb bird, he reminded himself, and an overly-sentimental child. Angel had spent 200 years shutting down for everything but Connor, and yet this was already making the hard encasement crack like dry desert soil.

He washed his hands in the bathroom and then settled back down on the couch with his book and his lukewarm tea and tried to ignore the soft lulling of William's voice and the wobbly singing that eventually followed. At one point, William stopped to heat the kettle again and exchange the water, each sound indicating the surgeon's precision with which William performed each action.

It took about an hour for the martin to die-or for William notice it had died, anyway. Angel looked up from his book (having read a full four pages since he sat down) when William appeared in the doorway holding the bowl, tears streaming in miniature rivers down his face.

"Angel," he choked, "...it's cold. And..." Angel smelled a twinge of fear; the kind that comes with something new and unknown. "...and hard."

William sucked in a racking sob and then held his breath, staring at Angel for his next instruction for what he should do, how people handle these situations, what comes next. Angel stared back.

That's life, kid, he wanted to say. The universe gives you something precious and in the next fleeting moment, it's gone. Forever. It's cruel, but not unusual, so get used to it. Love only who you have to, and you might be okay.

The child was so malleable. Angel had the rare opportunity to actually impart something, make an impression or teach a lesson that would never leave. He could harden the shell, give the kid some rigidity he could probably use. It might stunt his emotional growth a bit, but...Angel suddenly wondered if that's how Holtz had raised Connor. Angel often wondered about Connor's childhood, but that first encounter with grief had never crossed his mind. And now Angel had someone else's child...of course, he realized, he was going to have to do what he would have wanted for his own son.

Damn it.

Angel closed his book and set it aside. Extending an arm, he said, "Come here."

William hurried forward, put the bowl on the table, and crawled up on the couch next to Angel, burying himself against Angel's chest and letting the sobs stutter out with abandon. Angel wrapped his arms around the boy, occasionally offering a pat on the back, and waited.

The grief was familiar to him. He'd seen it from all sides: from as far as an outside observer to as near as his own, from people he'd lost to people he'd taken. The pain of grief, both in himself and others, always cut through his soul to his demonic core, and part of him hated the feeling. Another part of him loved it.

But for all Angel had seen and known of grief, the wrenching brokenness over a bird was completely new to Angel.

And completely fascinating. But that would not lead to wholesome conclusions if he allowed himself to dwell on it.

Angel's shirt was long soaked through by the time the crying subsided to deep, trembling breaths and William looked up through puffy eyes to ask, "What do we do now?"

"We move on," Angel replied.

William swallowed thickly. "How?"

Angel shrugged. "You just do. You go home, eat dinner, go to bed...tomorrow you'll get up and go to school. Life doesn't stop for you just because it did for the bird."

William sniffed and wiped his nose on his sleeve as a few more tears fell. He looked over at the bowl on the table. "What do we do with him?"

Throw it away.

"I don't know. What do you think we should do with it?"

William pressed himself a little harder into Angel and whispered, "I don't know." The scent of fear spiked slightly and a tiny red flag in the back of Angel's mind waved for his attention.

Angel sat in thought for a moment. Then he tightened his grip on William with one arm and with the other leaned forward and picked the bowl up off the table. Settling back in against the couch, Angel put the bowl in his lap and uncovered the bird. William tensed against him, but seemed unable to tear his eyes away. After Angel let him look for several moments, he reached in and unceremoniously picked up the stiff bird. He turn it around so William could see the flattening, surprisingly deformed body from all angles.

"It's gone, William. This is all that's left."

William sobbed again, staring hard at the bird as he tried to figure out how that could be. After several moments, he tapped the place where his hand rested on Angel's chest. "But you didn't."

"Yes, I did. Something else just took over."

William sighed shakily, still staring at the bird. "It doesn't look real anymore."

"It's not, in a way."

"But...where'd the real Jasper go?"

Angel gave a light shrug. "Tír na nÓg?"

William craned his neck to look up at Angel.

"No, probably not," Angel agreed. "I have no idea where birds go when they die, William. I don't think anyone does."

"Not even Mum?"

"Not even her."

William shifted against Angel and turned back to the bird in Angel's hand. He sniffed, his breathing shuddered, and he sobbed a few more minutes.

"Look," Angel finally sighed, dropping the bird back in the bowl, "I know it hurts. I know it's hard to believe that it can't come back, but you know what? It can't. And you'll be fine."

William sobbed again.

"Hey," Angel nudged William upright, "look out the window. Tell me what you see."

William shakily pushed himself up to a kneeling position on the couch and leaned over to look out the window at the now-dark streets below, wiping his eyes clear. "People," he said thickly. "People walking. A dog. Cars. Some people waiting for a bus."

"Anything unusual?"

William squinted and looked as if asked to find the missing piece in a puzzle, but after a moment he said cautiously, "No...it all looks normal..."

"It is all normal," Angel replied. "Death is as normal and common as those people waiting for the bus. The only difference is that today, you noticed it."

William swallowed.

"So you're going to keep moving on, William," Angel continued, "because nothing in the world has really changed. Remember that for the next time it happens."

"Next time?"

"Next time," Angel repeated. "You'll have to say goodbye to a lot more than just this bird. Pets, friends, your parents...if there's any justice left in the world."

"Huh?"

Angel shook his head. "Nothing."

William slowly sank down against the couch, sniffing and wiping a few more tears. Finally, he said, "I want to take him home and bury him in our garden on the roof."

Angel nodded. "That sounds like a good plan," he said. Letting the mother take over from here sounded like a very good plan. He leaned forward again to put the bowl on the table and stood up, helping William stagger to his feet. "Wait here," he said, "and don't touch it."

Angel left to wash his hands in the bathroom again and change his shirt. When he returned, William was holding the bowl like a small pallbearer and a miniature casket, the expression on his face an all-too-familiar one for Angel of pieced-together composure: a front for the world that fooled only the unobservant.

Angel went to get his jacket by the door and after he shrugged it on, once again extended an arm to signal William to come over, and when he did, he guided the boy out the door.