Quinn rubbed his eyes and blinked at the stretch of interstate ahead. He had to admit that it looked disturbingly like the last few miles, or the few before that - or maybe he was just a lot more tired than he thought. He glanced at the girl sleeping in the passenger seat, meaning to prod his navigator awake, but was caught for a moment by her beauty as she slept. "Yeah, beauty and lack of insultin' commentary." He murmured to himself with a wry half-smile. Reaching over after another glance at the deceptive highway, he gently shook her shoulder, mentally bracing himself for the blast when she awoke. "Gabrielle. Wake up there, love. I've been starin' at what seems to be the same stretch of pavement for six hours, and I need you to tell me I haven't magically driven in a giant circle."
Gabrielle frowned and squinted, automatically lifting her hands to smooth back her straight brunette hair. "Quinn? What? Oh god, I like totally drooled. That is so gross. Give me a tissue or something, this is like so white trash." Their hands collided at the dash-top box of tissues, and Quinn opted for trying to help her fumble it into her lap, only to have his hand batted away as Gabrielle once again took out her frustration on him. "Get off, get off! I've got it, god." Yanking several tissues from the box, she began to wipe and daub at her face, reaching up to crank the rear-view mirror around and inspect her make-up. With an exasperated dirty look at Quinn, she turned in the seat and leaned into the back, presenting her artfully curved nether region for Quinn's inspection as she rooted around in the rear seat. Quinn tried to look anywhere but at the attention-getting cotton-clad display, his gentlemanly instincts warring with simpler urges. Focusing on the road with nervous embarrassment, he tried to gather his wits, finally regaining them with relief when Gabrielle slumped back into her seat, oversized purse clutched firmly in both hands. As she began to pull out the many devices with which she concocted her daily face, Quinn finally remembered why he had disturbed her in the first place. He gestured at the road ahead and forced a casual grin. "Please tell me some of this looks familiar, I've been feelin' like I've been starin' at the same stretch for hours now. Are we gettin' close, do you think?"
Gabrielle glanced up and around with an equitable and casual air, then nodded and returned to twisting her lipstick to the perfect length. "Oh, yeah, the turn-off for Sunnydale is right there." She flipped an off-handed gesture at the side-road as they passed it. Quinn bit back a scathing Irish curse as he stood on the brake, bringing the car to a tire-smoking halt that nearly rocked them both out of their seats. He tried to ignore Gabrielle's spitfire commentary as he threw an arm over the back of the seat and navigated the car in reverse back to the turn-off. With her verbal temper tantrum temporarily having no effect, Gabrielle resorted to her typical secondary tactic - slumping in the seat with a huff and changing the subject. "So like, do you think he's okay back there? Assuming your driving hasn't turned him into refried undead beans or something?" Quinn cranked the wheel and turned off the interstate onto the tree-shrouded secondary highway, nodding with a surreptitious glance towards the rear of the car. "Oh yeah, I'm sure he's fine and all. It isn't like he hasn't spent the day in tighter places, y'know. Besides, compared to modern cars the trunk of this old boat must seem like a room at the Ritz, if you catch my meanin'."
Gabrielle snorted and inspected her squashed lipstick, fingering the crimson smear on the dashboard where it had met its death. "Yes, but those places probably didn't bash him around like a fat lady in line at a white sale, either." Quinn couldn't help himself, the Irish in him rose to the challenge despite his best intentions. "Yeah, well. If you'd mentioned the turn-off just a wee bit earlier, I.." He began, but cut himself off as he caught sight of a town coming into view ahead. "Well, I guess that's it, then."
Gabrielle looked up and sighed, slumping further in the seat as the town grew closer. "Yep, that's it. Good old Sunnydale, still it's ever-so-quaint and Missy-licious self."
Quinn tried to ignore her biting sarcasm, determined once more to at least keeps matters civil. "It doesn't look so bad, kinda nice and quiet-like. Kinda pretty in a western colonial kinda way." He glanced from side to side as the highway transformed itself into Main street. "Now we just have to find Damian's former girlfriend, and quick, it's gonna be dark soon."
Gabrielle sighed with resignation and pointed ahead. "Turn left up there, the turn-off to her mom's house is about ten blocks down." Quinn glanced at her as he began to follow her directions, wondering for the hundredth time what it was that made her react with such venom to any mention of Missy Winters.

The school library was silent and serene, with most of its stacks and rows shrouded in darkness. The only light in the large, two-tiered room came from the central desk where a be-spectacled man sat hunched over a collection of thick volumes, meticulously recording notes in a precise spidery script as he flipped through age-worn pages. He reached the last page in the current-most volume and turned it closed, dropping his pen on the desk and removing his glasses to pinch at the bridge of his nose. He shook his head wearily and leaned back in the chair, easing his long legs out under the table and stretching his thin frame with a sigh. Replacing his glasses on his nose, he lifted the pad and inspected the rows of precise notations, squinting at them for a moment before shaking his head and tossing the notepad on top of the pile of books. "Why do I even bother any longer?" He sighed to himself in his careful British tones. "It's not like it's my job any longer. What is a Watcher that watches nothing?"
Easing himself upright in the chair, he reached and flicked off the desk-lamp, plunging the room into darkness punctuated only by the shafts of moonlight that penetrated the library's few windows. Folding his arms on the tabletop, he eased his forehead down onto his tweed sleeve, sighing again as he thought of the hordes of screaming children he would face come Monday morning - screaming American children. No, screaming American teenagers. "It's a wonder you haven't had a nervous breakdown, Miles." He murmured into the darkness.
The heavy sound of a book striking the floor somewhere in the back of the large room shot through the darkness like a thunderclap. Miles was on his feet in an instant, his eyes nervously peering through the gloom at the rows of bookshelves on the second tier. No-one should be in the school at this time of night except the custodian, and Miles knew that this particular hour saw the janitor glued to his tiny television set in his tiny custodian's office, watching the comedies. "Hello?" he called out nervously, damning himself for being so predictable. "Is there someone there?" He finished in kind, backing slowly from between the desk and chair, eyes trying to make sense from the shadows.
The pages of the notepad flickered as a slight breeze seemed to cross the room, and Miles swallowed hard, knowing full well that every window in the room was firmly closed. The breeze had come from somewhere over there, on the second tier of the library, and had passed him to end up… "Behind me, of course." He breathed, swallowing again as he tried to force himself to turn and look in the direction of the only exit.
"Yes, behind you." A quiet yet deeply resonant voice responded. Miles felt his bowels turn to water as he finally managed to turn his head enough to see the figure standing a few steps behind him. Not a particularly tall or large man, but somehow imposing - almost looming - as he stepped forward into one of the illuminating shafts of moonlight. Miles noted that the stranger's long coat and double-breasted shirt were both of a slightly archaic cut, a dated style echoed by the long ponytail tied back with a black ribbon, or even the knee-high equestrian boots that hardly made a sound as the stranger walked. One pace, two, and Miles was forced to step back as the stranger advanced, a disturbingly casual smile on his grim and unnaturally pale features. "Who - who are you?" Miles managed to stammer as he found himself backed further into the room, finally coming to a stop beside the chair he had occupied moments before.
The stranger reached forward to finger the edge of one of the volumes, seeming to smirk at the title 'Vampiric Myth and Lore of the Fifteenth Century'. "Who am I?" He responded without looking at Miles. "I am judgment borne on silent wings, an accounting of the night finally at hand. I am justice."
He glanced up at Miles with a smirk. "But for the record, you can call me Sloan."
Sloan's hand moved with a speed that left Miles utterly bewildered. A confusion quickly added to by the sudden inability to catch his breath. "Too late." Sloan murmured. With widening eyes, Miles fumbled at his collar, trying to loosen his tie in an attempt to breathe, and Sloan smiled when Miles' fingers made the discovery that his collar was not at fault at all. His windpipe was crushed. Sloan's hand shot forward again to grasp Miles by the chin as the tall Englishman's knees buckled, easily holding him upright as he watched Miles' face begin to purple. "Retribution was only a matter of time, Britisher. How long did you think we would let you Kine run around with the knowledge you had before we acted?" As he spoke, Sloan extracted a lighter from his pocket, carefully striking the flame and setting it to the edge of one of the archaic volumes. He stepped back slightly as the ancient tome caught easily and began to blaze merrily. "Long enough, admittedly, for you and your enclave to eliminate a few rather opportune targets." He continued, watching the fire spread from book to book to table. "But now that this usefulness has ended it has come time to pay the ferryman, so to speak." Glancing back at Miles, Sloan noted that the thin Englishman had ceased to struggle, now hanging limply in his grip with tongue protruding thickly from between bluish lips. Sloan shrugged and dropped him in a pile beside the table. "Expired already, I see." Lifting a long ruler from a side shelf, Sloan carefully nudged one of the blazing books across the table until it toppled over the edge and landed squarely on Miles' tweed jacket. He paused a moment longer, watching the fire begin to consume the corpse of the Watcher even as it hungrily devoured the table. By morning this library would be ashes, along with its nosy librarian. "Long live the Masquerade." Sloan whispered, retreating before the fire and turning towards the night.
There was still so much to do.

Quinn eased the car to a halt and turned off the engine, peering out the window at the house Gabrielle had directed them to. "Seems like a nice enough place, kinda cozy, really." He offered as Gabrielle looked around the neighborhood with a barely concealed sneer. "God, like deja-vu city." She griped, fumbling at the door handle and getting out with a frustrated sigh. Quinn followed suit and the two stood for a moment beside the car, stretching the hours of driving out of their joints. A muffled thump echoed from the rear of the car, and Quinn jumped slightly, hurrying around to the trunk.
"Oh, Damian man, I'm sorry about that." He began as he quickly unlocked and popped open the trunk. The tall good-looking man inside held up a hand and smirked slightly. "It's okay, Quinn, just give me a hand out of here." Quinn grasped his hand and Damian crawled from the confines of the trunk, standing straight with a slight wince and glancing around, much as his erstwhile chauffeurs had done before him. His circuit inspection came to rest on the house they were parked in front of, and something seemed to pass across his face for a moment. Quinn caught the fleeting look, and tried to cover the moment in his usual optimistic style. "Well then, we're here. Good old Sunnydale. I'm sure there's someplace Gabrielle and I can find to grab a cuppa or whatever. That is unless you want us to…" He gestured at the house in offer to Damian, but the taller man waved away the unspoken support. "No," He responded, much to Gabrielle's apparent relief. "I should talk to her alone."
Quinn nodded and stepped back, sliding his hands into his pockets and shrugging. "Hey, if that's what you think is best, who am I to argue, right?" Damian hardly seemed to notice, already stepping forward with his eyes riveted on the front door of the Winters' residence. "Yeah, right." He breathed, moving further away from the car as though drawn by an invisible thread.
Quinn cast a look at Gabrielle, who waved dismissively and yanked open the passenger door. "Forget it, Quinn, he's gone all zombie-city. It always happens whenever he gets within like fifty feet of her Missy-ness." Pausing for a moment, she wrinkled her nose at the passenger seat before her. "So we're back in the car again. How thrilling."
Quinn just shook his head, casting one more sympathetic glance at the dark figure of his friend before joining Gabrielle in climbing into the car again. "So, where's a good place to get a cup of coffee around here?"
The car pulled away, leaving Damian walking slowly up to the front door, years of memories casting shadows and afterimages across his vision. It took a moment for him to force his upraised hand to actually press the bell, and a part of him hoped that it would be Missy's mother that answered. A familiar pattern of footsteps and a muffled call of 'I'll get it, Mom.' dashed those hopes, and a moment later the door swung wide.
"Yeah?" Missy began - perhaps intending to say more - but silenced by the sight that greeted her when she fully opened the door. "Damian." She stated flatly, her sensibilities numbed by the unexpected sight.
Damian tried to adopt a smile, ending with a grimace that looked as uncomfortable as it felt. "Hi, Missy."
Missy didn't even try, her expression remaining completely blank. "What are you doing here?" She demanded, a part of her fearing all the other things she wanted to say - might say if this specter of her too-recent past didn't go away right now. Damian ditched the painful half-smile and opted for equal directness. "Is there somewhere we can go? We need to talk." He glanced over Missy's shoulder to see her mother step into the hall, a curious look on her face. "In private. It's important." He added.
"Missy? Who is it?" Her mother called as Missy tried to kick-start her brain. "No-one, Mom." Missy replied without thinking, instantly regretting it as she saw a wince tighten the sad expression around Damian's eyes. Snapping to a decision, she pushed Damian backward with an impatient hand, joining him on the porch as she pulled the door closed behind her, cutting off her mother's next confused question.
"Okay, talk." She commanded, wrapping her arms around herself and stepping away from Damian, the exact opposite direction than in which so much of her wanted to go.
Damian glanced at the closed front door, then around at the darkened neighborhood, and finally back at Missy. "Not here, let's take a walk." At Missy's reluctant nod he turned, and the two of them stepped off the porch.

Sloan moved quickly from shadow to shadow, his blood lending a swiftness to his movements that few mortal eyes could follow. His quarry had divided, and he now shadowed the two in the car, following them as they increased the distance between them and the Hunter and her vampire companion. He smirked as he thought about how easy they were making this for him. Rarely did his duties as Archon present themselves for solution this accommodatingly. There had been whispers that this might be a difficult task, which is why he had elected to come himself, but from what he was seeing, this annoyance could have been resolved by one of the lesser Archons, perhaps even by a lowly Sheriff. It hardly seemed to be worthy of his attention. Still, it was refreshing enough in its limited way, and this town was interesting in its own regard. He glanced around as the car that contained his prey paused at a stop-light. Perhaps he would establish a haven here after this affair was over. There was undeniably a certain flavor to the air here, almost an energy that he could feel tingling at the edges of his senses. Quite exhilarating, really.
It was little wonder that the renegade Brujah had established himself here, or that so many of the Sabbat had gravitated to this otherwise out-of-the-way town.
The Sabbat. Yes, the ever-present upstart enemy. The Hunter had taken care of that threat well enough, doing his job for him if he was to be perfectly honest. She had served quite admirably over the years, even priding herself on her ability to eliminate the 'vampire threat'. Little did she know that she had never faced a vampire of any real age or power, the ragged malcontents that made up the average Sabbat pack were less than nothing compared to a true Kindred elder. She would learn the folly of her pride soon enough, and even the knowledge granted her by the renegade Damian would not be enough to prevent him - Sloan - from ending her threat to the Masquerade once and for all. The ancient secrets must remain that, never to be possessed by the Kine, even Damian knew this - it was the first law of their kind.
A law he had broken.
Sloan sniffed the air once and smiled, noting that his quarry had pulled away from the intersection. Perhaps he would be magnanimous tonight, and offer Damian an opportunity for redemption. A chance to end his self-imposed exile and return to the Camarilla's fold.
Perhaps.
With a slight shrug, he slipped from the shadows and sped down the street, gaining quickly on his target as it slowed again, the car preparing to turn into the parking lot of some kind of dining establishment. There was still time to consider Damian's final dispensation, Sloan allowed, for now there were more immediate matters at hand.
As Quinn eased the car into one of the many empty stalls, neither he nor Gabrielle noticed the speeding shadow that approached. Shutting off the engine, Quinn opened his door with a smile at his beautiful passenger. "Well, here we are. Why don't you let me buy you a cappuccino or somethin' and try to put a smile on that lovely face." Gabrielle sneered openly at his offer as she once more climbed from the passenger seat. "Quinn, you couldn't put a smile on my face even if I was like tied down and you used a paintbrush." She slammed the car door and turned to cast him a superior look across the hood of the car. "And for your information, cappuccinos are like so last decade."
Quinn shrugged, bristling slightly at her treatment of his umpteenth attempt at breaking the ice. "Well, I did say 'or somethin', didn't I? Excuse me for my Neanderthal-like ways. I was just tryin' to be nice. That's no reason to go around bitin' a guy's head off." Gabrielle opened her mouth for yet another semi-witty scathing reply, but her words were replaced by a startled squeak as she felt a cold hand encircle her throat from behind. She jerked rigidly, her hands flying to her throat as she felt fingers backed by unbelievable strength bear down on the frail necessities within her neck. Quinn barely had time to register open-mouthed shock and scream Gabrielle's name before her life ended with no more fanfare than the grating crunch of cartilage and bone. Quinn's world slowed down, narrowing to a pinpoint of focus that was Gabrielle's last expression as she was dropped like discarded trash from the fingers of her murderer. It struck him oddly that she looked surprised and insulted by her own demise, and he found himself unable to move as he felt his heart freeze and crack as Gabrielle's skull bounced twice on the pavement. Her killer stepped casually around the car, regarding Quinn with a slightly raised quizzical brow.
"What manner of creature are you, now, my Irish friend?" Sloan inquired leisurely. "Your scent is unlike anything I've encountered before." Quinn snapped his attention around to Sloan, a terrible look of pain and anger overtaking his features. "I'm your worst bloody nightmare, murderer!" He roared as black spines protruded through his skin with an odd ripping sound, his demonic half becoming fully revealed as he lunged at Sloan with all the strength of his love and rage. The attack drove Sloan to the street on his back with Quinn firmly latched onto him, struggling for a grip on the throat of Gabrielle's killer. Sloan rolled with it easily, his own hands finding Quinn's wrists and clamping onto each with a painfully vice-like grip. Despite Quinn's struggles, Sloan easily forced his hands away, standing and dragging the Irishman to his feet like a recalcitrant child. Pulling Quinn face-to-face with him, Sloan smiled and spoke softly - almost affordingly. "My worst nightmare? Hardly, my friend. I've seen my worst nightmare, and he looked nothing like you." Quinn struggled valiantly, twisting in Sloan's implacable grip. "Screw you! I'll kill you!" He spat, rage, pain, and desperation bringing tears to his eyes.
Sloan just smiled, holding the struggling Quinn still despite the half-demon's best efforts. "Not in this lifetime, friend." He murmured before slamming his head forward into Quinn's, their foreheads colliding with a force that made Quinn sag barely conscious in his grip. "Better luck next time." Releasing his grip on one of Quinn's wrists, Sloan drew back his fist for the death blow, pausing to regard the battered Irishman for one last moment. "What fools we are for love, aren't we?"
His arm snapped forward, and Quinn died with Gabrielle's name unspoken on his lips.

Several blocks had already passed, and still Missy and Damian walked side-by-side wrapped in silence. Damian struggled with how to begin. With so much to say he couldn't find the words to open the dialogue he knew was so desperately needed. Each time he looked at her, whatever opening line he had devised died on his lips unspoken, and silence reigned. Beside him Missy walked, afraid of what might come out were she to dare to open her mouth. Just walking beside him, knowing that - whatever the reason was that had brought him here - it wasn't the one she hoped for, and never would be. Each time she glanced at him, her brave and flippant words caught in her throat, and the silence continued.
Several more blocks passed before they found themselves skirting the edge of the Sunnydale cemetery. Missy smirked at the irony of it, and as a siren echoed in the distance she idly caressed one of the wrought-iron uprights of the cemetery fence. "This brings back memories. Seems like it was our favorite spot." She murmured, casting a soft and only slightly sarcastic smile at her companion. "So what did you want to talk to me about?"
Damian looked out over the rows of mist-enshrouded headstones as if looking for strength, finally looking down at Missy and stepping slightly closer, reaching for her as he answered. "Missy, you're in danger." Missy's smile faded, and she eluded his hand, stepping back and away, her arms defensively wrapping around herself. "So what else is new?" She shrugged, a bitter tone overtaking her voice. "I'm the 'Slayer', right? Danger is part of the job description."
Damian shook his head, suddenly there was so much to say all at once. "No, this is different. There's so much I haven't told you. So much you need to know - about being the 'Slayer', about me, about everything." He held up his hands in a slightly helpless gesture. "So much that I don't know where to begin." Missy's response didn't help matters as he saw her eyes narrow, defensiveness turning to suspicion in her look. "What are you talking about, Damian? What haven't you told me?"
Damian felt the accusation in her eyes strike him like a knife, and his shoulders slumped slightly as he turned away for a moment, once again looking out over the cemetery as if searching for strength. "Things aren't quite what you think they are, Missy. The Watchers.." He turned to face her, hoping the earnestness in his voice and expression would open her mind to hear what he had to say. "The Watchers lied to you, about a lot of things."
Missy shook her head and scowled, not quite able to disbelieve him, but still angered by his words. "What the hell do you mean - 'lied to me'? About what?" She gestured at the cemetery as if it would support her point. "Vampires exist. I'm the Slayer. I make vampires dead. End of story. Right?"
Damian shook his head, holding up his hands as if to calm her anger by touch. "Not exactly, and now the truth is breathing down our necks. I came here to warn you. To tell you everything. Before it was too late."
"It already is too late, my errant friend." Sloan commented casually, stepping from behind a large monument not too far from them. Missy whirled with a muffled curse of exasperation, Damian tried to pull her behind him, but she stepped forward and out of his reach at the same moment. "Oh, great." She snapped, watching Sloan approach. "I'm back in Sunnydale for one day and already you guys are coming out of the stonework at me. Don't you have anything better to do than line up to die?" She sidestepped again as Damian reached for her, but the desperate tone in his voice caught her attention. "Missy, don't! You have no idea what you're dealing with, believe me." As she looked at Damian in slightly angered confusion, Sloan folded his arms and leaned on the other side of the fence, making an affording gesture with one hand. "Why don't you fill her in, old friend? I can wait while you destroy her carefully constructed fantasy world."
Missy backed up another step, looking between the two vampires as anger and confusion warred for dominance within her. "Fantasy? Fill me in? What the hell is he talking about, Damian?" She turned her question and attention fully on Damian, wanting - needing - him to affirm her trust in him. Instead she saw him waver, as if the words he needed to speak were too much for him to utter. Twice he began, but lapsed to silence before a syllable passed his lips. Finally he turned, almost seeming prepared to plead with Sloan, but the other vampire ignored him as he filled in the silence Damian had left.
"I'm talking about how the entire 'Slayer' legend was a clever fiction, designed to cover up and aggrandize what you actually are, a Hunter. Like hundreds of other slightly empowered mortals, nothing truly special." Sloan began, speaking offhandedly as though discussing the weather over coffee. "I'm talking about how the vampires you faced in your career are undoubtedly the weakest rabble our kind has to offer. How you've actually been serving vampire society by eliminating the riff-raff and malcontents from among our number." He straightened up, casting an odd smile at Damian before touching the final match to the powder keg of words he was building. "I'm talking about how even your undead 'lover' here has kept certain essential truths about our kind hidden from you. Allowing you to continue believing in your childish fantasy of the 'chosen' heroine battling the forces of evil."
Missy's mind reeled from the blows struck by Sloan's words. She wanted to deny it all, but one look at Damian told her that denial was useless. A hundred questions, accusations, and recriminations echoed in her mind, but one finally broke through to the surface. "Why now? Why are you telling me this now?"
Sloan leaned on the fence again, smiling at Damian once more before answering. "Because your usefulness has come to an end. Because your job is done, and despite the lies you still know too much of the truth to be allowed to live." He straightened and flexed slightly, his strength in even that minuscule gesture enough to carry him up and over the fence in a graceful leap.
"The first and most precious law among our kind states that your kind must never know the truth of our existence." He gestured at Damian. "Your friend here broke that law when he revealed himself to you and let you live uncontrolled. His options in that moment of revelation were clear. Use his blood to enslave you, thus ensuring your silence - or kill you, thereby doing the same." He folded his arms and shook his head sadly. "But unfortunately for both of you, he did neither, and foolishly thought we wouldn't find out. He paid for that mistake by putting a mark on his own head, the mark of an outcast and traitor. And…" He held up a finger. "…not satisfied with that transgression, he moved to Los Angeles and repeated his mistake. Twice." He gestured casually, directing his words for the moment at Damian. "Those two breaches of the Masquerade have been closed, my friend, as well as the outstanding affront of the so-called 'Watcher'. Only one indiscretion remains." He gestured slightly at Missy, still standing in shock as the implications of his casual words hammered her like physical blows. "I have the authority to treat this incident as nothing more than that - an indiscretion - if you choose of your own volition to remedy it, now." He turned fully to face Damian, his voice almost gentle as he continued. "You can still come home, old friend, despite all this. There's nothing that demands you live out your final nights as a hunted outcast." Damian hung his head as Sloan stretched out his arm, laying a comradely hand on Damian's shoulder. Missy knew she should run now, but somehow her legs refused to obey commands. She only watched helplessly as Sloan continued to speak to Damian.
"Is this mortal enough of a reason to throw away eternity? What can you offer her except the brief life of a Blood-hunt's quarry? What can she offer you but the ostracism of a traitor to our most sacred tenets? What would you do? Where would you go? Thanks to your betrayal and her career as this 'Slayer', every door is closed to you at this moment. You have no friends, no haven, no solace. How long can you bear to run each night, knowing that the next may see both your end and hers?" His grip on Damian's shoulder seemed almost fatherly, as did his tone. "Come now, Damian. I taught you better than this. End it now. Come back to what you were. This entire brief affair will be forgiven and forgotten. You have my word. End it now."
The silence stretched as Damian stood beneath Sloan's grip, head low, shoulders slumped. Missy again tried to force herself to flee, but too much of her wanted to see Damian raise his head in defiance, to reaffirm everything she believed - about him, about them, about herself. She stood and waited.
Finally, Damian raised his head, slowly bringing his eyes level with Sloan's and holding them there for a long moment, before turning to look at Missy with all the pain of the world in his gaze.
He took the first step forward, his voice coming as a hoarse whisper choked with emotion.
"Missy, I'm sorry."
- -
End.
(with apologies to Joss Whedon)