Tunnel
Even with a faked ID provided by Lex Luthor, it took Darla a while to get access to Connor. For one thing, the guard who had let Cordelia see him appeared to have suffered consequences; for another, the prison seemed to be under the impression that the state-provided defense lawyer was quite enough for their triple homicide suspect. Never mind said suspect had not seen it fit to tell the lawyer in question more than "I didn't do it".
"Don't tell me," said the warden, looking at Darla's papers, and then at Darla. "The rich boyfriend hired you after those idiots in New York let him out on bail, Ms..." He checked her ID again. "...Ms Summers."
"That's confidential," Darla replied with a sweet smile. As pseudonyms went, "Lilah Summers" had been her first choice.
"Typical," the warden said disgustedly, but ultimately let her in.
In truth, her visit had no practical purpose. The arrangements to provide a patsy who confessed to a crime he hadn't committed were well under way, and she had no intention of telling Connor about them. And Cordelia already did the pep talk; she's quite aware, bitterly aware, that safe for extreme circumstances, her son will always be more comfortable around Cordelia Chase than he is around her.
But those were extreme circumstances.
And she wanted to see him.
She's wearing a dark wig but doesn't do a Lilah impression; that would make the pseudonym a bit too obvious. After all, the late and still moving Ms. Morgan used to represent cases in Los Angeles. Instead, she goes for a vague memory of Kate Lochley, the cop she had played against Angel a few years ago, and moves exuding issues, awkwardness with her own body and determination. Nobody recognises her, which is good, because she's quite sure the Lochley woman archived her photo somewhere, and getting arrested as well wouldn't exactly be useful. They believe her persona.
Her son, being guided through the door, recognizes her at once; of course he does. She's so relieved to see him, and incredibly furious at the same time. At some career-oriented L.A. cops for arresting him. And not so secretely at herself and at him. Because she can see it, at once; can see it in his eyes, can read it from his posture.
"Lilah Summers," she says with a cool, professional voice, shaking his hand. "I'm here to represent you." Her fingers, nails filed sharp, press hard enough in his skin to draw blood. Good. They're meant to.
""Don't you dare," she whispers, once the guards have withdrawn and they're sitting across each other at a table. "Don't you dare. If you want to punish yourself, leave your boyfriend or go in a monastery. Not this. Never this."
There is a spark in his eyes. Anger, recognition; it might be either, or both.
"It wasn't exactly my choice," he says, sarcasm heavy. He sounds a bit like his father when he does that.
"You're making it your choice," she replies. "Stop accepting this. It's not atonment, it's pathetic. You know what happens while you're in here, nursing your guilty soul? Every single night someone gets killed, in Savannah or wherever you're not."
This time, it's definitely anger, and he's glaring at her. The guilt, the dull acceptance fades in the background, and he becomes more alive by the second.
"What do you want me to do? Break out?"
"You're confusing me with someone else again," Darla says. "I let you make your own choices."
Nails pressed against palm again, her own this time, hidden under the table, all the while when striking where only family knows how to strike. It's only fair that she bleeds for him.
Connor shakes his head, and he's burning with life and fury. "No, you don't," he says. Then he stands up and doesn't wait for the guard to open the well-locked door of the visitor's room for him. He pulls it out by force.
Afterwards, in the long floor that resembles some perverse bureaucractic birth tunnel, leaning against a wall, she weeps with relief and grief.
"Don't tell me," said the warden, looking at Darla's papers, and then at Darla. "The rich boyfriend hired you after those idiots in New York let him out on bail, Ms..." He checked her ID again. "...Ms Summers."
"That's confidential," Darla replied with a sweet smile. As pseudonyms went, "Lilah Summers" had been her first choice.
"Typical," the warden said disgustedly, but ultimately let her in.
In truth, her visit had no practical purpose. The arrangements to provide a patsy who confessed to a crime he hadn't committed were well under way, and she had no intention of telling Connor about them. And Cordelia already did the pep talk; she's quite aware, bitterly aware, that safe for extreme circumstances, her son will always be more comfortable around Cordelia Chase than he is around her.
But those were extreme circumstances.
And she wanted to see him.
She's wearing a dark wig but doesn't do a Lilah impression; that would make the pseudonym a bit too obvious. After all, the late and still moving Ms. Morgan used to represent cases in Los Angeles. Instead, she goes for a vague memory of Kate Lochley, the cop she had played against Angel a few years ago, and moves exuding issues, awkwardness with her own body and determination. Nobody recognises her, which is good, because she's quite sure the Lochley woman archived her photo somewhere, and getting arrested as well wouldn't exactly be useful. They believe her persona.
Her son, being guided through the door, recognizes her at once; of course he does. She's so relieved to see him, and incredibly furious at the same time. At some career-oriented L.A. cops for arresting him. And not so secretely at herself and at him. Because she can see it, at once; can see it in his eyes, can read it from his posture.
"Lilah Summers," she says with a cool, professional voice, shaking his hand. "I'm here to represent you." Her fingers, nails filed sharp, press hard enough in his skin to draw blood. Good. They're meant to.
""Don't you dare," she whispers, once the guards have withdrawn and they're sitting across each other at a table. "Don't you dare. If you want to punish yourself, leave your boyfriend or go in a monastery. Not this. Never this."
There is a spark in his eyes. Anger, recognition; it might be either, or both.
"It wasn't exactly my choice," he says, sarcasm heavy. He sounds a bit like his father when he does that.
"You're making it your choice," she replies. "Stop accepting this. It's not atonment, it's pathetic. You know what happens while you're in here, nursing your guilty soul? Every single night someone gets killed, in Savannah or wherever you're not."
This time, it's definitely anger, and he's glaring at her. The guilt, the dull acceptance fades in the background, and he becomes more alive by the second.
"What do you want me to do? Break out?"
"You're confusing me with someone else again," Darla says. "I let you make your own choices."
Nails pressed against palm again, her own this time, hidden under the table, all the while when striking where only family knows how to strike. It's only fair that she bleeds for him.
Connor shakes his head, and he's burning with life and fury. "No, you don't," he says. Then he stands up and doesn't wait for the guard to open the well-locked door of the visitor's room for him. He pulls it out by force.
Afterwards, in the long floor that resembles some perverse bureaucractic birth tunnel, leaning against a wall, she weeps with relief and grief.