It wasn’t the smile she pasted on their faces, nor the chirpy cheer in their voices. It wasn’t the smile turning feral as she jerked their strings.

All disturbing, but it was the eyes that were the worst; glazed like corpses, glossed as if she’d shrink-wrapped each pair herself, protecting them from reality, preserving them in jasmine-scented vinegar.

And somehow, sometimes, when the light shone just right, he thought he saw that look in Wes’ eyes, Fred’s, Gunn’s, Lorne’s...

Connor was worth it, of course he was.

Didn’t stop him wanting to rip it away.

Wanting to confess.

Be forgiven.



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