Vanishing

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Valyssia

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“I’ll ’ave ’nuther,” Xander drawled. ’Nuther no show. “Betta make tha’ a double.” He raised a second finger to illustrate his point.

“Okay, but that’s it, buddy,” the bartender replied. “Last call.” He hadn’t been the friendliest of people to begin with. Hours later, Moe Szyslak had nuthin’ on this crusty, old sourpuss.

Xander didn’t care. Tha’s tha story of meh life. He let out a snort and went for his wallet. No show. No dinner. No drinks. Stood up. For something that was trapped in a pocket barely bigger than it was, his wallet was being awfully sneaky. Well, lotsa drinks, but jus’ me with the drinkin’. A song ran through his head. He began to sing, “I drink alone…aww by myself. I drink alone…wiff—”

It sounded pretty good to him, but the over-the-shoulder glance the bartender gave him said otherwise, so Xander shut up and sat up like his dad had taught him. Unfortunately sitting up felt too much like leaning back, and leaning back made him feel woozy. When he grabbed the bar to keep from going over, his wallet got in the way, reminding him what he was doing. He wiggled and tugged until the accursed thing came free.

His stack of money was thicker. It didn’t make sense, but he reasoned, More’s better, as he took a bill out. “More drinxsss!” His hand smacked the bar when he put the money down. The sound startled him. He jumped, realized how dumb that was and laughed.

The green numbers on the paper blurred and doubled. ’Leven isn’t— He closed one eye experimentally. Everything went to hell. One-eleven. One-one-one-one… Blinking the mess away, he looked up.

The bartender held his drink. It looked doubled.

Two!

“It’s gonna take more than that,” he said.

Three!

“More!” Xander exclaimed as he pulled out another bill and slapped it down.

Girls! Who needs ’em?

The bartender still didn’t budge, so Xander kept ’em coming until the gnarly old fart grumbled, “That’ll do.”

When the bartender released his hostage, Xander put his money away. Do? Who do? I do. That’s who. He picked up the glass. Girls. A little of the precious nectar dribbled onto his hand. Always the same ol’ story with ’em. Switching hands, he licked it away. A vicious cycle that just gets viciouser every time I go round. “Roun’!”He tossed the shot back. ’Nuther round down!

Motioning to the barkeep for another, Xander slurred, “’Nuther roun’. Roun’-an-roun’—” he chuckled “—and roun’, and roun’, and roun’ she goeth.” A broad, silly grin stretched his lips. “And round. A sucka’s born every minute, doncha know.”

The bartender rolled his eyes. “I said, ‘last call,’ buddy. I’m cuttin’ ya off.”

“Jus’ one more,” Xander pleaded. I jus’ wish things’d— I wish they’d jus’ go back to how they were. Leas’ before, with the rejection, I had frien’s. If they’d jus’ go back—

Stallin’s bad. I could’ve and…I sh’uld’ve put Spike down. I had a chance. I had chances.

“Look, pal, wish I could help, but we closed ten minutes ago.” The old grump sounded sorry.

“Wissshhh!” Xander snorted. “Know wha’ I wish? I wish Bu—” His brow furrowed. He managed to spit out, “Buff! Sheesh outuv ’er min’.” He screwed up his face. Not that it helped. His mouth wasn’t about to cooperate. “I jus’ wish she wasn’. ’S not her fault. She’sh a demon.” He sounded stupid. But there was nothing stupid about this. That annoyed him. “I know it soun’s crasy, but she really is…dead and demony. If she wasn’, she’d—” He licked his lips. His tongue felt clumsy. He pinched it between his lips. The lower half of his face tingled. Something stung his tongue. Oww. He winced, swallowed, tried again, “She wus so good. Sush a good person. A good frien’. I jus’ wish…I wish things’d go back. I wan’ her back.”

Belching, Xander placed his hands on the bar, palm down in an effort to steady himself. “S’cuse me.” He persisted, determined to share his feelings, “Dunno. I wish I could jus’ tell Buff how I feel.” The wistful sigh that broke up his spiel was broken up by another burp. His breath was toxic. He waved his hand, caught the counter, looked up. “If I could jus’ tell her—the real one, not that thing of the walkin’ cor’se variedy—I think things’d—”

Xander watched through thickly lidded eyes as the bartender’s face swam. S’gotta be the booze. There’s two of ’em. Two’s bad. Double badness. Blinking lots, he hoped the guy’d go back the way he was. I’m plastered! Too plastered, spackled, painted. Two blurry, veiny…like a—

The bartender’s face stayed gross. He announced, “Done.”

Xander’s brow tightened and scrunched. It felt funny. “Whaddaya mean ‘done’?” he asked. “Whaddaya done?” Well done? Burnt but without the crispy bits. Shame. The crispy bits are the bes’—

The lights came on. I’m not seein’— The red muscley mess made sense. He’d seen it before.

“Hey! Yer a venj-ah…” he said, but his mouth went to mush. He tried again, “A venjin…” and again, “A venjen…” finally giving up, “A wissshin’ demon. Thought you guys wuz s’all girlsss.” Remembering Anya made him smile. She was a… “An’ preddy. Preddy, preddy girls.” I miss her. Great big gaping sorta missin’…like Buff.

The demon winked. “Yeah, lotsa folks think that,” he replied. “Sorry, buddy, we’re not all dames. Gotta cover all de bases, doncha know.”

Xander struggled to focus, studying the demon’s face as he cackled. Mus’ be a good joke. Oh, uh…

Shock over what he’d done bowled him over. Said ‘wish.’ “I wissshed!” Oh Gah! I’m not even sure wha’ I wished. Gotta go!

Xander shot to his feet only to stagger and damn near fall right then. They’re gonna kill me! Trying to steady himself with his stool wasn’t going well. It rocked in his hand. What’d I—? He was losing the fight to stay upright fast. The barstool finally tipped back a little too far, taking him with it. His legs buckled. He busted his ass. Oh, tha’ wuz s’upid! S’upid, s’upid me! Godda go!

The bartender craned over the bar to see. He looked normal now. Or as normal as he ever had. “Lemme call ya a cab, kid,” he said.

Buffy strolled past a monument, appraising the scene. A young blonde woman dressed in a ruffled, light-blue nightgown lay sleeping or unconscious on a freshly filled grave. “Oh, this is precious,” she whispered in a tone filled with maliciousness and mirth. Someone left me a present. How thoughtful. “She seriously needs a teddy bear.”

The girl was out cold. She didn’t budge as Buffy cut a wide, circular path, closing in on her target. The closer Buffy got, the less present-like the girl felt. Something was seriously wrong with this picture. Like that wasn’t dead obvious. Wary, Buffy used the monuments for cover. Her super duper Spidey sense was all abuzz. This girl felt seriously supernaturaly in contemporary Sleeping Beauty drag.

For the final leg of her approach, Buffy crouched down, using the new headstone to block her from view. She lifted up. Her elbows came to rest on its rough stone surface. She said, “Boo,” just like she planned, but the girl’s face totally threw her. Her voice caught, croaked, squeaked…

Someone spluttered, “Boo,” in a weird, reedy voice. Buffy opened her eyes. ‘Boo’ who?

Her head swam. She felt way too groggy to make sense of what she saw. Uh, a mirror? Why’s there a mirror? No. Wrong way. Some sort of bizarre, inverted, funhouse mirror, or…

Blinking improved nothing. Her doppelganger’s hair still hung down, half-covering her upside-down face. But the face itself was unmistakable. All except… ’Kay, so…what’s up with my eyes? Last I checked they were kinda blue—kinda gray and kinda blue—a weird too-blue blue, but blue, not vampy and… And why’s my hair—?

What happened next was more a ‘feel’ thing, like someone had walloped her with a sledgehammer. Only that could hurt so much. Her ribs cracked. She rolled onto her side, folding in half. Questions became a non-issue.

Buffy jerked her counterpart up by the frill of her cutesy blue nightie. Nothing about this was right. The girl smelled human, but she felt like a demon. Her face was the same face that Buffy had seen in the mirror for years. Granted, it’s been a while, but she’s a dead ringer, right down to the tiny bump on her chin.

Are there chameleon demons? Like some sort of ‘shape-shifter’ thingy?

Pro’bly. But she smells human. The double’s heart ran rabbit in her chest. Her chest wheezed and burbled. She sounds human. But lots of things have hearts and breathe.

Y’know what? Screw it! No one comes here after dark. No one sane, that is. I haven’t had a visitor in months. This is pretty much a creep, skulk and slither free zone. And taking a nap? I magine the nerve. She’d have to be—

As Buffy drew back to strike, her poor little, dimwitted playmate decided it was time to wake up. Doe-eyed and bleary didn’t do a thing for her. Still, Buffy held back a sec, staring, hoping to find sense. There isn’t any. She’s gotta be a demon with eyes like that. A demon who went all Eleanor Rigby on me. Flattering…

Buffy’s fist connected. The flouncy nightgown tore from her grasp. A neighboring tombstone got in the way. The imposter smacked it and went flying all willy-nilly. It should’ve been all aces and eights from there, but amazingly, she skipped and sprung. She was on her feet running before the next bounce.

No way! Buffy bolted after her quarry. Shit! That would’ve killed anything mortal. Even a slayer would be too hurt to move. But this thing she was chasing—whatever it was—flew like a bat outta hell. She even had the agility to fake left and go right.

Shit!

Willow snapped awake. As she came back to herself, panic hastened her heart rate, cluttered her mind. Other, annoying, trivial complaints mounted as she jerked, looking left, then right.

Warmth remained in the bedclothes where Buffy had lain, but she was nowhere to be seen, heard, or felt on any level. That was the first thing Willow noticed during the consideration that left her with a verdict of ‘I feel poopy.’

Even a spoonful of alum couldn’t have made her mouth feel ickier. She licked her lips with a sticky tongue. Something was wrong. Not just your usual, garden variety ‘wrong.’ She’d seen plenty of that. This is was the sort of wrong that caused things to get truly wacky.

She made a choice. It was either self-placation or more panic. Rawer, uglier panic. I’m just being silly. She’s in the bathroom or something. No big. She’ll—

It didn’t work. Willow knew that wasn’t true without even looking. Actual looking didn’t make anything any better. There was no light, no noise. The house was empty. She felt it. She reached out with her senses, searching, hoping…

No Buffy.

It was silly to be so certain without really looking. She sprang out of bed, flipping on lights as she went through the house. Maybe she’s gone for a ride. But the motorcycles were still where they ought to be. Willow stood, staring at the MV Augusta. She threatened to run away.

But she was just mad. She wouldn’t do that. Not over some tiff with Giles.

There was one more. She ran to the garage to check. The new motorcycle sat exactly where Buffy had left it. The car was there too. Wherever she went, she had to be on foot.

She wouldn’t just up and leave.

Maybe she went for a walk? That’s reasonable. I need to quit. There’s a perfectly rational explanation…and I’m not going to find it by losing my head.

Willow returned to the living room to take a seat on the couch. Several moments passed before the self-imposed calm took root. Quickly, gently, she touched the people in the castle one at a time, brushing over them with her thoughts. Nothing.

No Buffy. Dammit. Umm…

So.

Some help maybe?

A twinge of nostalgia made Willow pout. She remembered the haunted house, the spell, Buffy’s reaction. It was the same spell Tara used to find her years later on the night Buffy returned. Dwelling on any of that was sure to upset her again, so she put it out of her mind. The spell was the important part. It was an oldie but a goody. More importantly it was a simple, no muss, no fuss solution. “Aradia, Goddess of the lost,” she whispered. “The path is murky, the woods are dense, darkness pervades, I beseech thee, bring the light.”

A tiny little glowy orb sparked to life, appearing from out of nowhere. “Take me to Buffy,” Willow said, eager to solve the mystery. She was prepared to chase the silly thing down. That’s how this normally went. Instead, it blinked away.

Willow’s brow knit. She blinked too, expecting to see the goofy thing circling her head when she opened her eyes. “Hey!” she snapped. “Come back here!” The stupid little light didn’t return, so Willow did the only thing she could think to do. She repeated the incantation, “Aradia, Goddess of the lost.” Her tone was severe, almost waspish. “The path is murky, the woods are dense, darkness pervades, I beseech thee, bring the light.”

Another daft little wisp flashed to life. “I need to find Buffy Summers. Take me to her,” Willow said with marked annoyance. Specificity had no more effect than vagueness. The light blinked and vanished. “What the—?” she grumbled, “grrr,” and reached for the phone. “Maybe the people in ops will have a clue.” I should’ve called there first. It’s just…

They normally call us when they need Buffy. I normally hear them call. There’s this whole thing that normally happens. There was no call, or I didn’t hear it. I can’t imagine sleeping through that and her getting dressed. Besides, she’s supposed to be resting. Giles suspended her. She should be here. Willow hit the button for the extension and someone picked up.

“Allied Potential: Operations. This is Debbie. How may I help you?”

Willow announced herself, “This is Willow…” quickly adding, “Rosenberg,” because if Debbie didn’t know how to tell if a call was placed from an inside line, she probably needed all the help she could get. “I’m hoping you might be able to help me locate Buffy Summers.”

It got worse. Debbie, who would’ve been a fine switchboard operator, but was a crap operations officer, replied, “One moment and I’ll connect you with her extension.”

Willow didn’t hang up, though she sure wanted to. I deserve a foot rub for this. She stated the cold, dry facts, “I’m calling from her extension. We live together. She’s missing.”

“Oh.” That was all poor Debbie had to say. She was probably franticly reading some manual, trying to figure out what to do.

What time is it anyway? Willow hit the power button on the television remote. The TV lit up, declaring it to be just after one o’clock in the morning. No wonder. She switched the TV off. “Look, Debbie, it’s okay. Thanks for your help,” she said and hung up the phone. Well, that couldn’t have been more pointless.

Willow shut her eyes and focused, reaching out farther and farther with her mind. There was nothing. A few cows, a farmer, his wife, their children…

She couldn’t just disappear. It’s impossible. No one can form a portal here, and even if they did, I would’ve felt it, so she can’t be gone. She has to be here…somewhere close. I’m just missing—

Maybe she did run away?

No, I’m being silly. I’m upset. I need to keep this simple. Start simple and work out.

As Willow got up to get a piece of quartz and map, a harsh male voice mocked her, ‘Silly girl, you’re wasting your time. You don’t need trifles and trinkets to know the truth.’

Stopping cold, she cringed. Now I’m hearing things? The voice was so familiar, but she couldn’t place it. She racked her brain trying to remember. But the ‘who’ doesn’t matter. That’s not the important part. My meddling mystery guest has a point.

Willow sat down right where she stood at the foot of the stairs. It was no small task to calm herself this time. The idea that Buffy might be in trouble plagued her thoughts. Worry stood between her and the truth, so she controlled it. Reaching past all of the familiar things, stretching, searching, Willow looked for something familiar in unfamiliar places.

The more Willow probed, the more distraught she became. Outside, ominous black clouds rolled in. Tears filled her eyes. Violent gusts of wind whipped through the forest. Willow came to one heart-wrenching conclusion: Buffy’s somewhere outside of my reach.

D'Hoffryn stood in a large, dimly lit cavern. “Oh, now this promises to be entertaining,” he said, sounding positively giddy. His steepled fingers twiddled, pad tapping pad.

The surface of the scrying pool, into which he stared, shimmered. Light and shadow flowed over his face as the reflection in the pool showed Willow exiting her home in a huff. Torrents of rain poured from the sky, instantly soaking her. The thin nightgown she wore clung to her skin. She took to the air. As she sped faster and faster, up and away, her body blurred, fragmented and came apart. A frenzied swarm replaced her.

D’Hoffryn positively beamed. “The lower beings are still talking about the last time she got her nose out of joint, over another mortal woman, no less. Our Miss Rosenberg is nothing if not predictable.” His thoughts were disrupted by a cackle. “Quite the firebrand.”

Elizabeth Harkness awoke from a sound sleep, surveying the room around her. A single person occupied her thoughts: Willow. She rose from her bed, dragging an old housecoat over her pajamas and a pair of worn slippers onto her feet. Opening the cabin door, she rushed off into the night.

That’s me? That’s what I’d be like as a—? Eww.

Buffy clutched her side. Adrenaline dampened the pain. But she’s no ordinary vampire. She’s like ‘Omigod!’ fast. Maybe faster than me. And she hits like—I don’t even know what.

Springing backwards as the vampire closed in, Buffy landed on the top of the crypt behind her. She hits like something I don’t want to be hit by again. She leapt to the ground, running for all she was worth. And she’s hungry. I forgot hungry. How’d I forget hungry? The path she chose was the shortest distance between her and the nearest light that didn’t involve hurdling headstones.

She was practically within reach of the cemetery wall when something struck her leg from behind. Agony cut through them. She put her hands out to break her fall. A gravestone skipped past her. It crashed into another and came to a rest.

Pain the dulled as she hit the ground, burned anew when she dove for the fence. She caught the iron spikes in her hands. Desperately pushing off, she cleared them. Her legs buckled. She tucked and rolled.

Connor was better than a block away when it happened. Seeing Buffy leap the cemetery wall was a wakeup call. He’d wandered too far off the beaten path. His attention lingered on her, his head and body turning away at different rates as he instinctively made to run. Something weird happened. Her legs gave out and she tumbled into traffic.

He thought he was seeing things, but she was there in the middle of the lane. A delivery truck was barreling down on her. Tires squealed. The driver of the truck sounded his horn. She might’ve leapt out of the way. It was hard to tell if she had time. From this vantage point, all he saw was a flurry of hair and clothes being whipped by the wind. He wasn’t sure if she even moved before the truck ran her over, and in true Southern California fashion, kept going.

The driver of the next oncoming car sounded its horn. Connor cussed himself for blatant stupidity as sprinted toward her. Buffy was obviously badly injured. The next move she made was even clumsier. It was less ‘leap’ more ‘flop.’ But she made it to the curb. She crawled onto the sidewalk as he closed in.

Connor stopped short, careful to keep his distance. Disheveled, dirty and bruised wasn’t the look he expected. Her nightgown was even torn. None of that made any sense at all because she was unmistakably Buffy. The rise and fall of her chest with each labored breath really threw him. Still, he tensed, ready for a fight until movement in the graveyard caught his eye.

He peered into the darkness. Another woman paced the edge of the cemetery. The way she moved wasn’t right. She turned too quick. Her actions were too deliberate, too precise. It gave Connor the creeps watching her. No, that’s Buffy.

Leaving this other woman behind would’ve meant her death. Connor couldn’t do that. He lifted her into his arms. Besides, Buffy wants her dead. That’s reason enough for me to want her alive. He cradled her and ran. No clue who she is. The smell of sweat and the warmth of her skin confirmed everything he needed to know.

The circle parted as Ms. Harkness approached. She accepted the offered hands, completing the circuit again. “Willow Rosenberg,” she said.

In unison the other witches replied, “We know,” sounding like a chorus.

A look of severe displeasure crossed the old witch’s face. She commanded, “Willow Danielle Rosenberg, you will come to me this instant.”

Her voice echoed, magically amplified across the ether.

D'Hoffryn snickered, peering intently into the pool at his feet. He called out, “Can I get some popcorn in here?”

“You found her like this?” Giles enquired, stooping down to look at the woman lying unconscious on the couch.

Connorcocked an eyebrow, giving Giles an annoyed glare. “Exactly like that,” he replied.

Giles masked his uncertainty behind a contemplative scowl. “And there were no signs of enchantment?” he asked. “Nothing unusual caught your eye?” He knew his questions would probably aggravate the lad further, but that couldn’t be helped. Something had obviously been missed.He studied the woman’s familiar face. Her chest rose and fell. But how?

Connor replied, “Well, I’d say that Buffy jumping over a cemetery wall into the street and almost getting creamed by a truck qualifies as unusual.” Before Giles could retort Connor cut him off, “Look, we’ve been over this already. My story isn’t going to change just because you ask me again.” He stalked out of the room.

Any attempt to stop him would’ve been pointless. He had chosen to have very little to do with them. Giles had accepted that up until now. He knew that pressing the matter would simply result in a quarrel, so he stood, pondering what he knew. Either this woman is the genuine article and her humanity has somehow been restored, or she’s a doppelganger sent from somewhere else. But the magic involved in accomplishing that would be staggering.

Willow appeared in the doorway and lingered.

Giles expected her to speak, though she rarely spoke to anyone except for Kennedy. He found it troubling when she didn’t, but he knew better than to press. Willow had grown increasingly withdrawn over the past eighteen months. Any attempts he’d made to reach out had been met by further retreat, so he returned to his musing.

Perhaps this woman isn’t Buffy Summers at all, but someone who looks very much like her. It should become apparent which of these possibilities is true once she awakes.

Willow approached the couch. Kneeling down, she smoothed her housecoat beneath her and sat on her heels.

Giles puzzled over the slow, deliberate way she moved. Her actions appeared to cause her pain.

As she felt Buffy’s wrist for a pulse, any sign of discomfort melted away. Her expression became awash with wonder and relief. “I’m not sure—” She released Buffy’s wrist and touched her face, concluding her thought in the form of a question, “How?”

Willow didn’t pay him any mind when he replied, “That really is the question, now isn’t it?” He could scarcely blame her for remaining intent on Buffy. This is something of a miracle.

A weak smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Would you mind getting a blanket and the first aid kit?” she asked. “She feels cold and—well, I’d like to stay with her if that’s alright.”

“Yes, that’ll be fine,” Giles responded, taking his leave to grant her request.

A familiar presence caused Buffy to stir. Her vision blurred when she cracked her eyes. She scrunched them closed, trying to encourage them to do something useful. But seeing wasn’t strictly necessary. She knew Willow was there. “Oh, thank—” Her voice cracked, so she toned it down to just a whisper, “I just had the worst dream ever.” Even as she said it, the statement rang false. It hurt too much to breathe for something not to be really wrong. She didn’t sense any impending danger, so…

Opening her eyes didn’t go quite so badly the second time, though the way Willow was staring at her was pretty unnerving. A sharp pain took her breath away when Buffy tensed her stomach muscles to sit up. She winced. Her ribs ached. ’Kay, so…either Will’s been beating me up in my sleep, or that wasn’t a dream, or…

Uh, I’m clueless. Random, act of God type smiting? Like a lightning strike? I didn’t think I’d been that bad. Do I get a say? If so, I vote for ‘the worst dream ever’ with complimentary contusions.

A few things were certain, the couch she was on wasn’t their couch, the ceiling wasn’t their ceiling and the walls weren’t their walls. She was somewhere else.

It bugged her that Willow hadn’t said a word. Something’s wrong. Several ‘somethings.’ Buffy snickered. It hurt. Many, multiple ‘somethings.’ Too damned many to count. Forcing the point, she gritted her teeth and sat up. She wanted to comfort Willow, but no matter how much she wanted it, it didn’t feel right. Maybe a hug? That should be fine, right?

Willow didn’t resist when Buffy took her into her arms. At least one thing’s still right. But even as the thought crossed her mind, Buffy knew it was wrong. Willow felt rigid in her arms. She asked, “What’s wrong?” but Willow didn’t answer.

They were in an office somewhere. An old office. The window casement, door frame and light fixture all told her that. The style reminded her of the set of I Love Lucy or one of those other really old shows. All she could see outside the door was an ochre wall with white molding, the opposing wall of a hallway.

As she relaxed her hold on Willow, Giles appeared. He lingered by the doorway. His expression was kindly enough, but weighted with stress. The items he carried set her at ease.

Buffy let Willow go as the next thing on her list of ‘wrong things’ entered the room: Kennedy. The other slayer pushed past Giles. She looked pissed. Why’s she even here?

Willow’s cheeks were streaked with tears. Her complexion was all wrong too. She looked like a child who’d been caught sneaking a cookie.

Kennedy closed in. The only real hostility Buffy sensed was from her. Ignoring the pain, she leapt from the couch. Prepared to deal with that, she asked, “I dunno what you people are about, but this definitely isn’t funny. Would someone mind explaining where I am?”

Rain came down in sheets. Willow made no effort to find cover. She sat hunched over, hugging her shins on a rocky outcropping, utterly miserable, drenched to the bone and shivering, nursing the worst headache ever. Each breath came at the cost of a flinch, the strangled fret of someone who’d cried themselves out.

The insistent cries of her old teacher rang in her ears. Ms. Harkness called Willow’s name, demanding her presence. Willow just wasn’t sure she cared enough to answer. Oh, would you just shut up?

Figures she’d wig. It’s hard as heck to move, or even think with a bunch of nagging worrywarts babbling in my brain. They’re even using my middle name. What’s up with that? I didn’t think any of them knew my middle name.

Willow admired the view from the Scottish coast in spite of her discomfort. Oh, well…at least I picked a pretty spot to pass out.

It was hard not to give in to her anger. She certainly had plenty of reason. I’m ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure Buffy’s been snatched from this world ’cause the ninety-nine-point-nine percent of this world is watery and sandy and snowy and rocky and leafy and good. Those good, watery, sandy, snowy, rocky, leafy parts are all connected. And all those connecty parts tell me she’s not here. It’s the point-one percent that worries me. And if they’d just let me check all of the nooks and crannies…

But no.

A deep scowl etched her face, making her appear years older than she was. Desperation must seem like rage. I need to get a grip. I have to find her. I suppose I could start by randomly ripping the barriers down between worlds. Might be fun. Well, maybe not ‘fun’ exactly, but entertaining. And that’s obviously what they expect from me, given the serenade.

Willow rolled her eyes, even if it did make her woozy. Here I was just gonna poke around first. Check the random and the bad. Ask the Eye. That sort of sensey, less messy stuff. She sighed. Well, I s’pose it’s time to face the music. She projected a single word, ‘Yes.’ Stupid, stupid people.

The phrase, ‘Come to me now,’ rang in her mind as a portal opened beside her.

Willow stepped through, preparing for the worst.

D'Hoffryn shook his head. “Pity,” he grumbled. “The little witch was just starting to work up a full head of steam when that meddling biddy butted in.” Still peering intently into the pool, he took a few kernels of popcorn from the bowl next to him. Several more fell onto the floor. “Oh well,” he said through a sigh. “It’s not over yet.”

Willow sprang to her feet and stood gawking at Buffy. How in the—? She even moves like her. Er, the other ‘her.’ A least I assume there are two ‘hers.’ She found the presence of mind to shut her yawning trap. There must be. Her skin’s warm—like really warm—and she has a pulse. It was stupid to check, what with the ‘warm,’ but I had to.

There were way too many people in the itty-bitty room. Willow shrunk into the nearest corner. She couldn’t believe that Kennedy was advancing after what they’d just seen. That was just—well, wow. Too ‘wow’ for comfort.

Willow glanced at Giles. He was obviously thinking the same thing, but neither of them did anything to avert the impending calamity.

Kennedy was nearly on top of Buffy when she challenged, “You want to know what we’re about? How ’bout you first?”

“Anyone ever tell you it’s impolite to answer a question with a question, Kennedy?” Buffy asked as she reclaimed her personal space by stepping back. That seemed like the sort of thing she might do if she was intimidated, but she sure didn’t look or sound worried. But what reason could she possibly have to be worried? If anything, she seems bored.

Buffy was closer to the couch. She could sit down if she wanted. This isn’t about boredom or worry. And that’s fine. No one else needs to be worried. I’m worried enough for all of us.

Glancing over her shoulder, Buffy did exactly what Willow predicted, she sat down. “That is your name, right?” she asked.

Willow wished she could see her face, but her posture was telling enough. She looks exhausted.

When no one answered, Buffy went on, “I didn’t just drop into bizarre-o-world, did I?” She let out laugh that was more of a hiss. “Well, maybe I did. But the ‘name’ thing, that’s still the same?” She glanced at Willow. “I’m right, right?”

Being the focus of attention was unnerving to Willow. She made herself to nod. Just her eyes are plenty disturbing enough. Answering had the desired effect. Some of Willow’s tension eased when Buffy turned away.

Addressing Kennedy, Buffy asked, “Do you know where you are?”

Kennedy answered reflexively, “Los Angeles.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Buffy replied.

Giles interrupted, “Yes, well.” When he saw that he had their attention, he continued, “Perhaps we should—”

“It’s fine, Giles. I’ve got this,” Buffy replied before he could finish. She gave him a reassuring smile and turned to Kennedy. “You might wanna back off,” she said. Her tone was more playful than threatening. “I know you’ve heard of these places called ‘hospitals.’ They’re where people go when they’re sick or injured. I get that you’ve probably never been. Your life hasn’t exactly been tragic. But if you don’t get out of my face, we’ll be moving on to the practical part of the lesson.”

Willow was surprised that Buffy finished uninterrupted. But then she was no stranger to the rage she saw in Kennedy’s eyes. Watching it build made her feel squeamish.

“You didn’t answer me,” Kennedy demanded. Her posture shifted.

It was a slight change, but Willow had seen it so many times, she winced and shut her eyes.

“And I don’t plan—” Buffy’s reply was cut short by a squeak and a thud. The squeak sounded suspiciously like it came from Kennedy.

When Willow opened her eyes, Kennedy was sprawled on the floor. Buffy was exactly the same, nothing had changed. If Willow hadn’t known better and had to guess, she would’ve thought that Kennedy had tripped and fallen flat on her back. But that wasn’t what had happened at all. The next part made that perfectly plain.

Kennedy sprung to her feet. The only thing that appeared to be hurt was her pride. She shot a glance Willow’s that was more of a withering glare. “You guys are on your own,” she snapped. Her attention turned to Buffy. “I hope she sucks you dry.” The door slammed as Kennedy stormed from the room.

Chapter Text

The portal faded away, leaving only the flicker of candlelight. Warm and rich, it danced over a tapestry of rough hewn timbers, milky white plaster, carpets and opulent fabrics of gold and green. Willow had so many memories of this place, both good and bad. In many ways the Devon coven still felt like home. Or at least, it should have.

Righteous indignation burned like an ember at the back of her head, keeping the headache company. She held on to it, fanned it, nurtured it…because if she allowed herself to feel, to think, to react, her resolve might crumble.

As Ms. Harkness rose to leave the circle, her attention turned to Willow. Her round, normally kindly face was etched with stress. “Good of you to join us,” she said, gesturing to where Giles sat waiting at a small, round table in the corner of the room. “Why don’t you have a seat?”

Willow didn’t pay the other witches in the circle any notice. Her situation was far too fragile. She was here again, in this sacred place, with these amazing women—so many of them dear—doing something she’d vowed she’d never do again. But it isn’t me. It isn’t my fault. They just don’t understand. She turned away and did as Ms. Harkness asked.

A candle occupied the table’s center. Willow looked past its soft, golden light. It seemed a contradiction to the glower Giles gave her. The truth of their situation was right there, plain as day, written all over his face. There wasn’t an ounce of curiosity in his expression. Unbelievable! I don’t think he knows. He’d want to know what I know if he did. Ms. Harkness was much harder to read, but Willow was pretty sure she was clueless too. This is their fault. They went all wiggy on me and missed the obvious.

Ms. Harkness took a seat to Willow’s left, beginning to speak before she was fully seated, “What exactly did you mean to do, silly girl?”

Willow continued to glare at Giles, unmoving, arms folded across her chest. Giving them time to stew only seems fair, considering. She used the opportunity to fortify the magical barriers that kept them at bay. Giles finally cracked. As he averted his eyes, Willow replied, “If you must know, I was going to see a demon about a girl.”

That got his attention. He sputtered, “You were doing what?”

“You people need to pay more attention,” Willow fumed. “Buffy’s missing and I’m sitting in the penalty box.” With each word she spoke, he grew that much paler. “You could try letting me go. Maybe let me do my job. It might even be helpful if you remembered what side we’re all on. I’m not your enemy and I resent being treated that way.”

“What exactly do you mean by ‘missing’?” Giles asked. “We registered that you were quite upset and on the move, but there was no indication that anything was the matter with Buffy.”

“Gods!” Willow exclaimed, rolling her eyes. “Do I need to draw you people a picture? Look it up, Rupert. You can’t exactly register anything about someone who’s not there. Now can I go?”

Ms. Harkness gestured to the other witches before she spoke, “We must know what precisely you intend to do before we can allow you to leave.”

“Well, I thought I’d start by visiting Beljoxa’s Eye,” Willow replied with mock contemplation. “Sort of seemed like the thing. Got a question about a mystical event, he’s pretty much your demon.” She hated to be mean. Unfortunately, once she got going, “The major difference,” the meanness continued to bubble up, “I’m not some washed-up librarian.” That’s okay. These people are well past deserving it. She remembered how ridiculously ineffectual Giles had been in dealing with the Eye. “So I thought I’d start the questioning by removing a couple of eyes from his—uh, ‘eye’ thingy.” She refused to be. She couldn’t afford to be. “Whatever. That isn’t the point. The point is to get what I need without dealing with all of the stupid, cryptic doubletalk he’s known for. I don’t have time for that. And this…?” Her rant was broken by a huff. “You people are on my last nerve! Let! Me! Go!”

Giles said, “Willow, perhaps we should—”

Willow cut him off, “No, Giles, we really shouldn’t. Don’t you see? We don’t have time. Goddess only knows where she—” She stopped short. That path would only lead to speculation. And speculation would lead to wallowing…perhaps even bawling. I need to keep moving. She sighed.

“Willow is correct,” Ms. Harkness said. “Buffy Summers does not exist in this realm.”

Hearing her agree was more than Willow could take. It made everything feel more real. She shot to her feet. The sharp movement caused her chair to tip over. She shouted above the clatter, “Have you people not been listening? I just said that!” Her attention turned from Giles to Ms. Harkness. “Now let me go. You know how important she is. Someone has to find her.”

Giles raised his hand, gesturing for her to be still. “Very well, Willow,” he said. “Find her, please.”

Giles and Kennedy crossed paths as she stormed out of the room. For a moment Buffy thought she might have to intervene, but Giles made way. Good. She really doesn’t want me to get up again.

After the near miss, he continued to the couch. A reassuring smile tempered his features as he briefly met Buffy’s eyes. He deposited the items he carried on the empty cushion beside her. Buffy half expected he would help her with the blanket, or maybe say something, but he turned away. Her brow knit. No clue why I just went all Daddy’s Little Girl over that. Things aren’t exactly peachy between us back—

His next stop was the bookshelf behind the large wooden desk that took up nearly a fifth of the room. Though Buffy watched Giles peruse the titles, he didn’t have her full attention. The anxiety that practically poured off of Willow made her impossible to ignore. That doesn’t make much sense either. The way she acted when I hugged her, I expected her to beat a retreat with Psycho Slayer, but so far she’s stayed put.

Again, no clue why, but I think I’m glad.

A sharp pain in Buffy’s shoulder and side caused her to cringe when she twisted to reach for the blanket. She bit back a whimper. Her plan had been to use the opportunity to take a peek at Willow. The whole production was lots more unpleasant than she bargained for, but she did eventually get there, much to her disappointment. What she sensed was actually more telling than what she saw. That was helpful. There are statues with more emotional range.

Buffy slid the first aid kit aside to take the blanket. The nightgown she had on was ripped. It wasn’t indecent, but she was still feeling pretty exposed, what with Giles. Not that he was paying attention. He’d managed to find a book or five to keep him entertained. She unfolded the blanket, stood, wrapped it around her shoulders and seated herself again.

Will should be freaked, I s’pose. Kennedy could’ve come off less like loony. I’m not sure how. Both of their reactions were pretty over-the-top.

Yeah, I guess. Whatever. I think Kennedy was just trying to protect everyone. I can’t really fault her for that.

The second knuckle of Buffy’s middle finger on her right hand was badly scraped. Willow came around the couch to join her as she picked up the first kit, opening it in her lap. “Here, let me help you with that,” she mumbled, taking the case away.

“You don’t have to,” Buffy replied, but Willow didn’t listen. Any other time, Willow taking her hand like this would’ve been nice, but it wasn’t long before the sting of antiseptic had washed any comfort away. Buffy leaned back, resting her head against the back of the couch, and tried to relax.

I want to look for a simple explanation. It’s sad. They say the simple one’s usually the right one, but the simple one only ever makes me look simple, so…

Buffy flexed her fingers when Willow released her hand. The scraped skin pulled. It hurt. Paper ripped. Willow reclaimed her hand.

I bet whoever said that never had to avert an apocalypse.

After applying a Band-Aid to Buffy’s knuckle, Willow straightened and twisted her arm to get a better look at her elbow. Buffy just played along, pretending she was one of those funny bendy dolls.

Yeah, so, pretty much…

That exercise in tolerance carried them for a few minutes. Between the sharp pain from her injured shoulder and Willow’s gentle coaxing, which was meant to be nice but was actually annoying, Buffy had to take over. She started to explain, “Here,” as she pulled away, “Umm…lemme,” but doing was just easier—what with the occasional, random stabbing pain.

Buffy turned onto her side. Her plan was to lie down on her tummy so the arm Willow wanted would be on the outside and facing the right way. As plans went, it was solid. Willow even got up to give her room to move, though that wasn’t strictly necessary. Everything was going fine until Buffy got where she was going and Willow did the one thing that you never ever want someone who’s looking at your body to do. She grimaced. Buffy stopped wrestling with the blanket to check what was the matter.

A large, deep-tissue bruise covered most of her right calf. She wanted to see the left one more clearly, but she gave up. Twisting any more than she had to didn’t sound appealing. Okay, well, there are worse things she could be staring at. It looked about like it felt, which was pretty much what Buffy expected. “I’ll be fine, Will. It just hurts,” she said. It’ll probably be healed up by morning, but there’s no way she’d know that.

Poor pouty Willow didn’t look up. “Are you sure?”

Buffy replied, “Yeah, I’m sure,” as she rested her hand over Willow’s. “It always hurts. And it always heals. Those are pretty much the two constants in my life. You know that.” She was shooting for reassuring, but where she ended up was somewhere entirely different.

“Yeah, I guess,” Willow mumbled.

Buffy wanted to say something else—preferably something to rub a little of the self-pity off that last thing—but she couldn’t come up with anything better than ‘it’s not all that bad.’ That was lamer than the first stupid thing she’d said. She decided it was better to keep her mouth shut and let it blow over.

It took a little while for Willow get there, but she eventually went back to cleaning Buffy’s elbow. And Buffy eventually went back to ignoring her. It didn’t help that Giles hadn’t found anything better to do with his time other than watch them and pretend to read. But really, that was just another thing to be ignored.

Y’know, it’s weird. Will doesn’t feel that much different than she did those last few months in Sunnydale. It’s like nothing’s changed.

Well, no, not really. It’s like everything’s gotten worse.

Buffy tried to imagine how, but other than the obvious ‘the me who’s me here appears to be a vampire,’ she drew a blank. So, yeah…either vampy me has completely erased all the good we’ve done and this Willow is my Willow without all the good, or this place is a different place and this Willow who looks and smells and feels exactly like my Willow but more with the ‘ahhhhh!’ is a different Willow.

Considering I traveled thousands and thousands of miles in forty winks, I’m thinking option B sounds better. Even without the nap, option B sounds better.

Or this could all be a really real magic- or drug-induced dream. I could be at home passed out in bed and my Will could be stressing over how to wake me up. That’s happened too.

Or this could be something completely new.

A random thought brought a smile to Buffy’s face. Only me. Whatever this is, it could only happen to me. I’ve wanted to get back here for over a year now. Pretty much since I left. It took a few months for the shine to wear off of living abroad, but whatever.

So, I get exactly what I want—a free trip home—only I wake up in another godforsaken graveyard. But not just…I’ve slept in graveyards. They can actually be fairly comfy if you plan ahead. No, I woke up on a freshly filled grave with evil, undead, vampy me consulting her meal planner.

“What’s so funny?” Willow asked.

Buffy got rid of the less-than-helpful smirk before she replied, “Nothing.”

Willow wasn’t going to let it go. Her impatience was a palpable thing even without a clear view of her. “Seriously, what’s up with you?” she asked.

I’ve got nothing. And I seriously need to choose something soon, so… I don’t want to think that this Willow is my Willow ’cause that undoes all the good we’ve done. I’d rather she be a different Willow. That’s my theory and I’m sticking to it…until someone tells me I’m being silly again.

Hasn’t happened yet, so that pretty much means I’m not in Kansas anymore. “Uh, I’ve gotta ask,” Buffy mumbled. “You people know what shrimp are, right?”

It worked. The ice broke. Or at least Willow cracked a grin. “Yes, Buffy, we have shrimp,” she replied, trying to hold in a laugh.

Buffy’s silly joke told her something useful. This world wasn’t that much different from her own. But just like in her world, the allusion to Anya had another, unwelcome effect: the mood of the room seemed to turn somber. Buffy’s grin faded. Giles shut the book he was reading with a thump, causing Willow to jump. She shook it off and went back to work.

That would’ve suited Buffy just fine if she hadn’t picked her leg to work on. The burn of the antiseptic soon made it impossible to do anything except grit her teeth and clench her fists. She put up with it as long as she could, but her nerves eventually frazzled.

Doing her utmost to restrain herself, Buffy turned onto her side to protect her injured leg and said, “That’s enough.” When Willow flinched, she added a guilty sounding, “Please.” I could be less of a baby too. That might help. “My leg’s not gonna fall off, Will. I swear. It’ll be okay.” Excuses aren’t going to help matters either. I’m just spoiled. I’ve had Will’s magic to protect me for so long, I’ve forgotten.

Willow replied, “Okay.”

She was sitting angled away from Buffy. Her hair covered her face, but Buffy didn’t need to see her expression to understand. Nothing about Willow’s reply said she was ‘okay.’ She began to play ‘busy’ to hide the hurt, straightening out the first aid kit as she replaced the items she’d removed and not used. You’d never guess her mom was a totally repressed control freak.

After giving her few moments to cool down, Buffy touched the hand Willow clenched wadded scraps of paper in and said, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Willow replied, but she continued to pretend to pick up.

Giles interrupted, “I assume you mean us no harm?”

Buffy almost jumped. Her attention snapped to him. Reflexively, she replied, “No,” stressing the word to make it plain she felt the question foolish.

“You appear as baffled by this situation as we are,” Giles observed. His nose was pretty firmly ensconced in another book, but he did give her a quick glance. “Perhaps we can piece something together with your help. Would you mind sharing what you experienced this evening?”

Buffy stammered, “Oh, uh…” I’ve already got a clue. Not sure if it’s the right clue, but whatever. I’m curious. “Not a whole lot. I went to sleep at home and woke up in a graveyard. Totally creepy.” She intentionally kept her explanation vague. “Then this whacked out, uber-bitch-vamp jumped me. Strangest thing is she—well, this is gonna make you think I’ve lost it.”

Her ploy worked. She couldn’t help smiling when Willow met her eyes and said, “That was you, Buffy.” For someone who started off so certain, her confidence sure didn’t last long. “Or I mean that’s the you that’s you here. Does that make sense? Gosh, I hope so.”

Alright, so…we’re all pretty much on the same page. I don’t belong here. Good to know.

A short, thoughtful pause later, Willow added, “Can I ask you what’s up with your eyes?”

Buffy grinned. She opened her mouth to say, ‘You can ask,’ before she got overrun.

“Okay so…I guess I can—I mean, I just did—ask that is—but will you answer? You don’t have to answer.”

She’s a little intense. Not exactly my Will, but really, really Willowy.

“Long story,” Buffy replied. “It’s nothing bad. I’m still me. Just a little more me than I was, if you know what I mean.” Trying to talk this up after the week I’ve had feels really dishonest, but there’s nothing to gain by freaking them out.

From the look on Willow’s face it was pretty easy to guess her answer was ‘no,’ so Buffy tried again, “My Willow—” her voice caught “—was afraid for me.” Differentiating the two felt unfair too, but right and necessary. “There were all sorts of bad things going on, so she figured out a way to make me more—like what the Shadow Men wanted to do, only not so much and more controlled. That happened here, right? The ‘Shadow Men’ thing?” Willow nodded. “Okay, well…she was careful, but ‘more’ always carries a price.”

Giles turned to face the bookshelf behind him. “It’s apparent that you don’t belong here,” he remarked as he scanned through the titles again.

Points to Mr. Obvious, but a point might be nice. Buffy expected him to maybe share something they didn’t already know. He had been reading, sort of at least. And he was going back for more. That usually meant progress. Or at least something more useful than overstating what was right under their noses.

He found another book and another passage. “Unfortunately, knowing that brings us no closer to understanding how or why you are here.” Reading it apparently didn’t help. All he had to offer was filler. He read a little more and went back to turning pages. It was like he was trying to reassure her by doing what she expected. Too bad he can’t do much more than half-ass it.

“Yeah, pretty much,” Buffy mumbled. So me as a vampire. Scary.She waited on Giles, but he’d found something to hold his interest and he wasn’t in a sharing mood.

Sort of makes me feel worse for Will. My evil me wasn’t skanky. There was no leather, no corset. Her outfit was actually kind of cute. Nice to know that even death won’t kill my fashion sense.

When it became obvious that no one planned followed up the Q. and A., she shut her eyes. She was way more interested in sucking me—

Willow exclaimed, “Oh!” grabbing their attention. Buffy expected some sort of earth-shattering revelation after that, but Willow just turned sheepish. “Oh, umm…” she mumbled. “It’s just, I bet you see better in the dark, what with the—”

“Yeah, I do,” Buffy replied, trying to remember what she was thinking before the interruption. But she was all ‘oh.’ ‘Oh’ usually means something useful. Oh well…

She got the distinct impression that Giles was only hanging out to make sure Willow was okay. It’s just nice to see him like this again, even if he is being a pain.

Not sure if it’s possible, but this’ll probably freak Will out even worse. I can’t really help that. We need to talk. And I can’t think of a better way.

It felt a little like showing off, but that couldn’t be helped either. Buffy mouthed the words, “Part the veil so I may see. Mother Metis, reveal her thoughts to me.” Really, if I’m totally honest…part of this is just me feeling needy. This is making me crazy. Anything closer is bound to be good. Even if this Willow isn’t my Willow, she should understand.

Concentrating on Willow’s name, Buffy projected like she’d been taught. She waited, but nothing happened, so she tried again.

It still didn’t work. She quickly gave it one last shot and opened her eyes.

Giles looked over the top of his glasses, considering her with marked curiosity. She ignored him. I did this all the time with my Will. Why won’t it work now?

When Buffy tried again, “Part the veil so—” Willow heard her “—I may see.” She reached out as Buffy whispered, “Mother Metis…” their hands touched “…reveal—” a charge passed between them “—her—” she jerked away “—thoughts to me.”

The spell worked. Buffy felt it. She heard Willow say, ‘What?’ and wasn’t sure whether she’d actually spoken. It worried her that Willow sounded confused, but she was confused too, so… One thing’s for sure, I don’t know diddly about magic.

Giles asked, “Is everything alright, Willow?”

Buffy expected Willow to lose it. Instead, she replied, “Yeah, umm…” Some of the tension even left her face when she added, “I’m fine.”

As far as Buffy was concerned, that was the best part. She actually saw something of the Willow she knew. I think she’s trying to figure it out. That’s too funny. Well, when she does, I hope she shares.

Huh. Maybe that’s it? Will said something about sharing. She’s probably too far away to—

«It’s okay. You didn’t bother me.»

Hearing Willow’s voice in her mind was overwhelming. They sound exactly the same. A sinking feeling accompanied the realization and the admission. I need to get back there. She’s gotta be wigged.

Buffy concentrated on a question, «Do you know what just happened?» just to take her mind off of that. It figures that this is what I wanted—I asked for it, I went to some trouble to get it—and now that I have it, I’m freaking out. I need to lighten up.

«Not really, but I swear it’s okay.»

Buffy could almost hear Willow’s thoughts. They sounded like whispers in another room. As she focused, trying to listen in—and unsurprisingly, failing miserably—the whispers grew louder until finally she heard, «Actually, this is kind of nifty. Did she teach you this?»

«Yeah, but it didn’t work.» I thought I knew how it worked. I thought it was me. I thought I was—

«Sure it did,» Willow countered, sounding almost excited. «What do you think this is? I didn’t do this.»

Her reply left Buffy that much more baffled. «Okay.» After being so careful to get the inflection right, she let her next thought trail off. How’d you get that? The ‘okay’ was enough. It was meant to be leading, questioning, disbelieving. The truly funny part was that Willow would’ve had to have been blind not to notice that she wasn’t ‘okay.’ Not by a long shot. Must be my turn.

«So what did you want? I mean, I assumed you wanted something. I don’t know. Did you want something?»

«Oh.Yeah, uh…» What Buffy wanted to say was right there on the tip of her tongue, so to speak. She needed a moment to untangle her thoughts. «Umm…I just wanted to say, ‘I’m sorry.’ I hope I didn’t screw things up. You should go talk to Kennedy. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.»

Giles rose to his feet, drawing their attention. “Might I suggest we find a room for our guest? I believe we could all do with some rest.”

Well, I guess I passed his test, whatever that was. Buffy smiled. It was sweet. That’s what it was.

«But Buffy, you have no idea what it’s been like here.» Willow’s thoughts betrayed the illusion that she was completely focused on Giles. «I can’t just leave you. I’m not going to unless you send me away.» Moments later she replied aloud to Giles, “I can handle it. Why don’t you go to bed? You look beat.”

“Alright, well, thank you,” he replied, “and good night to you both.”

As he left them, Buffy waited, allowing Willow to say, “Good night,” first before doing so herself.

When Willow stood, the sharp realization came over Buffy that she still didn’t know for sure where she was. She took the hand Willow offered her. Guess it’s time I found out.

Willow concentrated on making a grand, scary entrance. Floating, not flying…and definitely not walking because walking was just too pedestrian. A swirling air current tracked her progress down the alley, picking up dirt and debris. Random spikes of electricity arced from her body, connecting with the nearest objects, mostly grungy cinder block walls.

I’m not even sure where they sent me. S’pose I could figure it out if I cared, but it doesn’t matter. This looks like as good a spot as any. Demon first, questions later.

Wonder if they still think ‘Watchers’ is a good name? How ’bout ‘Watchers with Blinders’? That’d be more accurate. They seriously got so distracted by me that they missed their poster girl getting nabbed? A person they actually believed needed body doubles.

To make matters that much blinder, she was nabbed before anything happened with me. I was upset because of the nabbing.

I just can’t believe they’re that stupid. It’s sad.

A power transformer exploded behind Willow as she approached the next intersection. Sparks showered the broken asphalt. Whoops!

So…

Giles really has changed. And not for the better. That’s too bad. I sort of hoped he’d help, but I doubt he is. He could be. He could be a huge help. He has contacts galore. And Goddess knows we have books. Considering what I saw, it wouldn’t surprise me if he’s more worried about how he’s gonna keep the team together without its star player.

Willow arrived at the intersection and stopped. There was somebody here. She sensed it, but there was just too much trash. The narrow alley was practically piled full. It wasn’t worth digging. She decided to wait it out. Besides, her magical plasma lamp impression was kind of fun, even if it did make her hair frizzy. She played, pointing at this and that, sending bolts of lightning here and there. Eventually, she struck pay dirt. A pile of garbage she’d just zapped rustled. She zapped it again and ‘eureka.’ Funny ears, spines, bad complexion, poor hygiene… You’ll do.

As the demon broke into a lopsided run, dragging his right leg, Willow magically hoisted him off of the ground by his lame appendage. He cried out as his body swung down. The sound reminded her of an angry squirrel. She smirked in spite of herself.

It took a second for the creepy little bugger to get the bright idea to struggle. She was tempted to drop him on his head. He wiggled and writhed as she concentrated on reeling him in. When he was closer, but not too close, she said, “I need to see Beljoxa’s Eye. Open the gateway.” She paused to consider the arrogant expression the demon’s grotty, pockmarked face. “Now might be good.” At least he stopped squirming.

“And if I don’t?” he asked.

Well, he picked a truly annoying time to grow a spine. And if it doesn’t turn to jelly post haste, I’m gonna rip it out and beat him with it.

But that one was pretty stale, so Willow chose another threat. “I’m gonna hazard a guess that your insides are probably just as appealing as your outsides. Up for testing that theory?” With a casual thought, she nicked the demon’s cheek to make her point perfectly clear.

It worked. The teensy-weensy cut made the demon all wishy-washy. “Right! No need to get testy, Miss.” Putting a gnarled finger to the cut, he smeared at the foul, puss colored stuff that passed for blood.

Willow made a face when he licked it from his finger. “I suppose it’s pointless to tell you just how gross that is?”

He waved his arms around and made a bunch of weird grunting noises. At first she wondered if it was some sort of bizarre answer, but then a glowing gateway sparkled to life right beside her. She turned to toward it, suspicious that none of the waving and grunting had been absolutely necessary. He was probably just putting on a show for the tourist.

Sighing as she entered the portal, Willow released her hold on the demon. The funny squeak he made when he busted his noggin almost made up for some of the yuckiness.

She ended up in the middle of a whole lot of nothing. Eerie, hollow, breathy sounds echoed from the darkness. For nothing, it’s awfully noisy here. She wrinkled her nose. Doesn’t smell like nothing either. Trying to get her bearings, she called out, “Beljoxa’s Eye?” The portal closed as her voice blended with the other noises echoing in the nothing.

“Here,” returned a detached, masculine voice. And of course, the voice echoed too, making it difficult to discern the source.

It didn’t help that with the portal gone she couldn’t see. Willow conjured a light. The spell she used was handy for stuff like walking through the woods at night, but it wasn’t much good in a massive sucking void, so she fed it. Her little light grew bigger as she turned, searching for the demon. Finally, she spotted him. “Ah, there you are,” she said. “Nice place. Bit Spartan.” Must get awfully boring. I bet he’d kill for a TV…or less.

Willow explained as she made her way to the demon, “I’m looking for Buffy Summers, the Vampire Slayer. I wondered if you might know where she is.” Yup, just as pretty as his picture…pretty much ancient, pretty much banished, pretty much a prominent scourge in an underworld that has multiple scourges, and pretty much icky ‘fetal pig’ pink.

I didn’t expect him to be pink. That’s the trouble with books. Everything’s usually in black and white.

He’s like a big, lumpy pink beach ball in a rusty metal cage. Best I could figure, he got prominent by being a complete poophead.

A slow poophead. I’m getting bored. She was considering poking one of the lumpy eye things when he replied, “The slayer resides in parallel human dimensional grid 435E91A, subsection 43A in what you would perceive as Los Angeles.”

It struck her as curious that the Eye didn’t have a mouth. Lots of eyes. No mouth. Yet he’s so articulate…at saying nothing. That was just a bunch of gobbledygook unless I find his map. And that’s assuming there actually is a map. He’s probably feeding me a load of hooey.

She asked, “That’s it?”

He shot back, “That’s it.”

Well, that was less than useless.

But in fairness, he did tell me one useful thing. She’s in L.A. Angel should be there to make sure she’s okay.

One useful thing isn’t gonna cut it.

“I just knew this was gonna be a pain,” Willow said with a sigh. “Look, get useful or I’m gonna get miffed. How do I find her?” I could always play catch. Could be bad. ‘Catch’ usually ends in ‘crash’ for me.

“You cannot,” he replied. “You are human. Despite your power, you do not possess the ability to travel between parallel realms.”

Willow reasoned, “Well, she’s human. How’d she get there?”

“Her transference came about as the result of human folly and desire.”

Repeating something pointlessly cryptic is mostly just as pointless. She did it anyway. “Desire you say?” Sometimes it helps, but this just isn’t that hard. Stupidity plus desire plus a missing persons report usually only means one thing. “You mean like a wish?” she asked.

As she turned away, already knowing the answer, the Eye replied. “Yes.”

“Thank you,” she said. “You’ve been most helpful.”

Chapter Text

A faint knock came from the door, followed by Willow announcing in hushed tones, “It’s me.”

It figured that the icepack had only just begun to take the edge off the pain in Buffy’s knee. ‘Dull throbbing’ was the flavor of the moment. That beat ‘sharp stabbing’ any day. The last thing she wanted to do was get up. “Come in,” she said.

“I can’t. The door’s locked, remember?” Willow replied.

“Alright,” Buffy said through a sigh. I knew it. “Gimme a sec.” That’d barely slow my Will down. But I guess—

She leaned forward and moved the stool her leg was resting on. Getting up was no picnic. She favored her good arm, but really, with all those parts connected like they are, there was no such thing. Once she was on her feet, her leg picked up the charge of making up for lost torment. She sucked it up and hobbled to the door to unlock it. This place is definitely different.

Before the door was even open Willow began to speak, “I’m sorry, I just—”

Buffy swung the door in, using the doorknob to steady herself. She met Willow’s eyes, but her attention drifted to the cross that was nailed to the neighboring door as Willow chattered anxiously, “Can I come in? I mean, I know you said ‘come in,’ but do you want me to drop this stuff off and leave? I can do that.”

Really different.

The cross looked like something Xander might whip up in a hurry to fix a problem. It wasn’t really ugly, just crude. Every door down the hallway had one. She remembered how Willow had laughed when she mentioned them. It was one of those laughs, an uneasy titter that was about as comforting as a car wreck.

Actually, I mentioned Angel too. I’m not sure which part makes me more nervous. All I did was say something snarky about how much he must love them. It seemed like a harmless thing. They gave me the creeps, so…

But there isn’t much here that doesn’t. Everything about this place feels wrong, except this. Buffy’s room was exactly what she expected. It had the charm of upscale antiquity with a big four poster bed and a comfy sitting area. She was willing to bet that the bathroom even had one of those nifty clawfoot tubs…a fact that she would’ve been more excited about had it not been for the prospect of getting in and out of it with a strained shoulder and knee, multiple deep contusions and several fractured ribs.

Her recollection of how the Hyperion’s lobby had looked when they passed through was another matter. One that hadn’t really left her. She doubted it would any time soon. It reminded me of our home in Sunnydale after everything went to hell—the lobby here wasn’t nearly as cluttered—of course, it’s comparatively huge—but all of the glass was boarded up and the doors were chained. They even jammed the elevator to cut off sewer access.

Getting up those stairs was fun. Back home, Will would’ve just magicked me up them. This Willow didn’t even offer. That was freaksome. But Angel was worse. I’m having serious trouble seeing him let things go this far. I have to believe he’d find a way to—

And that belief isn’t helping one bit.

Willow’s expression had picked up signs of uncertainty and hurt when Buffy finally said, “I’m sorry, Will. I’ve just got a lot on my mind.” It’s like they’ve been at war. A war they’re obviously losing. She moved aside, gesturing for Willow to enter. “Yeah, you’re welcome. Come in. Sorry.” Kennedy was still a concern, but there wasn’t much Buffy could do about that except admit: It’s her life. If this is what she wants, I can’t really stop her. Not without being mean. “I’d still like a shower soon, but there’s time.” I just need to be careful. ‘Homewrecker’ isn’t a role I ever want to play.

I’m probably being weird. She just wants to talk. And who can blame her? It might be a good thing for me to listen and maybe ask a few questions. I have no clue how long I’m gonna be stuck here. Having some idea what’s up might be helpful.

“You need to lock this,” Willow said as she entered the room.

Buffy did as she was told. We could even start simple. It’d be nice to know what the big deal is with me locking my door.

Willow strode to the bathroom to drop off the bag, remarking as she went, “I know that seems strange, but the warding magic that keeps vamps out is pretty tricky stuff.”

This was the first time she’d spoken without sounding like an absolute basket case. Buffy found that comforting if nothing else.

Willow stayed in the bathroom. It sounded like she was putting things away. “As you know, it doesn’t work on public buildings, so we had to figure out a way to trick the tricky. Basically, whoever locks a room here, owns it. No one else can open it. It’s the best we could do.”

Buffy hobbled back to her chair and got situated with her blanket, padded stool and ice pack. Sitting was better, but getting there wasn’t easy. By the time she finished, she was nauseous from the pain.

Willow was silent until she exited the bathroom and when she did, she was unable to look Buffy in the eye. She mumbled, “I, umm…”

“It’s okay, Will,” Buffy assured her. I wish I knew what was up with her.

Willow stammered, “No. It’s just, I—” Her voice lost strength and broke. She crossed the room and took a seat in the empty chair. Drawing in a deep breath, she tried again, “I had some of your clothes. The other you. I thought I—well, umm…” She closed her eyes, bearing down and blinking them open. “I had to dig them out, but they should fit.”

“I’m sorry,” Buffy said.

Willow turned away and took another breath as though she intended to say something else, but she didn’t. The breath made a sad, trembling sound when she released it. She brought her hand up to caress her temple. From what Buffy could tell the ‘caress’ was more like a ‘knead’ and couldn’t possibly have been pleasant.

Finally, Willow replied, “It’s okay. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Wiping her eyes with her fingertips, she pulled herself together and faced Buffy. “So,” she said, sounding suddenly chipper. “You probably want to know what’s going on. I have no idea where to start, so why don’t you ask me something?”

Well, that shower’s sounding better and better, but I— “Where’s Angel?” Buffy asked. I can’t put this off. That wouldn’t be fair to her.

Willow replied, “He’s dead.”

It was a straight answer. One offered in an even tone. Buffy immediately rejected it. How can he—?

Willow must’ve sensed that because she began to justify her statement. “Well, not really dead because he—” After stopping to compose herself again, she switched tack. “You should know this. Didn’t he show up to help you out when the First got wrathy?”

“Yeah,” Buffy replied. But I don’t see what that has to do with—

“He had an amulet?”

“Yeah.”

The questions kept coming. “But he didn’t die?”

They were so predictable that Buffy didn’t even have to think about the answers. “No,” she said.

She found it funny that Willow was growing progressively more confused while she was starting to get the picture. One more should do it.

“Who wore the amulet then?”

That’d be it. Buffy started to answer, but held off.

Willow wasn’t done being flustered. “It’s not like there were lots of candidates. It had to be worn by a vampire with a soul. That’s rare.” The tension showed on her face. “That’s still rare, isn’t it? There’s only one, right?” She harrumphed. “Oh, I don’t know why I’m asking. For all I know in your world they could all be ensouled. They probably do charity work for the Red Cross or something.”

Buffy didn’t bother trying to respond to the rest of whatever that was, but she could answer the first question. And when Willow ran out of steam, she did. “Spike.”

“You’re kidding?” Willow exclaimed.

“No,” Buffy replied. “Spike has a soul. Or the Spike where I’m from does…or did. I’m not even sure how that worked.” Considering who was responsible for renewing his lease on life, I wouldn’t make any bets.

“How?”

One stammered word didn’t constitute a clear question as far as Buffy was concerned. She was too caught up in the issue she’d just raised anyway. Fraudulent leases are pretty much their specialty.

But yeah, whatever…

‘How’?

“I’m not sure,” she replied, “but he has one…or he had one. He went out and got it after—” She stopped cold, scrambling to find a good way to explain without getting into the gory details. A vague generalization worked. She filled in, “Something really bad happened,” making it plain from her tone that she didn’t intend to talk about it.

Willow didn’t press. Instead, she stated the obvious, “Okay, well, nothing bad must’ve happened here, which naturally made everything worse.” A snicker broke into her train of thought. She moved on to the not-so obvious and truly perverse, “Guess that proves that for things to be even remotely right with the universe, we have to be miserable.” She snickered again. “Comforting thought.”

“Yeah, it is,” Buffy agreed. Nice. Really nice. Spike didn’t attack the ‘me’ who’s ‘me’ here, so they ended up lost behind the looking glass. That figures.

So if Angel’s really dead, or like she implied he might as well be dead… “Why are you guys here?” Buffy asked. “I mean, with Angel gone, how are you guys even here?” It’s probably too much to ask, but maybe the sharks left him alone.

Willow replied, “We didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

That hardly seemed like an answer. Buffy said, “So?” pressing her point with a palms up, shrugging, ‘there must be more’ sort of gesture. Her shoulder and ribs weren’t impressed by the movement, so she cut it short. It was good enough. Or some of it was. She was a little chilled from the icepack, but her leg had gone back to throbbing. Throbbing was alright. She could deal with throbbing.

And Willow was too intent on telling her story to be rattled by anything else. She stared at the carpet at her feet, whispering, “I don’t know exactly what happened, but Kennedy said that you lost it. She said you got sloppy, that you couldn’t stand watching Angel suffer. But that’s Kennedy’s version. I don’t have one. I wasn’t there. And she’s not exactly an impartial observer.”

“What do you mean?” Buffy asked. That seemed like a jump forward or possibly back in the story. Anyway, it wasn’t linear. How could I have anything to do with where they went? I wouldn’t have chosen this. I didn’t choose this.

Willow turned her head, briefly making eye contact. “She hates you, Buffy,” she replied. “Of course, that’s only gotten worse.” Her incredulousness faded. “At first she was just jealous. She didn’t see why we followed you. She thought it was hero worship.” She shook her head and rolled her eyes. “After what happened, she couldn’t see why I’d try to help you. The other you. Ensouling vampire-you seemed like a good idea to me, but she told me I was wasting my time. She did everything she could to—”

“Why can’t you?” Buffy asked. She tried to imagine how she’d stop Willow if her heart was really set on something. Nothing except the obvious violent method came to mind. And that apparently hadn’t happened because Willow still had a pulse.

“In short, she doesn’t want it,” Willow replied. “I’ve got a couple of theories.”

Buffy really didn’t care about the details. They were all Greek to her anyway. She tried to wipe the ‘huh’ off her face, but didn’t make it in time, so…

Willow explained, “She might be using a Muo-Ping to imprison her soul. I’m just not sure where she’d keep it. I broke the last one using Delothrian's Arrow. That should’ve worked. So I guess it’d have to be somewhere not here…somewhere on another plane. Or—I don’t see how—but she might’ve gotten her hands on Freor’s Band. That’d work too. It’s hard to say.”

Thankfully, the explanation was short. Buffy only made it to ‘twenty-one-Mississippi’ before Willow gave up or finished. I’ve never gotten that. They say that the ‘Mississippi’ with the number equals a second, but different numbers take longer and shorter times to say, like ‘twenty-one’ takes longer to say than ‘one.’ A second should just be a second. So how’s that work? Is it like an average or—?

Buffy couldn’t have agreed more when Willow asked, “But really, does it matter?”

No. No, it really doesn’t.

“I mean, this is you we’re talking about. Imagine the lengths you’d go to to avoid something you didn’t want. And she—umm, vampire-you—she knows me. If anyone could play me, it’d be you.”

Yeah. “Fair enough,” Buffy mumbled.

Willow clarified, “Er, her,” and went quiet.

Buffy watched her intently, hoping she’d continue. When nothing happened, she prompted, “I’m sorry I interrupted.”

Willow stirred from her thoughts. “Oh, it’s no big.” She rubbed her face aggressively, starting with her eyes.

Looks like she’s rubbing herself back to reality. Earth to Willow…

“Where was I?” she asked.

Buffy offered a hint, “Angel distracted me.” I wonder if she gets that she totally sidestepped my question.

“Yeah,” Willow said. “That’s what Kennedy said. I don’t really know what really happened. I want to think you’re stronger than that, so…” She shrugged, letting go of a breath as her shoulders fell. “What I do know is that we waited as long as we could, but you didn’t make it out of the school. It was horrible. The loss was—”

Buffy leaned over. The two chairs were arranged so that she could just reach Willow’s shoulder with her good arm.

Willow placed her hand over Buffy’s, resting her folded arm against her chest. “It was impossible,” she said. “But I tried to accept it and move on. It was what you would’ve wanted.”

This is impossible. That’s a good word for it.

“We tried,” Willow said. “It was harder for some of us than others. But we all went on, trying to make sense of what had happened until—”

In the silence while Willow collected her thoughts, Buffy caressed her shoulder. It hurt to lean over, but being able to offer a little comfort made it worth it. If that’s even what this is. It’s either nice or a heartbreaking reminder of what she’s lost. She hasn’t pulled away and she’s not bawling her eyes out, so I guess…

She stopped caressing when Willow found her voice again. “About five days after we destroyed our home and I lost my best friend, I woke up to find a tub in the garden here.” She swallowed. “The others didn’t understand at first, but I knew. Becoming a vampire was the most awful thing you could imagine. Anyone who did that to you—”

Oh, I can imagine some pretty awful things. Like this for instance.

But yeah, I do get it. Spike made being a vampire sound liberating. I don’t buy that. It always seemed to me like just the opposite. Like I’d lose my free will. I’d have no choice but to kill. It’s definitely high on my list of things to avoid.

“I don’t think there’s any question that Spike loved you,” Willow said. Hearing Spike’s name made Buffy really uneasy. “The smart money was on getting the heck out of Dodge. He could’ve run and no one would’ve stopped him, except maybe you. He stayed because of you. And that was the problem. The love he felt wasn’t the kind that could let go. It was way too obsessive for that.”

Her hand slipped from Willow’s shoulder. She rested it in her lap. Why Willow had gone off on this tangent was anyone’s guess. None of it tracked. She added one last piece to the puzzle, “Funny thing about vamps, they turn to dust when you stake ’em, but anything you cut off of them stays intact, unless it’s their head.” Then she fell silent.

There were dozens of questions that Buffy could’ve asked. She didn’t because she got the impression from Willow’s sudden interest in her hands that she was giving Buffy time to figure things out.

Go figure. I asked, ‘Why are you here?’ So far, if anything she’s told me has even been remotely related to that in any way, I’ve missed it.

What she has told me is that Kennedy said I let my guard down. I didn’t let my guard down and I still got kabobed. If I had let my guard down, I bet it would’ve been…

They left me behind because—well, the whole town was collapsing and I was probably somewhere—not there, with them—dying. That much really sucks. It makes perfect sense, but it sucks. They had to leave me behind. And they grieved. Again with the sense.

They found a tub in the garden here five days later. And vamps and funny things that don’t sound so funny. ‘Obsessive love’…and ‘leaving town.’ The town must’ve been Sunnydale.

Okay, so…I was dying. Spike turned me. No clue how we would’ve escaped. It was broad daylight, but assuming we did…which we did because ‘psycho in the graveyard.’ The tub was full of body parts. Vampire parts. Spike’s parts. He turned me and I—

That’s enough. Buffy tried to interrupt, “Will.” I get the picture.

But Willow ready to move on, so she did. “The tub was full of body parts.”

“Will.”

“Not ribcages and legs and arms and that sort of thing, but bones, meat and—”

“Will!” Buffy felt terrible when Willow jumped. I understand she needs to talk, but there’s just no reason for her to put either of us through this. “I get it,” she said.

“Yeah, I’m sorry,” Willow mumbled.

Buffy slid the stool away as she replied, “No, don’t be. I know this is hard.”

Following her gut, Buffy stood up, limped to Willow’s chair and bent down. She was almost afraid from the looks she was getting that Willow would reject her, but she didn’t.

The hug felt really nice except for the pain, but pain was just pain. The contact made Buffy really self-conscious about how dirty she was. As usual, almost the instant she got what she wanted, she wanted more. Being conflicted is nothing new. To get more she had to kneel.Trying to do that without flinching or gasping took her mind off of the dirtiness and the weirdness. Her injured leg didn’t want to bend. She didn’t force it. She just knelt on her good side.

Once she was situated with her good leg folded beneath her and her injured leg extended in front of her, she pulled Willow closer. This was the first truly normal thing to happen since she woke up. And you’d think I could relax for a sec and just bask in the goodness, but no…that wouldn’t be like me.

I have to wonder how Will knew. She seemed so certain. I’ll just assume there wasn’t a head in the tub because decapitation pretty much equals big pile of dust. There are other parts that were probably missing for just that reason, but I’m not gonna dwell on that. I don’t see how she’d know for certain that the contents of a butcher shop scrap bin were absolutely a person, let alone a specific person. But I guess I’ll just take her word for it. This is Willow we’re talking about.

Moving on, but not in the usual, desirable ‘forward progress’ sort of sense. This is a subject I want to back carefully away from.

Buffy tried to loosen her hold and lean back, but Willow wasn’t having any of it. “Y’know something?” Buffy whispered. “Hope isn’t something you can lose. They say that, but I know they’re wrong.”

A shaky breath and a snuffle made it clear why Willow didn’t want to let go.

Buffy rubbed Willow’s back, trying to soothe her. “It isn’t something that can be ‘taken’ either. Hope is something you give up. You have to let go of it for it to go away.”

Willow’s hold loosened when Buffy tried to lean back this time. As they parted, Willow mopped her eyes with the heels of her hands.

“There’s always hope,” Buffy said. “What I think you need is someone who’s crazy enough to chase it.” After a few moments, she tried to coax Willow to look up by touching her chin. It took a few tries, but her persistence finally paid off. Buffy smiled. “I’m not doing anything right now, so…”

Willow’s smile was more of a quick, sheepish grin. It faded and she hung her head again. “Thank you,” she mumbled.

Buffy stood. She thought it was going to be a complete pain, but it didn’t end up being that bad. “I think we need a break,” she said. “And I know I need a shower.” She dropped the blanket in her chair and turned away.

As she started for the bathroom, Willow said, “Our last day in Sunnydale I packed a change of clothes. I just had this sense that even if we did make it through everything that had to happen, we wouldn’t be going home. I knew I couldn’t take much with me, but—”

Stopping at the bathroom door, Buffy turned to say, “Yeah, my Will did that too. She brought some stuff for me too.”

Willow nodded. “That was hope,” she said. “When we got to the motel that night and I unpacked…”

It was late. The waning moon hung low in eastern sky, too low for Willow to see it past the grungy brick wall to her right. Before long that same sky would start to warm with the coming day.

The dumpster at the alley’s end had overflowed. To its left was another mess. A stack of broken skids lay stacked willy-nilly. Staring at the graffiti painted on the wall behind them, she shouted, “Look, D’hoffryn, I don’t have your stupid talisman anymore. It got eaten by the Hellmouth.” She lowered her voice, “Alright, so here goes…” then projected again, “Blessed be the name of D'Hoffryn. Let this space be now a gateway to the world of Arashmaharr.”

She waited and nothing happened. Just a whole lot of wishful thinking. More like ‘stalling.’ ‘Wishful stalling.’ I like that. “Well, fudge!” she exclaimed, her tone shifting to a grumble, “He’s gonna make me do this.”

Rolling her eyes, she said through a sigh, “Alright, have it your way. Beatum sit in nomine D'Hoffrynis. Fiat hoc spatium porta ad mundum Arashmaharris. Now you’d better show up, darn it. I don’t do that for just anyone.”

A flashy display of lights and smoke followed the Latin and preceded D’Hoffryn’s appearance. He heralded his arrival with a histrionic cry, “Behold D'Hoffryn! Lord of Arashmaharr!” The party line went on as he turned, “He whose name—” until he laid eyes on Willow, then his tune changed. He chided, “Language, Miss Rosenberg.” His manner rapidly and fluidly turned remarkably genial for someone whose appearance might’ve been described as ‘blue’ and ‘goatish.’ “Cute jammies,” he remarked, looking her up and down.

Willow hung her head, suddenly self-conscious that she hadn’t changed. Whoops! I, uh…

D’Hoffryn fondled his beard pensively as he amended, “Though, I’m not so sure pink’s your color.” His hand dropped from his chin. He laced his fingers together over the belt of his robe. Smiling a pleasant smile, he asked, “What can I do for you?”

It was a good show. Or it might’ve been if Willow hadn’t already caught the first act, and the second, and the third. She got over it. “I want Buffy Summers back,” she demanded.

D’Hoffryn’s smile turned wolfish. “You and the rest of your world,” he replied. “Not that they understand that yet. They will likely never fully understand, but her absence will be—”

He was playing to a gallery that didn’t give a frilly flip. Willow folded her arms to make that plain. Then she blatantly cut him off, “What do you want?”

“Now, Miss Rosenberg, manners please,” he replied. “I’m sure that sometime during your woefully short existence someone has bothered to share with you that you can catch more flies with honey.”

Willow glared, mentally seeing his ‘honey’ and raising him an anthill. One way or another, he’ll figure out that I’m not playing.

It took him a few to come around, but eventually he said, “Oh, very well, I require a trade. But then you know that.”

Willow kept glaring. She knew what he wanted. This is all about the drama. He wants me to play his game.

His mood turned surprisingly chipper. “Your service should suffice for what you ask,” he said.

“My service?” Willow asked, not quite believing what she’d heard. “You want me?”

“Yes, that should be quite equitable. You’ve been coming up in your world,” he replied, sounding delighted. “Very impressive.” He took Willow by the shoulders, and holding her at arm’s length, began to look her over. “A few centuries of servitude would be an adequate exchange.”

So now what? I really hadn’t thought this through. There’s not much I can do. Uh, er…

She tried to shrink away, but D’Hoffryn was so much stronger than she was, she didn’t have a prayer. Next he’s gonna check my teeth.

He did something worse. He turned her around to inspect the other side.

“Stop that!” she shouted and yanked herself free. Actually, it was more like she hunkered down, prepared to put all her might into a hopeless struggle, and he let go. It was a small miracle that she didn’t land flat on her face.

There was a lingering trace of a smirk in his amiable grin when she turned to face him. I see now why he has two sets of horns.

She brushed the shoulders of her jammies ‘clean’ where he’d touched her and said, “I thought you’d want the life of a vengeance demon. That’s what you asked for last time.”

“Yes, that is what you’d think, isn’t it?” D’Hoffryn replied. “Though, surely an intellect such as yours is capable of comprehending simple economics. Similar items carry similar values. All you required of me then were the lives of a few insignificant, albeit affluent mortals, none of whom were destined to do much more than squander their family’s vast fortunes on beer and porn. What you ask now is a very different matter. The Summers woman has a grand destiny, as do you.”

“I can’t give you that,” Willow said.

“That is your final answer?” D’Hoffryn asked, eyeing her with interest.

“Knock it off!” she fumed. “I said ‘no’.”

“Good day to you then,” he said, producing a coin from thin air. He handed it to Willow. “Here is my talisman should you have a change of heart.” He vanished in another showy flourish of light and smoke.

“Shit!”

Chapter Text

It still hurt, but getting around was getting easier. Buffy was really warm and a little damp from the shower. Her clothes stuck to her skin as she moved. This is gonna go one of two ways. Chilly air cut through the steam when she opened the bathroom door. It felt good. She took a deep breath, followed by a hobbled step. When she worked up the nerve to look up, she found that Willow appeared happy. I sure didn’t expect it to be this way. The smile on Willow’s face faded, giving way to a pout as Buffy limped toward her. That was fine too. Neither reaction was sullen. It was a crapshoot. I stalled as long as I could, but it’s not like I had a choice either. I had to leave. And to leave, I had to dress, so…

As Buffy drew nearer, Willow moved out of the way, slipping around behind the chair. Buffy picked up the blanket. She intended to fold it, but was immediately robbed when she tried. She stood, patiently allowing Willow time to finish. Once the blanket was folded and draped over the back of the chair, Buffy sat down and Willow helped her to put her leg up and replace the icepack. I spent so much time wishing she’d given me another choice; I’m not even sure how to act now.

Guess I’m just glad she didn’t. I think maybe I get it. There has to be something kind of cathartic about finally making it here, even if I’m me and not her. The other me, I mean.

The tray of food Willow had brought sat next to Buffy on the table between the two chairs. Buffy was starved and the soup smelled good, but she pulled a grape from the bunch and popped it into her mouth instead. Will’s way too bent on brushing my hair. I need to just let her.

Crisp, squishy, slippery, gushy sweetness filled her mouth when she bit down. The fragrance of the leave-in conditioner Willow was massaging through her hair made the grape seem even sweeter. It was the best grape ever. She chewed it up and reached for another. There’s nothing worse than an incomplete catharsis. Boy, that even sounds unpleasant.

It’s weird. For me, the last lingering traces of doubt went away when I saw what was in that bag. It was exactly the same stuff my Will packed for me…packed exactly the same way, in the same bag. It was uncanny. I may not know why I’m here, but I know I belong.

Buffy put the grape in her mouth and burst it with her tongue. More sweet, juicy goodness followed. She made a faint, happy groaning sound as she chewed. My Will said we needed stuff to remind us of our past. Buffy looked down at the maroon and gold ‘Sunnydale High School’ logo on the shirt she wore. Only she would think that I’d need this to remind me of—

Buffy grinned. I’m not even sure what.

Snyder?

A laugh almost got away. She choked it down. Her hand went to her mouth as one cough became many. Her body bowed. Willow clutched her shoulder, trying to hold her still. Each jerking movement became slightly more excruciating than the last. Finding the funny in anything was high on Buffy’s list of things to avoid when she finally stilled. Her chest burned. Tears filled her eyes. Her throat tickled and her nose was runny.

Oh, good god! Dead all these years and the little creep’s still making my life miserable.

Willow disappeared into the bathroom. The concerned, inquisitive look she gave Buffy as she emerged wasn’t unexpected. Buffy pulled two tissues from the box Willow offered her. She dried her eyes and blew her nose, then reluctantly gave the dirty tissues over to Willow’s waiting hand.

The pain-induced haze cleared from Buffy’s mind as Willow returned to the bathroom. She ticked off a few of the many reasons she didn’t miss high school one bit. What’s not to miss? There were repeated, sometimes not-so-exaggerated predictions of my death. Those were fun. Evil teachers. Evil students. The homicidal cafeteria lady. There were even evil janitors. Not many people there weren’t evil…or didn’t dabble in evil. There was a whole lot of dabbling going on. Even Giles dabbled…or some of his previous dabbling came up.

Ah, those were the good old days. Consider me officially reminded.

Buffy pulled another grape from the bunch, rolling it around her mouth for a moment before popping it and chewing it up. Cool juices soothed her throat. She took a drink of her soda, hoping to continue that theme.

Willow reappeared from washing her hands with a towel draped over her shoulder. “You gonna be okay?” she asked, making eye contact as she crossed the room.

Buffy smiled. “Oh, yeah, just great,” she said. Scratchiness in her throat made her voice raspy. She cleared it. And that’s the trouble with sarcasm. Somehow it never goes over well if your audience cares at all, or even a lot. “I’ll be fine. I swear,” she said through a sigh.

The grumpy, worried look Willow was giving her didn’t go away, per se. She just let Buffy off the hook by stepping around behind her.

So yeah…reminders. Pretty much all the reminder I needed came with me. She’s sort of in this room, playing with my hair. I like it when she plays with my hair.

But whatever, it was sweet. A little misguided, but definitely sweet. I have the same shirt in the bottom of one of my drawers at home. Running around in it the day after Sunnydale became an innie was fun, but Will just doesn’t think in those terms. I haven’t worn it since—for obvious reasons—but I keep it to remind me. The clothes were wrapped around two more items—better items: Mr. Gordo and a picture of me, Mom and Dawn.

I hope Dawn’s okay. Impulsively, she asked, “Would you answer me one thing?” Her voice still sounded horrible. She cleared her throat again and took another drink.

Willow dried her hands. “Sure. Anything,” she replied as she leaned forward to hang the towel over the left arm of Buffy’s chair.

Reality hit Buffy seconds later. She was in the middle of freeing another grape from the bunch. Oh, jeez. What if Dawn’s—? The realization was so stark, so ugly that her hand even trembled. This place is awful. I’m a…and she’s—she’s my closest living— Buffy ate the grape to check a despondent sigh, barely tasting it as she flexed her fingers to control the shaking. I don’t want to know if she’s—

Well, it’s too late now. I can’t exactly say ‘never mind,’ so… “Where’s Dawn?”

It was a good sign that Willow didn’t tense. She picked up the brush before she replied, “She’s at Berkley.” Buffy breathed a soft sigh of relief as Willow gushed, “I’m so proud of her. With everything that happened, she kept up her grades, did well enough to earn a scholarship and get accepted to a really good school.”

That’s my Will…reveling in the academic happy.

Buffy scooted around to sit angled in her chair when Willow touched her back. It made it easier for Willow to get at her hair, but it put Buffy a little farther from the food. As she leaned forward to reach for another grape, Willow mumbled, “I haven’t seen her in over a year.” It was easier to just take the whole bunch. They rested cold and wet in Buffy’s hand. She pulled another one loose and ate it. Water seeped between her fingers, dripping onto her lap. She switched the grapes to her left hand, reached around herself to pat the right one dry on the towel.

Willow collected her hair in hand and began to brush out the ends. “I sent her to stay with my aunt after that morning—” she said, stammering “—the one I told you about with the incident on the patio. Xander took her to Phoenix the same day. I was afraid for her—what, with the examples we had of—it just seemed like—it was the right thing to do. I was surprised she went without—”

In the silence that followed, Buffy whispered, “But you stayed?” That doesn’t make much sense. Will would be among the first to go if I was going to play the This is Your Life special elimination round that some vamps get so hung up on.

“Yeah, I had to try to help,” Willow replied dispassionately.

That wasn’t so much a question. Or I didn’t mean for it to be. Buffy sighed. But since you decided to weigh in… “Of course you did.” She couldn’t have sounded less amused if she’d tried. And it’s a miracle you’re still alive.

The conditioner made the brush pull a little too much to be pleasant. Waiting for a pause, she leaned forward to put the grapes back. She dried her hands on the towel before moving on to her next question. “So, how’d you end up here?” It was an old question. As she pointed that out, “You never really answered me,” it occurred to her how badly it had gone the last time she asked. I guess it can’t really turn out much worse. Maybe. Hopefully. We’ll see.

Buffy closed her eyes and focused on the sound of Willow’s voice, “Giles called Wesley to let him know that Angel was gone.” It trembled a little. Not because Willow was upset, though the sound was disquietingly similar. She was doing that ‘choppy’ thing with the brush, trying to remove all of the tangles.

“I don’t know why we came here. Everything about the conversation they had said that it was a really bad idea. Wesley didn’t seem surprised when Giles told him about Angel. He was curious if we had a place to stay. He brought it up. He offered and we—” She swallowed. “We played right in. I think Wesley was trying to warn us the only way he could.”

Uh-boy. Well, this doesn’t sound good.

“Giles thought it was just Wesley being Wesley. He said Wesley had a ‘temperamental disposition.’ I tried to tell him that maybe there was cause. If you ask me, demons and lawyers and demonic lawyers are all valid reasons to be edgy, but Giles didn’t want to hear that. We were all pretty devastated by your death. I think he was trying to find some sense of normalcy.”

The good thing about that ‘choppy’ thing was that it was quick, relatively painless and done right it wasn’t even that hard on your hair. Buffy tolerated it for all those reasons and soon enough it was done. Willow brushed long, even strokes through Buffy hair as she said, “Later on, when the lawyers showed up, Giles got to feel really silly. I don’t think he wanted to believe that a former member of the distinguished Watchers Council would be so naïve as to sign on with the advocates of Evil Incorporated. And by refusing to believe…”

Buffy used a lull in brushing to go for the cup of yogurt that had been tempting her. I’m still starving. She removed the top, leaving it on the tray and grabbing a spoon. When she leaned back, Willow drew a part down the center of her head with her index finger and started sectioning off the right side to French braid. The light tension and the feel of Willow’s fingers on her scalp set Buffy at ease. As she relaxed, settling in to eat her yogurt, Willow said, “Giles told us it’d only be for a few days, that we needed time to regroup. We’ve been ‘regrouping’ for nearly a year and a half now.”

Between bites Buffy asked, “So what’d they do? I mean, how’d they make you stay?”

Willow reached the nape of Buffy’s neck, pinched the hair tight and paused. “We were given a choice that wasn’t much of a choice, but that’s not really important,” she replied, securing the braid with a few bobby pins.

Fair enough. We should both be entitled to hold a few things back.

Skipping ahead, Willow said, “What’s important is that you understand that the Angel here isn’t Angel. When Wolfram and Hart brought him back, they missed a part. They still call him ‘Mr. Angel.’ I’m not even sure why. He’s Angelus.” She sectioned off and the other side and began to braid. “I’ve tried everything I can think to do to make that right. He’s just too well protected.”

Buffy finished off her yogurt, put the spoon in the cup and held it casually in her right hand. She hoped that Willow would say something else, but she didn’t. Her last question was as answered as it was going to get, so she asked another, “So do Angel and—umm…do they run together? I mean, you’d think, right?”

“They hate each other,” Willow replied, pinning the second braid.

Well, that was a little less information than I was hoping for. Though, I’ve had worse news. Together they’d be a total nightmare. Guess I should try again. “Why?”

“I’m not exactly sure,” Willow replied. “I mean, demons aren’t really know for their loyalty, I guess, and—well—”

“Well, what?” Buffy pressed. I should just take the hint.

Willow didn’t answer. She pulled the braid she was working on free. That and a grumble made her seem grumpy.

Yeah, I’m gonna to regret this. I know I will. The reasonable conclusion to that ‘well’ isn’t exactly reasonable, or pleasant, or—

The spoon chattered against the side of the yogurt cup. Buffy focused, making it stop. She took a deep breath and asked, “So, do I—?” Dammit!

Willow was playing with her hair again, not that Buffy particularly cared or noticed. Y’know, I’ve been dancing around saying ‘your Buffy’ for what feels like forever now ’cause I’m pretty sure Will would turn that into me somehow blaming her for what’s happened—in her head at least—but this ‘I’ stuff isn’t cutting it either. I need to find something to call what’s-her-face before this gets any stupider. ‘She who hangs out in cemeteries because she actually likes them’? ‘My anemic half’? ‘Separate but Evil’? ‘Evil and Opposite’? ‘The Soap Opera Cliché’?

I dunno, but we should seriously look into getting her a stick-on goatee.

And I should seriously stop. I should be secure in the knowledge that it really is every bit as bad as I think it is. I should give up and just assume the worst. Will doesn’t deserve to be put through—

Willow stopped fussing, grumbled and pulled the bobby pins out. Combing her fingers through Buffy’s hair to remove all of the braids, she said, “Please, just ask. All this pussy-footing around isn’t helping.” She picked up the brush and started over.

Buffy racked her brain trying to come up with a suitable substitute question. Something that sounds the same. Or sort of the same. Oh, c’mon. I have to ask something. I can’t just—

Whatever. Y’know, one of these days I’m going to grow a brain…and it’ll have common sense and everything. Buffy rolled her eyes and gave in. “I mean, does the other me—” Shit! This is just dumb! “—my evil twin—” the vicious, soulless bitch who wears my face in this world “—does vampire-me feed on people?” That’s overly simple, but it works. I should just stick with simple. That’s really what I’m—

Oh! How ’bout ‘Jabberwocky’? The monster behind the mirror. That’s just cool. I like it. Except it’s anything but—

Yeah.

Once Buffy’s hair was brushed out, Willow gave up. She stepped around the chair and sat down on the floor beside the stool. “I don’t know what to call her either,” she said, drawing her knees to her chest. She briefly met Buffy’s eyes. Her expression was a complete one-eighty from where they’d started. She hid her face by resting her forehead against her knee and mumbled, “My greatest failure.”

Determined to cut Willow off before things got any worse, Buffy said her name.

“I let my friend down. Someone I promised I’d never—”

She tried again, “Will, please, it’s not your—”

“Of all the shortsighted, lame-brained, half-witted, stupid, stupid, stupid…”

’Kay, so…a familiar pattern may be emerging. Buffy shouted, “Oh, would you stop? This isn’t your fault!”

Willow flinched and looked up. That was it. The straw that broke the camel’s back. “Don’t you see?” she ranted. “I should’ve seen what would happen. It was Angel. I should’ve known what that would do to you. All that was needed was a vamp with a soul. I can do that. Any old vamp would do. I should’ve found one. All I had to do was shove a soul in, tie him up and chuck him in the hole.”

Buffy bit her lip. I’m not gonna smile. I refuse. This is painful for her. Smiling would be bad. Not a smirk. Not a giggle. Not a—

“What’s wrong?” Willow asked.

Nada.

“Nothing,” Buffy said through a sigh. “Look. I don’t think you could’ve seen that coming. It not like that amulet came with an instruction manual. We didn’t know what would happen either.” She shrugged. “Anyway, what good does it do to blame? Is there a point? It seems pretty pointless to me unless your point is to find a reason to sulk.” Now there’s a truly familiar theme. “If that is your point, then ‘bravo.’ Good job. Keep it up. Don’t let me stop you.”

Buffy’s tirade reduced Willow to a limp, sullen mess. Her shoulders sagged. She hung her head. It was like she deflated. “Yeah,” she admitted. “You’re right. I guess it is pretty stupid.”

Yeah, it’s not stupid. It’s human. I shouldn’t feel bad about this, but it feels like I’m bullying her. Thing is, if this Will’s anything like my Will—and I think we’ve more than established that she is—she needs this. She needs to hear that she didn’t do anything wrong. She needs to be convinced of that by someone who cares.

I’m just a little surprised that no one else stepped up before me, but I guess they didn’t. If they had, she wouldn’t be nearly so touchy. Or maybe I’m just missing something.

Buffy said, “Besides, the last vamp I staked looked a little like—” She paused to come up with a good example. I don’t even remember the last vamp I staked. It’s been forever. But that’s so not the point. She needs to see how silly this is, so… “Oh, remember that lame old show, the one with Penny Marshall where she always had a big L monogrammed on her blouse?” Yeah, that’ll work. The little guy reminds me of Willy the Snitch.

From behind the veil of hair Willow supplied, “Laverne and Shirley?”

“Yeah, that’s it,” Buffy replied. She always did like these old shows. “So, who were the scary, dweeby neighbor guys?” I’m not loving lying to her—even the teeny white ones suck—but playing a goofy guessing game is about the perfect way to bring her back around.

A little of the slump faded. Willow rested her chin on her knee. Her brow crinkled. “Lenny and Squiggy,” she said.

And I get to play to my strengths. Act clueless. It’s so rarely an act, she’ll never suspect.

It was a bit of a struggle for Buffy keep her expression neutral. She wanted to smile. “Uh-huh,” she replied. “So who was the dumpy one?” Doesn’t matter which one she picks. They were both pretty hopeless.

Willow replied, “Squiggy.”

“Yeah, the vamp had that same ‘hair high in saturated fat’ sort of look,” Buffy replied, embellishing her performance with a touch of recognition. “Now can you imagine someone that weasely making with the big, noble sacrifice? Angel said the one who wore that amulet had to be a champion. Not just some lame vamp, chocked full of soul and chucked in a hole.”

Willow knew she’d been trumped. It was written all over her face. It’s pretty sad when she gets out-logicked by someone like me.

“I get that you feel guilty,” Buffy said, meeting her eyes. “I think I may even get why, but isn’t playing ‘hindsight roulette’ a little counterproductive?” After allowing Willow a few moments to chew that over, she held her hand out hopefully. “It’s okay, Will,” she said. “We’ll figure it out. I promise.”

Willow didn’t move until Buffy added, “Please,” then she rose to her knees and shuffled the foot-and-a-half it took to close the distance between them. When they hugged, the icepack on Buffy’s knee fell to the floor. She wasn’t sorry to see it go. Her teeth were practically chattering.

The hug felt nice again in spite of the weirdness. Willow’s fuzzy housecoat was soft and warm, though she herself was awfully nervous. The awkwardness was just starting to wear off when she whispered, “But, Buffy, you don’t know what I did.”

“I can guess,” Buffy replied as she caressed Willow’s back to calm her. “Knowing you, it was probably something perfectly human—because being human is a total crime.” She let go, leaning back to look Willow in the eye. “You’re too hard on yourself.” She allowed some of the unease to come through in her smile. “Like I’m one to talk.”

Willow sat back on her heels, rested her hands in her lap and looked down. “To answer your vampire-you question: not really, but yeah, sort of.”

Buffy wanted to ask about the ‘sort of.’ She either kills people or she doesn’t. There’s not much ‘sort of’ to it…unless she tries not to kill people, but accidentally does sometimes. That would be ‘sort of,’ I think. But then, there’s still the ‘accident or not, she killed someone.’ And that in a nutshell is pretty much the problem.

And that so doesn’t matter…mostly because it’s stupid…dumber than usual. We’re talking about a vamp who leaves buckets of body parts lying around. She’s bound to be a total peach.

And because this so isn’t about me. How I feel is irrelevant. I don’t even live here. Will needs to talk and I need to shut up and let her.

It took awhile, there was much moping and bellybutton gazing, but eventually, Willow did explain, “She pretty much just hunts demons and vamps, but—well, she has a pretty broad definition of ‘demon.’ I think she thinks that anything that’s been touched by a demon is bad too.”

Willow didn’t share nearly enough for Buffy to get a clear picture. “Okay, I’m not sure I follow,” Buffy said in hopes that Willow would want to clear things up, unfortunately she just developed a bad case of the fidgets.

Buffy looked around to find something else to fixate on besides Willow. If I keep this up, she’ll only get worse. I’ve got to find a way to give her some space. The antique mirror above the dressing table that the stool her foot was sitting on went with didn’t seem like a bad choice.

That belief lasted just long enough for her to get a good look at herself. It was bad, but she didn’t look away. The mirror was as good a thing to look at as anything else. Funny, where I see a huge ick-factor, Will probably sees a miracle. Buffy studied her reflection, building on her first impression—she did look pretty bad—and subsequently trying to remember when the bruise along the left side of her jaw line might’ve happened. Yeah, no clue.

So what do I know? I’ve only seen her once and I’m human. Or mostly human. I know I move weird. Will kept after me, telling me to think before I act. I wasn’t so much thinking then. Well, I was, but I was more thinking about how getting squashed like a bug wouldn’t be fun.

I might not be the finest example of the species, but I have a pulse and I breathe and I smell like a person. And evil me still seemed plenty eager to—

It hit her. She didn’t need to ask. The answer had been there the whole time. “Oh jeez, Will,” she exclaimed. “You mean she kills slayers?”

“Yes,” Willow mumbled.

“Well, that’s just disturbing,” Buffy replied.

“Not to everyone,” Willow said. “I’m sure Angelus finds it amusing. The irony couldn’t be much thicker. That’s probably why they both made with the big truce. They’re like two bullies who each stick to their own side of the playground. And I’m the nerdy girl trapped in the middle. They like to pull my hair, call me names and—”

“Point taken,” Buffy replied under her breath.

Willow didn’t seem to notice. She was too caught up in mumbling herself. “I helped avert yet another apocalypse by doing something really big and really hard with huge implications. I did it because I believed. I believed in you and what we were fighting for. Only instead of coming out even remotely okay, you were turned into a monster and you used what I did to—”

Buffy cringed each time Willow said ‘you.’ I know she knows this isn’t about me, but I just can’t—

Willow looked up to find Buffy watching her. “Oh, I’m sorry. I—” she stammered. “I didn’t mean— I don’t mean that I think it’s you. It’s her. The ‘you’ that’s ‘you’ here. It’s just—”

“I get it. I know it’s hard,” Buffy replied. “You know you didn’t make this happen, right? It isn’t something you could’ve predicted or controlled.”

It was obvious that Willow disagreed. She sat inventorying carpet fibers as Buffy spoke. The moment she finished, Willow argued, “Isn’t it? It was my spell. I made all of those girls into slayers. And I called them here. I put out feelers when we arrived to see if I could locate some of them. That’s when it started. They started to trickle in and she started—” Her voice gave out.

Buffy used the break to interject, “But that doesn’t make it your fault.”

Willow sighed. She sat quietly for several moments. Finally, she mumbled, “You know how cats sometimes leave trophies for their owners? The way she acts reminds me of that. It’s like she’s proud of what she’s doing.”

Buffy tried again, “That’s awful, Will, but it still isn’t your fault.”

Willow snapped, “Don’t you get it, Buffy? They’re all dead, everyone who helped us. It’s just me and Xander and Giles. Xander thinks she—the ‘you’ that’s not ‘you’—vampire you—spared us because she wants an audience.”

Ignoring Willow’s glare, Buffy reminded her, “And Kennedy.”

“Yes, ‘and Kennedy’.”

Buffy found both Willow’s forgetfulness and the sharpness of her reply puzzling. “You should try to patch things up with her,” she suggested. I need to give it one last shot. It’d be so easy for me to fall—

“I’m not sure,” Willow said with a subtle shake of her head. “I’m not sure I want to. She’s not the same Kenn. Too much has happened.”

Okay, I’m gonna drop it. Will’s a big girl. She’s obviously made up her mind. It’s just—

This feels like a trap. I’m with someone—someone who looks and smells and feels exactly like the someone in this room—who isn’t the right someone. It’d be so much easier for me if the someone in this room was with someone too. I could get that straight in my head—file her under ‘the neighbor’s wife’ and stick her in a covet-free zone—instead of feeling like she needs me and should do something about that. I want to comfort her, but I need to remember how I used to do that back before—’cause with the touches and the not-so open eyes and the familiar Willowy smells—what I think and feel and how I react now could easily lead to slip-ups and blunders and flukes with the kisses and all-too intimate gropes and…

This just stinks.

Though food was the last thing Buffy wanted, she knew she needed to eat. As she picked up the grapes, Willow began to mumble, “It was the same thing every morning for months.” Realizing just how bad her timing was, Buffy put the grapes back. “She’s not quite like the Bringers were,” Willow said, stopping cold. Obviously frustrated, she amended, “Buffy—I mean…my Buffy. They killed whoever they could find, whenever they could find them. She’s methodical. She picked one girl off each night, starting with the ones who helped us: Vi and Rona and Shannon and Chao-Ahn… More girls came and died and my Buffy made sure we knew. She made us watch.”

I’m not gonna ask. I just hope she isn’t speaking literally. That’s—

“My spell was a death sentence,” Willow said. “It’s not like I would’ve, but Kenn will never let me forget that.”

Yeah, that’s—

The picture came together. Buffy saw a constant stream of death. Body parts left on the garden patio for Willow to find.

There’s no miracle here.

An acrid smell burned Xander’s nose. Trying to get away from it, he sat bolt upright. Or that’s what he thought until his head lolled forward, striking the Lexan shield that separated the driver and passenger compartments of the taxi. He was actually sitting half on the seat and half on his left heel. His left leg was wedged into the floorboard with his knee jammed against the back of the driver’s seat and his heel wedged between his own seat and the door. His ankle was twisted at a funny angle. His right leg extended out, stretched across the passenger compartment. The toe of his right boot was stuck between the shield and the door pillar.

During the few seconds Xander was upright, he took all of that in through blurry, bleary, watering eyes. Before the sharp smell of ammonia made him gag. The door opened. He saw shoes that obviously weren’t his own as he fell. His shoes were inside. These shoes were outside standing on the concrete. They moved and some guy yelled, “Hey! Watch it, buddy!”

Xander caught himself with his left arm. Half hanging outside of the cab, he puked his guts up…and judging by the pain, a kidney, part of his liver and his spleen. From the strange squeaking sound that couldn’t possibly be coming from him, he decided he’d probably barfed up part of a lung too. In his estimation the entire event must’ve been a veritable harvest of donor organs.

That impression ended when he opened his eyes. All that was left of the image was a whole lot of pain and the puddle of mostly liquid sick that flowed toward his hand. It smelled like bile and a distillery. He recoiled, pushed off and flopped back into the car.

The guy who owned the shoes he hadn’t quite upchucked all over must’ve shut the door. Xander slumped against it. Glass pressed cool against his face as the driver’s door opened. He didn’t see who got in. No doubt it was still the guy with the shoes, but Xander couldn’t be sure. Too much of his attention was going into making sure that what just happened never happened again.

“So, where ya headed, buddy?” the guy with the shoes asked.

When Xander didn’t answer, mostly because he couldn’t, the guy said, “Look, I’d love to let you sleep it off. I’ve got nowhere special to be. One fare or twenty don’t make much difference to me. But I gotta figure a blue collar lookin’ guy such as yourself is gonna run outta scratch too soon to afford my nightly rate. And I’d hate to upset your momma, so…”

Xander caught the cabbie’s meaning and that he was cabbie. He was in a cab. He tried to reply, “Tha Hyperi—” but his voice broke down. And no wonder. It sounded like someone had sanded his throat. Place needs a—it needs uh…bedder, sim-pler— He struggled, “Hy—” and failed again. Hi ho! Hi ho! I’z name sucks! Swallowing, he gave it another go, “Peryun.” Hi ho! Perion!

To his mind he’d utterly failed, but the cabbie said, “Okay, I think I got it,” chuckling to himself. “The Hyperion Arms over on Arbor?”

“Tha’d be th’ place,” Xander replied. What a guy! I’m gonna have ta buy th’ man a—

“We’ll be there in twenty,” the cabbie said.

It was all Xander could do to make everything that was still inside stay inside when the cab started to move. “Stop!” he shouted.

As he threw the door open, the cabbie said, “Or not.”

Chapter Text

Sitting on the floor had brought on above-average levels of achiness some time ago. Willow’s body hurt—the whole thing—not just her poor ouchy tuckus. The discomfort had moved into her legs and back from there and worked its way out. She’d considered moving, but pain wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, not when her silly brain was chasing its tail like it was. Being uncomfortable forced her to focus. It was that or go crazy.

This is so weird. Buffy was my friend for seven years. I thought I knew her. But the person I remember would be turning this place upside-down right now looking for a way to get home. She wouldn’t let it rest. She’d get that the cause is magical, but that would just mean that she’d be stuck looking to me for answers. She’d push and push until I helped. Even if she didn’t really push, there’d be some expectation and I’d feel that…and I’d…

This Buffy is accepting. That’s like the last adjective I thought I’d ever use to describe her. It wasn’t in her nature to just go along with much. She was always searching for a way to put right the things that were wrong. And there’s no doubt this is wrong. She shouldn’t be here. Yet here she is and what she seems to want to do is help. That part isn’t out of character at all. Buffy helps people. That’s who she is, but—

She’s also hurt. And hurt Buffy is one of two things: either scary proactive if there’s someone or something to fight, or cranky reclusive if there isn’t. There’s no big bad, or none that she can reasonably take on tonight, so she should be off somewhere brooding and plotting, not here playing Dr. Phil to me.

And that’s the really, really weird part. It’s not just that she wants to help, she—

Oh, I don’t know. It’s like she’s been going out of her way to ask me leading questions, and then biting her tongue when she should’ve asked more or argued or—

A harrumph didn’t quite break Willow’s completely fake, relatively calm façade. She shaped it into a funny sigh to maintain the act. Her heart stammered when Buffy looked up. The look turned out to be just a glance. No questions followed. Willow didn’t quite breathe an actual sigh of relief when Buffy’s attention turned back to the tray on her lap.

That isn’t fair either. Of course she cares how I feel. That’s just how she is. Or was. But it’s like—I get the sense that she wants me to talk because she thinks I need to talk. The only time I’ve ever seen her this hyperaware of someone else’s well being is when they were—

That might not be exactly fair either. It’s not like she’s never been nice to me. We used to talk all the time. Maybe where she’s from we still talk like we used to. That’s something that would grow over time, right? We’d grow closer. Maybe that’s it. But she’s still clingier than I remember. Super-clingy in a way that’s wrong. Not bad-wrong—there’s nothing wrong with her being clingy—it just isn’t like her. She’s—

I need to ask. The thought made Willow pale. No, I shouldn’t. It isn’t exactly fair to keep interrupting her while she’s eating. She’s been interrupted so much. Her soup’s probably cold.

Willow dilly-dallied a little longer, but she knew she shouldn’t put this off. If I do, I’ll chicken out and I need to know. “How long?” Her lack of conviction came through in her tone. It was a miracle that Buffy even heard her.

Looking up really quickly, like she might’ve been startled, Buffy half-gasped, “Huh?”

Naturally, Willow had to look away. She felt foolish enough without the attention. Ohhhh, darn it! I have to believe I’m not imagining this. I know I’m not. She’s been making me crazy. The way she keeps looking at me like—

At least I think that’s it. It’s hard to imagine Buffy making googly eyes at me. And with those eyes…those spooky, sparkly, too-blue eyes—they don’t make this easy.

Is it wrong that I want to turn out the lights and see if they glow?

Probably.

Probably on all counts. They probably glow. And I’m probably wrong. I’m probably just imagining things. She’s probably gonna look at me like I’m crazy and I’ll definitely be—

I’ll be whatever comes after ‘mortified.’ There’s gotta be something worse…and that’ll be me. I’d better say whatever I need to say right now, ’cause if this goes the way I think it will, forming coherent sentences from here on out will be—

“Did you want something, Will?” Buffy asked, sounding both concerned and curious.

Oh boy. I—

Willow still couldn’t bring herself to peek, though she got the distinct, disturbing impression that she had Buffy’s undivided attention. I’m stuck now. Her hands went from nervous fidgeting, kneading the thick terrycloth of her robe, to actively trembling. Which isn’t necessarily a bad thing, ’cause it feels like she needs me, like she expects me to—

Fidgeting had been working out. Her hands were hot, but they weren’t all that slimy. She made a concerted effort to fidget. I know I’m right. I know that’s what this is. “How long have we been together?” It took Willow a second to see just how wrong that had come out. Oh! That was—! I—!

See? I knew I’d—

“Not long,” Buffy replied. There was a lilt in her voice that conveyed her amusement. Otherwise her reaction was utterly deadpan. That lilt wasn’t the least bit helpful.

Willow scrambled to fill in, “Not me and you, the other me and you.” Could be more pathetic? That was so stupid. She considered if what she’d said was okay and decided to add, “Not the other you,” just to be safe, “’cause that’d just be creepy and wrong.” Parallel dimensions suck! They make my brain feel mushy!

“Will,” Buffy said.

This has gotta be wishful thinking. It just has to be. There’s no way she could ever want—

Willow heard her name again, but she still couldn’t bring herself to answer or look or move. She sat stiff as a board, hugging her shins and praying the army of fuzz bunnies littered the carpet would gobble her up.

“About six months,” Buffy said.

I knew it! Willow looked up from her exhaustive and ongoing study of the carpet. Well, okay, so maybe I didn’t. “How’d it happen?” she asked.

“What do you mean?” Buffy’s response was more smile than question. It was impossible to find that rude.

Willow replied, “You and me—the other me.” The slip made her think that the carpet was safer. Somebody really needs to sweep in here. She combed her fingers through the fibers. Lint clumped around them, adding to the number of fuzz bunnies. It was icky. She was struck with the sudden urge to wash her hands, but ‘going’ and ‘doing’ were outside her current abilities. ‘Running’ and ‘hiding’ were much closer.

“The usual way,” Buffy said. “I hope you don’t need any diagrams or directions ’cause that’d just be disappointing.”

That was a touch too snarky. Willow found her nerve. “That sounds like something you’d say to Xander,” she said. “No, I mean—well, you know what I mean.”

Buffy looked away this time.

Wow. She’s nervous. Like actually nervous. About this. About me. This is just wrong.

She went back to concentrating on her soup, eating a spoonful before she replied, “You just sort of made me see…or the other you did.”

Willow sighed. ’Kay, so…for the record, this is gonna kill me.

She was pretty sure Buffy was done, that that was all the explanation she was going to get, which would’ve been fine, that was all the explanation she needed, but Buffy went on, “Have you ever been afraid that making a move—the first or whatever—would change things between you and someone else?” Her voice was so soft it was barely audible. “Y’know, destroy your friendship?” She was more focused on the tray in her lap than anything else.

Willow replied, “Yeah,” under her breath, catching Buffy’s attention in the process. Willow wanted to climb out of her skin. The unspoken ‘with you’ was a little too obvious. She looked down at the fuzz bunnies.

“Can you see how that didn’t matter?” Buffy asked. Her question was rhetorical. She whisked by it with barely a pause. “Things between us already had changed, and not for the better. As we tried to talk it out, what we had became something else. It just kind of happened.”

The pressure to find some reply mounted when Buffy trailed off into thought. Willow wished she’d say something else. All kinds of complicated stuff rested behind Buffy’s words. Oddly enough, nothing more was really needed. Willow understood. Their friendship had been past strained. Almost broken. She tried to imagine the courage it would’ve taken just to admit how hurt she’d been. One thing would’ve naturally led to the other. That kind of hurt doesn’t come from ‘I think I like you a little.’ I don’t think I could’ve gone there. Explaining how and why would’ve—

This other me must be amazing. “So what’s she like?” The question out and asked before she’d really thought it through. Oh! That was so stupid! Why’d I—?

“Umm…she’s—well, she’s,” Buffy stammered. Her spoon clattered against the bowl. “Well, she’s a lot like you only more, umm…I dunno, confident, maybe?”

Willow’s brain-to-mouth censor failed again. “No wonder.” I would be too if I had—

Yeah, so…this is really gonna kill me.

Buffy lifted the tray from her lap, set it on the table and stood. “The sun’s coming up. I want to go outside,” she said, quickly adding, “If that’s okay.” She offered Willow her hand. “Do you want to come with? Is there somewhere we can go?” Apparently thinking better of the request, she amended, “Not the patio.”

“Yeah, umm…” Willow stammered. My room has a balcony. Oh, umm…no. No. A world of ‘no.’ Not my room. I mean, umm…

She wants to watch the sunrise with me?

Willow took Buffy’s hand and rose. Oh! No! I can’t. I need to go—somewhere else. Not my room. And not some balcony with the view and the soft, warm light and the breeze and the—

Her hand trembled. She pulled away. I’m doomed! “The room across the hall has a…” she mumbled, backing toward the door. “Umm…” What am I going to do? “Uh…” This is huge! “I’ll have to go to my room to—” Her heel hit the door and she stopped. Unable to take her eyes off of Buffy, she fumbled around behind her, searching for the doorknob.

“Are you sure you’ll be able to get away again?” Buffy asked. “I mean, I thought you and Kenn—?”

Willow glanced, locating the doorknob before she replied, “We do. We are. Sometimes. It’s just—” She tried to open the door. “It’s complicated.” The doorknob rattled in her hand.

“Here, let me help you,” Buffy offered.

Willow stared at her feet, utterly petrified as Buffy moved toward her. She’s so close. So…too—

Buffy reached around her.

The door opened and Willow ran. She couldn’t resist the urge to glance over her shoulder when she reached her room. Surely a peek would be fine.

D'Hoffryn clutched his hands to his chest above where his heart would be if he had one and sighed. “Ah, young love. Such marvelous fuel for vengeance. This is turning out so much better than I ever could’ve imagined. I might even get an extra witch out of the deal.”

He stared down into the pool muttering, “I must admit that the idea does hold a certain appeal.” Willow was too rattled to even put a key in a lock. Her complexion was about the shade of an overripe strawberry. “Though the Miss Rosenberg from this dimension is rather a pity. I don’t believe I’ve ever witnessed a more pathetic, mousey little creature in all my life.” She dropped her key. “Yes, she does lack a certain flair,” he said, studying her intently as she stooped to retrieve her key.

“But the rage…” He could feel her self-hatred swell. “…the rage she hides is just beautiful. Why didn’t I see that before? I might’ve—”

Contemplating the missed opportunity, he clapped his hands and wrung them. “No matter,” he mumbled. A smile transformed his expression to the very picture of smugness. “In time the stronger of the two will relent. She has no choice. Her world will fall into chaos and she’ll see that she has no choice. She’ll come crawling back to me, groveling for the fate of her dear, sweet Buffy. This poor, wretched little thing will either become friend or fodder in the process. The former would be preferable, but the latter is also acceptable.”

“Huh.” He sobered. “There for a moment I sounded almost diabolical.”

I shouldn’t watch. I know I’m only making things worse, but I want to help. And I have this nearly pathological need to make sure that she’s okay. Of course, because the universe hates us both, by making sure that she’s okay, I’m making her worse.

Buffy was just about to say ‘to heck with it’ when Willow finally got her door to open.

She’s too funny.

The key slipped from Willow’s hand as she disappeared into the room. It bounced once on the carpet and came to rest next to the wall.

And cute. Hopelessly cute.

Buffy still wanted to go help, but Willow turned around, stooped down and snatched it up. The door shut. She imagined Willow leaning against the other side, trying to catch her breath. It’s obviously happening. And that’s too cute too.

She turned from the doorway to retreat into her room. Her hand touched the door. She started to habitually shut it, but thought better of it. She still wasn’t sure about the hinky magic involved. Willow would be right back. What then? What am I s’posed to do? Buffy’s smile faded. The usual. Just my presence is good for at least one ‘Breaking News’ style interruption to scheduled programming every six months. Screwing this up should be no sweat. I don’t even know how I’m s’posed to—

I don’t know. I have no clue how I’m going deal. She’s exactly the same, but different…more vulnerable. Which is just—

An exasperated gasp caught in Buffy’s throat. She hung her head, shaking it as she sighed. It’s slayer bait. A beat later,she turned her attention to the chair. Willow had left her bag behind. Buffy made a hobbled beeline for it. There’s nothing ‘nearly’ about this. I have a purely pathological need to help. She opened the bag and looked inside. It was full of hair stuff, just like she expected. I’m so screwed.

Somebody shoot me. Now. Please.

Her next stop was the bathroom. Moving still hurt, but she was so preoccupied she barely noticed. She placed the bag on the counter and stared at her reflection in the mirror. I need to make the best of it. No telling how long I’ll be stuck here. I’m sure my Will’s doing everything she can. I know she is, but I—

Buffy picked up the brush, intent on distracting herself by finishing what the other Willow had started. She made several passes through her hair before it occurred to her. I’m not even sure my Will still exists. This world could’ve replaced mine.

The sinking feeling went away after a moment or two. No, I refuse to accept that. Besides, I’ve already been over this once. That’s not how this stuff works. I know it isn’t.

The only thing I know of that can turn things this wacky is a wish. That’s it. And wishy, wacky, vampy Willow was in the same world as us. She was pulled through from whatever Hell she came from.

I wonder if that happened here. And if so, how? Were there two vampy, trampy Willow’s, or was the same vampy, trampy Willow pulled through twice? Was the vampy Willow who visited here even trampy? She could’ve been a different kind of different. Less leather, not so sleazy.

Brush in hand, Buffy stood stationary, staring at where both rested against the bathroom counter. Like that even matters. It took a conscious effort to move again. Like this is doing anything to make me feel any less like all of this should be in black and white, with some creepy announcer guy in a bad suit narrating from the sideline every time something new happens.

Whatever. The point is that vampy, trampy Willow was there with us. Both of them were, so my Willow’s there. My world is still there…and my Willow’s trying to find me.

Whether that was denial talking or just plain sense was open to speculation. Buffy was inclined to see sense. It was better for her sanity. She put the brush down, tilted her head until her chin almost touched her chest and started to braid the back of her hair. It hurt. Her shoulder ached and so did her ribs. The stretching was doing neither any favors, but she didn’t care.

I’m just afraid of what she’ll do. That’s the real bitch of this sitch. The answer—the best answer—the only answer I’ve really got is ‘whatever it takes.’ She thinks that I’m too important to abandon. She’ll do anything and everything it takes to get me back. And considering—

The French braid part was done. She pinched it and looked up, reaching over her shoulder to finish the rest. I should do the same. That much is obvious. I just don’t know where to start.

So, I start with what I know. I can help these people if they’ll let me. It’s probably too much to ask, but maybe in the process, I’ll stumble onto a way of helping myself.

She stirred the contents of the bag. Fishing past all of the combs and clips and junk, she located a small scrunchie and tied the braid off. When she looked up, Willow was behind her, smiling.

She’d changed into a cute little ikat print, tunic dress. It was very simple, sleeveless with an Empire waist. The colors weren’t necessarily flattering on her. Mauve has never been her color—what with her red hair. Go figure she’s always liked it. But the primary color’s more of a pale taupe that leans towards peachy, blending through pinks to dark purple, just a little too warm to be navy. Considering the taupe, it looks okay. She wore a white, crocheted cardigan draped over her shoulders. At least that’s how it looked from the sleeve Buffy could see, but Willow wore it like a shawl.

She even did her hair and makeup. Which of course means that she cheated. Dammit. I wish I could cheat. It looks like she’s ready to go somewhere, not here, not just out on some balcony.

Buffy was trapped between a grinning Willow and the sink. She turned around. The closeness was decidedly bad, so she slipped away through the door. As Willow followed her, Buffy realized that she was no closer to deciding what she intended to do. Now comes the fun part: figuring out how to help. I’m clueless. All I’ve got on vampy-me is find where she sleeps and toss in a grenade. Otherwise…

At the doorway Buffy let Willow pass her. Hitting the softer of the two targets makes more sense.

Willow led the way across the hall and through the opposing door. Buffy half expected her to fumble the key, but she didn’t. It was almost a shame. The bout of Willowy cuteness had passed. They made their way wordlessly into the other room, around the bed, to a set of white curtains that lined the far wall. Willow drew them back, revealing a set of French doors. Once Willow had them open, they passed single file out onto a small balcony.

Buffy went to the balcony’s edge and leaned forward. Resting her forearms against the stone railing, she silently took it all in. Above the roofline the fronds of palm trees were silhouetted in the rosiness of the coming dawn. The air was warm and dry. It smelled sweet with flowers from the courtyard below and there was a briny hint, reminding her that the ocean wasn’t far away. I’m home. A world away, but somehow home. It’s so strange.

Willow stood next to her, keeping a comfortable distance. “Where do you live?” she asked.

“Huh?” Buffy stammered. The question came from so far out of nowhere she couldn’t imagine how Willow might’ve guessed.

“It’s just, you have this wistful, sad little smile,” Willow whispered. “That means you’re remembering something you miss. So I—” She moved a little closer, resting her hand against the small of Buffy’s back. “I guessed. I hope that I wasn’t too presumptuous.”

“No, you’re fine,” Buffy replied. “We live in Scotland.”

“I wondered why you wanted to come outside so much.”

“It rains all the time,” Buffy muttered, unconcerned by what Willow had said. “And it’s freezing in the winter. I hate it. But that’s where we live.” She turned her back on the light, lifted herself up on the palms of her hands and hopped back to sit on the railing. Her feet hooked around the balusters. She sat silently waiting, assuming more questions would come.

Willow held her right wrist in her left hand. She looked down, appearing insecure.

Buffy waited a little longer before she gave up. “I’m gonna need a few things,” she said.

“Anything,” Willow replied. “Just tell me you’re not gonna do something dumb.”

It bothered Buffy that Willow hadn’t even looked up. She mocked, “Okay, I’m not gonna do anything dumb.” She didn’t even bother to hold back the mischievous smirk. It’s not like she’s gonna see. She’s too busy inspecting the coral pink paint on her toenails…or maybe her sandals. They’re cute.

Briefly glancing up, Willow said Buffy’s name reproachfully.

Being scolded with my name—never a good sign. I should just tell her that her sandals are cute. Wonder where she got them.

No, I shouldn’t. I should try to actually stay on topic for once. That’s what I should do.

“It’s not dumb,” Buffy insisted. “I swear. You’re going to think I’ve lost it, but I need you to trust me. I can handle it.”

“So, what is it?” Willow asked. “This thing that I’m going to think is crazy, but you’re so sure you can handle?”

“I’m going to go have a word with your landlord,” Buffy replied. “You know, as a tenant, you have—”

Willow’s mouth dropped open. “Oh, Buffy, that’s suicide!” she gasped.

Ignoring the panic, Buffy completed her thought, “—certain rights.” See? I knew it. I should’ve stuck with her sandals. It would’ve been so much less stress. And she wouldn’t be looking at me like I’m out of my mind.

Well, at least she’s looking at me. Smiling, she amended her previous statement, “Actually, I’m not going to do much talking. There’s no point. He’s not exactly the listening type.”

“You know you’re nuts, right?” Willow said.

I love how she tacked on a ‘right,’ making that a question. Like she’s gonna get any confirmation from me.

Alright, whatever, I’ll give an inch. “Maybe…a little.” Buffy followed her confession with a sunny smile. That should make her good and nervous.

Thing is, I’m not worried about Angelus. Not even a little. I probably should be, but everything else is just too wigsome for words. Like this. This is way more wigsome than anything he’s liable to do. He’s all ‘grrr.’ I’m used to that. And conceited and complacent…and that’s something I can fight. But this… I can’t fight this. I’m screwed. When she smiles, my knees get all rubbery.

Buffy stopped to regroup and clear her hyperactive brain, then she stated the simple truth, “I need to do something and he’s the softest target we’ve got. I have to. I can’t just sit around and wait for something to happen.”

“I know,” Willow replied with a sigh. A long, contemplative pause later, she asked, “So I’m not gonna talk you out of this, am I?” She turned to lean against the railing next to Buffy.

Buffy said, “No.” She didn’t even think about it. Funny, my mind’s made up, I’m committed and I still don’t have a clue what I’m gonna do. She stared at the planter by the door. Tawny stubs of a long dead plant poked up through the surface of the crusty, parched soil that had drawn away from the pot. Or why I’m doing it, other than the obvious pathological need.

“So what do you need?” Willow asked.

My head examined. Other than that… “I guess the main thing I need is to fit in,” Buffy replied. “That means a change of clothes…something that makes me look less like I got lost on my way to a pep rally.” She added things as they occurred to her and ticked them off on her fingers. “Some sunglasses, or even better, a pair of light-gray colored contact lenses. I need them to think I’m her. The ‘me’ that’s ‘me’ here.”

Her right forefinger rested against her left middle finger as if to hold her place. Glancing at Willow to gauge her reaction, Buffy said, “My eyes are a dead giveaway.” It surprised her that Willow didn’t seem more upset. “Colored contacts make my eyes look close enough to normal to pass. I have a supply at home. I wear them all the time, but that’s there and I’m here.” I’m not even positive this will help. For all I know, that avoidy stuff earlier was because she’s in up to her neck with Wolfram and Hart. I wish she’d talk to me, but since she won’t, this is the best idea I’ve got.

I just hope she’ll tell me if this is just gonna make things worse. I can’t imagine how it would, but I’ve only been here for like five minutes, so…

Her stalling yielded nothing. No replies, no arguments, no interruptions… “It’s no big,” Buffy said, trying to placate herself as much or more than Willow. “They’ll be too busy wondering how I got through the doors without setting off every alarm in the place to worry about me much. That’s how I need to play this. I need to be in and out before they figure out what’s up.” She moved her index finger to rest on her ring finger. “A distraction would be nice, but not strictly necessary. It’d help.”

A few moments passed. It was getting lighter out. Buffy realized that she was missing the very thing that she’d come outside to see. She hopped down and turned around. Higher up, the sky was a murky orange, duller than sherbet, but seemly just as substantial. Low on the horizon, it was almost the same hue as the red clay roof tiles. It’s weird the stuff you miss. Visibility’s gonna be terrible today, like maybe a quarter mile.

As she basked in the strange, familiar beauty of a smoggy sunrise, it occurred to her that she’d forgotten something. Ticking off her on pinky, she added an afterthought, “Oh, and I need a great big bag, like one of those huge, canvas, drawstring things you can get at an Army surplus store.”

Willow was leaned against the balcony wall, watching her intently. Her brow crinkled. She asked, “Why?” through an amused grin.

Buffy laughed. “You don’t want to know.”

“You’re probably right,” Willow admitted. “Alright, I’ll give you what you want, whatever that is, but I need you to do something for me.”

Now we’re bartering? Really? Buffy sighed. She was almost afraid to ask, “What?” She may as well have saved her breath. Her simple, little, single-word question was completely overrun by babble.

“Or I want you to. I can’t make you, but I don’t think it would be—”

She leaned forward against the railing to wait it out. When a break came, she tried again, “What is it, Will?”

“I want you to follow your heart,” Willow replied. “Before you flip out and get all wiggy, listen to me.”

Me wiggy? Really? Compared to—?

Again, Willow developed a profound interest in her sandals. “We both know how this works,” she whispered. “You don’t belong here, which means this is either because of one dilly of a spell gone horribly wrong, or a wish. The simplest answer’s the second one. I’m not even sure the first one’s possible, so it probably was a—”

Buffy interrupted, “Did you—?” regretting it the instant Willow lost interest in her sandals.

“No, I most certainly did not,” Willow snapped. Buffy hung her head, staring blearily into the courtyard below as Willow chewed her out, “How can you even ask me that? You know better. I—”

To make matters worse, Buffy spoke too soon, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” She fell silent when Willow turned away. Buffy thought for sure Willow would fold her arms and pout.

Willow leaned against the rail with her back half turned. “I know you didn’t,” she whispered. Her posture relaxed. Turning, she shifted her weight to both of her arms and picked up her thought from where she’d left off, “Chances are your Willow—the one from your world—is doing everything she can to set things right. I sure would be. I’d want you back more than anything.”

Buffy placed her hand over Willow’s. I think I see where she’s going with this. And she’s probably right.

Willow turned her hand over. “And when she does…” she whispered as Buffy took hold, using her hand to guide her “…everything will go back to the way it was.” Willow came willingly. “I’m not sure either one of us will remember any of this.” She gave in to the embrace, slumping to let her head rested on Buffy’s shoulder. A real hug was nice, not to mention less confusing. “I don’t know,” Willow admitted, sounding lost. “I hate not knowing. I used to think I knew lots of things. I remember feeling so driven to find out more.”

Her unrest was palpable. It was awful seeing her this way. All Buffy could think to do to help was caress her back.

Moments later, Willow picked up, trying to explain, “None of the people at that party—the one Anya went to—with the wish, the Abercrombie and Fitch and the spidery badness—” Her tone had grown softer, subtler, yet somehow more anxious. “None of them remembered anything. You know me. I was curious. I checked. It was like nothing had happened.” She lifted her head to meet Buffy’s eyes. “That happened, right—where you’re from?”

Buffy inclined her chin. That was apparently affirmation enough. Willow’s lips brushed hers. So much for less confusing. It was hard to say whether Willow was right. Thing could go either way. Right now Buffy didn’t care. She let inertia carry her. She expected the kiss to feel wrong. And it might’ve had it been driven by passion. Instead, it was soft and tender. Willow felt like Willow, tasted like Willow, moved like Willow… For the moment, that was enough to erase any doubt.

They parted. Buffy rested her forehead against Willow’s, holding her head in her hands. It felt so good…so normal. Willow’s breath flowed over her skin. Tilting her head back, Buffy guided Willow again, placing a kiss on her brow. It seemed like the right thing, but it probably wasn’t because it was the sort of thing she might’ve done to her friend. It worried her when Willow pulled way. Buffy turned and hopped up on the railing to await her reaction. She can’t expect me to be something—

Willow leaned back, resting casually against the rail. “That was nice,” she whispered.

That wasn’t exactly what Buffy expected, or even wanted to hear, but the air of sincerity with which it was delivered came as a relief. Some imagined weight lifted from her chest. She inclined her head, listening to the delicate sound of Willow’s voice, “I sort of knew, if this ever happened, it’d be nice—” Buffy focused on Willow’s hands where they rested against her tummy. “—that you’d be sweet and gentle.” Peripherally she made out the sentimental smile on Willow’s face. “Of course, I was curious, even when ‘curious’ was the last thing I should’ve been,” Willow admitted through a snicker. “I’m so bad.”

Something caught Buffy’s eye. She turned to look, certain it had been a trick of the light. Willow’s cardigan had fallen from her shoulder. Between it and the shadow of the armhole in her dress was a thin, nearly white line, like a thread had come loose or something. Buffy reached to brush it away.

“I just knew—” Willow said, flinching when Buffy touched her “—in spite of all the other stuff—” Buffy looked down “—the people you were with—” the mark hadn’t changed “—that if you ever touched me—” Willow took hold of her cardigan, trying to cover her arm.

Buffy didn’t have much reason for concern until then. Strength and speed won out. She snatched the sweater. As she pulled down, it tore from Willow’s grasp, exposing uniform, overlapping, horizontal rows of scars. Willow’s attempt to slip free ended when Buffy snapped, “No.”

Lingering doubt turned to revulsion as Buffy inspected them. They were disturbingly precise. Each scar measured roughly an inch in length with an eighth inch gap between it and the ones above it and below it in each column. The columns were deeply woven with their neighbors, creating the illusion of an eighth inch wide vertical stripe in the center of each row. This wasn’t so much a stripe of anything in particular, just a break in the damage.

Tracing this less mutilated section with her thumb, Buffy counted ten down and stopped, measuring an equal distance. There weren’t quite enough, only six more. She counted the columns she could see and arrived at four. There were more. She knew there were, but four was all she could accept at the moment. Sixteen and sixteen and thirty-two, thirty-two and thirty-two are sixty-four.

Even the inaccurate, incomplete number left her distraught. The band of scars was only two inches wide at the most. It was just so condensed. So condensed that Buffy thought Willow could probably still wear a tee-shirt without arousing suspicion. But there are so many.

How can there be that many?

Using the nail of her index finger, Willow pointed to the scar at the tip of Buffy’s right thumb. “Amanda Lawson, age fifteen from Oak Brook, Illinois.”

Buffy couldn’t hold on. Her arms dropped to her sides. She was utterly flabbergasted by how calm Willow sounded.

“Amanda was raised by her mother Natalie after her father passed away in a car accident when she was five. She appeared to have had a fairly normal childhood, though I’m sure money was tight. It always is in single parent households.”

Buffy listened caught up in a sentimental memory of smooth, perfect skin with the lightest dusting of freckles.

“I’m equally sure she idealized her father. That’s how that usually goes. That’s probably why Natalie waited so long to remarry. She’d only been married a few months when Amanda ran away. It’s always easier to run when things seem bad.”

Easier? Buffy’s mind churned as though grasping for something to cling to. That doesn’t make any sense.

Willow moved her finger around her arm, pointing to the scar Buffy’s other thumb nail had been resting against. “Emily Vaughn, age nineteen, Albuquerque, New Mexico.”

None of this makes sense.

“That’s enough,” Buffy said. “I get it.” I have no doubt that her memory of every last detail concerning every single girl is every bit as disturbingly mechanical as each pencil-thin scar. No doubt she spent every waking moment brooding over every conceivable thing she might’ve done wrong.

That doesn’t make this right.

Willow turned, allowing the cardigan to fall. “You probably think this is insane, don’t you?” she asked.

More rows of scars lined her right arm too. They were incomplete, ending in an oversized Band-Aid just left of the uppermost curve of her bicep.

In a word, ‘absolutely.’

Buffy didn’t try to count or add. She still didn’t want to know how much farther this went. Her hands were full already grappling with impossible things: the magnitude of what each scar symbolized combined with the anger in Willow’s question. It’s like she’s accusing me. She had to turn away. I had nothing to do with any—

The top portion of the sun had crested the roofline. It was too bright. She looked down into the courtyard below as Willow ranted, “What would you have had me do? Make hash marks in some notebook?”

“I don’t know,” Buffy replied. “Not that.”

“Why not?” Willow demanded.

Buffy couldn’t answer. She couldn’t walk away. She couldn’t watch. So she became an unwilling audience to Willow’s rage.

“I deserved to wear a constant reminder of the pain I’ve caused. Even if I believe what you say—that it wasn’t directly my fault—I think you’d find it disappointing. You wouldn’t like it if you got it. You’d think that I was less ‘me’ if I did.”

Her eyes lost focus. She refused to blink them. Tears clung to her lashes. One fell into the hazy gray below.

“But that doesn’t matter. Even if that happened, directly or indirectly, I’m responsible and I’d still want a way to remember. Something lasting. Something that can’t be washed away, or burned, or shredded, or broken, or…” Willow’s voice gave out.

Buffy looked up. Willow’s face was streaked with tears, but so was hers. “Do you blame me?” Buffy asked. The question was ridiculous. On some level she knew that, but she couldn’t help feeling that she might be culpable in some impossible way.

Willow replied, “What?” through a gasp. “No.” She turned away. “Oh.”

When she tried to run, Buffy caught her. Willow yanked her arm, desperate to break free, but Buffy wouldn’t let go, so she fell apart. A stammered stream of apologies, acquittals and excuses rolled off her tongue. Between the first ‘I’m sorry’ and the last with its many ‘sos,’ Buffy lost track. She just held Willow. That was the important part. She shushed and whispered, “It’s okay,” repeating and caressing until it passed.

As Buffy stood, clinging to Willow, soggy and a little too warm, anger grew inside her. She didn’t understand why at first. So many. How could there be so many? There were sixty-four scars. More than that. I don’t even know how many. Too many. But one would be too many.

If it’s been eighteen months, that’s almost one a week. But there were more. Lots more. Somebody had to notice. How could Kennedy share a bed with Will, even occasionally, and not notice? She should’ve stopped her, but she didn’t. She probably helped. She probably encouraged it. At the very least, she condoned it. In my book, that makes her responsible. Snot nosed, inbred little bitch probably believes that Will—

Buffy let go. She was through the French doors and halfway through the room before she really understood what she meant to do. I’m going to kill her. She turned right into the hallway. What was it Will said? ‘She’s not the same Kennedy’?

The door to Willow’s room opened freely. She expected to see Kennedy…or something. There was nothing. The room looked exactly like the one Buffy herself was in, devoid of any signs that someone lived there. There should’ve at least been a book on the desk. This was supposed to be Willow’s room after all. Buffy turned around, stumped by the emptiness.

The solution was simple enough. She’d picked the wrong room. Now she was stuck waiting and seething. I don’t see how it could be that many. There’s no way police aren’t involved. More than two murders that follow a pattern, that’s how they define a serial killer. But more than sixty? What’s that?

It’s insane! That’s what it is! I wonder what they think. Do they have any leads? The press has to be—

“Where is she?” Buffy asked when Willow appeared in the doorway, but she was too stunned to answer.

And Kennedy’s too goddamned stupid to see that Will’s a victim as much as—

Willow finally managed a strained, “Huh?”

Buffy summoned her patience and asked again, slowly, carefully enunciating each word, “Where is Kennedy?”

“In her room.”

“Where?”

Willow was too shaken to do anything except answer. Using her thumb, she pointed behind her to the door across the hall.

That was all Buffy needed to know. She marched past Willow. The doorknob rattled in her hand when she tried it. She forced the issue, causing it to pop, but the door still wouldn’t open. Her knock was more of a punch. By all rights it should’ve hurt, but it didn’t. Her hand cracked against the door. The thud that should’ve been loud was lost to her too. It came through muffled, drowned out by the rage churning inside her. She shouted, “Get out here, you worthless, sadistic bitch! I want a word!”

Nothing happened on the other side of the door, so Buffy stepped back.

On her side of the door, Willow was coming unglued. She pleaded, “No,” clinging to Buffy to make her stop. “No, please.”

Furious, Buffy said, “Stop,” or maybe she shouted it. She wasn’t sure, but either way Willow backed down.

Buffy hauled off and kicked the door. The crisp popping sound of hard, dry wood splintering cut through the haze.

“She’s mine!” Buffy shouted. “Do you understand me?” She threw her shoulder into the door. The cross fell, striking her and tumbling to the floor. She swept it away with her foot.

“If you so much as look at Will again, I’ll scoop your goddamned eyes out and cram them down your throat!” she yelled, pounding the door to punctuate the sentiment. With each blow, the crack in its center panel swelled and shrank. She expected the door to come apart, but the damned thing was too stubborn.

The hallway lights came on. Giles shouted, “What is the meaning of this?”

As Buffy turned to watch him run toward them, Kennedy yelled, “You can have the nasty, used up, little cu—”

Buffy kicked the door. The left half of the center panel dropped a quarter inch.

“You’re perfect for each other! A whore and a—”

The door clattered when she threw her weight against it to drown Kennedy out. She stood still for a moment, poised to answer insult with injury. Hearing nothing except for sweet, blessed silence, she turned away.

Willow was in her room, her back pressed against the curtains that lined the opposite wall. It was as though she’d backed away and kept backing until she ran out of room. Her eyes were glassy. Her face was streaked with fresh tears. Buffy wanted to hold her and tell her it’d be okay, but she was afraid to even approach her.

Worse, the only way she could think to answer Giles was to show him. She wanted to run over, rip the sweater down, hold Willow out and force him to look. I want to see his goddamned face. Know whether he knows. But it doesn’t matter whether he does not. He’s still culpable. They all are. They sat here like a bunch of useless—

Pulsating waves of heat and pressure welled up behind Buffy’s eyes. Her face tingled. She took a breath and her head swam. The truth of what she was driven to do pulled her under. No, I can’t. It made her feel sick. I won’t. She slipped past Giles and took off down the hall.

He called after her, “Here now! I asked you a question!”

She went straight to her room without looking back. Will can explain if she wants. She can do whatever she wants. I’m—

I’m done.

She stepped inside and slammed the door. The numbness was subsiding. Sharp pain sliced through her shoulder when she leaned against the door. She angled her back flat against it to remove the pressure. Sixty deaths are nothing here. That’s the truth. It sounds horrific. It sounds like it should matter. It should mean something awful. But really, it’s just a bad morning on the freeway. A fifteen second spot on the evening news. The ones who listen barely hear.

Her legs buckled, refusing to support her weight. The cold, hard, uneven surface of the paneled door grated her shoulders as she slumped. Her right knee hurt like hell again. She held it straight. The heel of her right foot dragged the carpet as her left leg folded. Considering the demographic and the time involved…sixty teenage girls, all runaways disappearing over a year and a half… Her left thigh pressed against her breast. Brooding, she held her leg tight. That’s like a drop in the ocean. A steady stream of girls arrives here each day, believing that they’re special in some way…that they might be noticed. And sometimes they are…but mostly by the wrong people. The sharp pain in her right leg and shoulder faded to a dull ache.

Used up, chewed up and spit out.

Her right hand was the next thing on the list to bite. When she moved it, pain like needles stabbed at the joints and across the back. Well, that’s broken…again. She let it drop from its duty of holding her left leg. It came to rest across her right thigh. She looked down. Her hand was swollen and her knuckles were scraped and bloody. That’s nice.

Another thing for the list.

Provided the pile of body parts were disposed of, those girls would never be missed. That’s what Will meant. Wolfram and Hart has been cleaning up the mess. In exchange for what, I’m not sure, but I’d bet that they have files implicating the people here in some if not all of those murders.

So what now, genius? Any more bright ideas about how you can ‘help’?

Chapter Text

Giles slumped, stymied by what he’d just witnessed. He felt as though his head had only hit the pillow moments before. Yet somehow, between the time that had happened and now, a great many things had transpired. For one, morning had arrived. As for the rest, he wasn’t quite sure what to make of them. He removed his glasses to wipe the sleep from his eyes.

By simply leaving his room, he’d managed to land himself in the middle of an unpleasant situation. Not that he expected anything less, given the cacophony, but this had turned out quite different from what he’d envisioned. He was trapped, not literally, but by obligation. He couldn’t very well leave Willow to manage on her own. Nor could he speak to her; she was far too distraught. Even looking to where she sat opposite the door seemed impolite. So, with his glasses back in place, he peered into the shadowy emptiness of the lobby at the hallway’s end, piecing together what he could about the altercation.

The open door behind him suggested that Buffy and Willow had been in there. That room was one of the few with a terrace that were vacant. Perhaps they went there to be outside without leaving the hotel?

He could almost see them together, addressing each other with the same casual familiarity they had in years past. Had Kennedy come upon them at an inopportune moment, she could’ve quite easily taken it poorly. She is sensitive young woman. Perhaps, however, what I cannot understand is how that might lead to such a violent outburst on Buffy’s part. The door to Kennedy’s room looked as though magic was the only thing holding it up.

The Buffy Summers that I recall wasn’t given to such behavior. I’d like to believe that it would take a great deal to drive her to such a vulgar display, though the reality is that the person I’m with familiar with is gone. Even after all this time, the thought curdled his stomach. He pushed the discomfort aside. This new person, who shares her physical features and at least some of her memories, could be capable of most anything. As tempting as it is to view her arrival optimistically, I’m still not entirely convinced that no harm will come of it.

One detail brought him some small measure of comfort: Willow had changed her clothes. The dress she had on might even be fetching; though posed as she was, bent and hugging her shins, it was impossible to tell. That hardly matters. This sense of hopelessness has taken a toll on us all. It’s been months since I’ve seen her in anything other than a tracksuit or a housecoat or some combination thereof. I had hoped that Buffy’s influence would have some positive effect. Though small, this is an example of that.

Satisfied that he’d surmised all he could, Giles rapped gently on the open door. “Is there some way I might be of help?” His offer, though heartfelt, was entirely too premature. Willow merely sobbed. His hand fell to his side. He felt useless for a time, until it occurred to him that hovering by the door wasn’t the best of ways to reach out. He approached her. When she made no moves to protest, he smoothed his housecoat beneath him as he sat down on the floor beside her.

The French door’s facing where he found himself wasn’t the most comfortable of places to rest his back, but he didn’t want to impose himself on her. Several moments passed before he tentatively touched her shoulder. He allowed several more for her to shy away. Finally convinced he wasn’t intruding, he put his arm around her. She leaned into his embrace. Her arms wrapped around his middle.

The gentle shudder of her fretting lulled him. He stared at his own old house shoes, the legs of his pajamas, the floor that stretched out before him and the bottom of the broken door. Time crept idly by. He rubbed her back, as much to soothe himself as her. He could’ve very easily napped right there on the floor, however he remained vigilant to some extent, listening, expecting to hear something. He heard nothing.

When Willow had settled down enough to perhaps be responsive, Giles said, “I’m not entirely certain that Buffy showing up the way she did has been for the best.” It was a gamble, one that was met with a harsh rebuke.

“How can you say that?” Willow pulled free of his embrace.

Though she appeared quite aghast, Giles met her eyes and pressed on, “I believe that her presence stands to cause more unrest. Look at this morning’s events.” I should be ashamed of myself for being so indelicate, especially when I’m not entirely certain how I feel. This is simply the most effective way to provoke a response.

Unfortunately, it was only so effective. The wind went out of Willow’s sails. Moreover, she was instantly and utterly shamefaced. That seemed an outlandish reaction. Giles puzzled as he waited, hopeful for some reply. At the very least, I can take away the knowledge that she doesn’t view our guest as a threat. In fact, I believe it’s safe to say that Willow holds herself responsible for the disturbance. I don’t see how. Though I suppose if I knew that, it would hardly be necessary—

“That wasn’t her fault.” Willow’s answer merely confirmed what he’d already suspected.

Impulsively, he prompted, “Would you mind sharing what has led you to believe that?” The effort was futile, if not entirely daft. He already knew the answer: obviously she did mind. Nothing further was offered, so he rose to his feet and held his hand out to her. “I appreciate that this must be difficult,” he amended, feeling quite the fool. “My apologies. Would you at least allow me to offer you a hand?”

Willow met his eyes, thanked him and accepted his assistance. That was more than he expected, though helping her turned out to be something more like following her. Once she was settled, seated in one of the chairs, he asked, “I was planning to make some coffee. Could I offer you a cup?”

“Yeah, that’d be nice.”

The coffee maker was making all of those wonderful wheezy, gurgling noises that led to warm, yummy beverages and semi-lucid thoughts. Buffy tracked the sound to its source past the clerk’s counter through a maze of open doorways and dimly lit corridors.

She found Giles seated at the head of a large table in what appeared to be a modestly and agedly appointed conference room, or perhaps a break room. It did have a kitchenette with a counter and a sink which was typical of break rooms, though there was only the one table. Of all things, he was reading a musty old book. Imagine that.

Buffy put on a cheery smile as she drew his attention by entering the room. “What’s up?” she asked, moving to join him.

“I could ask you that very same thing,” Giles replied.

Her hands came to rest on the back of the chair to his right. She paused to look him in the eye before taking a seat. His expression read ‘tetchy.’ Intentionally she deflected to set him off, “You could, but I asked first.”

It worked. As Buffy took her seat, Giles countered, “Don’t play coy with me. Surely there was some point to your behavior.”

Oh my. He thinks I misbehaved. That’s just tragic. Keeping her expression neutral was a struggle. Buffy ended up the purest picture of innocence for her effort. She even batted her eyelashes.

The passive provocation worked. He snapped, “Do you often beat down doors with your bare hands?” His face was turning such a lovely shade of scarlet. “Must I remind you that you are a guest here? From what I’ve been able to assess, Kennedy did nothing to warrant your ire.”

A bemused “Huh,” just kind of slipped out. The word ‘ire’ was a bit too Gilesy, but that didn’t matter, the slipup added to the image Buffy wished to project. “What do you mean?” she asked. “She’s a horrible person.”

“She can be somewhat brusque,” Giles retorted, “but I’m afraid that I do not share your opinion.”

The coffee maker had finished its happy burbling. This room, at least, no longer smelled like the set of a Mickey Spillane movie—or what Buffy imagined the set of a Mickey Spillane movie might smell like—with the dilapidation and stale tobacco smoke. The Hyperion was the sort of place the tobacco smells might never come out of. She was tempted to fix herself a cup, but she put that off to goad, “Oh, c’mon, Giles, don’t tell me you’re clueless.”

Giles remained comfortably seated high aloft his horse.

Buffy paused dramatically to take that in before she exclaimed, “Oh my god, you are.”

A chink in his armor appeared as she explained, “Willow’s been going through hell and you’ve just been sitting around watching.” Buffy stalled again to regard him reproachfully. “Not so good at the whole ‘seeing’ part of the exercise are you?”

Giles stiffened. He managed to slip an “I” in edgeways before she cut him off.

“Kennedy blames Willow for all the slayers that have died. She’s been exacting her own special brand of revenge.” All of the bluster had left him. And it only took was two little sentences. That wasn’t quite enough for Buffy. She had to add insult to injury. “I can’t believe it’s been over a year and you haven’t noticed.”

She rose, poured herself a cup and left Giles to stew.

Kennedy found herself in the unpleasant position of believing that she had both every reason to be ashamed and none at all. Feeling that way wasn’t doing her stomach any favors. She lay on her bed curled up on her side on top of the covers, brooding. None of this shit’s my fault. All I did was hook up with a crazy person.

It sucks.

Willow was so amazing when I first met her. Now she’s just pathetic. And I’m here being pathetic right alongside her…and them. But complacency’s my only real sin. I have no reason to be ashamed. Certainly not around them. I did my part. I stuck around for the first act and the second. Skipping the third sounds like a plan.

But what am I gonna do, call my father? That’d go over well. I can just hear it. ‘Dad, I checked into the Hotel California.’ Insert sad story here. My dad would appreciate the reference—he always did like The Eagles—but not the irony. And of course, if I go there, my dad will call it like he sees it. And I’ll have to admit that he’s right. I screwed up.

Sounds like—

A light knock came at her door. Kennedy flinched, feeling the fool when Giles announced himself in hushed tones, like he even needed to. He could’ve just gotten on with…

“Please, I must a have a word with you.” His turgid, ‘cut-glass’ accent was impossible to mistake.

Great. This is all I need. I’m barely over the queen of freaks trying to bash my door in. Now her royal emissary’s come to smooth things over.

Please.

“I have nothing to say to any of you,” Kennedy replied. There’s no sense in wasting my breath. He’s just going to side with her. They act like finding Buffy is some kind of miracle. Like she’s the second coming. The only miracle I see is that she hasn’t ripped their stupid faces off.

Kennedy shifted her position just enough to focus on the remains of her door as Giles prattled his reproach, “If you would please keep your voice down, I’d appreciate it. I’d like to do this in such a way as to not involve the entire household.”

‘Second coming’? You’d think, right?

“I’m not here to judge you. I simply want to hear your side of the story.”

Well, there are two of them. Or so they claim. Kennedy sat up in bed. Giles wasn’t going to leave her alone, so…

They obviously think I should be blown away. I’m not. Human or vamp, miracle or not—that doesn’t change who she is. I’m sure they’ll be very happy together. She’s as fucked in the head as they are.

“Like I’d believe that,” Kennedy grumbled as she crawled out of bed. She considered just saying ‘no,’ but Giles wasn’t going to take ‘no’ for an answer.

“Well you should,” he persisted. “Have you ever known me to make a rash decision?”

“Rash? No. Poor? Yes,” Kennedy snarked on her way to the bathroom. She wanted more sleep, but there was just no way Captain Ahab was going to let her have that, not considering the histrionic catch of the day.

“Touché,” he capitulated. And it would’ve been dandy if he’d stayed ‘capitulated,’ but—

“I’m not convinced that this woman…”

Blah, blah, blah…

Kennedy opted to concentrate on brushing her hair…and her literary metaphor. It had been flawed. Giles wasn’t Ahab. Buffy was. And the First Evil, the Great White Whale. Giles was more like Starbuck, the faithful man who in the end has enough good sense to question Ahab’s obsession. It was all that minus the musket.

Through a twist fate Buffy became the monster. Which actually bears a certain similarity to the original tale, but Ahab didn’t abandon ship like Buffy did. Without her captain, the Pequod drifted. And we’ve been—

Giles said something else—something that might’ve been useful—something like: “Your assistance would be greatly appreciated.” Something like that.

Kennedy put her brush down and turned on the water to wash her face. Whatever. He’s been sitting here with his thumb up his butt for over a year, praying for some sort of miracle. He’s no Ahab.

“First and foremost,” Giles said, “I’d like to know why you believe she would wish to harm you.” His voice blended with the babble of running water.

Kennedy pieced together what he’d said and came back with a biting retort, “She’s a loony.”

“Yes, well, that’s hardly helpful,” he replied. “Please open your door so we can talk. You have my promise that I will be fair. And if you are indeed innocent, I will defend you as best I’m able.”

Kennedy stared at the mirror. It was bad. She hadn’t gotten more than two hours sleep. Chilly water flowed into her hands as she pointed out, “That door’s not going to close again if I open it.” Giles does have one thing going for him. His faith has, at the best of times, been suspicious, but his integrity not so much.

“Well, then. Pack your things and we’ll move you to another room.”

His answer wasn’t a bad one. At the very least, she’d be able to come and go as she pleased. “Alright, gimme a few,” she replied. This could be the best chance I have of quietly sneaking out of this asylum short of diving out a window. I just need to play it cool. I’ve done nothing wrong.

The heat of a small sun radiated from Willow’s face. She couldn’t help it. None of it. Kennedy’s door had come apart with a loud bang and bunches of clattering. It had been impossible to ignore. Feeling the need to investigate had been a mistake. A huge one. Maybe the worst. I’m too curious for my own good.

But there was supposed to be coffee and company, not contortionism and wallowing—literal wallowing—on the floor, in my nice dress with my ear to the register…

Snooping! I’m—I’ve stooped to—

Hearing Giles’ voice again made her heart flutter, and not in the good and swoony way. “It has been brought to my attention that there are aspects of your relationship with Willow that might be—”

Lying on the floor was undignified, not to mention uncomfortable. It was hard and dirty and ouchy and cold, but she couldn’t hear any other way. And they’re talking about me!

“That is to say—and not to pry—this truly is none of my affair, unless it—uh…there might be things that you two do that aren’t—that may be more rambunctious than what is—”

Giles might’ve been less flustered if Kennedy had taken him to a nudie bar. It was hard to say.

Kennedy tried to set him at ease. “Giles, chill. We haven’t done anything wrong.”

But Giles wasn’t having any of it. “Please allow me to finish.” Or maybe he was having some of it. Kennedy got her wish. He wasn’t nervous anymore. His voice had that crisp vibrato of someone who was self-assured and loquacious…and maybe just the teensiest bit snooty. “It has been inferred that you blame Willow for some of the more disturbing events that have occurred since our arrival here. And that has been affecting your relationship with her.”

Willow’s mouth felt like she’d drank a bottle of Elmer’s. The weird kids in school used to do that, or close. I was never quite that weird. But that didn’t matter. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth…like that, or like you’d think that might be. And she was sweaty. There was actual sweat, but being on the floor was making her chilly. It was like all this talk of ‘inference’ was making her sick. Fluey sick, not nervous sick, though there was definitely some of that too.

It was Kennedy’s turn to stick a knife in and twist. And ‘oh boy’ did she ever.

“Look, Giles, Willow has certain proclivities that you probably won’t approve of. To me it’s no big deal. She’s just another screwed up girl with daddy issues, or whatever, who wanted me to slap her tight little ass. Her issues might be bigger, but everyone has issues. Girls like her are a dime a dozen.”

Willow could’ve just died. She could’ve curled up in a tight little ball and—

“Yes, well. Whether I approve or disapprove is hardly pertinent. You need to understand that there are lines.”

Positively giggly and giddy, Kennedy interrupted, “Yeah, okay. Y’know, it isn’t hard to tell when they like it. There’s a certain dewiness that comes from spanking.”

It wasn’t difficult to see why she was so pleased with herself. She’d shut Giles down in a few short, highly evocative, all-too candid words. And by doing so she’d also given Willow time to think. Reacting was fine. Horrible, but fine. She could just be humiliated beyond belief. That part was easy. She’d had plenty of practice. Stopping and thinking gave her a chance to dwell on the fact that Giles was right. Too right. Disturbingly so. So right that he had to have had help with his deduction. And the only one who could’ve helped was—

“I don’t care what was asked of you. That isn’t the issue. My concern is whether you did things you felt were wrong. People who are under great stress can feel that they know exactly what’s best. But the reality can be—and I know this isn’t fair—absolutes don’t apply—but they can feel that something is right when the opposite is true. Willow has been placed in a terrible position, one which has surely caused her to experience a great deal of remorse. There is little doubt that that has colored her perception.”

The entire time Giles spoke, Willow felt herself sinking. His timing was just too convenient. And he was too sure of himself. He didn’t falter or stammer. There might’ve been a pause for a breath here or there, but not so much that she noticed.

Kennedy wasn’t having any of it. “No. You’ve got it all wrong.”

But Giles wasn’t either. “You are a slayer, Kennedy.” Maybe she’d tipped her hand. Or maybe he was just pressing to see if she would. “I know that I don’t need to point out to you that you are far more physically gifted than the average person…and while Willow is quite gifted in her own right, she is still physically very much average.”

Gifted? Yeah, at being a laughingstock maybe, the brunt of a cruel joke, hiding the truth…

Buffy was faced with a mystery. Mostly because the mystery was far preferable to—

“Think what you want. I’ve done nothing wrong.” Kennedy was on a short fuse, but that made perfect sense to Buffy. Because overcompensating’s never a sign of guilt.

So yeah…this patio of Will’s is more of a courtyard, in the actual sense that there are four walls no roof. Unless she can fly, I don’t see how vampy-me’s been getting anything in and out of here, let alone big buckets of body parts. You’d think they’d be kind of cumbersome.

“I’m not suggesting that you have. I’m merely pointing out that perhaps you were more forceful than was prudent.”

Gotta hand it to Giles, he’s a credit to his profession. Who knew that doggedness could be such an art?

Buffy’s leg gave her hell as she paced the perimeter of her picturesque prison one more time, looking for a missed sewer grate or something. There has to be something. Anything will do. I’m not picky. I just want some other way out of this box.

There was nothing, just high walls; a couple sets of doors, both locked, boarded up and no doubt chained from the inside; brick steps; cast concrete benches and planters; raised, stonewalled garden beds; and a few storm drains that might work, if she was about the size of a rat. I could open the doors, but not without everyone in the neighborhood hearing me. The only other way is the way I got in.

Willow was blowing a gasket from somewhere else inside the hotel, probably her room given where the muffed, shouted, “Leave her alone,” came from.

Buffy didn’t care to hear that either. It made her feel just that much more desperate. The news that Willow had been cutting was plenty. That Kennedy had been beating her too was information overload on a level that made Buffy want to—

I’m not even sure. Just being far, far away from here would be a good start. Preferably before it happens. The inevitable. If Willow holds true to form, she’ll defend Kennedy to her dying breath to hide her own complicity. And won’t listening to that be fun?

There has to be some other way out of here.

Thinking of Willow as exemplifying a stereotype was impossible to reconcile, but there she was slamming doors and shouting, “This is none of your business. I don’t see how you can feel that you have any right! This is my personal, private business!”

This whole show—every nightmarish second of it—is above average dumb. It’s like they pulled out all the stops on worst case scenarios. I’m kind of over it. When they entered the room, why couldn’t I just walk past them out the door like a normal, not-so-much guilty person? Like the cookie jar wasn’t just a porch. I had no reason to feel guilty. All I wanted was to be outside.

That much I got. Wishes suck. I forgot to add the ‘peace and quiet’ clause. And the ‘absence of any more shocking revelations’ footnote. In short: I screwed myself.

Buffy continue to poke around. She was still no closer to finding a way out when Willow calmed enough to ask, “Who told you?” Not that she was actually calm. Not by any stretch.

At least it was a pretty courtyard with lot of plants and places to sit. There was even a fountain, which was kind of an obstacle in Buffy’s new and brilliant plan.

And the drama just kept unfolding. Giles was mid-hem and pre-haw, being evasive, and all too British. “I’d rather not say.”

It was past time to bail, but the second floor was a total bust. There are only three verandas. The far right one was Willow’s based on where the sound of her voice had come from. The left one was where the current discussion that Buffy wanted nothing more to do with was taking place. The middle one was an unknown, but with the doors shut and the drapes drawn, it’d probably be a bust too. I’d just have to break the doors. Even if I even could, that’d just bring me back to ‘noisy.’ So, third floor it is. Pray I get lucky. This is gonna suck.

There wasn’t a whole lot of room to run. Buffy got as far away as she could from where she wanted to be, sprinted and bounced. Her leg gave her grief, but she sucked it up, clearing the plants and avoiding the stupid fountain. And that was enough. Her leg almost went out from under her when she touched down on a concrete bench. She favored her good leg and sprung. Her timing couldn’t have been better.

“It was Buffy, wasn’t it?”

The accusation really screwed her up. Between that and her leg, she came dangerously close to doing a Wile E. Coyote-esque splat. She had aimed for the upper middle balcony and ended up way low and wide of her mark. It was all she could do to catch the bottom lip of the left third floor railing as she fell. With nothing to stop them, inertia carried her legs. The toes of her tennies almost tapped the ceiling of the second floor veranda. And of course, the obligatory, “Oof,” just sort of came out.

As she dangled, swinging around to face the courtyard, Willow asked, “What did she tell you?”

Buffy was stunned by the question. She was sure that she’d made so much noise that everyone would come out to see what was what. It took her a second to catch up. Then it hit her, the accusation had come from Willow too. Hey! I didn’t tell him anything. She was there. How can she—?

It was climb or drop. Buffy dropped. She landed in the very place she’d been so bent on avoiding. And nobody noticed. They were all too busy playing the recrimination game…of which she had somehow become a part.

“How did I end up involved in this?” Buffy asked, sounding genuinely confused, because she was. She had to give Kennedy props for not being half as dumb as she thought. The bed squeaked and no more Kennedy. A door down the hallway slammed as Buffy stepped into the room.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt…” Somehow she’d become the target of Willow’s glare. She had to look away. “…or eavesdrop. I just wanted more time outside. But you have to believe that whatever you think I did, I didn’t do it. Unless it was eavesdrop. I did do that, but I sure didn’t want to. I would’ve given—” she puzzled, trying to come up with adequate sacrifice, but nothing came to mind “—almost anything to miss this.” That worked. It was sufficient…and mostly true.

“Yes, well, I believe I’ve seen enough,” Giles said, turning to leave.

Buffy was all over that. “I couldn’t agree more,” she mumbled.

The moment he was gone, Willow spat, “How could you?”

“You’re not hearing me,” Buffy replied, “I didn’t.”

It was too late. Willow marched out of the room in a huff.

Willow had decided that her plan contained equal measures of irony and justice. The idea pleased her. It’s interesting how often those two things come together. But the honest-to-God truth is that, for all its elegance, it also contains a heaping helping of desperation. This is an endgame. There’s no way around that.

She’d agonized for hours over finding another way. There just isn’t one. This is it. I’ve done the research. I’ve taken my medicine. There’s only one thing left to do. I need the power of a vengeance demon, or five. So, I can either become one or…

This is where the irony comes in…and the justice. D’Hoffryn should love this.

She stood in the foyer of a pub. The place had a rustic charm despite its urban setting. Yeah, so…it’s now or never. She approached the focal point of the room, a behemoth of a bar crafted in darkly stained wood. An attractive blonde was seated in at a table in a dark alcove opposite its end. Carefully, Willow reached out to the various patrons just to be sure her instincts were correct. Yeah, that’s her.

“You know what I wish?” Willow asked as she approached the table, meeting the other woman’s eyes. She isn’t a woman at all. Not in the traditional sense.

The demon took notice of Willow too. Like she could resist, I’m singing her favorite song.

“Tell me,” the demon replied in a subtle, almost seductive voice.

Willow flashed her best flirty smile. That was a smokescreen to cover the movement of her left hand. The demon didn’t flinch when Willow touched her chest just below her throat. Her fingertips trailed down, caressing warm, smooth skin. Willow’s smile didn’t falter, nor did the intimacy of her touch. Only her words betrayed her intentions, “I wish you’d die.” Her hand pressed into the fleshy surface, passing through the demon’s sternum as if through water. It felt to Willow more like warm pudding, if pudding was tingly.

The horror of the moment caught up, reflected in the demon’s eyes. Willow seized her viciously, sensing her attempt to teleport away. “Oh no, you don’t,” she murmured. Her eyes closed in concentration. The demon’s essence burned through her. Each second that ticked by took ages. When nothing remained but an empty shell, Willow allowed it to fall to the floor.

What she’d just done had started to register with the pub’s patrons. Barstools clattered and people chattered. Willow focused her power. There would be dozens of witnesses, each with a story more outlandish than the last. Lightening arced from her body when Willow let go. The lights went out. People were knocked to the ground as they fled. More importantly, the security cameras were left smoldering. She gave them one last zap just to be sure she fried the DVR.

When Willow was sure that no one had been hurt, her focus changed. She could feel the other vengeance demons now, just like she’d hoped. She concentrated on the nearest one. Going from something to nothing and back to something was really disconcerting. But it wasn’t quite that simple. There was always something. It was just a different sort of something. She got over it and looked around the rain-soaked street to get her bearings. There was work to do.

“Keep in mind, D’Hoffryn, you were the one that wanted me ‘in the vengeance fold’,” she murmured. A wicked smile curled her lips. “Be careful what you wish for.” I’ve always wanted to say that to him.

The coven’s pull was so-much-less an issue now. Willow set off down this new street—whatever street this was—there wasn’t any sign—dismissing the other witches as she might a nagging prickle in the back of her mind. ‘I know how this looks, but it’s necessary. You have to believe me,’ she broadcast, like that might reassure them. ‘Why don’t you make yourself useful by trying to figure out where Buffy is instead of bugging me?’

D’Hoffryn paced the edge of the pool. “Well, that was unexpected,” he mumbled to himself. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Miss Rosenberg. That’s a slippery slope you’re on.”

Chapter Text

Within a minute of entering the room, Buffy was alone. And she’d been accused of some sort of duplicity she didn’t entirely understand, by Willow of all people. She poked her head out the door and decided to take a chance. In the past, Giles had been the go-to guy for ‘rational,’ even when everyone else was having a cow.

He was just down the hall lecturing to Willow’s bedroom door, “Yes, I’m certain that you have what you believe are valid reasons for everything you’ve done.” Considering content and context, his speechifying was probably aimed at Kennedy. “Just because you believe—”

That ended when Buffy called his name. Willow melting down in the room across the hall added a ‘walk of shame’-like quality to her approach. Buffy hung her head and concentrated on the important part. The walking part. This was only all her fault, but walking was still important. And the carpet was red. A truly crappy red.

When she looked up, Giles was staring at her expectantly. “There’s something really wiggy going on here.” It felt strange having to point that out. A fact made all-the-better by Kennedy going off in the background. Wow. The universe must really revolve around her. Buffy snapped at the door, “Oh, would you shut up?” She turned her attention to Giles. “Care to explain to me what just happened?”

Without saying a word, he confirmed that she was right. That was the good part. Or almost good. Not being wrong is good, right? The bad: Giles is having a cow. And his ‘cow having’ started when I looked up. He got a good look at me and wigged.

“Oh, dear,” he sputtered. “That hadn’t occurred to me.”

“What?”

Giles being afflicted with the verbal equivalent of two left feet made Buffy antsy. Before he got out, “Your eyes,” he mumbled, stumbled and ‘ered’ enough times that she considered unsticking him with a pop to the head.

“Yep, they’re my eyes,” she said, utterly deadpan. No clue what’s up with—

“Yes, but the person I spoke with didn’t—”

Didn’t what?

“What I mean to say is, her eyes weren’t—”

My eyes are— Oh. Oh! Giles didn’t talk to me. He talked to— “Oh, jeez.” My twisted, psychotic, homicidal alter ego is here—with the dividing and the—

“I feel like such a fool,” Giles mumbled. He moved on to the whole ‘head hanging’, ‘self-castigating’ part of the exercise. And that was fine.

He’s welcome to do that—somewhere else—somewhere where he isn’t playing into the rest of that scenario.

“Take care of Will, okay?” Buffy said, putting a hand on his shoulder to steer him in the right direction. “Get her somewhere safe.”

As Giles took the hint, picking his way past the scraps of door that littered the floor of Kennedy’s former room, Buffy knocked to get her attention. “Stay put.”

Buffy didn’t hang around for an answer. As far as she knew, the sky was still blue most days. And if things worked here like they did in her world, sharing that with Kennedy would just get her an argument. Yes, the sky does have an annoying habit of changing color based on the amount of light, pollutants, clouds—whatever, but it is generally accepted as being blue.

And this carpet is still the fugliest shade of red I’ve ever seen. Kennedy probably loves it.

That little flight of fancy took her halfway down the stairs. Although the fugly red carpet was still absolutely captivating to watch, she looked up. The lobby was still lobby-like in a ‘James Cameron: post apocalyptic future’ kind of way, with one minor addition. The weird, round, facey-outy couch had gained a Xander. Or part of it had. He didn’t so much fit. Though, it was pretty safe to say that no one could nap on that couch gracefully. It wasn’t that kind of a couch.

Buffy hurried to his side as fast as her gimpy leg would carry her. She felt a strong need to reach out and check that he was okay, even though his chest was rising and falling…and she could hear him breathe. Smell him breathe.

Wow.

Alright, well, I guess it’s not all that surprising that he’s having problems too. My Xander’s not without his vices. Though they normally take the form of spending obscene amounts of money collecting comics that he claims are rare. Not that he reads them. Most of them are sealed in these clear plastic ‘comic book time capsules.’ If they aren’t, he sends them away to become the Book in the Plastic Bubble.

Thereby proving my claim that boys are weird.

Though, to be fair, I decided that his thing and my thing aren’t that much different. One of these days he’ll have all the comics—all pristinely encased so that they can never ever be read—and I’ll find the perfect pair of Fendi flats. It’ll happen.

And I’ll wear them.

She said his name in that whispered, insistent way that sometimes wakes people up. It was a no-go with him, so she tried again. Besides, I don’t know that this is a standard thing. He could’ve just had a bad day. The third time she shook him and got swatted away for her trouble. I can relate.

“Stop,” he whined. His breath was lethal.

Buffy straightened up to put some distance between herself and that. The back of her hand went protectively to her nose. She stated the simple truth, “Xander, you can’t sleep here.”

Xander’s eyes opened and closed repeatedly. When they finally stayed open, he still didn’t look like he was focusing on anything, but apparently he was because he slurred, “Oh, i’z you.” He blinked again. “You saith—” His face scrunched with concentration. “You were—” He tried to sit up. “You hath ta go.” His version of ‘sitting’ looked a whole lot more like ‘falling.’

Oh boy, this is gonna be fun.

“We have to go,” Buffy corrected as she held him by the upper arms to keep him upright.

“Nuh-uh, you go,” Xander replied.

“I’m not going anywhere. There’s a vampire here, in the hotel.” Shouldn’t he be wigging? She tried to encourage him to stand by lifting his arms. His shoulders rose and fell. Xander was for all intents and purposes a very large, very heavy ragdoll.

“Tha’s wha’ I said. You were jus’ here.” His eyes widened. “You weren’ here?”

“No,” Buffy replied. She’d heard better news.

The good news: once Xander had that much figured, he got a whole lot more helpful. He stood with minimal difficulty and was almost able to stagger on his own. But it was still a case of the lame leading the even lamer. He stopped halfway across the lobby to ask, “Say, how d’ I know y’re tha good ’n’?”

Keeping him on his feet strained her sore shoulder. Buffy bit back a wince. “You’re just gonna have to trust me on that.”

Kennedy let out a contemptuous hiss. “Stay put,” she grumbled. “Like I’m gonna stick around to watch the Great Blonde Hope get her ass handed to her.” The noise in the hallway had died down. Slowly, carefully, she turned the key. A dry snicker slipped out, pretty much negating her attempt at silence. She paused to listen. Yeah, more like Thing One will vamp Thing Two and we’ll end up with bookends. Just what this hell hole needs: another homicidal maniac.

Whatever. It’s past time I make that ‘we’ a ‘they.’ And for that I need my phone.

The hallway was still dead. She cracked the door and peeked out. All of the drama had moved to other parts of the hotel. She thought it was cool until she set foot outside the door. It was like the bitch had been waiting, but Kennedy was pretty sure that was just the paranoia talking. Xander sounded plastered. Staging something like that with someone like that would be a total pain. From the faintness and hollowness of their voices, it was apparent they were in the lobby. Kennedy figured all of that out during the mad dash she made to her dresser in the adjacent room.

Her phone was right there, sitting amongst the cosmetics and jewelry. She should’ve just taken it and gone, but a funky old coin grabbed her interest. It was positioned front and center, away from everything else so she couldn’t miss it. She couldn’t remember ever having had anything like it. It could be Willow’s. It looks like something she might use for a spell. But that doesn’t make sense either. As far as I know, she’s done with the hocus pocus.

Well, she does glamours every now and then. I let her have that because she can’t exactly hurt anyone by hiding a blemish.

It’s sad. Everyone thinks I’ve done something wrong. All I’ve been trying to do is keep a loaded gun holstered. It’s like no one else sees how scary she is.

Kennedy picked up the coin. It was rough to the touch, like the mold had been crude. Yeah, no clue. This thing’s either really, really old or some kid’s shop class project. As she turned it over to inspect the other side, Buffy walked past her room with Xander. Her dresser was out of the line of sight of the door from that way at least. But when Buffy returned, it’d be a different story. Kennedy grabbed her phone and waited for Xander’s slogging footfalls to fade.

A distant door opened. That was her cue. She slipped silently across the hallway and into the other room.

Giles and Willow were talking. Or at least, Buffy heard Giles’ voice through the door. It was safe to assume that Willow was in there listening. Either that or Giles was talking to himself, which wasn’t unheard of. This is probably a good thing, right? He’ll be able to explain that I didn’t do anything wrong.

I should just go and let them talk. But I don’t know, after finding Xander, I’m not so sure I even know who lives here. There might be someone else who’s unaccounted for.

Stalling to make up her mind was coming dangerously close to eavesdropping again. That was the last thing she wanted, so as Giles said, “I appreciate that this is—” she made her presence known by knocking. He stopped to acknowledge her. “Yes?”

“Sorry,” she explained, “I just—I wanted you to know that Xander’s in his room. I didn’t make it very far. He was downstairs and I, umm…”

“Ah, thank you,” Giles replied.

She accepted his gratitude by mumbling, “Yeah, no problem.” It was nice, but not what she was after. “Is there anyone else I should be worried about?”

It surprised her when Giles responded with a clipped, “No.” Usually a question like that would inspire him to ramble.

“Okay,” she replied. And if that’s the biggest surprise I get for the rest of the day, I’ll be—

“Perhaps I should come with you?” Giles added as she turned to leave. “The task might be better handled with a guide.”

“No,” Buffy replied, confused by his sudden, unexplained warmth. “It’s fine. I’ve got it.” How can he even be sure it’s me? I mean, really? Didn’t we just do this…badly?

I guess it’s because of Xander. The last thing vampy-me would want is to help him. Unless she was helping him to throw them off. Besides, all he knows is I said I did it. She could’ve too and snapped Xander’s neck for spite.

This whole thing is unbelievable. Amateur hour. Xander might’ve had a point. Not now. What Will said he said before. The thing with the audience, and the wanting of. If vampy-me had wanted anyone dead tonight, they’d be dead, except for Kennedy. That’s like reverse Darwinism. Survival of the haughtiest. Or the setup for pretty much any slasher film. Save the character everyone hates for last so the audience will cheer when she’s mutilated beyond recognition in the most brutal way imaginable. Until the next sequel.

Buffy sighed. “Stay put.” She didn’t care enough to hide her annoyance and it came through clear as day. “And don’t open the door unless you’re absolutely sure it’s me.” The way she saw it, Giles was being ridiculously, uncharacteristically careless. “Ask me something that Will asked me this morning at least. Even that isn’t foolproof. As far as we know, my evil half followed me here. She’s probably heard every word we’ve said.” Giles has to see how bad this is. Did he learn nothing from the First?

As she turned to leave for the second time, he called out, “Buffy, please wait. I would be remiss in my duties were I not to point out that you are in no condition to face an ordinary vampire, let alone one of her strength. Perhaps you should take some time to recuperate? No one’s in immediate danger. I’ll limit my activities and instruct the others to do the same.”

“I’m fine, Giles,” Buffy replied, still trying to walk away. He had a point, an irritatingly good one.

“You should at least take a weapon.”

That was just Giles again. She ignored him, but when Willow said, “He’s right, y’know?” Buffy stopped. “You’re being silly.” A key rattling in a lock caused Buffy to turn around. The door opened and Willow met her eyes. “If you’re going, I’m coming with you.”

“Did you not hear anything I just said?”

Bringing the coin had been the worst idea—maybe not ever—but it ranked up there. Kennedy sucked the pad of her thumb where the stupid thing had cut her. It wasn’t that bad—a little worse than a paper cut—but it still pissed her off.

The coin sat on the table in front of her along with her phone. Being back in a locked room was a relief. She had time to make up her mind what to do, which was good because the question of the moment wasn’t even about that. She couldn’t decide whether it was an illusion or not, but it seemed like the blood-smeared edge of the coin was less distorted. It looked almost like there might be something written on it.

The last thing she wanted to do was touch the thing again, but curiosity and a lack of any real ‘this is evil,’ supernaturally inspired heebie-jeebies eventually won out. She pinched her thumb to make the blood flow. When a fat drop had pooled, she smeared it over the coin’s face. Every instinct she had still told her it was a terrible idea. She worked the blood around anyway. At first, she did it just because, but as the image took shape, she felt compelled to finish. It was cool, like one of those mess-free watercolor books she’d had as a kid. Somehow the red was bringing out yellows, blues and greens. Where there had been a crude, blotchy design, now there was a Renaissance style painting of a goatish man kissing some fat girl. She couldn’t place it, but she knew she’d seen it before, probably in some art appreciation class or at a museum. Her life had been so full of that sort of thing that it was only the stuff she really liked that she could keep straight.

She’d been right about the text. There was a passage in Latin bordering the image. She recalled what she could from the Latin class she’d taken in high school. ‘Nomine’ means ‘name’ and ‘beatum’ means ‘saint’ or ‘blessed,’ so ‘Blessed is the name of D’Hoffynis,’ or just ‘D’Hoffryn’ because the suffix was probably there to denote gender.

That was enough. It’s a summoning spell. Whoever this D’Hoffryn guy is, he left me a calling card.

So, worst case: a big, ugly demon tries to rip my face off. Sounds pretty much on par with the rest of my day.

But if he’s a dick, I can always bounce. Not like that’d be some major change of plan. And bonus: Gidget gets a thoughtful parting gift.

Thing is, I don’t think it’ll go that way. This is more like an invitation. A weird one, but violent things typically show up and do violence, not leave tokens.

So I guess the question is: do I want to talk to this thing?

I didn’t think I was gone that long, but I guess whatever needed to be said was said in my absence. Or it doesn’t seem like Willow’s upset anymore, at least, or—uh, so…assumption?

Assumptions never turn out well.

Buffy cast a glance over her shoulder to thank Giles as she walked away. Willow was right there, just a pace or two behind, but she wasn’t screaming, or glaring much, so he’d obviously done something. She sure didn’t look like she planned on backing down any time soon. Buffy stopped at her room, opened the door and went inside. It was either that, or make things worse.

Willow just stood there. Saying anything before she was ready to say something meaningful just seemed wrong, so Buffy went for the pantomime. Once Willow was inside, she closed the door and locked it. Trapping her like that felt a little wrong too, but it beat the alternative.

On the way to her chair, Buffy tried to strip down to her undershirt and bra. That went about as well as it usually did with a broken this and wrenched that. She froze mid-stride to rip the stupid thing over her head without any actual ripping, though that was a tempting solution. She sucked in a wince and moved on, draping her ‘stretched, but still intact’ tee-shirt over the back of her chair with the blanket.

When she sat down, Willow was still by the door, watching her. Great. Taking my shoes off was going to be fun without an audience. Buffy had to fold herself in half to reach the laces. There was no other choice. Her right knee wasn’t going to bend. She slipped them off and gave her guest a glance. A quirky mix of grin and grimace met her. It was cute, annoyingly so. Just great. Buffy sighed. I may not be much else, but at least I’m entertaining. Her shoes hit the floor and she stood up.

The right side was the wrong side of the bed. Just turning down the covers felt wrong. Sleeping there promised to be truly weird. Like that even counts here.

Like I even know if she’ll come to bed. But whatever, I’m going to bed right here. I’m not taking another step. She can join me or not. It’s her choice.

Buffy pulled the drawstring to untie the bow that held her sweatpants up. With a tug they dropped, but her right knee was so swollen they didn’t drop all the way. Besides—and ‘presumptuous much?’—but if she does that thing where she snuggles against me…my left side is so much the better option. I might not flinch or tear up this way.

She sat down and peeled her sweats off. Naturally, that involved another contortionist act. Her right knee was every ugly color of the rainbow and twice its normal size, which made it pretty much normal size for anyone who didn’t routinely shop in the junior’s department. She didn’t look up. She didn’t need to. Willow’s wince was impossible to miss.

I could really live without anyone touching me—at least that side of me—for, well, hours. However many I can sleep. I have no clue. I’m normally not good for much more than three, but I feel terrible. Giles was right. I need rest.

Sliding into bed was a noisy, painful process. She pulled the covers up and lay down, only to sit up again. The pressure of the blankets resting on her toes was unpleasant. She folded them back, exposing her leg.

Willow was still standing sentry when she finished.

That put an end to Buffy’s moratorium of verbal communication. “You can join me or go.” A ‘come hither’ gesture just wouldn’t work. Hurt or not, there was only one way she’d interpret that if she were on the receiving end. And that so wasn’t what she wanted. “Your choice. I’ll open…”

She trailed off because Willow was on the move, not to ‘her side of the bed,’ but it was a start.

Great.

The instant Kennedy fell silent; a bright flash erupted to her left in front of the other chair. White smoke filled the air. It was like someone had set off a flash pot, but there was no ‘bang,’ or acrid smell. A static charge prickled her skin. She shot to her feet.

As her fight and flight instincts wrestled for supremacy, a voice rang out, “Behold D’Hoffryn! Lord of Arashmaharr, purveyor of nightmare, bringer of—” The smoke cleared enough to see, and nightmare guy shut the hell up, or at least, he changed his approach, “Oh, what a pleasant surprise.” His tone became affable even if his appearance wasn’t. He waved his hand in front of his face to clear the last of the smoke. His nose wrinkled with distaste. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Miss Kravis.” The waving stopped and he held his hand out for her to shake. “Now, how—?”

“Miss Kravis?” Kennedy cut him off. Asshole came in looking something like a cross between a queer monk and Satan with a Smurfy skin condition, but didn’t put her off half as much as hearing that name. No one here even knew it, except maybe Giles and he was pretty tight lipped. Hearing it spun her. She sure as hell wasn’t going to take this sonuvabitch’s hand.

“Would you prefer I call you Bastiana?”

And if one wasn’t bad enough, the second one tore it. “Hey!” Kennedy snapped. “Bite me, freak!”

“Now, now,” D’Hoffryn chided, withdrawing his hand. “There’s no need for that.”

The glare she gave him just made him smirk. “I don’t know who you are, or what you want, but I’ll thank you to keep that to yourself.” She was practically in his face, ranting. Like she could. D’Hoffryn was almost a full head taller than her, and utterly unflappable. A beat passed before she explained, “It’s a family name.” But that just made her look self-conscious, which pissed her off even more.

Her discomfort didn’t appear to mean a damned thing to him. His genial smile barely faded as he put in, “And a fine name it is.” He gestured behind her with a flourish of his hand. “Please, relax, have a seat. I’m not here to antagonize you.” He seemed to consider that for a moment. “Though I must admit it is tempting. You make it so much fun.”

Kennedy stood her ground, so he backed up. That was the only reason she didn’t take his head off. Not that she thought Mr. Personality would’ve noticed. This guy’s a loon. He was one of those people she wanted to smack just to see if his stupid grin was real or the result of some weird facial muscle affliction. She sure didn’t expect it to go away on its own, but it did.

Of all things, this wiseass switched directions again, and gave a serious answer to a serious question, “My name, as you’ve already guessed, is D’Hoffryn. I am the patriarch of a family of beings who serve justice. I am here to perhaps make you an offer. Whether or not I do, will depend entirely upon you.” He looked to his right, gesturing at the empty chair. “May I?”

“Sure. Knock yourself out,” Kennedy replied.

“Thank you,” D’Hoffryn said as he made himself comfortable. Once seated, his long legs crossed beneath his robe. He folded his hands in his lap.

It was obvious he didn’t think he had anything to fear from her. That means he’s either ridiculously old and powerful, or a complete idiot. Kennedy was beginning to lean toward the former, though she hadn’t dismissed the latter. He could be both. Wouldn’t be the first time old age has led to senility.

It had taken what felt like forever for Willow to come to bed. Apparently, the tiny mess Buffy had left needed to be picked up. Saying anything had been pointless. Willow would do whatever she was going to do. That much hadn’t changed.

She emerged from the bathroom wearing Buffy’s tee-shirt. Talking her into not coming to bed in her dress had been another hurdle, one that had come with too much information. The news that she didn’t have much or anything on under her dress hadn’t been helpful. Not that Buffy could do anything about it now, besides get a truly uncomfortable, really annoying, utterly inappropriate, completely embarrassing happy. That much she was good for. My body just hates me.

She did her damnedest not to pay attention as Willow crossed the room, which meant she paid just enough attention to notice the bruises inside Willow’s thighs. That was exactly what she needed: confirmation that the bullshit with Kennedy earlier hadn’t been bullshit. But it wasn’t even that. Honestly, that could’ve been normal. Hipbones can be brutal. Buffy had had similar bruises when she was sleeping with Spike. Not that sleeping with Spike had been exactly normal. It just wasn’t the same. But really, it didn’t matter how minor, or how questionable the evidence was, the fact was, it bothered her.

It figured that the first words out of her mouth were a lie, “I don’t care.” Or not so much a lie, but her trying to soft-pedal the conclusions she’d drawn. She salved the near insincerity of her first statement with a big dose of truth, “I know who you can be and that’s what matters.” That helped.

Once Willow settled in, Buffy located her hand beneath the covers. And she did it without any embarrassing groping. Their fingers laced together. It was still a little weird, but mostly nice.

That was enough contact. Plenty. Much more and it wouldn’t matter how badly her leg or shoulder hurt. Even her broken hand wouldn’t be a big deal. The compulsive need to comfort Willow, which had every intention of turning hot and sweaty, grated at Buffy’s nerves.

She mumbled, trying to work out how she felt as a way of keeping her mind off everything else, “But I dunno, maybe that isn’t fair. I don’t think you’re any less smart, or funny, or sweet than my Willow is.” Buffy grinned and changed tack, “Or stubborn, or challenging, or infuriatingly right, like a little too often.” Willow had the sweetest smile. That much was exactly the same. “You’re the same person, just under different, much tougher circumstances.”

Looking down on D’Hoffryn felt strange, so as he picked up his thought, “But first, there’s one thing I don’t understand about you,” Kennedy stepped back to half-lean against, half-sit on the middling, vintage bed. “You’ve spent most of your life in search of power and respect. Yet when you were offered a choice, you shunned your surname. A name that, I need not remind you, commands respect, at least in certain mortal circles.”

She crossed her ankles, trying to look casual, but the way her arms were folded betrayed that, and she knew it. He was just way too well informed for her to relax.

Her anxiety increased as he filled in more detail, “Your given name belonged to a formidable woman. Your great-grandmother was quite the spitfire in her day. Yet you choose to use your middle name. A name which ties you to nothing. It is androgynous, if not a tad butch—which, I suppose, suits you—but it carries no real significance, merely fancy. Your father was an admirer of John F. Kennedy. He always intended to name his first male child ‘Sebastian Kennedy.’ When it became apparent, due to your mother’s advancing age, that he would have no male heir, he gave the name to you, after a fashion.”

The whole thing left her unsure what to think. It was really bizarre hearing a family story that she was pretty sure no one else knew from some random demon. Stranger still, this demon actually seemed alright. He seemed interested, if not concerned. It was disarming.

“Butch or not,” Kennedy admitted, “I would’ve been happier if he’d stuck with ‘Sebastian’.” Her posture relaxed. She played with the hem of her tee-shirt. “You know how kids are.” Her attention turned to her hands. She watched the fabric conform to her fingers, though she knew he would interpret that as insecurity. “It didn’t take long. A couple of years. They learned my real name and the word ‘bastard’—not that they had a clue what it meant, they just knew it was offensive—and I became ‘Bastard Tina.’ It sucked. My dad said they were just jealous. I guess that was true, but it didn’t help much.”

She looked up. He was listening attentively, like some sort of therapist. “My family still calls me Tina, but whatever…” I’m sure he thinks he’s got me all figured. Poor little rich girl. That’s where most people who think they know me go. “I like the name Kennedy. That’s who I am now. That other stuff’s got nothing to do with me anymore. The only people who play those games are sycophants looking for a payday.”

D’Hoffryn smiled knowingly. “That hasn’t stopped you from skimming from the family money trough.”

Kennedy shrugged the accusation off. I still don’t have anything to be ashamed of. “Just because I don’t feel the need to use my family name to get a leg up, doesn’t mean I have to starve.” If I was actually ‘skimming,’ it’d be different. I’m not. “Especially if there’s no reason.”

“Yes,” he agreed, “but surely you see that you have the type of opportunities most people only dream about. You could attend the Ivy League school of your choice. Had you been able to turn your back on the allure of all of this…” he waved his hand to indicate their squalid surroundings “…you’d be a freshman by now. You could be well on your way to securing the influence and prestige you crave, yet here you are stagnating in this place.” He smirked. “Though I suppose an eight figure trust fund might’ve quelled some of your ambition.”

Taking that badly would’ve been easy. Money was a touchy subject. And her persistent presence in this place was an even touchier one. But D’Hoffryn was teasing and Kennedy, in spite of herself, liked the demon. She wasn’t even sure why, just that she was smirking too. “Now you sound like my dad,” she deflected. Her smile faded. This is fun and all, but I still want to know what he’s got up his sleeve. Considering his sleeves—could be almost anything. “Why are you so interested in me?”

D’Hoffryn met her gaze and held it. “Well, we’ve had our eye on you for some time.”

A straight answer was obviously too much to ask for.

“I’m sorry,” Buffy whispered.

Willow turned onto her side. Her lower arm raised and folded, she rested her head against her hand, pushing the pillow out of the way. Her fingers combed through her hair. “Why?” she asked. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

One of the more annoying things about being a girl was when guys stared at your boobs instead of looking you in the eye. Buffy tried to stop herself. Being guilty of that on top of everything else was just sad, but she couldn’t help it. Willow’s shirt was twisted, her breasts were crushed and other parts were standing at attention.

What might’ve normally merited a glance became a lingering gawk. A mental ‘that’s pretty’ wouldn’t have been inappropriate. This was just plain wrong, but Buffy couldn’t quite get her head around what she saw. She’d gotten over the fact that Willow’s tongue was pierced. That one was easy. Kennedy’s influence in her life was difficult to miss. The fact that it was something Buffy only occasionally glimpsed in passing made it that much better. Willow didn’t play with the silly thing like some people do and it hadn’t caused a speech impediment, so brushing it off hadn’t been a problem.

This new piercing was a little more difficult to overlook. Buffy tried to convince herself she was seeing things, but the ring was clearly outlined beneath the tightly stretched fabric. She could even make out the glint of metal through the weave. Wondering if it was just the one side wasn’t helpful at all. Her first glance had been a little bit pervy. The next bordered on lecherous. By her count, she was currently working on completely shameless.

She stopped herself before things got stupid. This was one subject that she didn’t need to be curious about. As it was, Willow was giving her a funny look. She hadn’t quite gotten around to ‘whatcha doin?’ yet, but things were rapidly heading that way. The textured plaster ceiling was a much better, safer thing to ogle. They had been talking about something. Talking was a much better idea. There were things they actually needed to discuss.

As she studied the abstract pattern, trying to figure out what to say, Willow located her hand again. Buffy didn’t resist when Willow pulled it from beneath the blankets and brought it to her mouth. “You didn’t do anything wrong,” Willow repeated. The warmth of her breath flowed over the backs of Buffy’s fingers.

“I didn’t do what you thought I did,” Buffy mumbled, “but that doesn’t mean I didn’t do anything wrong.” Just that tiny admission brought more heat to her cheeks, like they weren’t already hot enough. Oh, this is gonna go well.

Willow’s lips caressing her knuckles was nice on the one hand, but distressing on the other. It was a mixed blessing in a world of mixed messages where Buffy was just plain mixed up. She needed space; so of course, Willow slid over and snuggled up to her side. Other that just giving in, her only options were to say something or to push Willow away. Neither of those things was going to happen. Buffy slipped her pinned arm free, allowing Willow to settle into the crook of her shoulder. She bit back a wince when Willow’s knee clunked her injured leg.

“Sorry,” Willow gasped. She tried to recoil, but Buffy held her in place.

And the mixed-uppedness just keeps on coming. Buffy’s hand rested on the small of Willow’s back. From its relative position, she picked up the second piece of completely unhelpful information: Willow hadn’t been exaggerating about having nothing to wear. The only thing she had on below the waist was a belly chain. That wasn’t that big a deal. In fact, besides the obvious, imagined aesthetic—which wasn’t bad—it was easily dismissed. But the hot, steaminess against Buffy’s thigh was another detail that needed to be actively ignored.

Two would’ve been too much, so just for fun Willow had given her three. The usual prickliness was missing, which meant she’d shaved, or more likely waxed, considering the lack of scratchy stubble. Or electrolysis was an option. Kennedy did have money. And that would be just one more way that she’d marked Willow.

Buffy picked up her previous thought, hoping to avoid any more awkward revelations and just settle in for sleep, “It wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t have a gift for scaring the people I love.” The flow of smooth skin beneath her fingertips lulled her as she caressed Willow’s back. “I asked Will—my Will—to put me back the way I was.” Buffy pondered for a moment. That seemed like days ago, but the fact of the matter was: “That was last night. Now I’m not sure she’ll ever get a chance. She wasn’t even sure she’d—”

Willow drew in a sharp breath, causing Buffy to jerk away. Buffy hadn’t even realized that her hand had wandered lower. She was trying to be good. And that had worked out about as well as usual. The noise itself was one of those. It sounded ouchy, but could’ve just as easily been followed by a groan. She wasn’t sure whether she’d hurt Willow or not.

A glance in that direction didn’t reveal any useful clues. It could’ve been either. Willow looked concerned—which, considering the conversation, wasn’t inappropriate—but from the look in her eye and the flush of her cheeks, she was also obviously horny. “It’s okay,” she whispered.

It was in Buffy’s nature to assume the worst, which led her to imagine why an affectionate caress might’ve been painful. The gory details filled in on their own.

Well, isn’t this just fun?

Chapter Text

Kennedy hopped back onto the bed. The heels of her Doc Martens hooked the edge of the runner board. “You gonna do something besides state the obvious?” she prodded, casually crossing her legs,

D’Hoffryn put in an evasive, yet jovial, “Perhaps.”

The saner way to handle this might be with a boot to the head. I am, after all, a slayer. And he’s still a demon. That’s how we usually work these things out. But because I like the guy, I’m going to give it one more try, “Alright then, why the interest?”

His answer was quick, firm, decisive, and intuitive in that creepy ‘get out of my head’ sort of way, “Because you’re a slayer.”

“So, bragging rights, eh?” she countered. Maybe it was arrogance talking, but that was all that came to her.

“No, no, you misunderstand me,” he replied. “It’s been several millennia since we last had a slayer in the family. And it was just such marvelous fun.” Waxing nostalgic made him positively giddy. “Keresa was such an imaginative soul—a true artist—but then, when you consider what she had to work with, I suppose it’s no real wonder. One can only deliver so many severed heads before even a sacred duty grows tedious.”

With his hands held laced in front of his knee, D’Hoffryn practically mirrored her position. Kennedy didn’t see this as mockery, but it did inspire her to move. She leaned causally against her left arm as he continued to regale her with his tale, “This was during the Grecian Dark Ages, before the rise and fall of Rome. Requesting the head of an enemy was all the rage back then. Your people are so bourgeois sometimes. It can be quite vexing. There are only so many creatures that will deliver a head, just like that, all neat and tidy. And let me tell you, you haven’t lived until you’ve spent an entire evening tickling the belly of an Aglean sloth trying to get it to bring up its dinner.”

The conflict of interest wasn’t lost on Kennedy. This was exactly the sort of thing she was supposed to stop, but she couldn’t keep from smiling. The image of D’Hoffryn giving belly rubs to some huge, slimy, scaly thing was just too good, not that she had a single clue what an Aglean sloth was. She mentally edited in hooked claws, and for some strange reason, tufts of fur behind its dog-like, turned back ears. The end result was just too cute, in a really gross, totally macabre sort of way.

The byproduct of her musings faded as D’Hoffryn picked up again, “One forward thinker broke the monotony. He asked that a plague be brought on his enemies. Being the free spirit she was, Keresa summoned a ‘plague’ the likes of which no mortal man had ever seen.”

“So?” Kennedy said, unable contain herself. He was just too enthused not to deserve a splash of chilly water.

“She called Caertius Draconis,” he replied, “Or what your people came to call ‘dragons.’ A more perfect predator has never been seen.”

‘Draco’ or ‘Draconis’ would’ve done it. Both rang a bell. Though she hadn’t a clue what ‘Caertius’ was. That tripped her up. She sputtered, “Dragons?” because she couldn’t believe her ears. Maybe she’d mixed the two things up.

“Oh, yes,” D’Hoffryn confirmed. “You’d be surprised how many of the beasts from your mythology were spawned this way.”

So far both of the terms she hadn’t recognized had prefixed the ones she had. It tracked that these were probably the names of hell dimensions that she was unfamiliar with.

Kennedy listened with interest as he went on, “Of course our visionary, Seleukus Demetrius, failed to ask that he and his people be made immune; a minor, but costly oversight on his part. That lovely loophole allowed a beast that formidable to be summoned. Caertius Draconis cut a swath across Europe, from Greece to France, laying the countryside to waste, until one sweet little girl wished the monster away.”

That final statement, coupled with his fatherly demeanor, threw a fairytale-like spin on the whole history lesson. She also realized that he was paying her a great compliment by saying that the greatest ‘plague’ of the Bronze Age had come from the analytical mind of a slayer. Her own mind raced with the possibilities.

D’Hoffryn gave her several moments to entertain the fantasy before he concluded, “Most humans are so plebeian in their thinking. They don’t appreciate the power of a wish. They cast the word around to curse or to covet. A wish is a gift not to be taken lightly.”

If what he was saying was true and his implications weren’t exaggerations, this was real power.

The weight of Willow’s head lifted. She shook the hair from her face. As she came to rest against Buffy’s shoulder again, she said, “I wasn’t scared.”

“No, you were terrified,” Buffy countered without a moment’s hesitation or any real thought.

Willow wasn’t as quick to respond as Buffy had been, but she was equally resolute. “You don’t understand.”

Buffy tried to snark, ‘What’s to understand?’ in turn, but she only managed to get out, “Wha—?” before she was interrupted.

“I kinda like being scared.” Willow rolled away. As she put some distance between them, settling on her side and taking her head in hand, she continued, “You’re probably just going to think I’m—” She stopped cold. Her throat played through the motions of a sluggish swallow.

The separation brought more mixed emotions. It was like a godsend that ached. Buffy told herself it was for the best, because really it was. “Please don’t stop on my account,” she said, hoping to encourage Willow to continue. The conversation they were having was really more important than any of the other stuff anyway. I think I know where she’s going with this. It’s not like I’ve never gotten—

“I love you.”

That was such a sweet, but random thing to say. It threw Buffy. She needed a moment to collect her thoughts. The conclusion she arrived at stung. “I don’t see how you can even stand to look at me.”

“I can see how you’d say that,” Willow reasoned. “At first I didn’t understand how you could forgive Angel for everything he’d done, but you loved him and I loved you, so I trusted you.”

One moment everything felt abstract to Buffy, disjointed and random, the next things slipped into place. The realization dawned so suddenly that Buffy wasn’t even sure that the places they slipped were the places Willow intended, but it made perfect sense to her. Oh, she’s saying that once she got things figured, she wasn’t scared. Like it was for me with Angel. That was a little different. Maybe more confusing. I don’t know. I had to view him as two different people, but I wanted to so badly.

That was actually part of the problem. I was afraid for my friends and myself. Most of all I was afraid of my own judgment. I couldn’t stand the idea that anyone else might get hurt because of me. I had to figure it out. Know it was him. Understand the difference. I guess it isn’t that much of a stretch to think Will’s going through something similar.

As Buffy’s mind steadied from the excitement of newfound understanding, Willow’s gentle voice broke the silence, “Not so much in the past tense because I still do. I could spend the rest of the day showing you how I feel about you.” She reached out to take Buffy’s hand. “But I think you’re right. That’d just be confusing.”

Buffy was dangerously close to being in favor of bringing on the confusion. The pull was that magnetic. She resisted the urge to touch the narrow strip of Willow’s stomach just below her ribs left bare by her bunched up tee-shirt and the rumpled bedclothes. It was hard to imagine Willow being any thinner and still healthy, but it seemed like she was. Her skin rippled, conforming to the individual groups of muscles. Buffy imagined kissing her. The way it would start off sweet, then snap suddenly, irreversibly volatile.

It felt like another, minor godsend when Willow derailed her letch-fest by saying, “I was afraid you’d hurt Kennedy,” at least for one brief moment. Buffy looked up to meet Willow’s eyes. Willow didn’t falter, which meant her claim was sincere. “I’m not sure I could live with that. And I’m even surer you couldn’t. Not once you really understand.” That sincerity left Buffy feeling floored. Unbelievable. It’s as bad as I thought. She’s gonna tell me there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for everything Kennedy did.

Willow averted her eyes by turning onto her back. Buffy took that for delayed evasiveness. She’d done the same herself. The ceiling was a much easier thing to face.

“I know what you think,” Willow whispered. “Or think I do.” Her hand slipped free, which just validated Buffy’s impression. “You look at her and all you see is what you believe she’s done to me. That makes you furious. You’re consumed by it. You want to protect me.” She turned away to completely hide her face. “Which is wonderful…and horrible.” A brief pause, a gulp, a breath, she summoned her courage. “The thing you don’t see is what I’ve done to her. You only know half the story. Everything that’s happened here, I’ve allowed to happen. It was my choice.”

All of the pain and guilt Willow felt came through in her voice. At this point, it didn’t so much matter what Buffy believed she knew. She kept her mouth shut. It was Willow’s turn to talk.

The blankets rustled and rose. Willow lifted her bottom using her legs. Her shoulders pressed flat against the mattress. She unwound the tee-shirt from around her torso, pulling it down to cover herself. As her body came to rest, she stretched out her legs, tugged the sheet up. “When the others left, Faith begged me to come with them. I just couldn’t. I couldn’t leave you. She tried to reason with me. She said that I could help you from anywhere. And she was probably right. There was no reason for me to stay here.”

That was a ‘tune in next week’ bombshell if Buffy had ever heard one. Unfortunately, Willow was wearing a pensive moue that said her chances of getting even a minute to gather her thoughts were pretty slim. I get two and I’ll have to consider that my luck’s really looking up, go buy a lottery ticket or something.

Buffy’s luck wasn’t looking up. She got a quick, concerned glance and another bombshell. “It almost killed Xander when Anya chose to go with them.”

“Anya’s alive?” she asked. The disbelief in her tone was a little embarrassing.

Especially after the way Willow smiled. “Yeah, she’s with the others.” Her attitude turned upbeat, like she was happy to be able to deliver one piece of good news. “I wasn’t sure what she’d do. I guess she went because of Andrew, but it was probably just as much because it was the smart thing to do. Anya always was the practical one.”

Missing the contact, Buffy sought Willow’s hand out. When Willow felt her take hold, she clamped down, giving Buffy’s fingers a quick, reassuring squeeze. Her head rolled right on her pillow. The momentary distraction ended in a warm, infectious grin. “She and Andrew have a thing. I’m not even sure what kind of a thing it is. I can guess, but—umm…let’s just say, they’re pretty inseparable.”

“I sort of figured that they got each other on some level,” Buffy observed. “It was a little weird.” She didn’t share the memory of watching Andrew grieve for someone she thought he barely knew. There was no point. For what it was worth, Willow’s observation was enlightening.

“Yeah,” she agreed. “I’m not sure if that had anything to do with Xander’s decision.” Willow’s attention turned to the ceiling again. Buffy followed suit to give her space. “I know that he loves you. And he loves her. That decision was really hard on him. But those last few nights were hard on all of us. I begged him to leave. Faith begged me to come with them. Both Andrew and Wood tried to persuade Giles in hopes that he’d persuade us. It was horrible.”

Was this before or after Wolfram and Hart started leveraging them? Interrupting again to ask didn’t seem fair, not when Willow sounded so upset. The change had been so abrupt. Midway through her recollection of begging, melancholy had fallen like the proverbial wet blanket.

“They tried to talk sense to Kennedy too, but she wouldn’t leave me. I wanted her to go. She cared so much and I—” Stress broke her voice. She picked right back up, sounding determined, “I was in love with you. There’s no way she couldn’t have known that. Not after everything that had happened—” she angled her head to the side, facing away from Buffy “—that was happening. She had to see, but she loved me. She wanted to protect me. I just wish I could’ve done the same.” Willow grew more and more agitated as she went, which meant she spoke faster. “It wasn’t that I didn’t care. My feelings just weren’t—I was obsessed with you—with putting things back the way they were—so obsessed that I almost—I hurt her…really, really bad.”

Had it not been for years of experience decrypting antsy Willow, Buffy might’ve gotten lost. The worst part was that being able to piece it together left her more overwhelmed.

Not that Willow allowed her any time to react. “I thought that maybe, with just a little more power, I could force the issue. Y’know, give the you that’s you here back her soul. Kenn allowed me to use her to help you.” Her grip on Buffy’s hand lightened. “It went badly.”

Feeling returned to Buffy’s fingers as she wiggled them. That hardly seemed to matter.

Willow was running out of steam, turning sullen, muttering under her breath, “I might’ve ensouled a bunch of random vamps that night, for all I know. For all of the good it did.”

It hurt like hell, but Buffy flopped over onto her side. She hoped that touching Willow’s face would bring her back around, but it had no effect. Willow just mumbled, “After that—after Kenn recovered—everything changed. I let it change. She felt misused. And I agreed. What with the near death experience, she had every right to feel that way.” Willow brought her other hand up from beneath the covers and rested it over Buffy’s. “She’s the only thing that’s been keeping me together. The only time I really feel in control is when I give up…”

Buffy didn’t believe that for one minute, but she let it go. It wasn’t worth arguing over. She’ll see this however she sees it. Whatever way works best for her.

A measure of D’Hoffryn’s joy abated. “But pardon me, I digress,” he said, his hands returning to his lap. “Even before we understood you to be a potential, you had potential. You possess the primary qualities we look for in abundance.”

Kennedy had been leaning against her arm for too long. Her wrist felt like so much mush where the squishy mattress held it bent. She straightened up. “And they are?” she asked as she shook the kinks out.

Her legs were pretty mangled from neglect as well. She took care of that while the big guy filled her in, “Well, enlightened self-interest for one.” The heels of her shoes caught the bed frame, wedging between it and the box spring as she leaned forward, resting her forearms on her thighs. “We normally select candidates based on one all-consuming, self-involved, malevolent act. The person does something inventive and difficult that harms the people they most love.”

D’Hoffryn considered her carefully for a moment before he proceeded, “With you that wasn’t strictly necessary.” The amused quality returned to his voice. “You’ve always been the single most important person in your life.” The evil bastard ended up sounding delighted.

Kennedy wasn’t impressed. She felt like she should be ashamed. It was almost worse that she couldn’t find that in herself. He has to see that what happened to me was messed up.

Maybe he didn’t. What he said next sure didn’t lend that impression, “You’ve committed a hundred such acts within the past year. You’ve almost singlehandedly managed to subjugate the most powerful witch of your age. For that alone, the lower beings have considered erecting a statue in your honor.”

Subjugate? He couldn’t have been watching too closely or he would’ve noticed the heaping helping of guilt that caused her to flip out. I just gave her what she asked for.

Now there’s a familiar theme. So far, all my contribution’s gotten me is big, fat goose eggs…and grief—plenty of goddamned grief. Whatever. We’ll have to respectfully agree to disagree.

Kennedy didn’t get a chance to voice her differences. He’d already moved on, seemingly blissfully unaware of any offense he’d caused, “Of course, Miss Summers played a part. And believe me, were she not a vampire, I would be making this offer to her too. Unfortunately, she is. And as a human, she’s just—” His face twisted with distaste. “That woman is an absolute nightmare. Full of noble self-sacrifice, righteous fury, good intentions and—”

When D’Hoffryn broke off to sigh, Kennedy cracked. His observations were just too funny. Well, he might’ve missed a few things, but he’s pretty much nailed Little Mary Sunshine.

“Eww.” He grimaced, mocking a shudder. “She’s the archetypal Margery Meanwell with a martyr complex and an affinity for things sharp and pointy. Every time I have dealings with her, it takes me a week to wash the stench off.”

Whichever, whatever…she’s a little too full of herself to pull off a proper Pollyanna.

Of course, D’Hoffryn didn’t stick around to debate semantics. He switched back to painting a picture of Kennedy that she didn’t entirely see, “You, on the other hand, are clever, resourceful, egotistical, vindictive, and ever so put out by the injustice of it all.”

It was harsh in a lot of ways, but she let that slide too. Her hands hung limp between her knees. She took an interest in them instead of him. He was too busy running his mouth for her to butt in.

“You know that there’s nothing for you here, except your family’s money. You could live out your days as a bored little rich girl—I’ve seen lives more frivolously squandered—but you and I both know that your father will never entrust you with the family business. You stand to inherit nothing more than ones and zeros…and not nearly enough of those considering his net worth. The bulk of that has been slated to be passed down to your cousin. Elias, isn’t it?” D’Hoffryn was right, but she didn’t even bother to legitimize his question with a nod. It breezed by, barely causing a hiccup in his spiel. “And what a fine specimen he is. A real treasure.”

The whole thing was totally true and in no way fair. The standard male view that women are somehow inferior irritated her to no end. She was ‘ever so put out by the injustice’ of that at least.

“No. I’m afraid that the only respect you’ll ever have is the kind you have to buy,” D’Hoffryn concluded. He didn’t say another word until Kennedy looked up and met his eyes. “Unless you take my offer. I can give you power—real power—the kind that will gain you respect…or if you prefer, fear.” The intensity of his stare, the pause, it was all about the drama. He continued moments later, emphasizing his words for effect, “And all I ask is that you do something you’ve already done once before: walk away from your old life.” He stood, once again offering her a hand.

She accepted the gesture this time. His hand was surprisingly warm, with overly-long fingers to match his lanky frame. She expected the handshake to be uncomfortably firm or his hands to be moist, but the contact wasn’t unpleasant in either way.

White smoke and light filled the air as she stepped back to retake her seat. It surprised her that he was leaving so soon. She’d been under the mistaken impression that she’d had time to ask a few things and rebut a few more.

“You’ll pardon me, but I simply must go. Please think it over,” he said from inside the cloud. “You have my talisman should you wish to contact me.” A disjointed, disembodied, “Good day,” rang out from the quickly dissipating smoke.

Buffy lay, zoning in and out, flirting with sleep until she just couldn’t stand it anymore. At least I got something for the flirting. A Willow-shaped lump held her pinned to the bed. Poor sleepy girl. Buffy slipping her arm out from beneath Willow’s head jostled her—just a little, not too much. The pillow helped. Midway through the extraction, Buffy froze when Willow mumbled a few muzzy, incoherent, cute little sounds that fell short of actual words.

The warmth of endearing familiarity brought a smile to Buffy’s face. One more slow, smooth tug and she was free. The momentum carried her upright. All it had taken was another tumultuous emotional upheaval, a few soothing caresses, lots of patience and—the alarm clock caught her eye as she rose to her feet—an hour. Wow.

It’s past midmorning—well past time for all good little dead things to be asleep—which means me meeting my alter ego should be a non-issue. Which is good. This isn’t even about that. It’s about my peace of mind. It’s about me knowing what she knows. I even know exactly what I want to check. Her knee wasn’t happy by any stretch. Lancing pain hobbled her steps on the way to the chair. It’s fine. It’ll all be fine. I need to do this. She took her sweats from where they hung and sat down to put them on.

The idea that she and Willow might’ve been watched bugged her. In fact, planting that little seed in her own consciousness had pretty much sleep-proofed Buffy. Anything short of a sharp blow to the head or a class two narcotic wasn’t going to stand in her way. It should be easy enough to tell. I mean, vampy-me couldn’t exactly close a windowed door after the sun came up, right? Not without the usual scorchy side effects, or a really long stick. So if she was hiding in a room across the courtyard—which seems a solid choice—I should be able to figure it out just by looking.

Knowing what she knows is still good, right? It’s a good thing. It’s silly for me to feel guilty for leaving—for doing exactly the opposite of what Will wanted me to. I have a good reason.

Yeah, like that ever turned out well. So, how ’bout if I’m sneaky? Just don’t get caught. All will be golden.

That could be my motto…if it wasn’t so lame.

Buffy pulled up her sweatpants as she stood, favoring the better of her legs. Neither of them was in great shape, but the right one was totally screwed. She tied the drawstring and limped to the door. The lock squeaked and clacked like only something aged could as she turned the key.

On her way out, she glanced guiltily over her shoulder. Willow was so zonked, she hadn’t budged. The stupid lock made just as much noise the second time through, so Buffy lingered for a moment to listen before she set off down the hall. Locking Willow inside really rubbed her the wrong way, but she didn’t have much choice. Same thing went for the key. She didn’t have any pockets, so all she could do was make do. She tucked it inside of her bra.

For someone who shouldn’t be on her feet, Buffy was surprisingly nimble. She made it to the end of the hallway and around the corner in roughly the same time it took her to deal with the door. The rooms down this hall were possibilities too, but she didn’t bother to stop. Going where she would go seemed like the thing to do, considering. And she’d already decided that the best vantage point would be the rooms directly across from where the gang had set up shop. It’s just too easy. There’s no direct sunlight and plenty of cover. We would’ve never seen her through the reflection on the windows. If this doesn’t pan out, I’ll try the third floor, same side. That’d be my next choice.

At the next corner, Buffy slowed down to check a door that hadn’t quite closed. The ‘exit’ sign above it told her that it was a stairwell. Every nerve ending in her body stood on edge when she touched the doorknob. She made a choice. All of the doors she’d just passed had crosses nailed to them. If she was even close to right, the ones around the corner wouldn’t. The next one did and the one across the hall. There was no time to turn back, so she kept going.

A soft, nasally female voice called out behind her, “I wondered when you’d figure it out.”

Desperate to flee, Buffy reached the next door, grabbed the knob and turned it. It didn’t budge, so she ran to the next one. She almost moved on when she saw the cross. The door should’ve been locked, but the knob turned freely. She shoved it open as Her Smugness said, “It sure took you long enough.” She was close. Too close.

Buffy slammed the door and reached for a key that wasn’t there. That realization sent her scrambling for the balcony. This is the right room. Exactly the right room. Evil-me swiped a key. The French door was open a crack. No surprise there. Buffy didn’t stop until she was perched on the railing, basking in sunlight. Her heart ran rabbit in her chest. It’s fine. If she gets stupid, I can always go over the rail. And maybe I’ll get lucky and take the bitch with me.

Unfortunately, this bitch was anything but stupid. The next sound Buffy heard after the turning of the lock was the bed frame squeaking when her evil half flopped down. “It was thoughtful of Andrew to leave me his key. I don’t think the others even noticed. They were all too wrapped up in the latest turmoil.”

The vampire’s voice sounded strange, but that wasn’t entirely without reason. Buffy had heard recordings of her own voice before. She knew it sounded different to other people. It was something that simply hadn’t occurred to her. Of course, another huge part of that is the natural tendency to want to reject things that are just too messed up for words.

“Now there’s a standard story,” the vampire said with a laugh.

Buffy’s knees throbbed, both of them, but the right one was still the worst. The railing was wide enough to support one of them, so she scooted back to rest against the wall and lifted her leg up. From her new vantage point she could see the foot of the bed. Light leaked in through the semi-sheer curtains creating a line of shadow that divided the bed in two. Her double lay in the shadow on the far side. Buffy couldn’t see much more than her feet, but from their position she could tell that her double was lounging on her side.

Guess so long as I see feet, it’ll all be good.

The vampire still had on the same white pair of woven peep-toe sandals from earlier. Her toenails were painted a metallic shade of plum that was slightly darker than her blouse. Even with all of the murderous mayhem and skulking around, she still had time to squeeze in a pedicure. So, my evil half is probably the best dressed vamp in all of L.A. That’s comforting. Not only am I a brutally efficient predator, I’ve set new standards of personal grooming for the undead. Go me.

“Y’know, I’m kind of glad I didn’t kill you,” the vampire who wore her face and spoke in her voice said. “I haven’t had this much fun in…” The whole thing was such a mockery. The way she laughed, delighted by their situation. “Watching you squirm, desperate to figure it all out. I remember feeling that—the burning need to make things right. You know there’s no way, but you just have to try.”

“And that worries you doesn’t it?” Buffy goaded. “The idea that I might just get lucky. I’ve been known to do that.” No matter whose face she wears, she’s just another goddamned vampire. That’s all I need to know. She’ll eventually screw up, get too cocky, too greedy. I’ll put her down. I’ve put down hundreds, maybe thousands of her kind, with nothing more than sharpish wits, a sharp stick and an even sharper tongue.

“Not even a little,” the vampire countered brazenly. “You’ve probably already gotten the hint. Your little plan isn’t gonna work—the snatch and dash—bag Angelus and make things better. If it was that simple, don’cha think I would’ve done that ages ago?”

“Why would you even care?” Buffy sputtered, finding herself stupidly, completely bowled over by the answer. Part of the problem was her legs. The way they were aching made it a little hard to keep her head in the game. The left one was especially annoying, hanging bent and unsupported like it was. She tried hooking the baluster with her foot, but that just strained the joint.

As she mulled over moving to the floor, the vampire replied, “Well, it’s not like I’ve retired,” sounding all too much like her. “Death didn’t stop me before. Why should it stop me now? I’m still doing my job, defending the innocents and taking down the bad.”

“And killing innocent girls,” Buffy supplied, quick and snarky. Oh yeah, she’s a real humanitarian. Moving was a truly terrible idea. It was bad enough that the vamp could see her and all Buffy could see was her feet. Yeah, sitting there would put me at too much of a disadvantage if Miss Scare-All got brave, or foolish enough to go on the offensive with something besides her smart mouth.

“I s’pose you’d see it that way,” the vampire reasoned. “I’ll give you that the line between them and me may be a little blurrier.”

“A little?” Buffy scoffed. “Tell me, just how else am I supposed to see it? They’re girls.” That bought her a few moments of silence, during which she figured it out. All she had to do was move down and lay on her side on the railing, just like the stupid vampire.

She was halfway to playing a severely clichéd, but not quite so comfortable bookend when her doppelganger got chatty, “Let me ask you something. When exactly was it that you lost your innocence?” A couple of heartbeats later the rhetorical question slipped away in favor of another… “Was it when Celia died?” …and another… “Did it happen when you watched that thing leech her life away?” …and eventually even an answer was supplied, “It could’ve been, but I don’t think it happened that early.”

This was fun. Buffy hadn’t given the subject a single thought and she already had one pretty fair answer to a fairly pointless question from a viewpoint not unlike her own. It almost took her mind off the fact that moving her legs made her feel like someone was hacking them off. Having found a decent position, she was comfier now, though the ledge she was on was barely four inches wide. Her right hand hung down to grip the railing as she propped her head up with her left hand and settled in for the show. Listening to vampy-her playing twenty questions with herself promised to be more amusing than a one-sided game of pong.

At least the sunshine felt good. The day was shaping up to be a balmy one. A little breeze might’ve been nice, but otherwise it was perfect.

All except for her alter-ego running her mouth, “Was it when Mom and Dad started fighting?” recounting the life and times of Buffy Summers. “Watching my home life fall apart was scary. It took forever. The first of the bad fights happened long before anything else. I had no clue how it’d turn out. I’d seen similar things on TV. I wondered if I’d be given a choice like the kids were on those shows. But I loved them both. How could I even do that? It would’ve been like telling one of them that I loved them less.”

Buffy found it interesting that the vampire had switched to recounting a more personal view of the events. She started looking for something that didn’t fit, but this stuff was all pretty standard and pretty much common knowledge. Anyone could’ve told her this story and asked those questions. She wanted something—some inconsistency that would enable to her to say, ‘Nope, not me.’

“That’s exactly it though. The whole thing was so Movie of the Week. It really sucked, but I don’t think that did it. I still felt like there might be some hope. I had this kind of fairytale expectation that goodness would somehow prevail.”

So far that was a total bust.

“Was it when Tyler McNulty felt you up that one Saturday night?”

This is just infuriating. Vampy-me can’t even pick a point or a point-of-view and stick with it.

“Remember how good that felt? How hard it was when he wanted more? How you almost gave in? Remember how much that hurt? How much you cared?”

This stuff was a little less ‘common’ in the knowledge department. No one in Sunnydale knew about Tyler because Buffy hadn’t been overly chatty about her past. That didn’t mean that it couldn’t have come from any one of the hundreds of people who’d attended Hemery with her. For pity’s sake, we were Fiesta king and queen. He was a junior and I was a freshman. That’s pretty much unheard of. I see where she’s going with this—and yeah, it sucked—but just the fact that I was younger than he was made me a target for that sort of thing.

Girls are mean. Can we move on?

“He was the first guy I—umm…I mean, you ever really kissed. That is assuming that you are who I think you are.”

No, obviously we can’t.

Her alter-ego’s tripping up again motivated Buffy to reply, “Yes, I am who you think I am.” She didn’t see the harm in letting that much slip. “So, are we feeling nostalgic for a reason?” In her opinion this whole thing was past tedious. She needs to find one soon or—

“Yes, I have a point,” the vampire replied. “Remember how that turned out? I thought we were the perfect match, until Tyler decided that occupying the seat of his Mercedes should cost something a little extra. It’s totally mind boggling how not going any further than an ‘under the shirt, over the bra’ grope made me a slut.” A snicker cut into her shtick. “Wasn’t high school just a blast? I was labeled ‘easy’ for being one of the few girls who didn’t just give it up over social bullshit. I held out for love.”

Feeling like she was a captive audience was getting to Buffy. She lay, not-quite patiently listening. The material was past stale. And I thought I had trouble letting go.

The most maddening thing about the whole situation was how dispassionate the vamp’s account was. “But I don’t need to share that one with you, do I? Was that what did it? Did trading a few hours in heaven with Angel for months of hell finally rob you of your innocence? Or did it happen before then? Was it when you drew the short straw and got saddled with a demon and a destiny? The dreams came and you watched all of those other girls die.” It kind of figured that recounting the carnage perked her right up. “You felt the life drain from their bodies one heartbeat at a time, their necks snap, blades pierce their flesh, their last desperate gasps for breath…”

Sick sadistic bitch.

The sad part was that Buffy knew the bitch had a point. That pissed her off to no end. Before she even had her head together, the vampire took another shot, “How can you possibly think that you did anything other than hurt them? All you gave them was a short, violent life. Death is your gift, remember? If you think anything else, you’re kidding yourself.”

Not much of one. She’s still a psychopath.

Buffy took a deep breath to wring the hostility from her tone. “I’m not so sure I should be taking morality lessons from someone who brings buckets of body parts to—”

Laughter cut her off. “Is that what they told you?” the vampire asked. “My god, you must think I’m some kind of monster.”

“The thought had crossed my mind.” The comeback was a little too easy for Buffy’s tastes, yet somehow not unsatisfying.

“Yeah, well, see it however you like. Whatever works for you,” The vampire countered. “But all I’ve been doing is cleaning up the mess we made.” Her feet moved, causing Buffy to tense, but it didn’t look like she was going anywhere, just getting comfortable. “I’d consider putting them back if I thought for a minute there was any going back. You and I both know there isn’t. What I’m doing is merciful.”

Buffy envied her that. Her muscles were starting to stiffen from holding so still. “Oh, yeah, I’m sure you’re a real saint,” she replied. “Like one of those really old ones who were canonized for acts of brutality and attempted genocide.”

“Well, it’s not like I torture them,” the vampire said. “That’s not my gig. It’s theirs. Your new little friends. You should ask Kennedy about torture. She could teach a class. I don’t even know what you’re thinking going there with Willow. The girl has seriously lost it. It’s like whatever she had that made her Willowy died with Tara. She hasn’t been right since.”

Buffy tensed again when she heard Willow’s name. Anger brewed beneath the surface of her calm exterior, but she held her tongue and let the vampire speak her piece, “You should at least get your story straight. The ‘bucket’ thing—that was Spike. I needed for them to know what had happened to me and somehow bringing a vacuum cleaner bag of ash just didn’t seem like it’d send quite the same message.”

Arguing with a lunatic was a total waste of time. Buffy felt it was better to busy herself by sitting up while she still could without taking a header off of the balcony rail.

“But you could ask Willow about that. She’s watched me. She knows.”

The stabbing pain that cut through Buffy’s legs when she swung them around blotted out most of the vampire’s statement. She heard Willow’s name and that was about it. That was fine. The important thing was that she was on her feet.

“You should know too,” the vampire said. “You remember how that feels. It hurts at first. And then there’s fear. I try not to scare them. That’s not what I’m—”

It rang a bell. That didn’t help one bit. “Yeah, I like I said, I’m sure you’re a total peach,” Buffy snapped. “The point is you’re killing. You know the drill. I shouldn’t have to explain. You kill, I have to stop you. It doesn’t matter whose skin you’re in. You’re just another monster to me.” She looked the situation over. There was one thing she might be able do, provided that the open door meant there was no magical barrier.

“You see the chain hanging from the ceiling of the balcony on the far right?” The vampire’s voice had picked up an amused quality that made Buffy want to stake her that much more. “That’s where Kennedy leaves her, all wrapped in painted flowers like some sacrificial virgin. ’Cept Willow’s no—”

That tore it. Buffy lashed out. Her left foot connected with the closed French door. Windowpanes shattered. The door latch broke. Glass shards rained over the floor. The swinging door snagged the curtains, bring all of them down. Sunlight poured into the room and the vampire went scrambling.

Buffy used the confusion to hop over the rail—tucking tail grated on her nerves—but the sad fact was, she needed to catch the railing to stop herself from falling. Her body slammed into the wall below, sending pain shooting through her legs. She looked down. The drop was only about five feet, but it might as well have been five-hundred. Her legs felt like they were on fire. At least there was nothing below her, just an overgrown flowerbed. She let go. When her feet hit, she fell backwards, intentionally busting her butt to break her fall. It was graceful.

And now she was stuck with the same problem she had before. So, how do I get out of this goddamned courtyard? The question made her giggle. She flopped back in the dirt.

She was inches from falling into a fit of hysterical laughter when her double called out, “It’s been fun. We should do this again sometime.” The faintness of her voice was a treat. It had worked. She was leaving.

The sun shone overhead. Buffy shut her eyes against its brightness. All she needed to do now was wait. This was as good a spot as any.

Chapter Text

The door swooshed closed, whipping the wisps of hair that framed Buffy’s face around. They tickled annoyingly, adding to the chills that ran down her spine.

Pushing the irritation down, she surveyed the lobby. It was spacious and glossy with centrally located elevators and enough glass to provide windows for more than a dozen suburban homes. Not that she expected anything less. This was downtown L.A. after all. Creating an illusion of airy openness while doggedly pursuing some nefarious hidden agenda was something the movers and shakers in this city excelled at.

Evil-me might’ve had a point. Entering L.A.’s very own tower of Berry-door probably isn’t the smartest thing I’ve ever done.

No, that isn’t it. Is it? Barrow-doer? Borrowed-door? Something like that.

Dammit, Xander. Seven hours of my life gone. And for what?

Buffy stepped aside to dig out the day planner that was wedged into the side pocket of her oversized, overstuffed handbag. Both floors of the lobby bustled with activity. It was close to five thirty, so that made sense. Various people slipped past, though the exit, without paying Buffy any notice. They were the majority of the hold up—Wolfram and Hart’s human employees—the more of them that left, the better this worked for her. She busied herself by unzipping the day planner and leafing through its pages.

Eh, Will might find that funny…if it wasn’t for me putting myself in the admittedly uncomfortable position that inspired the association in the first place. She enjoyed those movies way more than I did.

But yeah…she was in the same camp as the vamp. When your worst enemy and your best friend agree on something, the smart thing to do is listen. Yet, no surprise, here I am.

Every page Buffy glanced at was blank. Her every action part of a game. She feigned interest, pretended to read and even ‘found’ what she was ‘looking for’ with reasonable efficiency.

Xander did have a point. Big flamy eyeball guy was so much cooler than the First Evil.

What she was actually after was a piece of heavy clear plastic stuck at the back of the binder. Willow had called it a ‘window.’ She said that Wolfram and Hart was like the Fort Knox of the magical world. This would allow her to ‘break in.’ That much made sense, sort of. The rest of what she’d said had been complete gibberish, full of terms Buffy didn’t know or care to learn.

One side of the ‘window’ was covered with wax paper to preserve all of the intricate little squiggles Willow had drawn. None of them were visible now. The ink she’d used was this clear, goopy stuff. It had smelled too bad for Buffy to stay interested for long. She peeled the wax paper away, careful not to get any of the ‘ink’ on her fingers. The plastic square wasn’t much bigger than her hand. She palmed it and reached back to stick the ‘window’ to the window.

The lobby was still a busy place. Not nearly enough of the human contingent had gone, but she’d stalled long enough. She’d just have to be careful. Her heels clicked against the white marble floor as she made her way to the reception desk. Stashing the day planner back in her bag kept her hands busy. Not that that mattered. By all rights, she should’ve had a major case of the creeps—there were enough baddies under this chic, postmodern roof to kill her fifty times over—but she didn’t. She was still too grumpy for that.

The dress she’d found had been perfect. It was gorgeous, just the right mix of elegance and flirtatiousness, but it had had a halter top and she’d taken a catnap that morning. Being sunburned wasn’t even the bad part. Yeah, she was draggy and sore, but that wasn’t it. The great big leaf that had been resting over her right shoulder was. It’d left the worst, most messed up, ugliest tan line she’d ever seen in her life.

And just for kicks, Willow had been ‘disappointed in her.’ Not ‘mad,’ but ‘disappointed.’ It kind of went without saying that feeling like the biggest screw-up on the planet had made things a little worse. Only I could be so pathetic. Why she ever agreed to go along with this—whatever this is—I’ll never know.

Seeing Harmony Kendall’s smiling face put the perfect ending on a perfectly wretched day. Buffy didn’t give up. Between the wide-brimmed hat Willow had picked out and the sunglasses she’d picked out, she thought she might stand a chance. The rest of her act was purely inspired, off-the-cuff smartassery. She put on her most winning smile, looked Harmony in the eye, and drawled in a thick, mocked French accent, “Oui, Miriam Blaylock to see Monsieur Angel. I have a six o’clock appointment.”

The accent wasn’t half bad in her opinion. The dress however was. She’d settled for something so lugubrious it brought out the best horror movie kitsch in her. It looked like something Drusilla might wear, if she dressed like she lived in this century. Normally I wouldn’t be caught dead in something like this, but—

Harmony hmmed in mock contemplation. “I’m not showing you on the schedule, Miss Blaylock.” She didn’t even bother to look up.

That was fine. Perfect actually. “Miz,” Buffy corrected, deciding to work the snob angle for effect. At least it’s not floor length. I may not die because of a crappy dress.

“Alright, so…” Harmony replied with a click of her mouse. “I’m sure there’s just been a mix-up.” She stalled by continuing to screw with her computer. Ditz is probably playing solitaire. “I’ll get this straightened out. If you’ll just have a seat over there, Miz Blaylock, Angel will be right with you.”

Buffy couldn’t have done better if she’d tried. In the space of a few short sentences she’d gone from ‘forgettable’ to ‘contemptible.’ This is almost like high school. Not only had Harmony stretched the title ‘Ms’ to absurd proportions, mid-instruction she’d gestured to a row of chairs on the wall adjacent to and partially hidden by her counter that looked like they might double as a torture device. Buffy glanced at them and seriously wondered whether there were retractable spikes hidden underneath the cushions.

Taking a seat might’ve been the better thing, but she just couldn’t bring herself to do that. Though it would’ve made it impossible for Harmony to glance like she did as she chirruped, “Hi, boss,” into the receiver. “Hey, uh, yeah, there’s some woman named Blaylock here to see you. She claims to have an appointment.” Recognition didn’t register in her eyes, so that much was good, but really, none of it mattered.

This could only end one of two ways: either they’d wise up or Willow would get her act together. Whichever way things went, they were bound to turn ugly quick. Buffy’s fingers threaded beneath the elastic band that held the second, outer pocket of her handbag tight against its bulging side.

Harmony mumbled, “Yeah, I know,” still addressing Angelus. “There are no Blaylocks on our client list. Should I send her away?”

Getting into the pocket was too awkward for Buffy’s taste. She’d wanted to turn the bag the other way to put it on the outside for convenience, but the tapered, cylindrical object the pocket held was just too obvious. She dug down, faux leather constricting her hand. It struck her as stupid that she felt better when her fingers met wood. One stake was hardly going to make a difference.

A door along the back wall of the second floor walkway opened. Angelus stepped out. He was probably just checking what was on the menu before he made his decision. The soup du jour wasn’t showing nearly enough cleavage or leg to hold his interest. Colors were a bit drab too and Buffy knew it, but that didn’t matter. She decided to dispense with the pleasantries.

Angelus stood transfixed as Buffy dashed across the lobby. The way she moved left no question she wasn’t your average girl. She reached the midway point and leapt. Doubt scattered her thoughts as she flew through the air. His stare hadn’t changed. Is he even watching me?

Willow’s chest swelled as the spell manifested. A pretty, perfect, shimmering silver orb hung in midair for mere seconds before it zipped through the open passenger side window and disappeared from sight. She turned her head in hopes of watching it go, unsure whether what she was feeling was pride or relief.

The street beside her was gridlocked. She caught a glimpse of something shiny above the fender of the hulking S.U.V. that was parked alongside her, but that could’ve been the glint of sunlight on its slick black paint. She wasn’t sure. It was time to move. Being stuck in traffic when Buffy returned would be bad. Willow started the car and flipped the turn signal on to indicate that she wanted to go. Not that that would do a lick of good. She’d be lucky to get out when the light changed.

For now she busied herself by cleaning up her mess. Buffy’s seat was covered with all of the baubles and bits that it took to cast Delothrian's Arrow. It was a complicated spell. When Willow promised to help, she hadn’t been sure she could still do it. It had been so long. The accomplishment made her feel for just a moment that there was hope.

The heavy, familiar taint of doubt returned as she picked up a sprig of secuda and placed it in a bag. What was I thinking?

For a short time that morning, as they lay in bed, she’d felt something she never dreamt she would again. Not just desired—though considering the company, that was amazing too—she’d felt needed. She’d felt that she was important. When Willow woke up trapped and alone, she’d believed that she’d imagined the entire thing. I should be used to it. Kennedy does that to me all the time. She locks me away for hours. I don’t dare call out. I don’t dare say anything.

Even after all of Buffy’s apologies and explanations, her excuses and promises, the feeling hadn’t rubbed off. It had bled over. Something was terribly wrong. Willow felt it in her bones. Pennies or pounds, days or decades, however this went, it would be too little, too late. More a fool’s errand than a rescue mission. She was certain of it. As certain as she was that she was cursed.

The S.U.V. moved. She turned her head and saw the massive mirrored tower with its tiered levels, stacked like the building blocks of some monstrous child. But not all of the mirrors were perfect and shiny. Some of them were flawed, crackled, woven through with dark fractures.

Oh.

A light breeze ruffled the hair on her arm.

Oh no.

For an instant the crash of falling glass blended with all of the other city sounds.

Oh dear. I didn’t—

Sitting there, parked on the side of the street, Willow fell too. She kept falling. Her blood went icy.

Oh, this is bad. This is very, very, very bad.

Great gaping holes had appeared in the building’s face. It was just the bottom two floors and only, like, every other pane, but—

They’re bound to figure it out. And then they’ll come. It’s only a matter of time. They’ll know I’m to blame.

A car behind her honked, nearly sending her out of her skin. She looked wildly around.

It’s okay. Buffy will come back. She has to come back. And she’ll bring Angel. Willow refused to think that Angel was Angelus and what they were really doing was opening their doors to another murderer. Thoughts like that would’ve really sent her fleeing for her life. Any doubts she had that Buffy would return were quickly dismissed as well.

The honk—that sound—it was just someone being nice. All they wanted was to get Willow’s attention. The lights had changed and they had stopped short to give her room to pull out.

We’ll make things right. We have to.

Her skin crawled. Or this could just go like everything else.

It took all of her resolve to do what was necessary. She put the car in gear, turned the wheel and crept forward into traffic.

If everything does blow up in my face, what will it matter? They deserve this.

They deserve more.

The glass railing that bordered the second floor walkway shattered when Buffy took hold. It should’ve held. She intended to use it to vault, to change direction. She should’ve been able to pitch her body sideways. Instead, she went tumbling. Her shoulder smacked the floor, then her hip. The stake slipped from her grasp. Her hat came off her head. She hadn’t quite stopped when she gained control and sprang to her feet. Panicked shrieks rang out behind her. She turned.

In the time it had taken her to crash and burn, the lobby had fallen into chaos. Five of the story-tall glass panes that made up the build’s face had shattered. Above them even more of the second story windows were missing. The effect was a strange, irregular checkerboard pattern. Though the missing windows, sunlight flooded the room.

Harmony Kendal ran screaming, blonde hair and teal satin flapping, flames lapping, fragments of glass crunching beneath her Prada pumps. She pulled wildly at one doorknob, then another, and another. Two guards and a man in a three-piece suit ran a similar ragged race. All four like chickens with their heads lopped off. Others scrambled frantically to avoid them. It was like the set of some disaster movie.

Buffy didn’t hold out to watch the ashy finale. She turned to face Angelus, but he wasn’t there. It was then that she saw it: the bull in the china shop. Only it wasn’t a bull at all. In fact, it wasn’t any different than any of Willow’s other little glowy creations, except in color. It was kind of silvery, like a big glob of water, and about the size of a hummingbird. It moved like that too. It might’ve been something Willow had sent to watch over her, or that’s what Buffy thought, until it tapped the window of Angelus’s office. A spider web of fractures formed, radiating out from the point where it had touched. The second tap brought the glass down and it all became clear.

But she was talking about jelly jars. Jesus! Overkill much?

The impish little bauble zipped into Angelus’s office. Seconds later, the door burst open and he damn near ran Buffy down. Plumes of smoke rolled from his leather trench coat as he hauled ass down the adjoining corridor.

She collected her stake and took off after him. Catching up was no big deal. Actually, she was tempted to help him along. He was getting awfully slow in his old age.

Stalling was fine too. She had a problem. There was an art to knocking a vampire out—what with the lack of blood flow. The whole thing was wonky. She’d done alright as a slayer. A couple of times she’d got lucky and put one down, but that had always involved a weapon. She hadn’t tried since her Willow had made with the big improvements. And the last thing she wanted was to crush his skull, break his neck, or do anything else that might potentially render him dusty and boring. Decapitating the rescuee was generally viewed as being in bad form. The hero’s handbook even said so.

It didn’t take long for Angelus to get sick of being followed. About as long as it took for the sunlight to run out. He spun midstride, producing a blade from inside his coat.

The idea was for Buffy to run into it. Or that’s what she assumed based on how he held it. She turned to diminish her profile and darted right. Her speed built as she whirled past him. He swung, his blade shadowing her.

Buffy snapped to a halt just out of reach, facing him. There was only about ten feet of hallway behind her. And the hallway itself was only about eight feet wide. This was going to be tight. He wasn’t pressing in, so she took the opportunity to lose the excess baggage. The last thing she wanted was to get snagged by her handbag strap. She lifted it over her head. Her sunglasses went in a side pocket and she dropped the bag, shoving it against the wall with her foot.

Angelus twirled the knife, reversing his grip as he greeted her with a gracious smile, “It’s been a long time, lover. Good to see you.” The gesture was provocative in a way that had nothing to do with sex. But really, he was just buying time, like he expected her to get distracted and forget that she was deep inside the belly of the beast.

“Yeah, whatever,” Buffy replied. Not gonna happen. “You’re gonna try to kill me, right?” She cussed herself for not rushing him while the knife was in transition. It would’ve been so much easier to separate him from it right then. “How ’bout we get on with that?” In the heartbeat between her first and second statement, she closed the gap between them.

His knife swept up as he angled his shoulder back to avoid the downward thrust of her stake. Buffy blocked the attack. During the series of swift blows that followed, he bantered, “What brings you out today?” Palms struck forearms, her stake parried his blade.

Her blows were quicker and more powerful. “You,” she replied, driving him back. “I missed you.” While he was off balance, she snatched his wrist, leveraging the blade down. Angelus craned forward, his body bowing to avoid the knifepoint. For some ungodly reason, that made him cackle. Nervy sonuvabitch was actually having fun. As his wrist twisted from her grip, she followed with a brutal uppercut. The punch lifted him up and threw him back. He hit the floor so hard he bounced. That just made him laugh harder. He shook his head and wiped the blood from his mouth.

Another crash came from the lobby as he sprang to his feet. Willow’s little friend was still being a pest. Buffy half expected some smartass comment about insurance claims, damages, or whatever, but he followed up his previous question with another, “Call me curious, but I guess the better question would be: how are you out?”

“You remember the Gem of Amara?” Buffy replied, at the same time pressing her advantage. The side kick she delivered caught him under the chin and lifted him off his feet. Really, she just wanted to wipe the smirk off his face. He liked that. He’ll love this. “Aren’t you just kicking yourself for crushing that god-awful gaudy, all-powerful thingamabob?”

But she wasn’t sure he heard that. He lay, unmoving. Considering the pool of sunlight and the smoldering, probably not.

Huh. Well, that wasn’t as hard as I thought.

She grabbed his ankle and dragged him back into the shadows, then went to unpack her bag.

Giles was absolutely beside himself. Never in all of his years had he seen so grave a matter handled with such flagrant disregard. And by these women of all people, the very ones who had given so much of themselves once before under similar circumstances. Their inaction was unconscionable, unreasonable, inconceivable… He was utterly at a loss.

Having allowed anger to be his guide, Giles found himself standing in the open doorway of Elizabeth Harkness’s chamber. He, himself, in that moment, was guilty of rashness. One of the very things he meant to raise issue with. That left him on unstable ground.

He hadn’t even knocked when she granted him entrance in an aloof tone, “You may come in.”

Giles did as he was bidden, feeling a fool as he shut the door behind him. Of course she knew he was coming. As also she was aware that he was upset. There was little that escaped her notice. Drawing on anger to temper his disquiet, he asked, “Surely you do not intend to stand idly by while Willow destroys herself?”

“What would you have me do?” she asked. His allegation barely warranted a glance.

He took no offense to her indifference, nor did he move from her threshold. A chilly reception was to be expected when one ignored the most basic rules of protocol. He would be seated if and when she saw fit, and the odds of that happening were very slim. He had come to speak his piece and that was all he intended to do. “It pains me to say this, but I believe we should stop her by any means necessary. On her present course, she will most assuredly bring ruin down upon us all.”

Ms. Harkness set the document she’d been considering aside. Ever kind, she gestured for him to make himself comfortable. Once he was settled into one of the two chintz armchairs stationed in front of her desk, she asked, “How long have you known her?”

The question threw him. It took him a moment to reply, “Eight—” he reconsidered his response “—nearly nine years.” It was difficult for him to believe that it had been so long.

A tea tray sat to her right in the same position most ordinary people would place their computer. Thankfully, Elizabeth Harkness was anything but ordinary. It amused him to see that there were two cups, along with the teapot and plate of biscuits. His hostess didn’t offer, she merely assumed, pouring a cup for him as she asked, “Would you say it is true that, in the past when she made mischief, it largely stemmed from her doing the convenient thing?” She lifted her cup and saucer from the tray, placing it before her. On one of the two desert plates, she placed a biscuit for herself, then she half-stood to lift the tray to the leading edge of her desk.

“Yes. I suppose so,” he replied. Her cordialness soothed his tattered nerves. He vowed to afford her the same courtesy she had shown him.

As he leaned forward to take his cup from the tray and move it to the end table beside him, Ms. Harkness remarked, “She is on the harder path.”

Though the sweets looked good, he abstained. He would have a proper meal once their business was concluded. For the moment, he was intent on hearing her out. He sipped at his cup, giving her license to speak, which she did with no hesitation.

“There are really only two resolutions to this particular problem: either forfeit to evil and become an agent for their cause, or find a way to accomplish what must be done without their assistance. It would be more pleasant for all of our sakes if a third option existed. Sadly, I believe that Willow is correct. No other solution is viable.”

Ms. Harkness paused to take a sip from her cup. The way she cradled it in her hands suggested that its warmth was doing her joints some good.

“The task she must complete is a daunting one. Even for a vengeance demon, travel between planes requires preparation. They cannot accomplish that on their own. They have the great font of power known as the Lower Beings to draw from.” Though he could see nothing amusing about any of this, she let out a harrumph of a snicker. “That name is terribly misleading.” She returned her teacup to its saucer.

Giles understood the reality of their situation all too well. It was absolutely criminal that their cause had become so dependent upon one person, but there was nothing to be done about it now. Buffy Summers had been elevated by her deeds to the status of an icon, at least within their organization. She was the one unifying voice that all of the other slayers would rally to. The effect of her loss was impossible to predict. Moving forward would be—

Ms. Harkness resumed her explanation, cutting short his thoughts, “You know the laws regarding the conservation of energy as well as I do.” She met his eyes to punctuate the significance of her statement. “We will assist her as we are able, but once she has travelled to the parallel universe, she will be on her own and she will need the power to return. We will not be able to help her with that.”

The loss was, in fact, terrible, a great injustice to them all. Their options were indeed limited. On all of those points, he agreed, but there was still the matter of Willow. He wanted desperately to ask if Ms. Harkness truly believed her to be the best choice for this task. Would they not be better served by sending someone else? He would be willing to go. And couldn’t that person—be it him or whoever was selected—be fortified by some other means? He had been empowered by this circle before. He could contain and command their power.

Instead of voicing these opinions, he kept his oath and held his tongue. Ms. Harkness had not finished.

“Goddess help us all. Willow is doing the necessary thing, the harder thing. Moreover, and more significant to the issue that you raise, I sense no malice in her, only sorrow.”

Buffy hadn’t broken Angelus nearly as badly as she’d feared. His larynx was crushed and from the swelling, it looked like his jaw was probably fractured, but he’d heal soon enough. That much was good. While hurting him sounded great in theory, she still cared too much to actually want that.

She’d managed to bundle him up into a handy dandy vampire takeout package in record time. It had gone a lot like rolling a burrito. Willow had suggested using a canvas tarp instead of a duffle. That was a good call. His feet would’ve stuck out of the duffle. Not having to deal with smoldering feet was another win in her book.

Surprisingly enough, there had been no shortage of restraints at the Hyperion. She’d had her pick and he wasn’t going anywhere. Not without her help. She’d even managed to use the rope she’d used to secure the tarp to fashion a handle.

She was feeling pretty proud of herself, trudging merrily up the corridor toward the front door, when a blue haired, leather-clad woman stepped into view. Well, this can’t be good.

The strange woman’s mostly-red outfit, with its black and gold accents, was really more of a costume. It resembled the sort of molded body armor you see in anime or comic books. She was missing the accessory pack which probably contained a whip and maybe a laser pistol. It hurt the look a little. So. Either a major dominatrix complex or she’s expecting candy.

Buffy didn’t see any plastic jack-o-lantern. It was time to go. She went for the first door on her left as Mistress Megatron started her way. The doorknob popped in her hand, indicating that might’ve been locked. Not that it mattered.

The office was occupied by some skinny guy. She was in too much of a hurry to even get a good look at his face. So long as he didn’t make with the crazy, she’d be out of his hair in no time. The wedge heel of her boot went through the window, then so did she and Angelus came along for the ride. The twelve foot drop barely fazed Buffy. Though she had no clue where she was going, she was running within seconds of hitting the ground. ‘Away from Wolfram and Hart’ was enough to know for the moment.

Spotting a red BMW convertible in downtown L.A. shouldn’t be a problem. Spotting the right BMW might be. Fortunately Buffy was dealing with the only person quirky enough in the entire state to leave the top up on a gorgeous day. That made it almost a no-brainer. Willow was at the intersection just ahead, preparing to turn.

Buffy didn’t look back. The dead weight was slowing her down enough. If she was lucky, she might just make it to the car before the crazy catsuit lady caught up. Fortunately, nothing happened along the way except for a few strange looks. I guess it isn’t every day you see a woman who’s dressed for a funeral dragging a body down the street. But this is L.A.

She reached the intersection as Willow was making the left turn onto the street Buffy had just come down. Traffic was thick. Buffy ran out into the crosswalk, not quite jumping in front of their car. The fact that Willow actually stopped drew more attention than Buffy’s corpseathon.

“Pop the trunk,” Buffy shouted over the bellowing of people and car horns. She dragged Angelus around to the trunk, uncertain whether he’d fit. One glance solved that. There was no way. The space was a whole lot tinier than it looked like it might be from the outside. She closed the trunk and brought him around to the passenger side.

Wrestling Angelus into the small, two-door coupe was a joy. It probably would’ve been hard for him to get in on his own. Willow tried, but she wasn’t much help. All of the attention they were getting was seriously wigging her out. Mostly this job involved Buffy lifting him under the shoulders and knees and chucking him into the car. The trouble was the folded passenger seat and the seatbelt kept getting in her way. She finally managed.

“Let me drive,” Buffy said as she ran around to the car.

Willow looked aghast. “What?” she stammered. “But Buffy, you don’t drive.”

“I’m not the same person you knew,” Buffy reminded her patiently, though that’s the last thing she was. The light was about to change and things were getting uglier by the second. It wouldn’t be long before someone was in her face. Avoiding that sounded like a plan.

Willow gave in pretty quickly. In the time it took her to scramble around the car, Buffy had stashed her purse in the backseat, fastened her seatbelt and adjusted everything except for the mirrors. She played with them to give Willow a moment to get situated before they rolled. The turn Willow had been making put them on one of the main routes to the four-oh-five. They didn’t want or need to get caught up in that mess. Buffy swung the car around to go straight through the intersection.

She went half a block, pushing the BMW hard. The tires squealed as she made the turn onto a cross street. What they needed to do was disappear, and the quicker, the better. Once they were nearly to the next block, she slowed down. Driving like a total lunatic would only get them in trouble. She opted for ‘half-lunatic,’ which should actually make them blend in.

“I hate cars,” Buffy mumbled under her breath as she brought them to an abrupt stop. No one was coming. A twinge went through her knee when she mashed the accelerator. They went straight across the intersection as fast as the car would take them. The excitement was wearing off and she hurt. It just figured that she’d reinjured her knee. At this rate, the thing would probably never heal. What she needed was a full day to recuperate. And that might happen sometime between no-time-soon and never.

She hadn’t gotten so much as a disdainful snicker for her comment yet. It was time to check. She backed off the gas and gave Willow a quick glance.

Willow reacted to the attention by turning to look out her window.

“What’s the matter?” Buffy asked, trying to take Willow’s hand.

It stung a little when Willow pulled away. “Nothing,” she replied, clearly avoiding the question.

Buffy responded with an annoyed glance. In truth she was glad to see that Willow was paying that much attention.

“Everything,” Willow admitted, only to hem and haw. “Oh. Uh. I don’t know. I mean, umm…” Her cheeks were streaked with tears. A second glance just made her defensive. “I really don’t.”

Willow sat on her heels in the clearing in front of her home. Her toes were curled under, supporting her weight. They ached with the pressure. Her feet felt too big, her legs gangly and useless.

It was beautiful here. A warm spot in an often chilly world. That took the edge off. This meadow was still the perfect place to fall in love. It made her think of Buffy. They’d shared so many months in this place, together and happy.

Too few months.

The grass was wet, but Willow was dry. Even her slacks were dry. A fire burned inside of her, keeping her warm, but in no way safe or comfortable. Her head felt huge, thuddy and sore. And for some reason her hands felt big too. She didn’t get that, but here she was, exposed. A cartoon girl with skinny legs and cartoon hands to match her cartoon head and feet.

A breeze blew through the trees. Raindrops pattered down. Tap. Tap. Tap. Each one that struck her was a tiny assault. She had control. She didn’t flinch. They burned off, turning to steam as though showered over a hot griddle. Or that’s what she imagined. She didn’t look. All she knew was that her hair was dry. Water wasn’t trickling over her skin, so it had to be going somewhere. It did matter what she was or what she’d done, how powerful she’d become. Some things were absolute. She couldn’t defy the laws of nature.

For a moment she felt a burning desire hop to up and run inside. She was sure if she did, Buffy would be there, waiting for her in their bed. She’d be able to snuggle up, to go to sleep, to forget. She couldn’t move for fear she was wrong. The sensation faded as quickly as it had come.

As time ticked away, she slipped away. Her body grew deader and deader. Her hands, feet and head were still too big, but they were so numb it didn’t matter. In place of water, bad and hurtful things seeped from her pores and trickled away, running rivulets over her skin.

She reached out, probing and plodding, looking for someone familiar. Buffy was there. Willow didn’t know where, but the sense that she was healthy and safe comforted her. She hadn’t failed. There was still time. She could bring the woman she loved home.

Chapter Text

Wesley sat quietly reading. He had no desire to become mixed up in the goings on outside his door. None of the crashing, banging or shrieking pertained to him.

He pictured Angelus puffing up his chest like a great cockerel, strutting, preening, and crowing. Such arrogance was banal. Yet it was one of the two things for which he had a real talent. The other was brutality.

Even if the entire universe had been crashing down around his employer’s ears, Wesley’s position would’ve remained unchanged. He had been maneuvered into doing this job and he intended to do just that and go home. To him this was no different than any other night, until his door lock popped.

Buffy burst into his office. He leapt to his feet, standing stony as she breezed through the room, dragging a bundle that from its size and shape, and the relative proximity of Angelus’s blustering, could only have been him. It happened so quickly, Wesley was still processing the want for his gun when the window shattered. By the time he coaxed movement from his hand, she was gone, out the window, and her captive with her.

Wesley’s heart rapped staccato in his chest. He had expected something—he hadn’t been certain what—certainly something excruciating. Now he was merely perplexed. Last he knew, Buffy was a vampire and therefore given to acts of overt violence, not to mention subject to certain catastrophic effects when exposed to sunlight.

The lack of spontaneous immolation led Wesley to consider that he might’ve been mistaken to the woman’s identity. That didn’t suit him either, but he wasn’t given time to postulate for Illyria entered the room hot on the strange woman’s heels.

“Where are you going?” he asked, operating on a hunch.

Illyria came to a halt, turning to regard Wesley with the contempt that he’d come to know for her passed as acceptance. “You presume to question me?” If he had truly offended her, he wouldn’t be standing, let alone moving steadily to join her at the hole left gaping floor to ceiling by the broken windowpane.

His approach had nothing to do with Illyria. He was curious about the strange woman. Since exiting his office, she’d made not only remarkable, but entirely inconceivable, progress, having travelled nearly three-quarters of a city block dragging a bundle that outweighed her two-fold. “I merely wish to understand,” he said with deference, still attentive to the stranger. “Perhaps I can help.” Watching her cemented the notion: the way she moved was far beyond the run-of-the-mill preternatural creatures with which he had regular dealings. This caused him further doubt.

“Perhaps, but doubtful,” Illyria allowed. “The interloper has taken the half-breed. I will retrieve him.”

She made to jump, halting again when Wesley asked, “Why?” A fraction of the alarm he felt tinged his voice.

Illyria studied him with obvious interest as she formulated an answer. “He has value to the overseers of this place, though I do not presume to comprehend why.”

Cautious of the ragged glass trapped in the window frame, Wesley took hold. By leaning out a little farther he could see the intersection. He caught sight of a familiar red BMW, which stopped, blocking the turning lane as Buffy approached. From her movements and posture he assumed she still had the package in tow. There were too many things obstructing his view for him to be certain. Catching sight of Willow moving around inside the car both heartened him and heightened his anxiety.

He had to prevent Illyria from interfering with them. The unfortunate truth of the situation worked in his favor. “Yes, but Angelus will return with or without our assistance. Why would you care to sully your hands with such a petty matter?”

Surprisingly, she didn’t seem terribly interested in the goings on outside of the room. She was far more intrigued by Wesley. “The interloper has violated our territory,” she countered. “She must be made to pay.”

His suspicions confirmed, at least in part, he deflected, “That ‘interloper’ as you so eloquently put it was Buffy Summers. I’m certain of it. You are aware that she is a vampire, are you not?” Wesley glanced at Illyria. Her interest had not waned. “Care to postulate how she’s running around in broad daylight?”

“I do not know,” she replied, her tone bland. “Why would it concern me?”

“I’m not sure.” His brow furrowed in thought. “What I do know is that in time she will pay,” he reasoned, internally amending, without assistance. “Your concerns are unfounded. So long as we possess the Muo-Ping containing Angelus’s soul, there is no chance that she will achieve her objective. At best, she’s captured a vicious killer to whom she will give quarter. I should think that you would enjoy watching the consequences of such folly unfold.”

Hell if I’m sticking around. These people are out of their frickin’ minds. Like that’s news.

Kennedy twiddled D’Hoffryn’s token between her fingers. The blood on it had dried to a crusty brown film. She’d wiped it away with a tissue. The only thing that kept it from looking like a piece of slag was its roundness. I’m not looking forward to having to slice my finger again, if that’s even necessary. I don’t know. I still remember what it said. Fussing over such a tiny thing made her feel like a baby. It had been like a really bad paper cut, more annoying than painful. Traces remained. She worried at the dead skin with her thumbnail. Damned thing took hours to heal.

The welfare of her fingers outweighed the very real possibility she might never see Willow again. Kennedy was taken aback by how little she cared. You’d think I’d feel some sense of loss. All I get is relief. That’s callous. I can’t help it. I’m sick of her goddamned drama. The recent trend of being blamed for Willow’s psychotic shit was hardly helpful. The deep resentment Kennedy had been fostering had blossomed into near outright loathing.

The post game show’s what’s really got me spooked. Regardless how Willow’s fool’s errand pans out, shit’s bound to hit the fan. She and Goldilocks ran off to give one of the largest and most prestigious law firms in L.A. a wedgie. Or more likely, die trying. Making myself scarce is at the top of my to-do list. They’re on their own.

The only question that remains is ‘how?’ I could still buy a plane ticket and be on the other side of the planet in about a day. That wouldn’t be a problem.

Wouldn’t work either. If I was gonna do that, I should’ve done it yesterday.

Something tells me that the thugs at Wolfram and Hart might take this personally. And I was sleeping with one of the offending parties. Going for the girlfriend is a time-honored tradition among thuggish types. I sincerely doubt even Dad’s money could protect me from that. I doubt Dad himself could. Like I’d ask.

The other offer would place me on roughly the same team as said ‘thugs.’ It would give me enough power to stand on my own. Plus, there might be alliances I could foster. All told, that’s the saner option. It still rubs me the wrong way. It isn’t like I was looking for a spot on the opposing team, but if D’Hoffryn’s any indication… He seems more about mischief. I should be able to run with that. Giving bad people bad things sounds fun.

Kennedy’s head felt light the moment she mumbled, “Screw it.” The bedspread, her hands, the coin, everything in her field of vision swam, gradually dimming. Blind, she plunged, though the bed hadn’t been ripped from beneath her. She was still seated on a padded surface. Unconsciously, she had a white-knuckled grip on the plastic encased steel t-bar that rested across her lap. Inertia’s dizzying pull whipped her topsy-turvy, to and fro, up and down. Wind whooshed.

Asteroids and white pinhole lights that would be stars flung past her. Shrill cries rang out from before and aft, audible despite the triumphant, orchestral blare. Pitched high above the din, metal clattered, sang, vibrated… Tubular tunnels whizzed by lined with lights colored by gel lenses of red, then blue.

A litany of profanity in a half-dozen different tongues accompanied Kennedy cobbling herself together. Though it was impossible to resolve how she’d gotten there, she knew where she was. The man in the moon told her when his broad, cheerful face rolled into view. This was a rollercoaster. Specifically, this was Space Mountain. She just didn’t know which Space Mountain—there were several—but that was where she was.

Seconds passed. Seconds were all it took. A light-filled tunnel dotted the horizon. The cars caught, jerking with their final approach. Kennedy spotted D’Hoffryn’s horny halo above the bolster of the seat in the car in front of her. Applauding, he pronounced the ride ‘marvelous’ and ‘wonderful.’ She didn’t agree, though it would’ve probably been more fun if she hadn’t been hijacked.

As the train drew to a halt, Kennedy corrected herself. This wasn’t Space Mountain. It was De la Terre à la Lune. The mixture of foreign dialects spoken in muffled tones, exclamations, and electronically amplified announcements around her had cinched it. She was in France. Specifically: northern-central France, in a suburb east of Paris called Chessy as she recalled. She’d wished to be halfway around the world. D’Hoffryn had roughly split the difference and thrown a theme park in for giggles.

No one appeared to notice the gangly demon who unfolded himself with some effort from the car directly ahead of hers. This was one of the few places on Earth colorful and costumed enough for D’Hoffryn to have some chance of blending in.

After having been in one position for too long, then tossed into a blender, she had almost as much trouble extracting herself as he did. Without preamble, she followed him what felt like a quarter mile to the exit, ignoring the Space: 1999 themed surroundings, scale model robots, control panels, dioramas of cities of the future.

Outside, the air was temperate. The sun shone bright and cheery. She tried to get her bearings by finding its position and failed. She imagined that it was probably midmorning, but that didn’t correspond with what she knew. It hadn’t been much later than seven at night and there was only a nine hour time difference.

She gave up trying to figure out where and when she was, resigning herself just to go with it. ‘Somewhere else’ and ‘relatively safe’ were enough to know for now. It wasn’t until they were well away from the building, headed through the bustling crowds toward Pluto—or more aptly a bistro that some poor guy sweltering in thirty pounds of black and yellow felt entertained with whimsical jigs and friendly waves—that D’Hoffryn decided to speak, “We’re delighted that you’ve chosen to join us.”

D’Hoffryn’s presumption rubbed Kennedy the wrong way. When did I actually say ‘yes’? She started to protest. Then she realized exactly how foolish that would be. She was as committed to this as she’d been to anything before. No, this presents the best chance I have of surviving the lunatics around me. Dying over their stupidity isn’t even an option.

She entertained the idea of retiring to a sleepy hamlet. Then she scoffed. Places like Séte suited her better. She’d work on her tan while adjusting the itineraries of the unrepentantly affluent in her spare time. Her musings came to a screeching halt when they reached the bistro. Under its colorful umbrellas she was outfitted with a Mickey mantle—not the ballplayer, the goofy mouse ears. She tried to balk, saying, “You’ve got to be kidding. What am I, five?”

D’Hoffryn wasn’t having any of it. “You, my dear, are on vacation. Lighten up. Have some fun.”

“Find anything?”

Giles didn’t look up. It had been perhaps half an hour since Xander had last asked the very same thing. Giles was avoiding his watch at the moment, so it was impossible to know for certain. What he did know hadn’t changed one iota in such a scant bit of time. But then, it wasn’t apt to change should he be relegated to maintain this pretense for days, perhaps even weeks.

Of course, I haven’t found anything, you nit. There’s nothing to find. I’m merely reading to occupy the time. Were I not, I would be given to the same infernal pacing that afflicts you. “No, I’m afraid not,” he replied, careful to keep his tone bland.

The volumes he’d acquired since the destruction of Sunnydale only offered so much information. He’d read all of the pertinent entries twice for good measure. The second pass had yielded nothing more than the barest facts the first had afforded.

For once he believed he understood Wesley’s choice to work out of the offices of Wolfram and Hart. There he would have untold reams of material at his disposal. The campaign the First Evil had orchestrated had been quite successful in that one regard: the Council’s vast library had been decimated along with the bulk of Giles’ own collection. He felt as though he had to scrounge for every scrap of information, while in exchange for his scruples, Wesley had been afforded an embarrassment of wealth, far more than he was likely to be able to manage on his own. Understanding a temptation is much different than actually succumbing to it. To that I must say, ‘far better him than me.’

Giles wondered whether Wesley would approach him. That wasn’t outside the realm of possibilities. He’s sure to have questions. Perhaps we might strike a deal, exchange information within reason, work together on some cursory level…

Perhaps.

I can hope.

I have little else. I don’t even know for certain whether Buffy came into contact with him.

Reality was even more painful. I can’t be certain whether she made it out of Wolfram and Hart alive. For all I know—

Giles stopped himself, preferring not to dwell on the negative when the outcome was as yet unknown. Hence my somewhat pointless pursuit. It’s far easier to be busy, than idle in times like these. He turned the page of his book, though he had done little more than stare blearily at the previous. He continued to foster the impression that he wasn’t idle, though the words he read filtered out as quickly as he took them in. His head was too murky to be good for much more.

Some untold time later, his charade was interrupted. The form the pardon took wasn’t the one Giles would’ve preferred. There were no voices to be heard from the lobby, just the ring of the telephone. Nevertheless, he leapt to his feet and raced after Xander to the front desk. Naturally, the lad proved the faster.

“Hello?” Xander said into the receiver. A muffled voice responded in indistinguishable tones. Apparently the person on the other end had asked for Giles because Xander replied, “Yeah, he’s here,” holding the receiver out to pass it off.

Giles took the phone, responding, “This is Rupert Giles.”

“What has become of Buffy Summers?”

The amusement over hearing Wesley’s voice quickly faded. His question was so direct it confounded Giles. “Nothing,” he replied, thinking only of the vampire. She was still very much the same: treacherous and beguiling.

Giles understood his mistake when Wesley prompted, “Are you certain?” No further explanation was necessary, however knowing when to quit had never been Wesley’s strong suit. “I ask because I had a run-in with her this evening that wasn’t entirely unpleasant, and therefore left me somewhat bemused.”

Manners willed out over impatience. When he fell silent, Giles put in, “I can see how you might be concerned. I assure you, the vampire to whom you refer remains unchanged: brutal, devious, generally unpleasant company. In short: not much fun at parties.” His last statement worked its intended purpose, earning him a grin from Xander.

“I see.” Wesley’s reply carried hints of annoyance.

Oddly, that pleased Giles. For once, Wesley was on the outside looking in. Giles possessed the answer he sought. However leery, he wasn’t a petty person. He asked, “How may I help you, Wesley?”

“Well,” Wesley remarked, his tone pensive, “if you’re unwilling to be forthright in answering my question, I sincerely doubt you can. However, I believe I may be able to lay my hands on something that will interest you. I would prefer a more agreeable response as the item in question will not come without a great deal of personal risk. It would be nice to know up front that I was working with someone who wished to work with me.”

“And this item is?” Giles asked. The little patience he possessed for such verbal fencing was wearing thin.

“Allow me a moment,” Wesley replied. A horn honked in the background. He was obviously in traffic. From subsequent details, Giles derived that Wesley had stopped his vehicle and gotten out, apparently wanting to be well clear of it, in an open, public area. Confirming this were a myriad of sounds, from muffled speech to the calls of distant gulls. They brought to mind the many oceanfront boardwalks that lined the coast. Not that the detail was of particular concern.

“I believe I might be able to acquire the Muo-Ping that contains Angel’s soul. It will be—”

Giles laughed. He couldn’t help himself.

Wesley snapped, “Do you not understand how dangerous this is?”

“Oh, I’m certain that there is a great deal of danger,” Giles said, unable to resist the undignified allure of sarcasm. It mixed with his chuckles to make him sound positively delighted. That was the last thing he was. He sobered. “What I don’t understand is why you didn’t do this sooner? If this was something that was left so that someone at your pay grade stood a chance of acquiring it, you might’ve spared a great deal of suffering by doing just that.”

“Tell me, what do you know of Angelus?” The question was rhetorical. Wesley didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he went on to clutter the air with more, “Does he seem to you to be the sort of creature who would be careless? Doesn’t it seem more likely that he would want to safeguard something so perilous to his way of life by keeping it close at hand? Wouldn’t it also seem desirable to such an arrogant creature to display it proudly, locked away, yet sufficiently exposed that he might gloat over it in his free time?”

The rhetoric, though mildly condescending, provided Giles a clear picture of what had been staying Wesley’s hand. Angel had the Muo-Ping locked away in his personal living quarters, no doubt behind a shield of magic and technology so elaborate that it would take a miracle to extract it. Wesley had been waiting to attempt such. Clearly, he had needed for Angelus to be removed from the equation before he dared. “I see,” Giles said.

“I hope you do,” replied Wesley. “Now I must run. This phone is about to die. Fate willing, I will be in touch.”

“Thank you,” Giles said. The line went dead.

Willow had done everything. She’d cast the temperamental, complicated locking spell that secured their rooms on the cell door. Angelus was as secure as they could possibly make him. Buffy held the key. Anyone who was insane enough to try and coerce or force her to free him would deserve exactly what they got.

Before they could even begin that, they’d had to gain access to the basement. That hadn’t been an easy thing to do either. Finagling a cranky, cocooned Angelus through the cracks had proven impossible. Willow had finally given up, and in a state of frustration, magically repaired the freight elevator. She wasn’t even sure how she’d managed. She’d been too vexed to think straight.

Shockingly, they’d snuck in and done all of that without running into Giles or Xander. Willow felt bad about giving them the slip, but dealing with them would’ve been one more thing and she was barely keeping herself together as it was. The compromise had been more magic she was barely competent to perform: a brief telepathic pat on the shoulder for both of them. ‘We’re fine. Mission accomplished.’ It bothered her that some of the turmoil she felt might’ve tainted the message. She didn’t want them worry, but her hands were full.

Overfull. Too full. Everything they could do had been done except for the one thing that most needed to be done. But that hardly mattered. Willow knew it was pointless to try. She knew it even as she attempted the spell. Something about it felt above average wrong. This is never going to work.

I have to try. A heavy lump clung in her throat. Her eyes ached. She was about to cry again. Disgusted with herself, exhausted and sore, she chanted, “Asa sa fie. Asa sa fie. Acum.” Even her voice was wrong. It started off strong enough, which was how it should’ve sounded now, but it didn’t. It deteriorated, becoming weak and broken.

Of course, just because the spell was bound to flop, that didn’t make it free. The floppy sorts of spells were always the worst. They consumed outrageous amounts of power in no time flat if she wasn’t cautious. Willow tried to be careful and failed, just like her spell. Light swirled around her, distorted her view as it flared out. Every ounce of energy she possessed siphoned away, ‘poof,’ ‘gone,’ doing who knows what. Arms closed around Willow as she slumped boneless.

It was Buffy. Willow had to think about it. That spoke more clearly to how frazzled she was than anything else that might’ve happened. It scared her. She wrestled to get away. She had to. Some of the power she so desperately needed might be stolen from Buffy.

Nothing bad happened. The delicate sound of Buffy’s voice filled Willow’s senses, assuring her that everything was okay, she was okay, shushing her, soothing her. Warm, tickly breath brought on the shivers.

Willow tensed. She wanted to say something reassuring. It would’ve been nice to tell Buffy she was fine. The accursed tears returned instead, streaming down Willow’s cheeks. She’d been crying off and on since she’d woken that afternoon.

No, not ‘crying.’ She was too numb for anything so dramatic. This was weeping. Tears seeped from her eyes, silent, senseless, devoid of sensation. Her head felt warm, heavy, wooly, yet achy all the same. It’s useless. It’s all useless. I can’t do anything right.

Buffy caressed Willow’s cheek with her knuckles. Her hand trailed up and around to cup Willow’s forehead. “Oh, honey, you’re warm,” Buffy said, her hand moving off as she stood. “Let me help. I need to get you to bed.”

The words tumbled out, muddling, muddying, failing to register. It wasn’t until Buffy’s fingertips extended down to where Willow could see them past the veil of hair that hid her face that she understood what was being asked. She took hold and rose, though that was mostly Buffy. Staying upright was Buffy’s doing too. Willow sagged against her side.

She hadn’t made more than a few listless steps before Buffy took over completely. There wasn’t enough of Willow left to protest being swept up. She hung limp in Buffy’s arms, powerless to stop the crocodile tears that streamed down her cheeks. The damned things were still being incessantly sneaky. None of the tremulous jerks, the gulps for breath, the miserable sobs that would normally, naturally accompany such an outburst happened. It was so infuriating, Willow wanted to scream. Instead, she leaked, clamped her teeth, hung like a ragdoll, jostled with each step.

As they exited the room, she looked past Buffy’s shoulder to the cell. Angelus hung suspended by the heaviest chains and shackles they could find. It was barbaric. The toes of his shoes barely skimmed the concrete. Buffy had insisted on that. She claimed that it would be nearly impossible for him to gain the leverage needed to break free.

He lifted his head. His busted lips stretched into a sickening smile. It had to be excruciating. A weak chortle was all he could manage with a broken jaw. That was more than enough.

Willow averted her eyes.

The squabbling around the table intensified. Illyria kept her distance, opting to stand beside the door, opposite the hulking, flesh-wrapped, chameleon progeny of the Ram, Wolf and Hart who referred to himself as Marcus Hamilton—a hoax which these pitiful pink pustules had fallen for not just once. They were so feebleminded they had forgotten repeatedly that form alone does not make one kith or kin. It was no wonder the creature always appeared so disinterested. All of his charges were infants. Perhaps the shepherds of this place would have their favorite son herding protozoa next?

Illyria was merely bored. She’d begun to consider remedying that by resolving the matter herself when the fat one at the table’s head labored his carcass from his chair to preside over the querulous whelps surrounding him. He presented himself as an entity worthy of fealty, bellowing, “Silence,” scathing to the impotence surrounding him; ludicrous to Illyria. These creatures were too wretched to see that their leader barely managed to control the thimbleful of power granted him. Illyria had resisted gutting the blustering windbag up until now, a decision which remained subject to change.

The points of contention were: the half-breed’s absence and the damages to the glass palace surrounding them. Both situations were easily resolved, yet they quarreled like a pack of ravening mongrels all slathering over the same scrap of gristle. They need only to subjugate the neighboring populace to rebuild this tower out of stone. Though nothing these pitiful creatures did was ever so sensible. The half-breed could easily be reclaimed as well. The ones who had abducted him were children. The fat one himself might possess the power to swat them for their insolence.

Illyria would have already accomplished that had Wesley not intervened. His objection had been perplexing, like so many things surrounding these irrational creatures. That it remained a mystery, although Wesley had long since left for the evening, was hardly tolerable. His refusal to explain had been infuriating. Only his deference secured his pardon. He claimed that he could not explain something which he did not himself understand. That was not unreasonable. He was a vastly limited life form.

Illyria found much about him puzzling. It made little sense that he had been so incapacitated with no actual, physical damage. Illyria had, in time—several seconds, which for her seemed an eternity—put the initial injury down to grief, another frailty of an already hopeless species. Her opinion had not changed, however Wesley had. To her surprise, the injury had strengthened this mortal. He had become more resolute, less taken by the triviality that crippled the majority of his kind. In a sense, his injury had healed him.

The dickering had ceased, replaced by the other thing for which the humans showed some aptitude: scheming. They had unified, intent now on the destruction of the half-breed’s captors. Illyria wondered whether something should be done. The matter meant nothing to her; yet Wesley had seemed quite adamant that the situation not be remedied. On prior occasions, his insight had proven useful. Perhaps he should be alerted to their plans?

A plume of smoke billowed in the open area behind the fat one, beginning much like a firebrand was being held there. It thickened rapidly, startling the rabble around the table. They fell silent. Like all lesser beings, fire terrified them. Their primitive brains were wired to flee. Playing off his fellows, the fat one became aware of his peril, turning, and then scurrying away to cower behind them. His actions only served to further illustrate the feebleness of his race. There was no fire. This was a magical diversion meant to mask the transport of a superior being.

The flash of light that followed made the primitives cower. Illyria stood rigid, attempting to assess whether this new creature posed a threat. The spawn known as Marcus Hamilton was doing much the same. It was surely formidable given the magical wards that were still in place around the fortress. He watched the flamboyant entrance with one eyebrow cocked in interest.

“I’m afraid,” a voice from within the cloud began, “as much as I would enjoy watching you make a mess—” the smoke dissipated sufficiently to reveal a blue-skinned demonic progeny who was fanning his face with one hand “—that you have chosen the wrong course of action. Ms. Summers is under the purview of the Lower Beings.” Though he had no room to make such a pronouncement, his demeanor was sufficiently disarming to befuddle the humans. Not so with the creature Hamilton. He started for the intruder, obviously intent on ejecting him.

The intruder had with him a girl who, from the stench of her, had recently been mortal, but who had been corrupted. An acolyte, no doubt. She wore a black skullcap with two forward-facing, rounded plastic plates that stuck up from her head. It was meant to make her resemble the beige skinned, widow’s peaked, black crowned creature portrayed before a colorful ringed array emblazoned on her crimson shirt. Some human idol perhaps? It certainly looked sufficiently ridiculous to be one of their gods.

So what was the supplicant of a human deity doing aligning herself with the offspring of the demonic hierarchy?

The girl wasn’t as ridiculous as her allegiance suggested. She stepped up to block the Hamilton creature’s advance. He grumbled, “Oh, please,” and tried to lay his meaty hands on her. She evaded, striking him squarely in the chest with her foot, driving him back. This promised to be an entertaining diversion.

Unfortunately, the blue one turned. His hands closed around the girl’s upper arms, as if to restrain her. “I insist that you stop,” he said extending one hand, palm facing forward. The Hamilton creature glowered as the other supplied his name, though ‘D’Hoffryn’ was undoubtedly a lesser form of his true name. No entity with any power to command shared its true identity so freely. There was little doubt that this ‘D’Hoffryn’ would be a formidable foe for the Hamilton creature. With the girl’s help, his chances for victory were promising.

Illyria would’ve enjoyed viewing the Hamilton creature’s death, however the one calling himself ‘D’Hoffryn’ began to explain, “I am an envoy of the Lower Beings, purveyor of the wish,” proving himself a diplomat, not a warrior. The notion filled Illyria with disdain. “These mortals with whom you quarrel are acting under my influence. I assure you that, if you will simply step down, they will come to a sticky end on their own. And when that happens, I will be pleased to present you with their heads.” D’Hoffryn seated himself in the fat one’s chair. The girl sidled up behind him, taking station like a guard, just off his right shoulder.

Several of the humans appeared distressed. Unsurprisingly, the group included the fat one.

D’Hoffryn gave him a brief, affable smile. But when the fat one worked his mouth, gulping fish-like, D’Hoffryn went on, “Our problems are far greater than one misplaced vampire and a few broken windows.” He turned to level his gaze, not on the humans, but on the Hamilton creature. “How are you at coping with pan-dimensional conflict?”

Willow lay on the bed, looking utterly defeated. Buffy needed to go and touch base with Giles. She was certain he had to be worried, but she didn’t feel she could leave Willow either. Torn, she stood at the bedside debating what to do.

It happened again as she stared. She noticed something. Considering how that had gone the last time, she didn’t want to know what the green triangular speck below Willow’s left shoulder was. It could be a tattoo, but Willow doesn’t have any tattoos. What with all the trouble we had in the past, I can’t imagine her being so far gone to think that one would be a good idea. Besides, the color’s too vibrant. Tattoos normally look washed out after they heal.

I shouldn’t be staring in the first place. It’s rude.

She couldn’t help herself. This was a detail she might’ve easily missed. She remembered how Willow had looked when they’d started out earlier that day. Willow’s outfit had been cute, somewhere between ‘carnie’ and business casual. The second part of that impression had come from how crisply starched her blouse had been. Her collar had barely parted in a tight V. The herringbone vest she wore, though cut vaguely under the bust, had held it that way.

Willow was so rumpled now that her collar lay crumpled over, exposing her collarbone. It was hard to imagine how she’d even gotten that way. She’d spent the time they were apart sitting in the car. It’s as though her clothing has somehow been magically mussed to match the rest. Is that even possible?

I s’pose it is. Will gets dressed all the time like that. Why not undressed or disheveled? Maybe she doesn’t even know she did it. It could’ve been reflexive. She’s not big on control.

Buffy was being watched too. She didn’t realize it until Willow’s hand went to her shoulder. She brushed at the area Buffy was staring at, her head at an odd angle so she could look at herself. Realization washed over her face. She lay back and went for the top button of her vest. As Willow undid the button, peering up at her again through glassy eyes, their lids puffy and red, Buffy looked away, embarrassed.

“You didn’t have a headstone.”

That statement, mumbled in a voice so ragged it was barely recognizable as Willow’s, grabbed Buffy’s attention. It seemed such a nonsensical thing to say that Buffy wondered whether she’d heard right. Was Willow alright? Her cheeks were so wet they glistened in the dim, yellow lamplight.

Of course she isn’t alright. But could she be so distraught she isn’t making sense?

What Buffy did understand was that Willow was undressing. That made her want to turn away even more. The green blotch divided by Willow’s bra strap held her gaze. It was unmistakably a leaf. A tattoo of a leaf, so brightly colored it looked painted on. The leaf was layered in darker and lighter green, an effect that brought to mind topographical maps, or murrine glass, though it was too intricate for most murrine. Light green veins spider webbed through the leaf’s body, more layers tracing their shape, radiating out, each one slightly darker or lighter.

Willow’s vest lay open now. She’d moved on to the buttons of her blouse. The cup of her white, padded satin bra was exposed and she was still undressing. Buffy wanted her to stop. She’d seen enough. Willow has a tattoo. No big, right? Lots of people have tattoos. It doesn’t have to mean anything except she thought it was pretty.

It is a big. In a sec, Will will be naked to the waist, explaining how whatever doohickey she’s had scarred into her flesh meant so much to her. I’ll have to hear the whole sordid tale, the ‘why’ behind it all. It’s like the law of—

Willow sat up to shuck off her clothes. A few seconds later all that remained undone was the story. She shoved her clothes and pillows to the other side of the bed and lay flat, posed with her arm away from her side, so that Buffy could see.

It’s really, really time for me to leave.

Buffy couldn’t. She stared, transfixed. She couldn’t imagine how she’d missed this last night. It was huge. What I saw was only the tip of the iceberg, a floral ‘iceberg,’ strung together with ivy. The vivid mosaic randomly dotted with purple orchids in various sizes and states of blossoming extended from Willow’s left shoulder, where it looked to wrap around behind her neck or maybe onto her back. It trailed down from there; cupping her breast, covering most of it; hugging the curve of her side to disappear beneath her skirt.

The flowers themselves were different from the ivy. Instead of layered topography, their petals were delicately blended, a smooth gradient concentrating the darkest color at the middle end closest to the flower’s center, the edges faded to pale violet. Oval yellow pollen thingies dotted the points where the petals converged. There were six flowers in view and they were all unique, erotic, beautiful…

“How far down does that go?” It was the stupidest question Buffy could imagine herself asking, so it figured she had.

“Umm,” Willow stammered, heat rising so fiercely in her cheeks her tears threatened to turn to steam. She angled her face away. “All the way down, or mostly,” she mumbled, hastily adding, “My right leg,” like the side would somehow matter. “It wraps around.”

None of those details mattered. This was the largest tattoo Buffy had ever seen in person and she’d only seen half of it. She remembered being shocked by the idea that Willow’s nipples were pierced. Beside the canvas of her body, the two little rings were nothing, barely noticeable, the dangly charm hanging from her navel, though so un-Willow, a mere triviality.

‘Wrapped in painted flowers…’

Buffy was to the door like a shot. She had to get out of there. The implication that anything that monster had told her was true shattered her resolve. Willow called after her as she sprinted down the hall.

Chapter Text

Darkness choked the dank, tight space. Shackles hung heavy around his wrists and ankles. The chains that joined them laterally, forming a set, and vertically, linking one set to the other, were so short he couldn’t lay flat. The lid crushed against his knees. His shoulders pulled. The shackles bit into his wrists. He could barely move, let alone gain the leverage to free himself.

Something sharp gouged his back. He’d tried to shift himself. His wallowing only turned up another fragment. It dug into his lower back, while the first inched closer to his spine. Further wiggling only brought more of the same. The ‘bed of nails’ effect was too much to take, but he gave up, telling himself, it’s useless. You’re only making it worse.

He wasn’t afraid. By all rights he should’ve been. A grade-A, raving loony held him prisoner. And that was just the short answer. To her he was just an oversized blood bag, conveniently kept at a pleasant ninety-eight point six for her dining pleasure. Yet he was more annoyed than anything. Annoyed at himself for being captured. Annoyed at the discomfort. Annoyed at the endless nothingness of his tomb.

Time stood still there. That lasted until his bladder grew full, then the passage of time became a painful thing, every lingering minute an eternity. The trial went on for—

He had no idea. He didn’t care. When the crypt door finally did creak open, it filled him with excitement. That made no sense. Neither did shouting, “I’m in here! Help! Let me out!” Not that it mattered. He was so parched that his shout came out a rasp. His throat burned. He coughed, his stomach muscles contracting, his forehead whacking the stone slab above. None of that curbed his enthusiasm. He tried again, hoping to hell that, whoever had come, it wasn’t Buffy.

It was. The lid made a heavy grating sound. From how it moved he knew it was her before he even saw her face. No one else could have slid the massive slab aside so easily.

Moonlight shone in through a stained glass window behind her. Filtering through her hair, it lit her head with a golden halo. “Comfy?” she asked.

He couldn’t see her face. He didn’t really need to. The lilt of her voice told him she was smirking. Bitch.

His legs were asleep. The pins and needles sensation made him cringe. The rest of him ached from disuse. He sat stiffly up when she turned away. He half-expected her to wheel around and wallop the snot out of him. His hands went up defensively. The chains pulled tight.

Instead, she sauntered purposefully toward the rear of the crypt, scoffing, “Stupid, stupid people.” Metal clattered against stone. “You believe I actually sat down with Giles?” Her voice pitched higher, ringing out as she mused, “Just like old times.”

She’d dropped something. He fixated where the sound had emanated. The adjacent sarcophagus was rendered in a tribute to Paradise Lost. It seemed a valid case-in-point that good sense and taste were rarely squandered on the rich. Not that any of that meant anything to him. He was only concerned with the ornate filigree that concealed whatever had made the noise.

Buffy’s voice echoed throughout the tomb, reduced by his indifference to a thrum with tinny accents. He was more interested in what she was up to. But it really didn’t matter so long as she wasn’t watching him. And she wasn’t. Something in the corner held her interest. He needed to know what she’d dropped. Whatever it was, he felt certain it was something useful.

When she stooped down to reach for something near her feet, he lifted himself up. His chains rattled. He froze, but she didn’t seem to notice. She stood up with a bag of dark liquid, probably red, that probably wasn’t Kool-Aid. While she was dinking with that, he lifted up high enough to see. His heart fluttered. The discarded object was a ring of keys.

He glanced at her. The bag was no longer in view. She wasn’t drinking it. Her mouth was the only thing about her that was moving. Judging from the position of her arms, she was holding the bag out in front of her. Is she pouring that into something?

He needed to quit trying to figure her out. She’s a psychopath. There was no telling what she’s up to. Better not to know.

His arms ached from the strain of holding his body up. He eased himself down. As his weight fell, he sounded like Marley’s ghost. It was the loudest thing he’d ever heard. Again, she didn’t seem to care. He knew that’d change if he got up.

I need a plan. It isn’t like just getting the keys will accomplish anything. I’m basically screwed. I can’t run in these chains. I can’t even get to the keys without tipping her off. That’s probably why she just dropped them there. She knew I couldn’t do anything with them.

His heart fell when she looked over her shoulder. He averted his eyes, which probably made him look guilty as sin. He’d been looking at where the keys were after all.

Scrutinizing him, she said, “People are so screwed up, it’s sad.” With her shoulders twisted the way they were, he could just make out whitish tufts of something level with her midriff, just above the second sarcophagus. He fixated on it, trying to figure out what it was. It could be hair. But that seemed impossible.

She huffed contemptuously, “Like you’d know the difference,” turning her back on him. “Why am I even talking to you?” She busied herself with something. No telling what. “You’re worse than they are.” Whatever it was, she cast it off, spun on heel and started for him.

He expected to get clobbered. His mouth fell open when she marched past him out the door. He stared into the corner where she’d been, past the neighboring sarcophagus, completely oblivious to the keys. He couldn’t get his head around what he saw. It was a head.

He lifted himself up to gain vantage. The decapitated head sat with its neck seated in a wide-mouthed urn. It didn’t look rotten or desiccated. Save for the obvious, it wasn’t really even all that gross. There was no gore. Its cheeks were gaunt, its complexion sallow, but it was undoubtedly alive. The damned thing even blinked once in the time he gaped.

A thud from outside the crypt shook him from his stupor. He extracted himself clumsily from the coffin, all but flopping onto the floor. The animated hat rack stared at him, its eyes moving, tracking his hunched and hobbled progress. But the damned thing didn’t make a peep. You’d think it’d call out. Alert its mistress. Something. That obviously wasn’t it.

Reaching the keys was both a blessing and a curse. He hadn’t realized there were so many. Oh, jeez. This is going to take forever. He started trying them one-by-one as more crashing came from outside the tomb. What the hell is she doing, feng-shui-ing the headstones?

Whatever her game was, he hoped she wouldn’t get bored. Frantically, he tried key after key. His hands shook, making it hard to work. Even holding onto the padlock that held the shackle while he manipulated the keys was hard. Finally, he located the key that opened the shackle around his right wrist. Then he discovered that each padlock took a different key. He started to panic, took control, crouched down, and kept trying.

The silence outside was deafening. He grew suspicious that she was staying away on purpose. She should have returned by now.

Or maybe it was just the Hessian’s obsession. He felt that being watched by that thing would be enough to freak anyone out. He kept expecting it to speak, to tell him to hurry up. It looked annoyed enough to heckle.

Ages passed before he found all of the right keys. He stood and made his way to the door. He knew the damned thing would creak when it opened. He applied careful pressure, hoping against hope. His teeth gritted a cacophony with the rusty hinges.

The door was open. No one pounced.

Connor ran.

Giles had in mind a good book, some pleasant music and a snifter of brandy as he climbed the stairs. The soothing melodies of Chopin’s Raindrop Prelude played through his head inspiring him to hum. It had been a long, trying day. He felt due for a rest.

His focus on the treads at his feet was broken by the rattle of a door opening in the hallway up ahead. It was Buffy. She hurtled toward him, showing no sign that she might stop or even slow down.

The instant Giles saw her, his plans changed. He felt a sudden, inexplicable need to detain her. To that end, he asked the most reasonable thing he could come up with on short notice, “Did you manage to secure Angelus?” knowing full well that she and Willow had. He’d been downstairs to check on their prisoner, and to turn on the surveillance cameras so they might better keep an eye on him.

Giles’ question had the desired effect. Buffy halted two steps shy of his position. The hem of her black evening dress was tattered, her makeup smudged. She looks dreadful, which I suppose is no surprise, given where she spent a goodly portion of her evening. That can’t have been easy, though I would’ve expected her to be cleaned up by now. She was always so fussy about her appearance.

She regarded him for a long moment before she confirmed, “Yeah, he isn’t going anywhere.”

“If you have a moment,” he said, gesturing with an outstretched hand, “I’ve received some news which might interest you.” The gesture proved adequate. Offering a curt nod, she proceeded up the stairs with him. He led her to his room, opened the door and motioned her inside. “Please, make yourself comfortable,” he said and went to switch the electric kettle on for tea.

She took a seat in the less ‘lived in’ of the two corner armchairs, the other had a folded afghan draped over its back. Once settled, she looked expectantly his way.

Having a plan would’ve been wonderful. As it was, when he asked, “Can I offer you something?” he felt as if he were stalling. Nonetheless, he suggested, “Tea?” and “Perhaps some biscuits?” as an afterthought. He expected her to see right through him, become impatient and demand to know what he wanted.

She did none of those things. Instead, she mumbled, “Sure,” with the same enthusiasm she might’ve had he offered her liverwurst or fruitcake. She then sat quietly, inspecting her lap, the floor, her hands and anything else she might without lifting her head. The times he snuck glances as he prepared their tea, she looked utterly dispirited.

He wondered where she had been going in such a rush, but he suspected he knew the answer. She was running away. Perhaps not for good, but something had obviously upset her enough that she needed to get away. I believe I can deduce what it might’ve been, given this morning’s row. The only mystery I see is what might be done about it.

Well, I suppose I can start with what little news I have and play it by ear.

Giles began to fill in, “Wesley contacted me this evening,” as he loaded a tray with tea service and a plate of biscuits. “He believes he might be of some assistance with Angelus.” He carried the tray over to where she sat and placed it on the table. “I’m uncertain how he intends to manage, which leaves me somewhat skeptical, but it isn’t as if we have scores of allies running to our aid.” He seated himself in the vacant chair. “At any rate, he believes he may be able to lay his hands on the Muo-Ping containing Angel’s soul.”

“That’s good,” Buffy replied, sounding as if she felt it wasn’t any good at all. In fact, it seemed, from the weightiness of her inflection, as if she felt nothing might ever be good again.

Her reaction was so absurdly histrionic Giles had to stifle a chuckle. It would’ve been insensitive to make light of her angst, though it wouldn’t have been the first time. He was tempted to laugh just to see if he could infect her and perhaps lighten the mood.

That’s a horrible idea.

Though surely premature, he poured himself a scant cup. The tea had scarcely had time to steep, but it was a pleasant shade. He lifted his teacup, saucer and all. Tabling it in his left hand, he blew across the surface of the liquid. It smelled nice too. The thin bone china saucer warmed in his hand. It was too soon to sip, yet he flirted with it, angling his head just so to avoid fouling his glasses, finding both the warmth and the steam soothing.

Several moments passed. Nothing around him changed. Buffy still looked as if she’d kicked a puppy.

She succeeded in capturing Angelus. She should be somewhat pleased with herself. That was no small feat. Her unrest must have something to do with Willow. I can’t think of another single thing that would elicit such a strong reaction. He tried to imagine how Buffy might cope with Willow behaving irrationally. His deduction seemed plausible, though this entire line of thinking was all a vain effort to convince himself he was following the right track. Going out on a limb like this made him dreadfully nervous.

Yes, and I can hardly hope to help if can’t even broach the topic.

Intentionally choosing an established, if not tired tack, he said, “Human beings are remarkably resilient.” He remained intent on his cup. The puff of his breath disturbed the steam, sending a billowing plume to fog his glasses. He chided himself as he blindly returned his cup to the table. It was a wonder that he didn’t burn himself.

“It’s astonishing the conditions we can endure,” he remarked, reaching in to his inner jacket pocket to retrieve a handkerchief. He removed his glasses and proceeded to clean them. “Though we’re also creatures of habit, as they say. Often a sudden change can be more traumatic than the unhealthy condition that preceded it.” He replaced his glasses, and then looked up to find that Buffy was scrutinizing him, apparently annoyed. Oh, dear.

After a long pause, which included a scathing glare that caused Giles to rekindle interest in his tea, she said, “Why don’t you just say what’s on your mind?” Another beat passed before she added the caveat: “In English—human English—the kind everyone else speaks. And skip the clichés.”

“Please forgive me if I spoke out of turn. It was never my intent to offend you.” His defensive prattle was met with an even sharper glare. He read the ‘oh, please’ without a single word being spoken. Good show, old man. This is fine kettle of fish you’ve opened.

“Very well,” he capitulated. Still it took him several moments to compose himself. Finally, his thoughts collected, he explained, “I believe that perhaps Willow believes that she’s committed some wrongdoing. And that she’s accustomed to certain reprimands as a result. And that you are—”

“Oh, Giles, I can’t do that,” Buffy interrupted, appearing aghast.

“Well, of course you can’t,” he replied, bemused. Though remarkably, his poker face held. Bolstered, he stated the unvarnished truth, “I wouldn’t believe that you are who you claim to be if you could.”

Buffy appeared to compose herself, a process which required no small amount of effort. At last she said, “No.”

“No?” He inquired. “Was I mistaken?” But she indicated that my supposition was correct. How—?

“Yes,” Buffy replied, “but ‘no’.”

Giles opened his mouth to point out she couldn’t have it both ways.

Before he could utter a sound, she put in, “You’re close, but that’s not what’s wrong.”

He quickly overcame the stumble. “Alright. Do tell. What happened?”

“I can’t tell you that,” she said, her tone resolute.

“Okay.” Giles agreed. That was well enough, though he claimed, “I’m not sure—”

“No, you don’t get it,” Buffy said, not affording him an opportunity to express his uncertainty, which again, was well enough. She was quite right.

“Obviously,” he admitted. “I can’t exactly ‘get’ something you won’t explain.” The exchange had left him puzzled and more than a little frustrated.

Buffy reacted to his irritation by growing introverted once again.

Giles took that as license to nurse his tea, gratefully allowing its effects to influence him. He’d actually managed to gingerly coax a few sips from his cup when Buffy spoke again, “I’m sorry.” She appeared thoughtful as though she were choosing her words carefully. “I think you’re right. But I hope you’re wrong.” Traces of a smile ghosted across her lips. “Y’know, this isn’t even my—” she fell silent, obviously thinking better of what she had in mind to say. She drew in a protracted breath. “I have my Willow to think about too.”

“Your Willow?” Giles asked, sure he was missing something.

“Yeah, you didn’t get that?”

“Get what?”

“We’re—” she fell off again, unable to finish. That was fine. The tightness of her voice and pinkness in her cheeks spoke volumes.

Light dawned. Giles said, “Oh,” half in shock, half in recognition. My word. They’re lovers. Well, this is— Only half aware, he heard himself say, “This must be awful for you.”

“More like stressful,” she admitted. “What would you do if it was you who—?”

His sympathy for her flourished as he considered how he might react under similar circumstances. I’m not certain I would’ve handled the situation any better. It’s likely I would’ve managed worse.

The best advice he could think to offer didn’t seem like much help at all. “Comfort her,” he said, though it seemed probable that such compassion would only serve to further confuse matters. However, indifference would be impossible. She has little choice. “That’s all you can do.”

Wesley clawed absently at his forearm through the sleeve of his sports jacket. Naturally, once one complaint was quelled, another rose. He ignored the tickle behind his shoulder for as long as humanly possible. He had fancied his role in this endeavor would be catlike. It stood to reason, given the perverse sense of humor the universe had in matters concerning him, that the only thing ‘catlike’ about his performance would be the appearance that he had fleas.

It would’ve been courteous of Kivryn to suggest calamine lotion as a suitable complement for his spell. Alas the codex was sadly lacking in such kindnesses.

At least the epidermal embellishments seemed to be performing their primary function. He’d walked in through the garage entrance without tripping a single alarm. The long, barren corridor he was currently traversing was loaded with booby traps, better than half of them lethal. Unfortunately, he was only aware of their existence, not their exact natures or locations. The uncertainty combined with the passing tingle of electricity skating across his skin had made him downright skittish at first. His caution wore thinner with each passing meter, though the intense intermittent bursts static did serve as useful reminders, as did the occasional whiff of some indescribably noxious chemical.

I’m sure everything will be fine. All I need to do is follow this corridor to the end; make a right; then an abrupt left; call for a lift; stand like a lemon waiting for said lift; convince said lift to rise twenty-three floors to the penthouse suite; foil what will undoubtedly be some of the most advanced and deadly security systems in the world; acquire a hopelessly fragile, mystical biscuit barrel that must not be broken or opened inside these walls; then make a hasty retreat; passing through said security systems again. And accomplish all of that without alerting any of the resident minor malevolent deities to my presence. It’s a piece of cake.

But then there is the universe to consider.

The universe didn’t intervene. It waited, humoring Wesley, allowing him safe passage to the lift. He punched the topmost button on the panel. The doors slid to without a fuss and he began to rise. He leaned against the back wall, his mind already cluttered with worries and vain speculations about what he might find. The truth was he no idea. There were no avenues of research to follow, nor places he could go to seek out information. He might as well be going to Mars.

The lift bobbled almost imperceptibly, shaking Wesley from his thoughts. It was slowing. He looked up, feeling as though his heart had been held stationary while the car still rose. This was all wrong. It was too soon. The light on the panel flashed indicating the fifth floor. His knees turned to jelly.

Resolve alone kept him upright. Horrors ran through his mind as the doors parted.

The view hadn’t changed in forever. Buffy was getting bored. From her vantage point atop the crypt, she peered into the distance. Row upon row of headstones striped the lawn, a hodgepodge of short and tall, thin and fat. Just like humanity. Rich people with their bigger, better, excessive more. Poor people with their scant, shoddy, minimalist less. Unwanted, uninvited, extra people dropping in to screw things up. The headstones she’d had to replace because of the extra were somewhere in the middle. Ordinary, average, everyday, not unlike the slow, stupid boy who got in my way.

Speaking of…

A shrill, tremulous groan broke the stillness, escalating to a frantic shriek. The crypt door banged against its stops. ‘Slow and stupid’ was finally with the program. He took flight like a bird startled from a thicket.

Buffy sacrificed a little more of her patience to the cause, among other things. Temptation came to her on a light breeze. Connor was a sweaty, salty, tantalizing mess. She got over it. Yeah, I’m starved. It’s been days. But going all Pavlovian over some snot-nosed brat would be totally embarrassing. He needs to feel like he has a chance. And I need to let him. Dread will do its thing that much better if I do.

This was like waiting for a pot to boil with the ‘never’ from the ‘watching.’ Buffy wondered if he was holding something back as he sprinted across the lawn. Considering the ingredients that went into whipping up this little freak of preternature, you’d think he’d kill in the hundred yard dash, but ‘nope,’ his performance is pretty much yawn-worthy. Least he isn’t glancing over his shoulder every ten feet like some chainsaw catcher in a gorno film.

Whistling seemed like just the thing, or maybe tapping her nails or foot. More silly compulsions to resist were exactly what she needed. She shrugged and looked up at the sky through breaks in the canopy. It was a nice night. There were even a couple of stars out. And the tawny ring around the moon didn’t seem to double its size.

He was halfway to the fence before she hopped to the ground and took off after him. She still had to pace herself to keep from running him down. The moment of truth came. He leapt for the fence and she leapt for him, plastering him face-first against the bars. His hands went out to stop the splat. That was convenient. She snatched his left wrist. The bar slipped from his grasp. She wrenched his arm down, then up from the small of his back. He whimpered when his shoulder popped.

Her other hand went for the things all men value most. They might claim they love this or that more than anything else, but really, these little nuggets of joy always come first. Totally understandable, considering. Through a handful of denim, she squished them, not quite to a pulp. She wanted him conscious, which might or might not’ve been good.

The whole ‘testicles in a vice’ thing made Connor a bit cranky. Eventually his crankiness toppled them. As they started to go over backward, Buffy pushed off, let go, and leapt back. She landed crouched near his head. He doubled, clutching his crotch, wailing like a baby. She shut him up with a single tap. It was hard to gauge just how hard was ‘hard enough.’ Putting a fist through his ribcage would’ve been unfortunate. She didn’t. Her tap was just right. It proved, yet again, that shrieking like a little girl was pretty dependant on the shrieker’s ability to breathe.

He flopped back. It was totally reflexive, but it seemed as if he meant to defend his battered ribs.

Buffy pounced, pulling a little spin in her hop. She landed, facing the other way, straddling Connor’s middle. His expression reflected the full myriad of expected things: shock, horror, pain, desperation… That made the thought that had been hanging in her mind all this time ring not quite true. She asked anyway, “You aren’t very bright, are you?” then punctuated it by going for his valuables again. A puffier, firmer package bulged beneath the denim. Just a touch made him wince.

“You fucking bitch!”

“Yeah, yeah,” Buffy said, sounding bored. “Y’know, calling a person who might be considering killing you names pretty much proves my point.”

Adding injury to insult seemed like just the thing. He almost unseated her when she clamped down. His expression transformed from your garden variety panic tinged with pained outrage to the sort of desperation usually only seen in wild animals. He erratically, frantically scanned his surroundings looking for a way out.

His search came to an abrupt end when Buffy went for his throat. That seemed a reasonable thing to hold onto. He probably wouldn’t throw her if it meant her taking a souvenir or two. The ride got lots less bumpy as his face turned purple. He looked loads more compliant.

“You stole something from me,” she said, the blandness of her tone almost passing for patience. “Do you know how stupid that was?” Her hold on his throat loosened just enough for him to croak his assent, not that he bothered. His legs thrashed, but his feet didn’t dig in. It was probably involuntary. She bore down again and the shaking gradually eased. Unfortunately, he looked about ready to pass out. It’s time to make my point if I’m gonna. “The smart thing would be for you to help me get her back.” An amused smirk twisted her lips. “That gonna be a problem?”

Getting an answer wasn’t strictly necessary. Neither was his cooperation. Still, he shook his head when she let up.

Willow occupied a chair that was only hers by forfeit. Buffy hadn’t wanted it, so…

Willow didn’t belong. She never really felt like she belonged. She sat with her thighs to her chest, hugging her shins tightly, even though she was sweltering, swaddled in a thick terrycloth robe worn over the many layers of her clothing.

The impulse to leave was so strong, but she couldn’t face it. She had nowhere to go. Nowhere she felt safe. Leaving, even just to hide, meant moving, an activity which carried with it a strong possibility of bumping into some other random someone. She couldn’t face anyone, so she sat like a lump, frozen, awaiting the inevitability that someone, probably Buffy, would discover her. The odds of that were good, seeing as how this was Buffy’s room.

Living in the shadow of consequential dread felt so normal she almost found it comfortable in a really uncomfortable kind of way. Anticipating the rap on the door, the sweet sound of her name as it rolled off Buffy’s tongue, made Willow jumpy. The proper kind of jumpy where every little ping or tick or click the old hotel or its occupants made sent chills down her spine and a twinge through her frame.

She’d had it in her mind that Buffy would see her tattoos and love them. Any other response had been unimaginable. How could she possibly dislike something so personal, so difficult, so painful, so…

They were for her. I picked them especially for her.

Her mind lost in a haze of memory and rampant emotion, Willow unconsciously clawed at her left side. Thick layers of cloth dulled the sensation. Kennedy suggested a tattoo, probably to make me sick and sore. I was sick and sore for so long. It was horrible, but I had a reason. I was careful, even though I rushed. The artist hated the rush. She said I was taking on too much, that it wasn’t healthy. She wasn’t comfortable, but comfort can be artificially stimulated with suitable incentives. Lots of things can. That might be the one thing Kennedy taught me. I’d never seen that premise tested so grotesquely.

The rush didn’t matter. Not really. The artist was careful. I was careful. I picked everything so carefully. I wanted it to mean something.

And it does. How can Buffy hate something that’s so—?

That’s so her. In various mythologies the orchid represents love, refinement, rare and delicate beauty, strength, and fertility with all its subsequent sexiness. It was perfect, like being wrapped in her.

Or I thought so.

Willow felt herself souring from the inside out. The idea, the art and the act turned to poison in her mind. She felt silly and stupid, like some simple-minded, romantic little girl, so obsessed with a triviality that she couldn’t see how much of a fool she was making of herself.

There was no body, mostly because the monster who’d stolen it was still using it. Somehow the thought of putting up another headstone had just seemed horrible. Precious moments passed as she envisioned the monster, standing over her own headstone, laughing at their pitiful sentimentality, making Willow feel substantially less sane. The vision went away in snatches by sheer force of will. We’d already done that once. I’m sure the Hellmouth thought it was yummy. It ate all of our memorials: Tara, Buffy, Joyce, Jenny, Jesse…

This seemed so perfect. It was for me. Just for me to remember.

But it wasn’t perfect. It’s so—

So—

It’s too—

It’s something she’d never want me to do. She’d never pick this. It’s so garish. So bright. So colorful. So vain. So—

Willow wanted it gone. She was mortified that Buffy had ever laid eyes on it. She wants the other me. The me that’s not me. The me that has enough sense not to defile herself for the sake of sentiment. The me that’s not too maudlin to see how wrong—

A tap at the door had the opposite effect it should’ve. Instead of looking up like a normal person, instead of saying ‘yes’ or ‘who is it’ or any of the many other greetings that people normally use, Willow curled in on herself that much more. Her head ducked lower, the grip she had on her legs grew tighter. She even curled her toes. The terrycloth felt hot, soggy and sticky against her face. It was yucky. She focused on that, praying Buffy would just have the good sense to go away.

Hearing her name made Willow flinch. Good sense and Buffy don’t exactly mix. She grew more insistent, saying Willow’s name louder…and louder…and louder.

Though, to be fair, this is her room.

On the fourth try, Willow said something that was completely out of line, “Leave me alone!” No one was more surprised than her that ‘saying’ came out more like ‘shouting,’ but then, she was about to crawl out of her skin, so strictly speaking, control wasn’t something she had in abundance.

“What’s wrong?” Buffy asked, sounding genuinely hurt, and more than a little confused.

The hurt made Willow feel horrible, the confusion made her feel mad, in order and almost that quick. She huddled in silence, growing progressively more distraught, unsure whether to be mad because of the interruption or ashamed because of everything else.

Anger won out. “I am what I am, Buffy,” Willow shouted, this time on purpose. “I don’t know how to be anything different. I didn’t do what I did just for fun. I had a reason, but you wouldn’t know that because you didn’t ask and you didn’t listen. You didn’t give me a chance. You stomped off in huff.” Her rant lost steam as it poured out. “There are always reasons. I can’t help it if you don’t like them. My reason is my prerogative. It is what it—”

“What?” This time Buffy’s confusion was pronounced and darned hard to miss.

It derailed Willow. She’d had this whole thing about the ‘whys’ and the ‘wherefores.’ She was completely lost now, not a thought in her head, only static. It’s just as well. All the excuses in the world aren’t going to make her like something she hates.

“Can I come in?” Buffy’s question was accompanied by the rattle of the doorknob, so obviously she could.

Willow hadn’t locked it. Her silence eventually worked as consent, though she wasn’t quite sure how. That always seemed to happen and it never made sense. Or almost always. Some people were smart enough to take silence as a ‘no’ and go away. Those people weren’t Buffy. Although, in truth, Willow couldn’t remember whether Buffy was one of those people or not before things went flooey. Before Willow could come to a decision, she was huddled in Buffy’s shadow. The weight of it was horrible.

“What’s wrong?”

When Willow heard the question, she realized that this was the second time Buffy had asked. It was hard for Willow to dismiss the concern she sensed. It made it that much harder for her to bury her face. Though the whole ‘inability to breathe’ thing was making that pretty hard even without the added angst.

No answer came, so Buffy repeated herself a third time, “What’s wrong?”

Concern was quickly moving toward panic. Willow needed to answer. She summoned her nerve and chose the simplest way to put it. “Well,” she said, a bitter laugh added a lilt to her voice. “Mostly it’s that you think I’m ugly.”

“What?” Buffy gasped, “No,” and stammered, “What makes you think that?”

Willow looked up, still weeping, but genuinely annoyed now. “Most people don’t run away when I take my clothes off.” She ignored Buffy’s ‘oh.’ It was a pointless vocal tic. What Willow was trying to explain was far more important. Her brow furrowed as she considered what she’d just said. “Not that there have been lots of people. There haven’t. But the ones that there have been were actually able to look at me and they didn’t feel the need to flee.”

“I didn’t—”

“You did,” Willow snapped. “You got this look on your face like I was the most awful thing you’d ever seen.” Her glare or her words or both finally broke Buffy’s resolve. “You were almost in tears when you ran away.”

Buffy hung her head. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I didn’t mean—”

“What happened?” Willow demanded, biting the words off.

There was a long pause, during which Buffy slumped to the floor, settling on her knees. The flush of her cheeks, the forward cant of her head, the slackness of her mouth, the glassiness of her eyes, the surrounding tension, all said ‘please don’t make me do this.’ Willow couldn’t find any sympathy for her. That didn’t mean that she could maintain her steely gaze either. It gave out moments before Buffy pleaded, “I can’t explain, but you have to believe I didn’t mean it that way.”

Willow started to reply, “That’s—” when Buffy took her chin in hand and lifted her head. She never got to explain how good Buffy’s answer wasn’t. She was overruled.

“This isn’t even about that,” Buffy insisted. “The two things aren’t even related.” Willow wanted to maintain her anger. It was comfortable in a sick sort of way. Soft, tender, salty, soggy smoochies threw her out of her snit. She blinked, chipping away at the warm, muzzy goodness, struggling to focus as Buffy amended, “Not really.”

Willow was losing ground at an alarming rate. Somehow Buffy kept up. She kept talking, stayed coherent, while sneaking smooches between words, “I’m entitled to my reasons too and this one has nothing to do with whether I’m attracted or not.”

The feel of Buffy’s breath, wafting warm over Willow’s moist cheeks and lips sent shivers skittering down her spine. That alone would’ve been enough to turn Willow into a great big, senseless, puddly mess. But that wasn’t how this was. It was a mix of many terribly wonderful, awfully distracting, horribly consuming, wickedly enthralling things; not nearly enough of which Willow could track. If this kept up, there could be dribbling…of gray matter through ear canals. The other kinds of dribbling were easier and already embarrassingly evident.

“I’m totally attracted,” Buffy concluded, her voice a faint, husky, mellifluous resonant entity bent on securing Willow’s surrender. “I don’t know how you could even think I’m not.”

It won. Hands down. No contest.

It and all the other stuff that had changed since Buffy monopolized the conversation. There were brief moments between kisses where Willow glimpsed that thing—the thing that had completely bowled her over before: the look in Buffy’s eyes that suggested that clothing was an issue—one of those potentially troubling, temporary, fleeting kinds of issues that would probably work itself out with minor violence and lots of tearing.

Her fingers were snarled in Willow’s hair. Her other hand was working frantically on a less violent, less destructive version of the ‘tearing,’ otherwise known as ‘unbuttoning.’ Willow’s robe was already open. She didn’t remember it being opened, but that was okay. The unbuttoning was happening to her vest, but she was well past caring about such trivial things. That was probably because her now kinda numb, super-duper warm, extremely slippery, tingly lips were in the process of becoming numb, warm, slippery and tingly—with the smushing, nipping, nibbling and sucking, and the panting that, born of necessity, worked its way in between the beguiling effect of the kisses, gropes, caresses and tastes that matched the wonderfully sweet, musky smells, all of which made every nerve ending in her body stand at attention, like a yippy little dog begging for Snausages.

Willow’s mind had filled with placid fog somewhere around the same indiscernible time her robe had come undone. That happy, muzzy, brain-wrecking fog had turned into steam, hopelessly tainted with need. She was so consumed by it that the whole hotel could’ve come crashing down around them, and provided the crashing remained around and not on them, she probably wouldn’t have noticed.

The cherry on this cake was an underlying sense that something about this wasn’t fair, not that she could do a darn thing about it. Not that she even wanted to. Kisses were fine. Better. Much better than fine. In time, these kisses and caresses could make it all go away.

Chapter Text

“Why are you here?” Illyria asked, presenting an impassive mask, concealing mild surprise. No one else besides security was scheduled to be in the building until the following morning.

Wesley’s ashen face was afflicted by a rictus fraught with stricken simpleness indicating that he had expected the same. That did not bode well. Under these circumstances, such reactions typically brought death to his kind. His wan mockery of a smile faded, giving way to meaningless stammering, “Yes, well, I—”

Illyria pressed into the elevator, looking him up and down as he moved aside and holstered his gun inside his jacket. The excuses he was clearly concocting promised to be intriguing. As the elevator doors slid closed, Illyria fixed him with a curious eye. Then she commanded, “Proceed,” while casting a sidelong glance at the control panel. The elevator was set to travel to the uppermost floor of the facility.

Wesley stabbed at the panel, selecting the button directly below the one that was already lit. “How’d that happen?” he asked in an effort to sound nonchalant.

The attempted fabrication was so transparent as to be mildly insulting. The twenty-first and twenty-second floors contained the offices and boardrooms of the entertainment industry staff. He had as much business there as a sluk did in the desert. Illyria had expected better from him. Instead of wasting words perpetuating the travesty, she looked from the panel to Wesley and back again, allowing traces of her annoyance to show.

His objective was clear. He intended to visit the half-breed’s quarters in order to acquire something. It also seemed obvious that the object Wesley sought would be of value to the children who had orchestrated the abduction. This was a fool’s errand. He should know better. Playing such a provocative game with the powers that presided over this place would most surely bring him to an untimely end.

Discomfited by how much that thought perturbed her, Illyria scowled. She’d developed a soft spot for this mortal that wasn’t entirely appropriate. She decided it was best to maintain her silence. Analysis of the residual sparks left behind by the shell had provided an informative pattern: the combination of silence and scrutiny were often the most effective tools when dealing with the irrational. Were she to do anything as seemingly sensible as present a direct challenge, she might never understand the flawed rationale behind this madness.

The preferable course of action would be to allow Wesley to decide his own fate. Should he remain determined to maintain this absurd pretense, Illyria would leave him to his doom.

He did not. They had ascended ten floors when Wesley stated, “My apologies. I reacted badly.” Taken with sheepishness, he hung his head. When he looked up, his demeanor had changed for the better. He appeared more confident, though he was still afflicted with the apish tendency to clear his throat. “As we are being observed, perhaps you’ll forgive me for avoiding a direct answer.” The corner of his mouth quirked with amusement. “Well, at least half of us are.”

His latter statement was so abstruse Illyria could not discern what he meant. As she studied him, attempting to infer his intentions, he changed tack, “A battle is easily won with such excessive resources.” The sweeping flourish of his hand was made to indicate not just their surroundings but the scope of this place. “One need only utilize them wisely.”

The elevator came to a halt on the twenty-first floor. The doors retracted, but Wesley did not leave the car. “Hearing that the stronger force has won has never impressed me,” he said, impatiently stabbing the button to make the doors close. “However, it is a good deal more interesting when a weaker force overcomes a stronger foe by sheer cunning.” He glanced to give Illyria another smile that was meant to be cheering, but only succeeded in making him look ill. “Of course, it doesn’t hurt that many of those victories can be attributed to the side of the ongoing conflict with which I’m allied. We seem to perpetually run at a deficit, necessitating questionable maneuvers such as this. It’s quite vexing.”

Few of the negative effects of the initial shock their encounter had worn off. For several moments after the doors shut and the elevator began to rise, Wesley mindlessly pressed a button whose function had already been fulfilled. At the same time, in the wake of a brief reflective pause, his discourse resumed, “I don’t believe that you really want to know what I’m doing here. Your intellect is sufficiently keen to deduce my intentions without assistance. The question I think you want me to answer is what I believe you should do about it.”

Illyria wanted nothing of the sort. The statement made her bristle. Being told what to do by such a primitive would demand an immediate, terminal rebuke. She’d delivered such responses innumerable times without a second thought. Yet this time, as she considered it, the discomfort returned.

“Several times keener, I assure you,” Illyria replied. She regarded Wesley for a long moment, during which a respectful silence was maintained, even when the elevator doors opened. As Wesley made to depart, she said, “I should strike you down where you stand. That would be the merciful thing to do. Your belief that your actions are noble is imprudent. A man who attempts to deceive the overseers of this place isn’t noble, he has a death wish.”

“Perhaps,” Wesley conceded, his tone restrained. He stepped though the doors, glancing over his shoulder to add, “Perhaps not.”

Ripples coursed through the surface of the pool, drawn by an imperceptible breeze. The writhing figures bowed and stretched surreally. Their heads angling in countered accord as they skewed.

Kennedy blinked the distorted weirdness away. This was the first occurrence that betrayed the illusion. It had seemed so real, as if she were peering through a window into another room. She’d almost been able to forget that she was looking down at a reflection of a faraway place cast at her feet.

The heat in her blood had fed the delusion. The nagging pang at the back of her head that coursed tension through her neck and shoulders still blunted her rational mind. The bite of her nails, marring her palms barely registered. The rawness of it all made her tremble. Every question she should’ve asked had fallen away in the fiery haze.

Why is D’Hoffryn showing me this? What does he think he’ll accomplish? Does he just want to piss me off? And for fuck’s sake why is this making me—?

Why do I fucking care? So what if Miss Priss is about to dip her shit into a neurotic singularity. I should be happy. She can’t really do that without getting some on her. I’m living proof of that.

Bet she’ll handle it about as well I did. Should be funny to watch all of her high-minded ideals corrupted by incessant, insane pecking.

Buffy withdrew from the kiss as if obstinately betraying Kennedy’s wishes. She rested her forehead against Willow’s for a long moment. The sound of their labored breathing filled the air, reminding Kennedy that, despite the unnatural warmth and aridness of this place, she was in a darkened cavern.

“I’m sorry,” Buffy said. “I can’t.” In the acoustics of the chamber her voice resonated with the strength of a stage whisper, belied by her breathlessness. “God, I want to, but I can’t.” She sagged back on her haunches, distancing herself from Willow while meeting her eyes. “It wouldn’t be right.”

Willow lay slouched in the chair, her legs spread, her skirt hiked up to mid-thigh. Were Buffy not in the way, the shameless bitch would be flaunting her shit for everyone to see. Only the bottom few buttons of Willow’s shirt had gone untouched. Everything else she wore on her upper half except her bra had been bunched between her sides and the chair—clumps of thick, white terrycloth causing her to appear nested there. She said nothing. Her hand came to rest on her inner thigh, just above her knee. Temptation wasn’t something Willow coped with well. It was amazing to see that her hand remained almost stationary.

Kennedy choked down the urge to smack the inside of Willow’s thigh where she petted it while Pollyanna Perfect flaunted how stupidly naïve she really was by whispering, “You wouldn’t think well of me if I did.” She didn’t know that, unchecked, Willow would fondle the button-like beads that outlined the edges of her vulva. She had no clue that the object of her affection was ravenous, like a child left alone with her spoils on All Hallows’ Eve. That without intervention, she’d stroke and knead, stretch and push, until something tore—pain and pleasure muddled by her broken psyche.

Yeah, and this isn’t my problem anymore. If Buffy had two brain cells to rub together to keep a thought warm, she’d see the addiction for what it is and cut the stupid bitch off.

Like I should’ve. I should’ve locked temptation away, but I didn’t have time. I got pushed aside in favor of better things. New toys. New idol-shaped distractions. A knight in shining satin who’s stupid enough to try to reason with her like she’s somewhere this side of normal.

That should end well.

I’d love to see the look on Pretty Polly’s face the first time her savior gets a gander at her goodies. A few tattoos should have nothing on that.

Of course Her Piousness will blame me for that too, because Willow couldn’t possibly be too fucked up to function all by her little lonesome. There just had to have been some coercion. I had to have had something to do with it. Something besides just putting down the plastic to finance the entire clusterfuck. If I’d had a clue…

Buffy’s tongue smacked as she licked her lips. Reaching out, she said, “This really is beautiful,” as she drew her fingertips down, tracing the curve of Willow’s tattoo from her collarbone, over her bra, around the outside of her breast to where it disappeared beneath the placket of her blouse. Distraction gave her voice an airy quality that blended with Willow’s muffled moan.

As Willow lifted herself up, shrugging and tugging her way out of her robe and nearly, by virtue of enthusiasm, her blouse, Kennedy found the good sense to look away.

D’Hoffryn stood to Kennedy’s left, silently taking in the scene. It was hard for her to imagine how or why he appeared so deeply thoughtful. She’d seen enough. Plenty. Too much. Actively bent on ignoring the remainder of the bitter comedy of errors unfolding near her feet, she asked, “Can I go now?” She gave a flourish of her hand to indicate the pool. “I mean, I get that you might think this is high drama, but to me it’s just so much ‘been there, done that’.”

“Soon,” D’Hoffryn said, his reply overlapping with another of Buffy’s inane comments, this one about not wanting to hurt anyone.

Kennedy was just happy to have missed part of it. She would’ve been happier to have missed all of it. From the tone of Buffy’s voice, she seemed inches away from professing her undying love. The thought curdled the contents of Kennedy’s stomach. Considering the contents was fair food—garbage like hotdogs, cotton candy, saltwater taffy and nachos—the reaction promised to be bad in epic new ways.

She was swallowing away the acid that prickled the back of her throat when a distant crump slashed, blunt-edged through the darkness.

Illyria followed. The elevator emptied out into a central lobby that serviced the suites. There were three doors along two solid walls. The remaining walls were made entirely of glass, offering a spangled, nocturnal view of the city. A hallway ran off to the east, perpendicular to the wall containing the elevators doors, further dividing the space.

Wesley went to the lone, visible door on the northern wall. “I believe you misunderstand me,” he whispered as he fumbled through his pockets to retrieve a crudely constructed piece of human technology. He paused to plug the gadget into the card reader on the wall beside the door. After pressing several buttons on the device’s keypad, he picked up his thought, “I didn’t indicate that I intended to answer your question.” A series of red lights across the top bezel of the device began to strobe. “I most certainly do not.” Wesley split his focus; pressing several more buttons as he spoke, “Believe me. I appreciate that by doing so I would come dangerously close to overstepping my bounds. I’m not one to give orders to beings who are older than the entire history of my race. I intend to live longer than that activity would afford.”

The blinking lights slowed, staying on a little longer with each left to right sequence. When they were all lit a uniform, unerring crimson, the door latch clicked. Wesley pushed. The door swung in. Holding its edge, he turned to face Illyria as she followed him into Angelus’s suite. Once they were both inside and the door was closed, Wesley picked up his thought, “What I will say is that it would be heartening to see you become involved. Thus far, what I’ve witnessed would imply that you’ve pledged fealty to—”

Illyria backhanded Wesley for his insolence. Her intent wasn’t to injure, merely to caution, yet her version of delicacy sent the human crumpling to the floor like a marionette with its strings cut. “I pledge fealty to no one,” she said in warning tones. “That you dare even suggest such a thing shows how little your miserable existence must mean to you.”

A hushed sucking sound followed by a mechanical whir accompanied Wesley’s faint gasps and the scrub of his hand massaging the flesh of his face back to some semblance of usefulness. The elevator was descending. That meant they would have company very soon.

Wesley maneuvered himself to sitting. “Yes. Well, it was merely an observation,” he said, still rubbing jaw. “Through inaction you have created the impression of an alliance.” He rose unsteadily to his feet and dusted himself off. “I can’t change the truth of the situation as I perceive it. Only you possess the ability to do that.”

Illyria made her way to the room’s center, taking position near the back of the couch. The object Wesley sought wasn’t here. However there was at least one item of nominal power in the adjoining chamber. Illyria focused on its faintly pulsating hum.

Wesley made his way around the room, rifling through various cubbies and cabinets as he spoke, “Surely you understand that your position here is tenuous at best. You have been sufficiently complacent that I believe it is only a matter of time before the Senior Partners begin passing down directives to you and expecting your cooperation. Whether you follow their orders or not, will of course be entirely up to you.”

This was one of the more pointless things Illyria had seen him do. At least he was performing the futile task with efficiency. The warning she’d given him had instilled a sense of urgency that would be necessary if he truly wished to live. He didn’t register her departure, a point made apparent by the continuance of his monotonous poking and prattling. His attention barely drifted from his task when the doorknob to the bedchamber clacked, its brittle locking mechanism fracturing with the turn of her hand. She supposed he couldn’t help his own blindness.

Illyria ignored him as she strode to the display case on the far wall that housed the object of interest. A glass jar filled with a swirling, luminescent, tawny essence sat behind a thick pane of plastic masquerading as glass. Beyond the mundane barrier, one of potent magic filled the compartment. That was the more palpable aspect of the mystical interference she’d sensed from the other room.

There were other electronic devices set to defend the space. They represented a nominal threat, unless one was worried about gaining access to the vessel without sending out an alert. That was no longer an issue. Soon this area would be swarming with aggressors.

Gaining access to the vessel meant a minor inconvenience to Illyria. The cabinet door fell apart under a blow from her fist. It was the barrier that actually proved a challenge. Her hands stung as she broke its surface. Once she had hold of the jar, it refused to budge. The act of ripping it free made her feeble shell shriek with torment.

The volume of Wesley’s voice increased, becoming impossible to ignore when Illyria returned to the sitting room. “…promises to be a magnificent battle.” Her attention lit on the private elevator that served the suite. It was at the nineteenth floor and silently ascending. Wesley remained utterly oblivious, not to mention annoyingly chatty, “Should we prevail, our victory will make the deeds of Sir William Wallace appear somewhat less—”

Marching across the room to where he stood, she cut his lecture short by asking, “You wish to restore the half-breed’s essence, do you not?” They needed to hurry. The Hamilton creature was nearly upon them.

Wesley returned the painting he was holding to the wall. As he turned to face her, replying, “Yes,” Illyria shoved the vessel into his hands.

“We must go,” she said. Once the fragile package was cradled between his forearm and side, Illyria took hold of his hand and led him from the room. The other elevator was rising too. They had no choice but to take the stairs. She went to the door just down the hallway that was marked with an ‘exit’ sign. Wesley resisted when she pushed through and began to climb.

“What are you doing?” he asked as he tried to pull his hand from her grasp.

“Your goal is the release the essence, is it not?” she inquired. When he affirmed her assumption with a nod and a mumble, she went on, “Marcus Hamilton is currently assessing Angelus’s suite.” Further elaboration wasn’t necessary. Wesley began to move sluggishly at the mention of the creature’s name. His pace picked up considerably as she explained their situation by way of a question, “Would you prefer to spend the few minutes it will take for him to track us down debating how we should proceed or would you like to accomplish your goal?”

Wesley didn’t answer. Instead, he began to run. Moments later, accompanied by the slam of the door below them and the trample of footfalls on the stairs, they burst through a metal, exterior double door into what felt like evenlight. The rooftop was so well lit that she reflexively looked up. The pair of stars she glimpsed through the cloud cover dispelled the illusion.

She snatched the vessel from Wesley’s arms, ran to an unobstructed portion of the roof’s edge and hurled it into the night.

The door crashed open. She wheeled around as the first gunshot rang out.

Kennedy jerked her head around to peer into nothing. It took her untold moments to understand that the darkness that surrounded them was wrong. Such an explosive sound should’ve been accompanied by at least a hint of fiery light. Feeling her reaction was a little too little, a lot too late, she felt herself exclaim, “What the—?”

D’Hoffryn cut her off by thumping her upper arm with his elbow. She turned to him, then to the pool where he pointed to discover Willow charging from the room hot on Buffy’s heels. It was relief to understand that her distraction hadn’t lasted that long. It couldn’t have. It wouldn’t have taken them that long to react since the explosion had obviously taken place in the Hyperion.

The view from the pool followed them down the long corridor, around the curved staircase, and into the lobby. Willow buttoned her blouse as she ran. Near the center of the lobby floor, next to the round couch, a woman and man lay prone and unmoving, their arms and legs splayed. Their hands remained linked, as if holding on to each other were their last conscious act.

Kennedy didn’t recognize the man. Though face-down like he was, that wasn’t a huge surprise. With his short, sandy hair and beige summer suit, he could’ve been anyone.

The woman wasn’t so drably attired. In fact, her costume was so distinctive that it rang an entire peal of bells. Was it a costume? It had to be. One Kennedy recognized as belonging to one of the unknown onlookers at Wolfram and Hart. Who in their right mind would run around with blue dye in their hair, wearing a red leather bodysuit?

Kennedy realized that the answer to her question was probably something demonic. Very few of them gave a tinker’s damn about human customs or propriety. That would go a long way toward explaining how the two had crashed through the ceiling without disturbing a single fleck of plaster or paint. But if she is a demon, why isn’t she moving?

Redness crept into view, spreading beneath the concealing edges of the man’s sport coat. The lobby erupted into a chaos of frantic voices and movement, with Giles and Xander pounding onto the scene as Buffy rolled the man over. The blood wicking through his dress shirt held Kennedy’s gaze. She barely mustered the presence of mind to glimpse his face before the view changed and she found herself looking at Willow again.

At a glance, she knew this wasn’t the same Willow. All of the details were wrong. The forest clearing where she sat cross-legged on the ground was completely unfamiliar. Her hair was longer, and if imaginable, the complexion of her tear-streaked cheeks was even sallower, but that might’ve been a trick of the light, or the lack thereof. More striking than any of that was the fact that, although it was pouring rain, the only sign of wetness about her person were the tracks of her tears. Droplets of water glistened in the grass surrounding her, yet she remained untouched.

Although instantly intrigued, reflexively Kennedy exclaimed, “Hey!”

“This is important,” D’Hoffryn replied, his tone soothing by virtue of its calmness. Several moments passed as they watched this new player fret. “She is dangerous,” he murmured.

Kennedy saw nothing of the sort. This Willow, no doubt the paramour of the impostor who caused so much strife in her world, looked more broken than her alternate half. Kennedy fixed D’Hoffryn with her gaze, the annoyance conveyed by her expression, demanding explanation.

He obliged, though for some untold reason the strength had been sapped from his voice. “She represents the danger, not only of desperation as you might guess, but of cunning. She is a wholly more together person than the one you know. Imagine what she might’ve become with confidence inspired by the righteousness of knowing beyond the shadow of a doubt that her actions were the right ones. Whether they were or not isn’t important. She and all of the people around her believed that they were. They had a cause. She had a purpose and all of the fire born of that.”

Kennedy directed her attention to the weeping Willow reflected in the pool as he murmured. His words carried no weight or meaning because she was unable to see evidence of their truth in this distraught woman. She tried to imagine the kind of commitment it would take to be so utterly devastated by the weight of loss, but she lacked the experience, though her examination of the evidence from this angle brought some insight.

As if in echo of her thoughts, D’Hoffryn said, “Now she has nothing.” The sentiment lingered, obliterating everything that followed. “She’s willing to do anything to regain what she’s lost. What we must do is sow the seeds of doubt. We need to show her that her faith is flawed.” His remaining words rolled off of Kennedy the same way they rolled off his tongue. So when, after a long, assessing pause, he asked, “Do you understand?” she had to admit she didn’t with a shake of her bowed head.

“How did you feel earlier when you watched?” he asked. “Did the passion struck between them with a touch bring you comfort, or were you livid that you had not experienced a similar sort of solace in her arms? Did you recount all of the flaws of your affair, or did you mourn for love lost?”

Kennedy didn’t answer. She knew she didn’t need to. She had worn her dismay plainly on her face.

His hand rested on her back, between her shoulder blades. She felt at first that it was a gesture of sympathy, but as he pushed her forward into the pool, saying, “Show her that and we will have won,” she understood. He had recruited her because of this. He had needed her to sway things in his favor. And now he was sending her to do his bidding.

As she sank into the pool, the idea that he was unwilling to do this himself worried her almost as much as the light and smoke that bathed her in place of water.

Chapter Text

Above the tumult of encroaching humanity, a man shouted, “He’s over here.”

Was that one of the officers? Perhaps it was Xander, though Giles didn’t believe so. He felt certain he would recognize the other man’s voice. It might pay to watch things more closely, though it hardly mattered who it had been. The fact that help had arrived was enough to understand for the moment.

With the help, the lobby had been thrown into a state of controlled chaos, making it difficult to judge what was going on. Two men in blue paramedic’s uniforms, totes slung over their shoulders, jogged to where Wesley lay near the center of the expansive, amber marble floor. One uniformed constable stood at the door, while two other detectives poked around, and there was still more ‘help’ outside preparing to invade.

Giles caught snatches of conversation, nothing discernible. Every voice, every clatter, no matter how faint, resonated in the open space of the room.

Presently, another paramedic and his mate entered wheeling a gurney. Its castors clacked across the sill. Giles took the opportunity while everyone’s attention was diverted to cast a glance over his shoulder. Willow was still seated in the unlit office behind him. She hadn’t slipped away, though the unease that permeated her person said that she meant to the instant a chance presented itself. This circus was too much for her. He returned the thin smile she gave him.

The whir and rattle of the gurney further muddled the din, providing another excellent distraction. “It’ll be over soon,” Giles said in an attempt to encourage her. Aware that he might draw unfriendly attention down on her, he faced forward, then mumbled under his breath, “We need to prepare for what’s to come,” hoping that she would hear him and take his meaning. This was a hell of a time to discuss such matters, yet he felt the need to remind her.

Wesley’s unusual arrival, the company he was in, and his injuries, all suggest that he was successful. Tarrying any longer than absolutely necessary before completing his quest seems disrespectful of his sacrifice, if not, due to the gravity of our situation, entirely foolish. Lest we forget, we have a caged sociopath in our midst. The sooner Angelus is neutralized the better for everyone involved.

If worse comes to worst, I’ll attempt the ritual myself. I doubt I’ll be able to complete it, but no harm should arise from my fumbling.

Giles leveled his attention on Wesley and the paramedics. It was a harmless thing to watch, the expected thing, though Giles’ actual interest was in Buffy. With his attention fixed where it was, he could keep an eye on her without actually watching her. The police had already questioned him rather thoroughly. Gunshot wounds tended to bring out that tendency in them. He’d given the portly inspector the same story he was certain she was treating him to now. It was a fabrication only in part.

Perhaps we were wrong to attempt the deception, though it seemed prudent. It still seems prudent. Concealing the fact that the door had been locked and had not been tampered with eliminated so many questions. Buffy had again demonstrated her talent for demolishing doors to that end, creating a false, yet flawed evidence trail.

That we heard a crash and came downstairs to find Wesley was entirely true. The fact that he had not been alone was omitted. The authorities wouldn’t have a single clue what to do with Illyria if they found her. The eventuality that she would wake and violently object to being detained seemed like a situation best avoided.

I have little doubt that Buffy can weave a cock-and-bull story with such skill to avoid those pitfalls. I’m fairly certain that her fable will match those presented by Xander and myself well enough to deceive the police. I’m much less certain about Willow. Better they not notice her. In the event they do…

The toes of Giles’ house shoes resting so close to Illyria’s back made his situation feel gravely tenuous. His back ached from stooping. The choices were: pretend to lean casually over the counter or jab Illyria in the side. There was a slight chance that might rouse her. There was also a chance that one of their guests might become curious and make their way through the maze to discover both of his charges. Either scenario promised to set off a chain of events that would play out as a tragedy so absurd that in retrospect it might be viewed a comedy.

The authorities would no doubt take Illyria for an ordinary woman with unusual fashion sense and many questions would be asked. Questions for which there were no simple answers. Buffy was good enough to move her out of view before the police arrived. It would’ve been better still had she had time to move Illyria into a vacant room or even one of the offices. However, that was not to be.

As it was, he’d almost objected to Buffy depositing Illyria on the intake desk. He was glad he hadn’t. He’d come across as much less the fool that way. His hearing wasn’t as acute as hers. The police had come screeching up as she lowered Illyria to the floor. She’d had just enough time to hop over the intake desk before the first officer stepped into the lobby.

I for one am willing to be grateful for small favors.

He dismissed the idea that Illyria might wake without any interference at almost any moment. I have no idea why she’s unconscious, or if the state she’s in even qualifies as unconsciousness. She could be dead for all I know. There’s simply no way to tell. It isn’t as if she has a pulse, none that I could find. Her skin’s as hard as a rock and room temperature. I assume that’s normal. By similar reasoning, I have no cause to think that she needs to breathe.

Rolling with the punches seemed the best of plans. There were so many things so far outside of Giles’ control they didn’t bear contemplation. He was controlling the things he could, such as his expression and posture. Anything else could not be helped. Just like the set of circumstances that had landed him in this position.

It isn’t as if we could’ve done anything differently. Yes, Willow might’ve done something more than go for clean linens, but I don’t think so. I don’t think she would’ve handled the stress.

Wesley was bleeding out. We did the best we could with the time we had. The nine-one-one call could not have been postponed. From the time I called until the first uniformed officer arrived couldn’t have been more than five minutes. The ambulance took nearly three times as long to arrive. Delaying the initial request might well have been disastrous.

It was a weight off Giles’ chest to see that the paramedics were loading Wesley onto the gurney without delay. He chose to view that as another positive sign. They had deemed Wesley stable enough to transport.

Small blessings will do for now.

Light diffused through the glade. Willow’s instincts screamed for her to take the offensive, but looking up into anything that bright after so long spent in darkness would’ve been a noodleheaded thing to do. She watched the light play, imbuing pretty rainbow patterns in the raindrops spattering the lawn.

Had it not taken a couple of shakes to grow from spark to spotlight, she might’ve thought someone had triggered the house security lights. The glow seemed just that intense, but misplaced, concentrated from a central, fetid core on the driveway not ten paces in front of her. That was the final clue. Hints of must and musk and rot, carried in spite of the rain, left the unmistakable impression that this was magic, and not the sweet, earthy kind whose subtle savor was easy to miss.

There was only one thing this could be. Like it or not, unwanted, unexpected, uninvited company was dropping in to dirty the dishes, put its feet on the furniture, and even more likely, offer her unsolicited advice. Whether that turned out to be a tolerable thing or not would depend on the company. Considering the wards preventing such surprise visits, and the stench that could only mean evil was afoot, she had little hope that this would go well.

The glare was dying away. Willow got to her feet. She’d been busying herself tending to other details for which a body wasn’t needed. As a result, her legs had been reduced to a prickly rubbery mess by long disuse. That minor annoyance took a backseat to the demonic bacchanalia burning inside of her, shifting from its accustomed patterns, kindling new complaints. What with all the everything, she was willing to count the fact that she didn’t fall as a win.

Amid the remaining glint and the rapidly thinning smoke a familiar form took shape. It was Kennedy. Oh, umm, wow. I haven’t seen her in—

The overwhelming sense that she still wasn’t seeing Kennedy left Willow all the more unsettled. Something subtle—something besides the obvious was out of place, like seeing Buffy, then noticing that she was wearing a pair of Birkenstocks. This thing wasn’t Kennedy. It was a wolf in sheep’s clothing. A demon wrapped in trusty skin. A doppelganger or some other equally irritating creature. It didn’t feel right, but something about it felt familiar. Willow demanded, “What do you want?”

Before the thing in the Kennedy suit could reply, “We need to talk,” Willow had it. She knew why this thing seemed familiar, and knowing made her feel stupid. She’d encountered a dozen of them tonight. She was practically swimming in them. It was just the seeming impossibility that Kennedy would ever become mixed up with them that had thrown her. She was second only to Buffy as the last person Willow would’ve ever imagined making that choice. But there was no mistaking it. Kennedy was a vengeance demon.

Well, isn’t this just dandy? D’Hoffryn couldn’t get me, so he went after my nearest and dearest. Willow snuffed the next thought that came into her head and started for the house. That way badness lay. The number of people close to her who had ended up entangled by the ‘vengeance fold’ was alarming. That was enough to know or note or tally for now.

As she passed and Kennedy stepped aside, turning to keep an eye on her, Willow asked, “You think so?” Her carefully schooled tone carried with it the trill singsong of laughter that made her proud. It was perfect. She sounded like she was something she really, really wasn’t: totally in control.

“I do,” Kennedy replied, tagging along. “I think you deserve to know what your girlfriend’s been up to. She’s been a busy little beaver.”

Distracted, Willow replied with the first thing that flitted through her mind, “She usually is. Just sitting around makes her kinda nuts.” The scant time on her feet had done little to improve her legs, or anything else for that matter. They tingled with every step while the rest of her ached. She ignored all of that as best she could, but she couldn’t ignore the sicky, icky feeling that churned in the pit of her stomach. It was almost worse than the stiffness or the pain. Magic steadied her as she skipped up the steps. She could’ve flown, but that would’ve just been showy.

Instead of inviting the Kennedy-shaped thing into her home, she strode to a glider that sat under an awning next to the house. There were so many memories in this place she felt haunted. Inside was worse, but even out here, Willow still pined for the past…for normalcy. The glider had been acquired so that she had a place to be, and maybe—though doubtfully—stay dry on days when Buffy washed her motorcycle. The simple act of sitting there brought back visions of sunshine, warm breezes, vibrant colors, pleasant smells, and equally pleasant sights with all the yummy goodness of scanty clothing and soapy water. It was a good life.

I wonder if I could undo one wish with another. The absurdity of the thought made her smile. If I was dealing with someone who would play fair, maybe, but if I was dealing with someone who was willing to play fair, this wouldn’t be happening at all.

Settling down beside her, Kennedy said, “Yeah, it’s who she’s getting busy with that’s bugging me.”

Willow almost missed it. It would’ve been so much better for Kennedy if she had. The accusation with all of its annoying insinuation brought Willow back to herself. The details slipped into place, feeling like a revelation. This isn’t my Kennedy. I was right when I thought ‘doppelganger.’ Righter than I ever—

Her smile brightened. She knows where Buffy is. She’s talking about Buffy—my Buffy—and she knows it. She’s seen her. She knows where and who my Buffy is.

The detective had concluded his interrogation. They would refer to it as ‘questioning,’ but Giles knew better. The authorities are never so kind. As Buffy approached the intake desk, he felt motivated to ask, “Is everything alright?” by the sourness of her expression.

She didn’t reply and for a moment he considered asking again. She was far too interested in something that was occurring just over her left shoulder. The only ones behind her were the police forensics team. They were doing what forensics teams normally do. Such as, for instance, noticing the complete absence of a blood trail.

Finally, she said, “Yeah, fine,” turning to meet Giles’ gaze.

He supposed it was no wonder she appeared distracted, but Giles took a gamble, saying, “Perhaps it would be prudent for you to visit our guest. I believe he could use some refreshments.”

That got her attention. She looked bemused, but that was fine. The details could be sorted. “Okay,” she said, dragging the word out questioningly.

Giles put on a well practiced, patient guise. Their history taken into account, that alone might’ve jarred her memory in time, but he decided to press the issue. “Do you recall our earlier conversation?”

“Sure,” she agreed, a measure of her bemusement fading.

That smelled of some small progress to him. Giles attempted to push the progress home. “Well, then, Wesley’s arrival here must surely tell you something.”

“Oh, okay,” she said. “I thought we were gonna wait till ‘Just the facts, ma’am’ and his pals cleared out.”

“I don’t see why we should,” Giles replied. “Do you have everything that you’ll need?” They could slip out the office’s side entrance, into the hallway and make their way to the backstairs with no one the wiser. That seemed like a fine plan to him.

“Yeah, I think so. We left all the stuff down there,” Buffy said, disappearing down the adjacent hallway to make her way to the office.

Giles judged her progress as best he could by timing. He replied, “Good,” glancing back as she reemerged in the office behind the counter. “I believe that it’s time we fulfill our side of the agreement.” He looked to ensure that they hadn’t attracted the attention of any of the detectives. They appeared occupied with the difficult matter of comparing notes, so Giles went on, “For Wesley’s sake. I’m certain he’ll recover more readily knowing that we’ve seen to all of the remaining details.”

“You think he got the goodies, then?” Buffy asked from behind him.

Giles glanced back. She was indeed where he judged her to be. That gave him a reason to turn fully around. She was politely positioned, leaning against the door facing, so as not to exclude Willow from the conversation. “I see no reason to doubt that he found precisely what he was looking for and paid a heavy price to retrieve it,” he replied.

“Alright,” she said, turning to address Willow, “Will, you up for a little hocus-pocus?”

Willow replied, “I can try.”

Giles expected no better. He knew she would do exactly what she promised. She’d sounded equally reticent beneath the veneer of false confidence many years ago, the first time she offered to attempt the spell. Giles found that oddly reassuring.

“Well, I guess that’s that,” Buffy said, turning to leave. “You know where we’ll be. Shout if you need us.”

“Godspeed,” Giles replied, his attention returning to the lobby. It was good to see that the proceedings appeared to be winding down.

Xander had been doing an admirable job up to this point of distracting the authorities by playing the part of a curious lad. Naturally, he had been helpful too—too helpful to simply dismiss. His hands were still stained with blood, only partially wiped away. He had been assigned the task of applying pressure to Wesley’s wound, while Giles had assessed his injuries. The tail of Xander’s polo shirt was smudged as well. He disappeared down the hallway, no doubt headed to the lavatory to get cleaned up.

The ambulance sirens wailed in through the open doorway, bring with it a faint cascade of strobing, ruddy light. The eldest of the detectives approached the intake desk. “Are you certain you’ve told us everything?” the officer asked. He searched for some sign of deception.

Giles’ face remained an impassive, yet amiable mask. “I’ve shared everything I know.” His expression turned to one of equally disciplined concern. “Is there a problem?”

Of course there was, but the officer replied, “No, no problem. Some of the facts just don’t add up.”

Such as the lack of blood on the door? There was no way Wesley could’ve forced his way in without leaving behind bloody handprints. Conversely, had one of us shot him, there would be a spatter pattern in the lobby. To them it must look as if an impossibly meticulous gorilla smashed the door in and deposited the body without leaving a single speck of blood anywhere else. Or stranger still, as if their victim had been deposited here by magic, which was actually the case. Pity they would never accept that.

Far better for us to deflect their suspicions than for the facts to speak for themselves. The facts in this instance are somewhat dubious. The ones who actually committed the crime are miles away. They’ll never be linked to it because the facts say that their involvement is impossible.

Giles allowed none of his musings to reflect outwardly as the detective regarded him. Finally, the detective capitulated, “Yes, well, if you have nothing else to share, I believe we’ve done everything we can.”

“Thank you for your assistance,” Giles replied, his sincerity strained, but evident. It is a shame that fate has so often conspired to put me on the wrong side of the law. It’s something of a juxtaposition to be cast the noble scoundrel, fighting for the forces of good. Not to mention dreadfully romantic, the revolting drivel of a serial melodrama.

Willow glanced down to where Kennedy’s hand rested beside her own. They weren’t quite touching. Willow placed her hand over the back of Kennedy’s, quickly lacing their fingers together. Kennedy tried to recoil. She was so strong. Willow fought to keep hold as she plundered Kennedy’s thoughts, demanding, ‘Buffy. Show her to me.’

Kennedy let out a long, keening wail.

A wave of nausea followed a flood of images. Clouded eyes set in ashen faces, dozens of them, all young women, lying sprawled, twisted into positions that left no doubt that they were dead. The realization that she recognized some of them almost made Willow toss her cookies. She doubled over, one hand cupped to her mouth.

Even if she’d been able to, complaining that she’d wanted to see ‘Buffy’ not ‘bodies’ seemed pointless. Especially so, considering that she didn’t sense Kennedy anywhere near. She’d flown the coop. The feeling that she’d screwed up snapped Willow to her senses. She looked up. It was true. Kennedy wasn’t anywhere near. She was nearly around the garage.

“Hey, come back here,” Willow called out, like anything she could say would work after that. Surprise was causing her to behave like a goof.

The second thing she did was more effective, and every bit knee-jerk reaction, so much so that it took a moment for her to figure it out. Reflexively, she’d set up a quick witch-fu snafu by putting something ‘scary’ in Kennedy’s way. The ‘something scary’ was herself, though not really. Willow just made Kennedy think that she was there.

Kennedy didn’t go ‘poof.’ That was even more surprising. Teleporting away would’ve been exactly the right thing to do. It was good that she didn’t. Willow thought she’d flubbed again. Something like relief washed over her.

For a while Kennedy did a fair impression of the blonde girl in any splatter film—with the running and the screaming. And Willow did a fair impression of that Agent Smith guy from that awful Matrix sequel, at least in Kennedy’s head.

It was a silly game, one that proceeded without a hitch, giving Willow time to tighten the screws. Or more accurately ‘thicken the air,’ and by virtue of the weather the raindrops too. It got to be about the consistency of tapioca pudding pretty quickly. When that didn’t work, Willow went for wet cement, and so on. She ended up with a solid, terrified lump which she hoisted from the bushes.

A personal struggle took place as Willow hauled her prisoner to where she stood on the driveway. The idea that she’d gone anywhere without really being aware troubled her. She didn’t recall whether she’d walked, ran, flown or done the cha-cha to get to her current position. She just knew that she hadn’t been there when the cat-and-mouse game began.

But that was small potatoes compared with everything else she felt. A lot of power was required to maintain the full body cast. And that wasn’t a problem. Willow had power to burn. The problem was the power itself. It swelled inside of her. The part of her that wasn’t her was pleased to cause torment, even to one of its own.

Even the act of releasing Kennedy to hold her only by one wrist, similar to how she’d held the demon she’d bullied to get at Beljoxa’s Eye, gave Willow an inordinate amount of pleasure. Pleasure which could only be her new demonic aspect reveling in Kennedy’s suffering.

The move had been intended to be one of regress. Willow wanted limit the power she was consuming, and thereby quash its effect. The problem lay with Kennedy. Release of any kind encouraged her to make an attempt at freedom. The old axiom held true: freedom could only be bought with pain.

The darkness welling up inside of Willow wanted to cause more. It longed to break Kennedy’s neck so she couldn’t flail around. It argued that Kennedy’s cries might be heard. Someone might come. All Willow had to do was crush her throat. It would be such an easy thing to do.

Those reactions were so strong that they frightened Willow. She was terrified that the parts of her that were still her and not a conglomeration of stolen power would succumb to the seduction and slip away for good. The possibility existed for her to become a real monster. Past experience made her far more sensitive to that than she would’ve otherwise been. She was grateful for that in a way she never in her wildest dreams imagined she could be.

At her very heart she wanted nothing more than to let Kennedy go. I can’t. I need to know what she knows. Without that, everything I’ve done up to now will be pointless. This is it. This is the thing I’ve been waiting for. Kennedy is a substantive link to Buffy. I have to use that.

As Kennedy drew near, Willow saw something that made her belly roil. Kennedy’s hand—the one Willow had touched—was puffy and black, its skin shriveled like a raisin. It was horrible and that pleased Willow beyond any of the other minor torments. I was right. Self-satisfaction made her swell to bursting, yet she was queasy. I have to finish this now.

Right now.

Morning light had just started to gray the eastern sky when Willow reached out. Kennedy flinched, but couldn’t move. She quivered under Willow’s touch, casting her eyes wildly around. A scream tore croaking from her throat. The flesh of her cheeks stained black beneath Willow’s fingertips. Every trace of energy that made Kennedy who she was came with Willow’s hand when she withdrew it.

Dammit.

D’Hoffryn wasn’t even certain what he was watching. He’d witnessed nothing like it in all his centuries.

Dammit!

A warm golden aura bathed Willow, causing her to shimmer. Kennedy slumped dead. Willow reduced her to nothing more than a shriveled black husk.

Dammit!

As the aura faded, pooling on Willow’s skin, soaking into her, the husk fell. It hit the ground and shattered into jagged chunks, like raw carbon but apparently softer. The rain was already eroding it away.

Dammit!

Willow watched her feet intently. The rain made quick work of the remains. As the last of the muck washed into a thin, oily sheen, she turned to look over her shoulder, peering past countless miles, across dimensions, through time itself, into D’Hoffryn’s eyes.

It had been one heck of a night, morning, whatever. Xander didn’t have a hangover. The fact that he felt hungover was compliments of the rude awakening and collective craziness that followed. He wanted more than anything to go back to bed and pull the dirt in after him. Or something like that.

Company had cleared out. At least there was that. Xander’s Emmy-worthy performance as the Chipper Helpful Guy had moved on to regale Giles in the covey behind the intake desk. He stood, his arms crossed over his chest. Giles was beside him, putting on an equally stoic show. “We should move her,” Xander suggested.

Moments passed. Nothing happened. Curiosity caused him to glance at Giles, barely moving his head. Curiosity turned out badly for him so often it always made him queasy.

‘Incredulous’ began to cover Giles’ reaction. Where that left off, ‘aghast’ took up the slack.

And what exactly was it that made me think things would go any better this time?

Xander quickly filled in, hoping to recover, “I dunno about you, but waking up stuffed under a counter like so much—” He paused. What with how his head felt, it came as no surprise to draw a blank. “Like—” The only thing he could think of was the old horror movie cliché of the kid hiding in the cupboard. That isn’t even close.

Not if Giles’ quick ‘half the news that was fit to print’ briefing was even close to right. There was only one point worth remembering: Illyria’s a hell god. All I’ve really got on them hinges around Glorificus. Illyria’s missing a few things, like scabby minions and a Bel Air fashion sense, but if the label’s even close, she’s gonna love being shoved under a counter.

Giles was staring. He hadn’t said a word, which was weird considering the look on his face. Xander expected he’d have plenty to say. Stuff like ‘buffoon’ and ‘idiot’ and ‘dolt’ and maybe even ‘ponce,’ though that gibberish Britishism has pretty much been retired since Spike went and made our lives so very entertaining.

Beating Giles to the punch again seemed like a plan. “You know what I mean,” Xander said, crossing the space to the counter. “She probably won’t like being chucked aside like this.” He stooped down. “Now are you going to help me, or not?”

Giles found his voice, broke his vow of silence or whatever, “Have you considered how Illyria might respond if she awakes to find us lugging her across the lobby like some—?”

Xander said, “See?” amused that Giles had choked too. “There just isn’t a good analogy, is there?”

As Xander took Illyria’s wrist in hand, Giles admitted, “Yes, well, I was thinking ‘helpless damsel,’ but that observation isn’t remotely correct. It would be impossible for one of us to carry her cradled as such. Considering the heft of her wrist, I suspect we’ll be doing quite well to lift her by the shoulders and legs as we might a stout man.”

He was just echoing what Xander was picking up on his own now. Lifting Illyria’s hand was like picking up a box of tenpenny nails in a pleasant, more liftable shape. Illyria’s arm weighed almost as much as a couple of bundles of shingles.

Giles was prattling something about ‘automatons.’

Xander didn’t ask. The name didn’t have a promising ring. It was enough to offer a silent hope that, whatever they were, they wouldn’t be showing up for dinner. He gave up playing ‘pose the dolly’ with the thing that was older than dirt. Knocking that off before it got him flattened seemed like a good call.

“I, for one, would prefer not to spend the next week laid up in hospital because you were feeling charitable,” Giles said. He had a point, though it was possible he was talking about wrenching his back during the moving.

Whatever way the ‘laying up’ happened, it sounded like all sorts of ‘no fun.’ Just the fact that there are options for getting laid up is reason enough for me to stand up and back slowly away. He did so before he made another, slightly more sensible suggestion, “So, coffee?”

“That sounds like a splendid idea,” Giles agreed.

Chapter Text

“You coming?” Buffy called from somewhere down the connecting hallway.

Angel stepped from the elevator. He knew that she’d gone right, so he followed. When he reached the t-intersection, he turned left without pause. All of the rooms were to the left, only the staircase lay to the right.

Buffy waited for him in front of an open doorway about midway down the corridor, Willow still cradled against her chest. She went inside as he started toward her. The crosses nailed to each of the doors were excellent motivators. He traversed the distance at a pace just short of a run. Buffy was quicker. By the time he reached her, she was standing in the doorway again, blocking his way, having already deposited Willow on the bed.

He could hardly blame her for wanting to care for Willow more than she cared to deal with him. He was intruding—that much was plain from the impatience worn on her face—but it seemed like more than that. The entire situation had an undertone that suggested Buffy was protecting Willow. That struck him as strange. She’s already made it clear that she doesn’t see me as a threat. It doesn’t get much clearer than her marching into my cell and letting me go without saying a single word. She wouldn’t have done that had she felt they had anything to fear from me, yet she’s still protecting Willow, like I might hurt her.

He stared so intently past Buffy into the room that it startled him when she spoke, “We didn’t.”

We didn’t what?

He hadn’t said anything, so it threw him even more when Buffy picked up on his confusion and started to explain, “Remember the question you asked earlier? It hasn’t been that long ago. I kinda though ‘I don’t know’ wouldn’t cut it, so…”

Even this vague annoyance bothered him coming from her. He nodded, hoping to smooth things over.

She scarcely seemed to notice. “We didn’t have anything to do with releasing your soul. It was Wesley and—” Her brow pinched at the point between her eyes. “Wolfram and Hart groupie, pretty with the clashy, tragic fashion sense of a fourteen-year-old boy—concerning women, I mean—blue hair, tight red leather…”

Angel thought he had time to fill in, “Illyria.”

But Buffy picked up again, talking over him, “Stuff no woman in her right mind—” Surprisingly, she stopped. “Yeah, I guess.” Recognition came into her eyes, belying the wondering hesitation in her voice. She’d heard the name. “Whatever. They sort of splatted in the lobby, so it seems like a fair guess. Giles knows more about it than I do. Why don’t you go ask him?”

When she fell silent, Angel saw that what he’d been taking for impatience or indifference was clearly fatigue. She’s exhausted.

“Of course,” he said with a bow that only affected his head. His selfishness had just been made palpably plain. I suppose it’s no wonder. She performed a miracle tonight, swatting the whale’s nose to gain my freedom. Willow had no small part in that herself. Then in the middle of the night while they were both recovering, they had more of my nightmare dumped in their laps. And here I am asking even more of them.

He turned away, only thinking to say, “Thanks,” as Buffy shut the door. Maybe she heard him. Maybe she didn’t. It didn’t matter either way. He couldn’t bother them again.

Angel had no idea where to begin to look for Giles. He decided to check downstairs. That was about the only place he could go without disturbing anyone else’s sleep. Besides, the press of cross-after-cross nailed to door-after-door was giving him a headache. He got clear of them as quickly as possible.

Once he was on the stairs and able to think, it occurred to him just how unfair some of his earlier thoughts had been. Of course the people I’ve victimized would shut me out or try to hurt me. They hate me almost as much as I hate myself. That’s how it should be. But that isn’t the case here. It isn’t fair for me to think of them that way. For whatever reason, they’ve given me a pass. I suppose for Willow that makes sense. I think she understands too well for her to blame me.

The reek of harsh cleaners hit Angel as he entered the lobby, causing his stomach to roil. For some ungodly, unknown reason someone had mopped that night—not all over, just in one spot. He dodged it, ducking down the hallway beside the intake desk. The lights were out. It was too quiet. But hints of a very human odor tinged the air, competing with the cleaner. Someone had made coffee.

The smell grew stronger as he followed his nose to the room where the coffee maker had been when he’d lived there. Nothing had changed. It was still in exactly the same place. Unfortunately, the room was vacant. He touched the carafe. It was empty, but warm. I must’ve just missed whoever was here.

Well, I guess that’s that. There’s nothing left for me to do, but wait.

He sat down without bothering to turn on the lights. His mind was behaving as badly as his stomach. It churned through a decoupage of events, places, people—no fragment substantial enough to provide more than a flash impression.

Eventually his mind calmed enough to hold onto a thought: Vampires don’t just become human. Not and keep their powers. Either Buffy’s found the best cheat in the magical world, or she isn’t who she claims to be. Not exactly. She has to be from somewhere else.

He sniffed a soft snicker. But where? Another reality? The thought of another round of ‘musical persons’ almost made him laugh. His smile held a measure of mordancy. Not because of her, but because of how the world seemed to work for them. Against them. Maybe she’s the product of some magical mishap? That’s never happened before.

He had no real way of being certain of anything other than that there were two. It was the most reasonable explanation he could find for her sudden, inexplicable humanity. And if that’s true, there’s no reason for her to feel anything about me all. Though, in fairness, if she is from another reality, there’s no telling what my alternate self has done to her. There’s no telling whether he even exists.

No, she knew me. She knew me well enough to recognize the changes without the usual cautious observation and questioning.

Either that or she knows Willow well enough to follow her cues.

But who she is doesn’t really mean anything. What matters is what she’s done. Even after everything that’s happened, she still doesn’t hate me. She did everything in her power to help me. They all did.

He fell into a lethargic, angst-riddled haze, head in hand, staring blankly at the tabletop, wondering at their kindness. Untold time passed before someone broke through his bemusement.

“Where is Wesley?”

That Angel didn’t flinch spoke volumes to exactly how absorbed he was. Her approach had been so stealthy he hadn’t heard her. It was easy to tell from the pain promised by her tone that it was Illyria.

Her tone didn’t matter. Her question did. It shook Angel from his stupor by inches. It was an extremely good question, one that made him feel foolish. He didn’t look up for fear that his discomfort might show.

What was it Buffy said? ‘Splattered?’ ‘Splatted?’ Neither thing sounded graceful, but they didn’t sound fatal either. What they sounded like is the sort of minor accident Wesley used to have all the time. If that’s all that had happened, he should be here. I assumed he was.

But Buffy didn’t tell me to go find Wesley. She’d said go find Giles. And someone cleaned—

Illyria demanded, “Where did they take Wesley?”

Angel countered, “Was he hurt?” Irritation came through in his tone. Had Illyria cared, he might’ve explained that he was displeased with Buffy’s lack of disclosure.

She didn’t seem to notice. “He had been shot.”

Angel was on his feet before her statement was finished. He headed for the door, explaining the obvious, “He’s at the hospital,” though it must not have been obvious to Illyria. He brushed past her. “Let’s go.” This was something he could do.

The rain had stopped. All of the grayness had been wrung from the sky by golden, peachy light. At any other time that would’ve been wonderful, but right now it meant nothing. Willow had returned to the spot she’d abandoned on Kennedy’s arrival. Her eyes were closed in concentration. It might’ve been hailing, or blowing up a blizzard and she wouldn’t have noticed.

She was too focused on the overwhelming tangle of new ideas, experiences and desires that raged like a maelstrom inside of her. She’d taken the remaining light into herself instead of simply snuffing it out. Not just Kennedy’s power, but everything she ever was. With the other vengeance demons, Willow hadn’t cared. This time she’d cared too much. She’d had to know what Kennedy knew and it cost her dearly.

At the forefront of the clamor, agonizing pain intermingled with terror, raw and brutal. Willow’s own anxiety made her so susceptible that it was nearly impossible to shake completely free of its effect. Kennedy had been trying to teleport away. Willow had stopped her without intending to. Her reaction had been involuntary. The idea that she hadn’t been in complete control of her power added to her fear and doubt, which in turn eroded her control. The whole thing was nice and vicious cycley.

I can’t lose it. Must keep a grip on reality, not to mention me—the me that was me before—

I won’t see my way through this if I can’t do that.

Umm…

Semi-cogent thought led to reason, then to recognition. Something prickled the edges of her consciousness. It was a weirdness so subtle that only its dissonance made it stand out.

‘Dissonance’ was exactly right. Like two notes struck on either end of an instrument, one sharp, one flat. The sounds were so enduring, so dissimilar they set her teeth on edge.

The sounds weren’t sounds at all. They were energies. Two energies so alien, one to the other, that existing together they added to the madness, the feeling that leaping out of her skin might be preferable to trying to exist inside of it.

Her focus changed. She allowed everything else to go to hell, concentrating on one thing: the dissonance. What with everything else, it was a strange thing to have captured her attention. The fact that not feeding any more energy into the turmoil made it better was a merely pleasant side effect.

Maybe if the two resonances can be made to match, my other problems might get better, maybe even tolerable. It seems worth a shot.

The trouble was she didn’t know how. Every meditation she attempted felt as unwieldy as trying to pick up a sheet of paper from a flat surface with a pair of salad tongs. It’s like I just don’t have the right tools. Which makes the effort seem useless, hopeless, but oddly enough I still feel better for trying. Maybe it’s just the act of concentrating on something else that’s helping. I don’t know, but whatever the case, I need to keep going.

She did the same, simple visualization exercise with stubborn persistence, seeing the two things as congruent, willing them to sameness until she wanted to scream. Suddenly, things got better the same moment they got weirder. The temperature dropped ten degrees. A blustery wind swirled around her. White noise filled the clearing. She opened her eyes to the crackle of driving rain, the rolling clap of distant thunder. All of the warm peachy light was gone.

Her surroundings were the same, painted in hues of dishwater gray. The trees were the same sizes, in the same places with the same number of limbs. The same clusters of wildflowers bent to the beat of raindrops that beaded on them, in them, muting their colors, making them glisten. Okay, so, it’s raining. No big.

But there was no preamble. No gradual temperature drop. No gusty winds. No light pitter pat. The storm started as if by a switch.

Something this wiggy might be excusable if I had ‘oops, poofed’ somewhere different, but I haven’t gone anywhere.

So, what was it? Some kind of weird ‘time dilation’ thing? Did I conk out? I mean, I get that I haven’t exactly been keeping track, but this is a little ridiculous.

She sprang to her feet, whirling around, trying to find the sun, pinpoint the time, and found that she wasn’t in the same place at all. This was the same glade down to the last detail—every detail except for the ones that mattered. There was no house, no driveway, no sign that people had been there at all.

For several moments, it was all she could do to collect herself. Her heart ran frantic in her chest. Her breath heaved like a bellows. Imagined insects skittered over her skin. She put her hand to her head. Though the rain still left her untouched, her brow felt clammy.

On second thought, being somewhere else without actively going anywhere else might be the worst flub of my life. Teleporting isn’t easy. It takes huge amounts of self-control and more focus than just about anything else I can think of. Pan-dimensional teleporting is—

Umm…

I don’t even want to think about it. But either I ‘oopsed’ myself or the house. Of the two, I’ll take myself. Disappearing a whole house would be—without even thinking about it—

Yeah, ‘myself’ is the better choice. Better careless than insane.

Like that ‘better’ is that much better. Oopsying myself to who-knows-where is a terrible sign to rival all other terrible signs, an omen to make some brat with a triad of sixes scribbled on his scalp look idiotic. Not that that particular image was all that scary to begin with. It was pretty silly. This isn’t.

This is bad. Very, very, very, very bad. I need to get all my cookies in the same jar or this is going to end badly. Very, very badly. As badly as anything ever has. And that includes all of the oldies but goodies from the Torah. A little rain of frogs will seem like child’s play.

Suddenly self-conscious, Willow looked up. Clouds boiled overhead, black and foreboding. Just facing into the driving rain was hard, despite her weird immunity. She found a light spot she felt must be the sun and flopped down. I’m being so overly, vulgarly melodramatic. Reality check. If that spot’s right, it’s the middle of the afternoon, which is weird, but—

She peered intently into the forest where the house had been, down the hillside she knew was there just beyond the tree line. I’m not in Kansas anymore.

Conviction swept through her like a drug. Instead of making her woozy, she felt solid, grounded, lucid, good…

The thing about gods—hell or otherwise—they might seem horrible set loose in our world, but they’re never as bad as they could be. They’re limited by the rules—fun stuff like all those wonderful physical laws. They’re effectually hobbled by them in ways we’d never see if we saw them on their home turf.

I don’t know that, but I know that. It’s like an inkling. I can’t substantiate it, but that doesn’t matter. I know that I’m as horrible as I can be because I am of this world. I might even be as horrible as they are. I don’t know that either. What I do know is that trying to pretend that I’m anything more than a monster will—

Oh. It seemed insane to go from glowering to smiling in the space of a heartbeat. Insane or not, the first hints of understanding changed her. Huh. I get it.

Or I think I get it. Anyway, I have a theory. I didn’t change ‘nothing.’ The hum’s gone and that was definitely a ‘something.’ Kennedy hummed funny. It was her essence that was humming funny. The changes I made changed my hum, which changed my location. I did that—like on purpose and everything. It wasn’t an ‘oops.’ I just didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t know what would happen when I matched my frequency to hers.

And how could I? It isn’t like there’s a beginner’s guide to extra-dimensional travel.

Willow imagined a travel brochure called ‘Dante’s Escape.’ Instead of a white sandy beach or some mountainous vista, the place pictured was closer to the surface of Mars. Something tells me that wouldn’t sell very well.

Anyway, it isn’t that it isn’t a well documented subject. It isn’t documented at all. A handful of godlike-scary creepy-cretins can do this by choice. They aren’t talking. The rest of us are stuck using specific rituals to reach very specific places. The whole thing goes a bit like baking a cake, without the moist, yummy goodness. No need for frosting. Just a recipe. No clue how it works. This might be ‘it.’

The whole great big, beautiful ‘it’ all in one minor fluke. I’ll have to test my theory. I really need to test it ’cause if this is the cheesy ‘it’ at the end of the maze, I’m going to need to know exactly how it works to get Buffy home safe and sound. But—

She looked down, fixating on what she saw.

Umm…

So , clothing might be a good place to start.

That was a minor detail. The rest of the ‘minor’ was looking pretty ‘major’ to Willow, though her complexion probably didn’t have anything to do with the flub. Whatever the case, she was afflicted with a pallor reserved for kabuki girls, all characters named ‘Death’ and the comeliest of fairytale princesses.

It wasn’t so bad—not the nudity, the paleness—she’d never been Hawaiian Tropic model material, after all. It might’ve been totally forgettable if it wasn’t for the luster that marked her as being something on the yonder side of human. Her body reflected the light—the little bit there was—as if it had been carved from the largest pearl ever. That was as closest comparison she could come up with as she examined her hand. That’ll be fun in daylight.

The icing on the weirdness was her hair. It was as black as the cliché demanded. And that’s always such a good sign.

The next weird thing that happened would probably be a total yawner for her. She stood on the threshold of absolute invulnerability to weirdness of all types, conjuring an illusion. A blue peasant dress with poofy sleeves and a lemon chiffon skirt beat the heck out of a raggedy black robe or a kimono. She even added the red hair ribbon just because. A dab of makeup, mostly to make her lips just that red, and Disney princessdom was totally her thing.

At least my sense of humor still works. That could be a good thing. The people who know me might be less wigged by my weirdness if they know I can still find the funny.

For several heart-stopping moments, Wolfram and Hart’s security jackals remained hidden behind the shield of the open metal door. Then they spilled out, a wave of mercenaries in shades of black from the woven sheen of ballistic nylon to the cold matte of Parkerized steel.

Wesley fired into their numbers. They tumbled back, domino-like, tangling with each other in the narrow space. Wesley searched frantically for options as he inched away from them, toward Illyria. There were none. They’d sacrificed the only cover to the enemy’s advance. He could only delay the inevitable. The thought leeched all moisture from his mouth. Time moved with such desperate languor as to slow the palpitations of his heart.

Men swelled through the aperture, like rats they scrabbled over the fallen, and Wesley prayed. He prayed that Illyria would have some idea how to proceed, that she might have some trick up her sleeve, some means of cheating fate.

Resistance was a finite thing, limited to eight thunderous claps, each one jarring. Wesley expended them, then wheeled and ran to the pulsing roar of return fire.

Being shot was inevitable. It was like everything he’d imagined and nothing like it at all. He knew it would hurt. That much was painfully obvious. What he couldn’t foresee was the effect of the impact. It was like a great hand swatted him just below his ribs. Searing pain coiled out. The bullet a pebble forming ripples in the pond of his flesh. He spun like a coin, sent whirling with the flick of a finger. His legs crumpled. He fell.

The pain fell too. It fell away, dismissed as one burden too many by his addled brain. Anchored to physicality by only one wrist, he somehow bypassed impact with the roof. Something had latched on. It dragged him down. He blinked and his stability was gone. He plummeted into despair, to his death, toward the street below.

An eternity passed before light consumed him. His body bounced, not against asphalt. The surface he lay on was feathery soft. He twitched, dazed, too feverish and pained to comprehend. A milky halo suffused his world. A chill cut through his bones. His teeth chattered in blatant disregard of the truth: he was buried under so many blankets he could scarcely wriggle his toes.

Fingertips, chilly, but soft like rose petals, caressed his forehead, trailing down his cheek. Large hands—adult hands—but not as large or rough as Father’s. These hands had never hit him. Hands this large meant comfort. Larger hands meant pain.

A film of sweat, not just moist but tacky, coated his skin. The touch, which was supposed to be soothing, dragged.

“There, there,” his mother cooed. She leaned down, her face swimming into view, framed in frost, like a windowpane in winter. Her lips brushed his brow.

When she moved off, he saw past her to a cluttered desk. Books and papers rose stacked from its surface, a miniature city of information. This was his room. His books. It was always books.

A lithograph of a foxhunt, men on horses and hounds, rendered in watercolor hung against a frosty cerulean background to the left of his desk. He used to remember who the artist was, but for the life of him he couldn’t dredge it from the haze. He puzzled, arriving at ‘Henry.’ But was that a first name or a last?

It was no use. That was all he had.

Light flared. A dizzying rush stole his equilibrium. The mattress remained firmly beneath him, yet he fell. His body jerked. He shut his eyes. The light remained, blinding him. Though he remained swaddled in blankets, the bed dropped away.

Someone had hold of his wrist. They were squeezing it so tightly, it hurt. It hurt so much. His back hurt worst of all. Pain radiated out, tendrils with claws, barbed wire pulled tight, lancing, tearing, shredding.

He fell.

A sudden, bone-jarring crash extinguished his breath. He wheezed. Everything burned, and then nothing. Everything faded to nothing.

Nothing.

Within the tenebrous depths of this place, out of place, chilled and muzzy, he heard voices. How long had it been? Some time had to have passed. There were people huddled around him now. He knew that, but their movements were as indistinct as their voices, like a buzz, muffled, muddled. It was as if the blankets had swallowed him whole. He lay nested, cocooned.

He struggled to isolate one voice—to discern what one of these people was saying. It seemed crucial that he knew. His fate hinged on what these men were doing. They were all men; all similar, throaty voices; each deeply resonant in their own way. They wavered in and out, one voice blending into another until all were indistinct.

He clung to the fragments that had filtered through. “Stat,” an order, exigent in its simplicity. ‘Make it quick.’ ‘Do it now.’ “Blood,” the thing he was “losing too much” of. His life leaked away. He knew this, but it was beyond his control. He trusted that these earnest men would do their best.

The men shook him, bumped him, prodded him. Each touch seemed an echo, breaking dimly through the cocoon, a construct of hypovolemia. Exsanguination. Sanguine. Hopeful. Optimistic.

Are my chances optimistic?

If not, what would these men call them?

Pessimistic? Gloomy? Sepulchral? Sepulcher. A tomb in place of a cocoon. Am I already dead?

Wesley summoned the strength to open his eyes. They fluttered. He fought. Flashes of color suffused the same frosty relief. A blur of navy and beige, sealed in rich, ruddy amber, like some exotic beetle.

Still, however small, this felt like a victory. He was alive. He could see, albeit not well. He perceived those around him in vibrant flashes, flickers of fire, until someone kicked him.

“Clear!” a voice rang out through the cacophony, reverberating in his head.

Fresh pain, hot and vivid, tore through his chest. He was alive.

From the pain, blackness spooled out. Spilled out. Swaddled in water, stygian in depth, impenetrable, like molten shadow, he drowned. His pain drowned. The light drowned. The sound drowned. The world died to him.

A sound broke through the leaden veil of sleep. Xander stirred. The sheets rustled with the movement of his legs. He relaxed, dozing. He might’ve given into the lull of pleasant warmth and comfortable bleariness had it not been for two upsetting things: Willow was mad at him, and then there were more funny noises.

The first thing felt silly in that vague, disjointed way that only semi-conscious realizations can. Even half asleep, he knew he’d never tattled on Willow. Not in school. Not to their friends. Not to her family. Not when it mattered. Not that he was some paragon of virtue, he just wasn’t a rat fink. She couldn’t possibly be mad at him for that.

Yet in his dream, she was miffed at him for some mysterious betrayal. The sheer absurdity of the accusation actually helped to rouse him, combined with the guilty, antsy, irrationally wiggy feelings the dream inspired.

The other helpful thing was more noise. Noise coming from a place that was always noiseless. No one here goes out there. Not at night. That’d be a great way to come to a sticky, icky, graphic end worthy of a George Romero film.

This wasn’t a tiny noise. It was a great big thudding noise. A people-sized noise. The sort of noise that the small animals that might stray into the courtyard were incapable of making. The image of a rat with a rubber mallet that came to mind was straight out of a cartoon. Completely absurd, just like Willow’s anger.

There’s also that thing about cats—with the killing. Not that I am one, but the premise applies—what with me considering sticking my nose in where it doesn’t belong.

Yeah, but if the rats are building something, I need to see it. And if it’s a vamp, I’ll stay on my side of the glass, they can stay on theirs. It’ll all be good.

Xander hauled his stiff, grumpy butt out of bed. He went to the French doors that lined the back wall of his room, scratching the offensive stiff, grumpy part as he trudged. In spite of his having achieved and maintained verticalness, the brain/body barrier was still impressively erect, among other things.

His lips smacked when he licked them. The nervous tick was less than helpful. It brought another complaint to the forefront of his mind. A hamster moved into my mouth while I was sleeping. That must be it. After leaving behind a nice, even, absorbent layer of fur, it wriggled down my throat and set up shop in my belly where it’s currently doing hamster aerobics.

That, or it could just be the coffee I drank before bed. Who knows what non-dairy creamer actually is? Besides gross. And the only thing we had.

He clucked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. The fact that it stuck there seemed to encourage the hamster. He decided never to do that again, or at least ‘never’ until he’d brushed his teeth.

He wanted to go take care if his many mounting issues. Instead, he parted the drapes and peered through them. The hamster could wait. The pressing need to pay rent on the coffee could wait too. I need to see this—whatever it is.

At first it turned out to be nothing. Bad angle, limited view and bleary eyes, all stood in the way of his answer. With some blinking, contortions and a little cooperation from the people he was trying to observe, he saw more than he wanted to.

That’s new. Snow White kicking the glitter out of Malibu Barbie isn’t something you see every day. It’s like Celebrity Deathmatch without the Playdough.

I could’ve used a cup of coffee, or five, before—

He puzzled over what to call this—whatever it was—for a moment or two before he gave up. It was useless.

A serious butt kicking. A seriously deficient, majorly one-sided butt kicking, like when the Kurgan stomped the snot out of Ramirez without even trying. Only this is way more hands-free. It’s like Snow made a pitstop to roll the Evil Queen for her tricks before she got here. I haven’t seen anything like it since Will Freddie Krueger’d me on that hilltop.

Oh.

He took a closer look, squinting his eyes, plastering his nose against the glass, and though his room wasn’t exactly lighter than the courtyard, shadowing his face with his hands. Barbie was obviously Buffy, but considering the butt kicking she was getting, it was Snow White who really mattered. Eventually, the mysterious Snow cooperated. That’s Willow.

But how’s that Willow?

Oh, and huge props to whoever did her costume. That’s pretty cool.

Huh.

Something else was off, but he couldn’t place it now. Buffy was way too distracting. It’s a fair bet that she’s the vampire. My Buffy. Not that I claim her, she just isn’t the import. That’s the only reason I can find that Willow might have her strung up by one ankle, without the string. The fact that she’s flopping around, playing fish out of water but with more appendages, has to be about her. She’s just that nuts. Willow’s just restraining her. And who wouldn’t?

Watching Buffy proved nauseating. She didn’t move like anything even remotely human. It’d be nice if she’d restrain her more.

Yeah, so…now that that little revelation’s out of the way, I think it’s time to take care of the parts of life that are just life.

Five minutes elapsed before he was quasi-presentable. He’d put on his courage and summoned his robe, or something like that. He even stopped to pour a cup of coffee from the decanter he’d swiped too few hours before. He wasn’t in a hurry. There were too many nagging ‘what ifs.’

Willow recognized his approach a little too readily. She was looking expectantly up at him when he traipsed out onto the veranda.

Good thing he’d already thought of the right thing to say. Or at least, he hoped it was right. “I’m fresh out of Crayon stories, but I do remember something about a Sit ’n Spin.” He got the words out, only stuttering once. His voice cracked a little. All-in-all I sounded like I was about as sure of that as I might’ve been about playing twenty questions with Anya.

Though that might’ve been safer. He considered the possibilities for a moment, adding, back in her ‘men suck,’ ‘women never get a fair shake,’ ‘big vendetta’ phase.

While he was reminiscing, Willow replied by saying his name like she was totally put out—at wit’s end. He almost missed it, which was stupid on so many levels because another shade the other side of jokeiness and the correct response would’ve been panic and lots of running. He couldn’t have been more relieved. Her irritation was totally playful, chiding in a good way. Weightiness lifted, cobwebs cleared. He felt alright.

“Whacha doin’?” he replied with a singsong lilt.

“Cleaning up a mess.”

The standard answer would’ve been ‘nuthin’.’ He was tickled pink that she skipped the stock line. This was honest.

“And dabbling in landscaping,” Xander offered, not trying to conceal his amusement. The thing that was ‘off’ was clear to him now. There was a new tree, a small cypress, the sort of gnarled shrub that looked like an oversized bonsai. It was close to the lobby entrance in one of the larger garden plots. It looked totally natural, blending in with the other foliage like it had been there all this time.

Willow smiled. It wasn’t so much a cheerful smile. That made Xander uneasy. I should look on the bright side. Tickled, pink or otherwise, is way too much to ask with Buffy around. No screaming. No running. No compulsions to gouge out your own eyes. Those are lofty goals where encounters with her are concerned. Anything better is like a box full of Chocolate Hurricane bars.

Speaking of screaming, she’s awfully quiet.

Yeah, and I should just keep right on counting my blessings and maybe move on to something that matters. Like say, Willow’s freakish makeover. I mean, I knew she had a thing for Disney princesses when we were little, but really?

“So, like the new look. What’s up with the tree?” he said, playing at nonchalance. “Oh, and not that I don’t appreciate the quiet, but—umm…” Such games were pointless. He searched for something to say. I’ve got nothing.

Okay, so…how ’bout this? “Why?” He waggled his finger in Buffy’s direction to indicate his meaning. Not bad. Simple. Effective.

Better yet. “How?”

I could add ‘what’ for old time’s sake, but the ‘what’ is wearing a push up bra that—gravity being what it is—what with her upside-downness and ensuing tantrum—isn’t so much ‘pushing up’ as ‘falling out’ now. Combine that with a scoop neck blouse and the ‘what’ is getting pretty hard to miss.

In fact, there could be begging. From me not her. She doesn’t seem to be able to. And Willow doesn’t seem to care. She’s totally missing the show. Meanwhile, the ninety percent of my brain that’s threatening to shrivel up from absent blood flow and subsequent hypoxia…

There could be begging.

Oh, and Willow’s talking, like actually answering.

Or not.

Xander stared blankly. Willow stood rigid, her hands on her hips, meeting his gaze. Only she wasn’t amused. She was miffed, seemingly at him. This is bad.

He thought of the wish. It was the only reason he could think of that Willow might be so mad. Does she know?

No, there’s no way she could know. That didn’t keep heat from rising to his cheeks.

It was a relief when Willow’s attention turned to the vampire. “This thing,” she said, heaving Buffy away from the wall into the center of the courtyard, “murdered a friend of ours tonight.” Buffy turned upright, still moving in that ‘look ma, no hands’ trademark way of Willow’s. “Not that that’s anything new for her. She has quite a history of murder. Friends. Allies. Good people. All dead.” Buffy’s arms and legs splayed out and she began to rise. “I suppose there’s a sick sort of irony in her turning out to be worse than Angelus.”

As Xander watched her float upward like a balloon without a tether, the first traces of dawn showed in the graying sky. What Willow meant to do became clear as well. To his surprise he had mixed feelings about roasting Buffy. There’s no doubt that it’d be justice, but it’s also the death of hope. I think we all hoped, Willow most of all, that Buffy could be ensouled and go on to do some good.

I wonder what happened to change her mind.

His attention returned to Willow. He felt conflicted. Vampires were always so simple. They were bad. This is a gray area.

I suck at gray areas. This person is one of my people and I love her. If I actually bought my own spiel, I would’ve already grieved for her.

And I did. I guess I did. But this?

He glanced up. Buffy was high enough to be touched by the first rays of sunlight. She hung there, motionless and mute, waiting for it because she had no choice.

“Where were you Tuesday evening?”

Willow had spoken. Not only had she spoken, she’d asked the one question he least wanted to answer. His attention snapped to her. It was too late. He’s given everything away in those few seconds. Though he schooled his face now, it was pointless. His jaw had been slack. His eyes had been wide. He was screwed.

“I know you know what I’m talking about,” Willow said with unnatural calmness. “You’re the only one who wasn’t here that night. You came in with the cock’s crow drunk as a skunk.” A scornful laugh punctuated her accusation. Though he wished for all he was worth, she didn’t retract her claws. “Seriously, Xander? I thought you’d know better than to pull a Simon Stimson.” She laughed again, this time just a breathy snicker. “You didn’t. Unfortunately, that makes you the prime suspect. So what did you wish for?”

Xander expected her to glare, to shout, to hurl herself at him. He understood now without being told. This wasn’t his Willow. This was someone far more dangerous. He felt himself grow cold.

Instead of violence, she offered him melancholy. The vaguest trace of a smile curled the corners of her mouth. It lasted for only a moment before she asked her next question. “Has it turned out to be everything you dreamed of?” Her words were bitter. She didn’t need rage to wound.

It’s a wonder. I risked vulnerability to these creatures in order to spare one of their numbers.

Wesley stirred in his hospital bed. His eyes fluttered.

My gamble paid off.

Illyria really didn’t need his feeble movements to tell her that. The machines around the room were doing an adequate job of reporting the continuance of his frail existence without any intercession. They all but drowned out her ability to sense his life signs.

Angel leaned forward, putting himself closer to Wesley, and subsequently blocking Illyria’s view from where she stood by the door.

I have lost my mind. That must be it. That one of these swine means anything to me at all is unthinkable. Unconscionable. That I would risk myself to save any of them is irrefutable proof of my fragility.

I am a god! Curs such as these used to grovel at my feet. They used to prostrate themselves for the merest chance of receiving a scrap from my table.

Wesley was apparently alert on some level because the half-breed started to speak in redundancies, “You’re okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

Yet now I find the knowledge that this human still exists somehow pleasing.

Without moving her feet, Illyria leaned out to see around Angel. Wesley didn’t look as if he believed the vampire, so she filled in, “You achieved your objective. The half-breed is once again hopelessly conflicted.”

“Thanks a lot,” Angel snapped, casting a withering glance at Illyria.

She wasn’t certain whether he was ‘teasing.’ That human behavior seemed to her insane. False or not, his scorn couldn’t have meant less to her. She allowed that opinion to reflect outwardly.

“I’m so sorry you were hurt trying to help me,” Angel said, pausing to consider. “By people employed by me no less.” He sighed. “Thank you.” His gratitude lay floundering in the bathos of its delivery.

“I rest my case,” Illyria said.

A brittle voice offered assent, “He is rather difficult to stomach.”

It hardly sounded like Wesley, but it must’ve been him, as Angel immediately protested, “Hey.”

Chapter Text

Marching footfalls wove with the harmonious discord of the city’s morning bustle forming an overture to the most beautiful sound in the world: silence. Not just the average, run-of-the-mill silence of nothing happening. The silence that follows the last piteous, mucus-choked burble of an annoyingly unworthy opponent who’s been begging for death by the mere act of sucking air.

All of humanity fit that mold by Marcus Hamilton’s reckoning. The entire species amounted to a niggling itch, like a gnat in the ear.

I’ve spent what feels like ages waiting for the various moratoriums placed by my elders to lift. They brought me into this world to shepherd these stinking flesh bags on the promise that I’d be allowed certain indulgences to pass the time. Once they had me locked in, it just figures that they’d torment me with endless evasions, delays and deferments. Like it’s my destiny to be mired in bureaucracy .

I may offer Mr. Wyndham-Pryce a Cuban before I gut him. He’s done me a great kindness by being a gigantic pain in the ass.

Breezing by stucco walls made dingy by pollution, Hamilton and his colleagues approached the wrought iron gates of the Hyperion. Two of their number rushed forward to open them. Hamilton and his remaining entourage barely had to slow their stride as they turned and entered the open-air vestibule. The same process repeated with two other tertiary members of the party, so that Hamilton himself was unaffected by the transitions. Nor did he have to sully himself by touching things glommed by the miscreants who lived here.

It was a disappointment to find the lobby empty. Waiting is such an unbearably tedious thing.

I suppose I could march upstairs and rattle their doors. That’s about all I’ll be able to do. For a festering pile of putrid puss-pots, these mortals have done a bang-up job of securing their territory. If they’d managed to do anything else half as well, they might be an issue. Unfortunately for them, their brilliance comes and goes like the vagrants that nap on park benches.

Hamilton stepped forward of his men.

A deeply rumbly, exaggeratedly masculine voice boomed from inside the hotel, “My name is Marcus Hamilton. I am here as a representative of Wolfram and Hart.”

Willow had been discussing vamp-Buffy’s fate with Xander. That could wait. The reprieve might even be nice. “Stay here,” she said. “This should only take a few minutes.” That’s probably a fib, but it stands a better chance of stalling him than the truth.

The doors behind her were chained and boarded over. No doubt his handiwork brought on by Buffy’s reign of terror. Events Willow could now see clearly through Kennedy’s eyes. It didn’t even hurt anymore. The memories were just there, laying in the murk of almost-forgotten things. Willow needed only to concentrate to remember. She stripped Xander’s makeshift barricade away without making a mess or leaving a scrap. It was the polite thing to do.

This won’t be so bad.

Or at least it should be better than the nowhere I was getting here. It was impossible to explain why Buffy the Homicidal Maniac is still useful without full disclosure. That would’ve not only taken hours, but also would’ve opened my plans up to inexperienced, unwanted, third party criticism. That’s the last thing I need. I sure couldn’t make with the torture, so… This visit, for all its potential annoyance, is actually opportune. It puts a kibosh on the debate…and gives me something to do besides box Xander’s ears for being the knucklehead who landed us here in the first place.

What more could a girl ask for?

After that little show, she considered ambling inside like a normal girl, but there was nothing normal about disappearing, reappearing, self-organizing lumber. Whipping up a gale force wind was so tempting, but way too ostentatious. She stopped herself. Better to be reserved. Better for the glass doors at least. It’d be kind of silly to go to all of the trouble not to break anything, then break everything for the sake of making a grand entrance.

Besides, who would I impress? Not Hamilton. That much is sure. He and his goon squad will either figure out that I’m not in a trifling mood or they won’t.

Willow dialed it down, arriving on a billowy, hair-wafting, clothing-flapping breeze. The subject of all that controversy withdrew from the shadows near the garden’s corner, coming along for the ride. Woe betide to their ‘won’t.’

Hamilton and his troop stood near the lobby median with the entryway at their backs. They turned as a unit to face her, the largest of the men stepping forward of the others. For hominoids they had remarkably good posture. And fairly decent taste. In fact, as apes in suits went, some of the men were downright spiffy. Most of them were more interested in Willow’s kite-like captive than in her, which was silly. It spoke volumes to their place in the pecking order.

“What do you want?” Willow asked.

Hamilton ignored the question, choosing to ask his own instead, “Trouble in paradise, Ms. Rosenberg?” Curious, he gestured over her shoulder to where a parboiled Buffy Summers hung, suspended like a forsaken marionette. All that’s really missing from this picture is a hat, or a stock pot.

The urge to slap the witch’s smart mouth almost overrode Hamilton’s good sense when she chose arrogance over civility. “That isn’t any concern of yours.”

He clenched his fists hard enough that his nails bit into his palms. Little chickadee needs to learn her place. She’s about as important as a boil on a wino’s ass. Her girlfriend’s only slightly more interesting than lint. Neither one’s really worth my time to notice. The details of their spat might be amusing on the same level as a tabloid headline, but that isn’t my call. The senior partners are interested, so I have to feign interest.

“Yes, well,” Hamilton supplied with all due blandness. “We’re here about the incident that occurred last night.”

“You’re gonna have to be more specific. It was a busy night.”

It irritated him that this Rosenberg woman appeared indifferent to the hostility he was so carelessly concealing. Any human being with enough sense not to stand on the ten during rush hour would’ve been terrified, but not her. She even shrugged. Her friend, hostage, bunk buddy—whatever she was—looked shaken. With her it was all in the eyes…only because she couldn’t move anything else. Trouble is, she’s too stupid to be scared of the right thing.

“I’m sure it was,” Hamilton agreed. “It couldn’t have been easy for a couple of tiny little girls such as yourselves to accomplish what you did.”

Being glowered at was growing old. Willow hoped that Hamilton would notice that she was painfully bored and get to the point. It was so bad that she’d even given passing thought to taking a nap on the geometrically hinky, really-uncomfortable-looking couch thingy.

He finally took a clue. “After I figure out how you managed to cripple our security; destroy millions in specially treated, tempered glass; and kidnap a high ranking member of our staff—all without leaving a shred of evidence—I thought I’d kill you.”

Well, Buffy’s been a busy little beaver.

“You thought you’d try,” Willow hedged through a grin.

Hamilton’s response wasn’t at all what she expected. He rumbled. For a second she wondered if he was growling or grumbling or…then he broke down. A full throated belly laugh shook him all over. He didn’t quite slap his knee.

It took him a moment, but he eventually regained sufficient composure to speak, “You know what I find most annoying about your species?” From his expectant stare, she gathered that the question wasn’t rhetorical and shrugged. “You die so damned fast. I like to settle in, make my enemies earn their deaths, but you’re so feeble all I ever get from your kind is an anti-climactic pop, like a grape.” He laughed again as if something about violent murder might be hilarious.

“Nice you find us so entertaining,” Willow said with marked distaste, “but the way I see it…” hints of mischief played in her eyes “…you’re either puffing yourself up because you’re frightened, like one of those funny little birds—all squawk, no peck…” she had his full attention now and ‘oh, boy’ did he look miffed “…or you’re just tragically stupid.”

Teeny egos being what they are, Hamilton drew back to put the ‘punch’ in ‘punch line.’ It would’ve been easy enough to stop him, or she could’ve evaded him. Instead, she decided to let him have what would amount to a tap. “Either way—” she said, cut short by his fist grazing her cheekbone as it rolled off her defenses.

While Hamilton was busy being wobbly because of the deflected impact, Willow decided to deal with his men. They were getting uppity. Guns were bound to become an issue. Considering the rushed ‘thumpity thump’ of footfalls on the stairs, it seemed like time to spruce the place up. She showed these not-so-nice men the same courtesy she showed anything else that was so potentially dangerous. They went ‘poof.’

Pain wasn’t something Marcus Hamilton was used to. He couldn’t remember whether he’d ever felt anything after hitting someone, besides the raw pleasure that came from dispensing agony and death. This time the tables had turned and he had no idea how. His fingers ached when he moved them. It seemed as though moving them more should’ve eased the stiffness, but it was having the opposite effect.

Somehow he’d fallen. He was on his knees. He never kneeled. He stared at his hand. The skin was gray, mottled with black across his outer knuckles. The discoloration was right where he’d contacted the witch, as if she was dirty. He tried rubbing the stains away on his pant leg. Not only did that darken the marks, it burned like a hell. No, it’s as if the bitch is diseased.

But that’s impossible. We don’t get diseases.

The blackness was spreading, deepening, becoming one solid bruise, smoldering, scorching into his flesh. It’s also impossible that some frail little girl did this to me all alone with no one’s help. There’s just no way. There has to be something else to it. Something unseen. Something horrible.

I have to leave.

He conjured a mental image of the clean, contemporary lines of Wolfram and Hart’s L.A. branch. They’ll figure it out. I just have to go. Get away from this place. Leave this bitch.

An ache grew inside him as he summoned the power to teleport. Within seconds it became unbearable. He felt overfilled, like a balloon, brimming with something prickly, hot, humming, pulsing, looking for a way out. Something explosive. An overloaded circuit waiting to pop. A spring coiled too tight. Something was horribly wrong. He tried, desperate to back out, ease up, stop… He couldn’t.

At the moment of truth, the supposed moment of his liberation, the spring snapped. He slumped forward. His face, a wineglass dashed against the floor. Excruciating pain crashed over him in waves. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t even lift himself up. A scream wrenched from his throat. The breeze that wafted across his skin choked it away.

She approached. Certainty came with her, the shadow of a reaper. He couldn’t hold on. His thoughts drifted like ashes spewed from a fire. This was the end. Pin pricks, like rat claws, coursing up and down his spine. He flinched and something else broke, sending needle-sharp shards into the meat of his back.

Whoops. I may have to pin a note to his chest.

Hamilton sounded like a wounded moose. Willow strangled the ungodly racket off at its source just in time for Giles’ clipped voice to disrupt the silence, “My word. What on earth are you doing?”

To her it seemed his voice held a charge. Poised, ready to detonate, it would bring the few remaining shreds of calm down from where they rested precariously balanced on the head of a pin. I s’pose it’s no wonder—what with Hamilton looking a lot like the villain from ‘Who Framed Roger Rabbit,’ there are bound to be questions. Lots of them. They’ll want to know why, how, who, what, when, where…

Xander arrived right behind Giles in a screeching hail of gym shoes, chafing and pounding the slickly polished marble floor like a bad flashback to Gym Class. Good flashbacks of Gym never had anything to do with squeaky sneakers. Within seconds he’d managed to prove her point again by breathlessly stammering, “Wha-what happened?”

I wish I knew. All I wanted was to keep Hamilton here so I could have the last word. I sure didn’t mean to break him.

Willow held her peace. There just wasn’t time to get into it. Judging by the stampede upstairs—the other Buffy—the only Buffy who mattered for the moment—the one who’d be brimming with questions and full of demands—wasn’t far behind.

In a perfect world I’d be looking forward to what comes next.

Willow didn’t look up from where she knelt at Hamilton’s side. She wanted to turn him over, but just touching his head was enough to make her belly lurch. It was like handling a velvet bag full of warm, extra chunky pudding. Fresh, dark contusions discolored his flesh where her fingers had rested. He was slowly turning black. Much, much slower than Kennedy had. His flattened, deflated, excuse for a fist looked as if it was drawn in greasy tar. Both differences are probably about strength. She didn’t shatter herself like this. She just turned black and melted away. Course, I did sort of suck her dry.

It was no use. Willow leaned down to grumble into what remained of his ear, “You will tell your bosses that these people are under my protection. I’ll take it personally if anything happens to them. The Hyperion is my territory. Invade it again, I’ll return the favor. Trust me. You won’t like that.”

Hamilton was such a wreck it was impossible to guess whether or not he understood. Willow touched his cheek again, trying to sense something—anything besides pain. It was useless and Buffy was on the stairs. I’ll just have to take it on faith.

Like it matters. It should be message enough to send their favorite son back to them boned like a fish and rotting.

Willow stood, turning to face the two moon-eyed, slack-jawed men. “I was just cleaning up another mess,” she replied as the warm prickle of Hamilton returning home tickled the backs of her legs.

“Another mess?” Giles asked.

He seemed so hopeful of clarification. It almost bothered Buffy to burst in, push past him and generally interrupt. Almost. Not quite.

She damn near ran him over. This was Willow. Her Willow. Not the Willow she left passed out upstairs. The sight of her made the fountain of fervent, feathery, frothy stuff churning around Buffy’s heart almost bubble over. For one fluttery moment it even overwhelmed the teensy pangs of guilt that riddled her with doubt. She cleaved to her hopes. Her hopes of reunion and restoration, of returning home, totally trumped Giles’ paltry hope for understanding. He’d have to wait in line.

Willow lifted her arms, preparing for the embrace. She started to speak, but all she got out was, “Nuh—” before Buffy hit a wall. A barrier that wasn’t even there. A blow that wasn’t quite a punch. The impact sent her sprawling. Someone caught her under the arms. She crashed against this mystery person, whoever they were.

Half-sitting, half-hanging, one foot planted, the heel of the other resting precariously against the floor, unable to move, she goggled. Willow’s hands faced forward now. A signal to stop. That much Buffy recognized, but she was too flummoxed to handle any more.

Babble poured from Willow’s mouth, familiar but unrecognizable, “I’m sorry. I can’t. I want to. You have to know I want to more than anything, but getting here wasn’t free.” The sounds flowed together forming a stream of inscrutable nonsense… “It cost, just like everything else in our lives. It cost too much.” …until she reached this point: “I’m afraid I’ll hurt you.” For some reason that one thing out of everything slipped through and struck home. It made a certain simple sense.

The pressure under Buffy’s arms increased. Whoever had her was lifting her up. She didn’t fight it. She didn’t help. “You won’t hurt me,” she replied, adamant, assured of the truth.

“Not me. What I did to get here might hurt you,” Willow explained as Buffy figured out that her legs still worked and was subsequently released. She stood on her own, focused, finally seeing.

The eyes that met hers were black as coal, empty and cold. Not the full black marble look Buffy had associated with Willow having to try too hard, accidentally or intentionally tapping into something bigger and darker than she was. This was just her irises. Somehow that made it all the more startling.

She didn’t even try and she’d swatted me like a bug.

Maybe it was just that: shock feeding into the sense of alienness. The unnatural pallor that wouldn’t have been so bad if it hadn’t been for the weird, milky iridescence. Glassiness that made Willow look like a porcelain doll that had been mistakenly glazed with the dinner plates. Hard. Distant. Frosty. Not Willowy at all.

Silence prevailed and with it unrest, initially excessive and growing progressively less tolerable. Not that our current situation evolved from a considerably more even keel. From what I’ve witnessed, and the scant information Xander imparted, our predicament has a foundation far more daunting than simple consternation.

It makes a certain perverse sense that progress would bring us to a halt.

He looked at the two women, or more accurately past them to the left, toward the lobby doors. Staring would’ve been a touch gauche. Of the two, the one who was facing him wore an impassive mask. The only expression he’d seen from Willow thus far was the barest twinge of something like grief when she’d repelled Buffy. Her power was more discernible than her emotional state. It was a palpable thing. The other clue was her costume, which seemed a parody to her form.

Perhaps she felt that clowning would set us at ease? That sounds like the Willow I know. Maybe she even thought to distract us from the last time she appeared sallow and raven-haired by conjuring the guise of the Americanized Schneewittchen.

She has to understand that in my case that will never happen. The death she meant for me was far too personal for me to ever forget. I am, however, willing to reserve judgment for now in the hope that she will take Buffy and go.

No. That isn’t fair. She hasn’t threatened us. In fact, appearances suggest quite the opposite.

She isn’t the problem. I am. I’m judging her based on preconceived notions about her appearance. Of all the superfluous details I could pick…

The truth is that I cannot speculate how she’ll behave because I don’t know her. If the one who loves her is any indication what sort of a human being she is, I should be ashamed.

And silence still prevailed.

It occurred to him that perhaps they were communing. Telepathy is a possibility. It’s hardly new to us. Therefore, it should be old hat to them. That might very well explain why Xander, typically tactless and overly talkative, is holding his tongue. Perhaps he’s arrived at the same conclusion.

Though, I doubt the girls are doing any such thing. It looked to me as if everything that transpired was authentic. I believe it more likely that they have no idea how to proceed.

In which case, an uninvolved party putting an end to the deadlock might be welcomed.

Giles cleared his throat. Not to get their attention, though it did work for that. He wanted to be sure of his voice. A certain degree of decorousness was called for. “Would you mind terribly answering a question for me?” he asked, addressing Willow in carefully restrained and cautious tones.

“No,” she replied.

By Xander’s estimation that ‘no’ was a good sign. Or not so much the ‘no,’ but the way the ice princess thawed around its delivery. She looked almost human now.

Giles asked his question, “I’m curious what our guest did to merit such an unusually brutal fate?”

And Xander didn’t roll his eyes. Instead, he continued to examining the transition molding near the base of the staircase. Seriously? That was the best he could come up with. We’re so—

“Your ‘guest,’ as you so misguidedly put it, was Marcus Hamilton, the prodigal son of Wolfram and Hart,” Willow replied. Though the inflection was subtle, she seemed to be poking fun at Giles.

To think I though the term ‘educated idiot’ was just an oxymoron until I met him. It still is, but—

Not that I have any room to criticize. All I’ve been doing is standing here playing chicken. Not the daring, crashy kind, the ‘clammed up,’ ‘freaked out,’ ‘too wigged to even twiddle my thumbs’—

“Trust me, he wasn’t here to sell cookies or borrow a cup of sugar. He was here to interrogate and execute every last person under this roof,” Willow explained, all traces of humor gone.

Xander averted his eyes. The angst-a-thon had been impressively unfun. It still was to a lesser degree. He’d been doing his dead level best to avoid attracting attention. Buffy was regarding him now. Despite his better judgment, he returned the notice and immediately regretted it. It wasn’t that her expression was unfriendly in any way. It was that her watery, oversaturated blue-gray eyes were just as inhuman as Snow Willow’s. How does Willow stand it? Not this Willow. The other Willow. My Willow.

“You see, they’re a little bit miffed at you guys,” the Willow who wasn’t his Willow said. “It’s okay, though. I don’t think they’ll be back.”

“Is Hamilton dead?” Xander asked, giving un-Willow a quick glance.

“I don’t think so,” she replied. “Not yet, at least.”

“So, what precisely did you do to him?” Giles asked. The hints of accusation in his tone almost made Xander cringe.

After a brief pause to ponder, Willow answered, “I’m not sure.”

“That’s comforting,” Buffy grumbled.

The sentiment was so close to Xander’s own he almost chuckled.

He gave her a sidelong glance as Willow admitted, “I suppose.”

Some the tension slipped away with Buffy’s smirk.

“But it isn’t like I have no idea what I did,” Willow said, sounding defensive. “I just don’t know why it had the effect it did.”

It was Buffy who got there first, though Giles made a peep before he gave in. “What did you do?”

“I stopped him,” Willow replied. The two women exchanged looks, Buffy with her standard ‘oh, please’ glare and Willow so sheepish it was tough to believe she was still the same super duper scary witch who’d reduced Marcus Hamilton to a squishy lump. The glare won out. “He was trying to teleport away. I stopped him from leaving. That’s all.”

Buffy had been having this ongoing schmoopy dream of Willow charging in all heroic having moved heaven and earth to rescue her. Stupid me, I forgot to account for the cost of the moving.

Now it just made too much sense. Reality sucks.

Buffy felt foolishly naïve, overwhelmed, heartbroken and exhausted. Everything she was doing was a show intended to set the boys at ease so that maybe, just maybe, they’d go away. As a price, the act had brought out the opposite traits. The shame she felt for wanting nothing more than to go upstairs and snuggle up to the one Willow who was actually still Willowy shoved aside in favor of coming off like a snarky, callous bitch. “Just don’t screw up and flatten one of us, ’kay?” Needing to cry seriously wasn’t helping.

“I’ll try,” Willow replied coolly.

Having turned to join in the conversation, the doppelganger had caught Buffy’s eye. Now she couldn’t shake it. Like it might be possible to ignore a full sized clone of myself, suspended a foot off the ground, looking a whole lot less perverse than I want her to. In fact, Bloodsucker Buffy looks better than I do…or at least, she found something nicer to wear than stinky, wrinkly sweats and tee-shirt.

Her expression was even placid. A detail that Buffy found particularly annoying, if not deeply disturbing. The double looking so serene pretty much killed the itch to say, ‘Not feeling so smug now, are ya?’ one of the few pleasures Buffy might’ve taken from her current situation.

Willow glanced her way, then at the double. Catching on, she said, “Okay, I think we should stash the tiniest Tanner before we do anything else.”

Xander and Giles, both clueless, asked in unison, “Who?” Not that Buffy was much better off.

“I need to take her down to the cell,” Willow explained with a nod in the double’s direction to indicate what she meant. “Unless you’d prefer I leave her floating here in the lobby.”

No one took that offer.

The real Buffy Summers, fashion disaster extraordinaire, started for the elevator. “I’ll come with you,” she offered. It was the last thing she wanted to do, but she still had the key hanging around her neck and playing the same sort of sentry she had with Angelus made a certain amount of sense. She was halfway there before she made the ‘Full House’ connection. “Wait,” she said, glancing over her shoulder. “Was that seriously a Mary Kate and Ashley joke?”

“Well, yeah,” Willow replied like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “With twin blonde cuties in the same room, someone had to go there.”

Buffy stepped into the elevator, pivoting on the ball of her foot to level her attention on Willow. “No, no they didn’t.”

“Oh, get over it,” Willow chirruped playfully.

At least Xander was finding this amusing. He snickered as Willow entered the car with her prisoner in tow. Once they were out of the way, Buffy stepped forward to shut them inside.

“I know it’s rough, but I need you to trust me,” Willow said in a voice just audible above the clanking metal.

Buffy held off tugging on the inner door to answer, “Not really.” She pulled. The cage slammed closed. “Not the way you mean at least. I just wish things were different.”

“So do I,” Willow replied. “Believe me, so do I.”

Chapter Text

Heat permeated the dusky room, like a pool of sunlight without light or sun. The air felt thick, giving weight to the heat. It seemed to seep into Willow’s bones, soothing her muscles and making her tingle.

Being so at ease was strange. Willow lay clothed, yet exposed, her shirt open, the cups of her bra pushed aside, molded around the outer curves of her breasts, her skirt bunched across her waist. Not that nudity affected her one way or the other. Being Kennedy’s personal plaything had mostly cured her of that. It was the comfort that was incongruent, the fact that she was free to move, able to cover herself if she wanted. She hadn’t been allowed more than the barest minimum of anything so human or humane in so long.

Out of habit, her wrists lay crossed above the crown of her head. Part of her wished she was cuffed and collared. Being free was strange. She felt that she should do something, but had no idea what, so she did nothing.

Buffy sat cross-legged on the bed, her left knee resting at the curve of Willow’s right side. At any other time, her presence might’ve added to the urgent tug of sexual tension, but Willow felt strangely at peace with the world. Buffy’s touch only added to the feelings of bliss. What she was doing was deeply sexual, only not. She studied Willow’s body, gentle caresses marking her progress, a subtle smile telling her mood.

Willow expected the smile to transform at any moment. She waited to be seized by her thigh, rolled her onto one hip and struck. That’s how this sort of thing was supposed to go. Kindness always turned to reproach, then to disgust. Tenderness became brutality at the drop of a hat. It wasn’t hard to anticipate. She was disgusting. It was only right that someone as good as Buffy would come to see that. Part of Willow longed for it. The insane part. Her saner half knew that Buffy would never hurt her.

Willow pushed her fears aside. This was everything she’d dreamt of and more. Her deepest desire made real. She expected Buffy to pull a face when she reached the curl of foliage that titivated her naked mons veneris. Part of the illusion was that her vulva was a portion of one low hanging blossom. That hadn’t been her choice. It was another violation, albeit small. There had been so many. Too many to count. This one was insignificant, but kind of gross. Willow wasn’t certain whether Buffy would think that or not. It seemed minor compared with any of the many other adornments she wore there, each one spoiling the illusion. The thought of Buffy seeing them was beyond shameful.

She remained intent on the tattoo, tracing its course to where Willow’s thigh met her hip, following the curve, twining around her thigh. The pain, though aged to dullness—like the sensitivity of her skin—still lingered in her memory. That part had been awful. One of the worst. Months of being unable to sit or lie down for one reason or another. The torment drawn out by Kennedy’s wrath.

Willow obediently spread her legs when Buffy’s attention returned to her crotch. Shameful or not, this was hers now. Willow resigned herself. Buffy could do with it as she pleased. The first thing she did was gently brush the short loop of chain that draped in the cleft. Willow held in the gasp that the tension, meager though it was, brought to her lips. That reaction led only to badness. Instead, she felt an overwhelming need to go, to follow, to do whatever Buffy asked. Just the fact that Buffy had deigned to touch her made the agreement between them complete. Willow would do anything asked of her, without question or complaint. She wondered if Buffy understood that, but held her tongue. There would be time to explain later.

The inspection was almost over. Willow felt like a kitty in the sunshine, basking on a window ledge, only better. This unflinching acceptance was the most beautiful, wonderful, perfect thing ever. Somewhere in the distance, Buffy called her name. Willow held her breath. She had to be hearing things. Buffy was with her, touching her. Muffled pounding accompanied the voice. Willow’s heart sank. Confusion raveled her nerves. Only a dream could be so faint, muddied as if she was underwater. But she wasn’t underwater. The whole ‘still breathing’ thing dispelled that. She wasn’t anywhere other than where she was: in Buffy’s bed. Willow struggled to hear, and as she did, reality became the dream, fading to bleary fragments, and the dream became real in a brain-spinning, heart-pounding surge.

Willow gasped as she surfaced. The bed bounced. She bounced. She was in bed—Buffy’s bed. She wasn’t wrong. The door was open. Nobody was knocking. That part had apparently come and gone. Buffy stood in the doorway. A strange old woman with incongruently smooth, pale skin peered over her shoulder.

The blankets were skewed, pushed down, partially covering only one of Willow’s legs. Raising up, reaching down, she rushed to cover herself. Her flurry of furious movements cooled her fingertips. They were wet. She’d been—

Of course, the blankets were tangled. Of course, she was lying on them. Of course—

Wriggling, she wrestled with them. They cooperated not nearly soon enough. Willow lay down, covered, hiding. She’d been wrong. Shame was still something she could feel. All it took was diddling herself—being exposed for the pervert she was in front of this woman—this woman who wasn’t old at all—this white-haired, lustrous-skinned woman Kennedy had called ‘Goddess’—this woman who was herself at some other time in some other place. Buffy’s Willow.

Heat intense enough to scorch built in her cheeks as the woman—her mature self—the self that didn’t expect to be beaten for her faults—the self that, from her neutral expression, didn’t seem to feel anything at all—entered the room. Wordlessly, Buffy closed the door, shutting Willow away with this icy woman. The woman went to the chair Willow had claimed for herself the night before and took a seat.

Willow straightened her clothes beneath the covers. Better to busy herself. It kept her from dwelling on whatever her guest wanted. True, the most offensive thing this woman had done so far was regard her with inscrutable calm. That didn’t matter. Willow was set on two things: becoming sufficiently decent to leave the room, and doing exactly that. She couldn’t face this—whatever it was.

“Your tattoo’s beautiful,” the woman said. “I’ve always loved them, but I never had the nerve.” At first, her voice seemed a hollow impression of Willow’s own, but as she spoke it grew sweeter with a lyrical quality that brought Willow to a standstill.

She gaped, awaiting more. Finally, her backside dropped to the bed. She’d been straightening her skirts, but she couldn’t hold that pose forever.

The woman regarded her. There was warmth to her expression that hadn’t been there before, something like fondness, something more familiar. It eased Willow’s mind. As she moved to straighten her blouse, so that she could button it, the woman asked, “Do you understand what’s happening?”

Willow finished fussing before offering her reply, “I know you’re here for Buffy.” It was a heartbreaking thing to admit. Her voice cracked with the strain. She swallowed tears she refused to shed.

“I am,” the woman agreed.

Willow stubbornly lined up the collar of her blouse. Moving down four buttons, she started to work. Being prudish would be foolish after her earlier show. Showing weakness was unthinkable. Willow was manipulating the third button, which she deemed enough, when the woman spoke again, “I’m here for you as well.”

The statement brought Willow to a halt. “What?” Barely aware that her gasp had contained an actual, intelligible word, she struggled to make sense of how she might figure in to her second-self’s plans. Nothing came to mind. ‘Nothing’ wasn’t a good thing to have in the face of this. In fact, coming up empty-handed was decidedly bad.

‘There’s always a price.’

Something inside Buffy’s brain arced, spewing violent static. That’s such unbelievable bullshit! I mean, I know she’s right. She is right, but, but…dammit!

She sighed as she pushed the door to Willow’s room in—the other Willow—the Willow who’s ‘Willow’ here. The other Willow—her Willow had been about as personable as an ice sculpture. Buffy was at her wit’s end. There was nowhere else for her to go, so she stepped into to the room and shut the door.

She totally sidestepped the issue. There’s always a price? ‘Price’ my foot…and the cheap Giuseppe knockoff that’s on it.

The static flared. Buffy let out a contemptuous hiss. Price. She stood rigid, her fists knotted, resisting the urge to rearrange the room, starting with the first thing she sort of, semi, halfway saw: a bed. She blinked her eyes, scrunching them briefly to make them focus. It was definitely a bed. It had a comforter and pillows just like any other bed. Artsy-craftsy, flowery embroidery and patchwork quilts were definitely a theme. Sort of antiquey. Decidedly Willowy. The price this time seems to be putting up with lame generalizations and flimsy half-truths.

Her attention turned to the closet, which was decidedly a closet, with its slightly narrower, white painted door and tarnished brass doorknob. It’s time to start concentrating on the minutia. That’s the only way I know how to deal with stuff like this. Start small. Pick one little thing that will make things better, do that thing and move on to the next tiny thing. Stay focused and don’t break anything or gouge anyone’s eyes out.

Or there’s option B: curl up in a ball and cry. Not a horrible plan. I could use a good cry. Not horribly productive either.

I need to get clean.

I need to find clothes. I assume there are clothes.

Buffy went to the closet door and opened it. It wasn’t empty. That was a start. Slacks wouldn’t work, though there were bunches of them in a range of styles from jeans to chinos. Willow’s still bigger than me. Not by much, but enough. A dress might do. A skirt and blouse would be better. Buffy began to seriously consider the choices, sliding hangers aside, ignoring the guilty pangs. I should ask first, but that would lead to indecision and stalling. Stalling would lead to weeping. Weeping would lead to nothing good.

I need to get clean. I’m still covered in Wolfram and Hart cooties.

The clothing had an air of disuse that worried her. She couldn’t even put her finger on what made her think that. Maybe it was the faint, stale scent. What on earth would keep her from using her clothes? Does she have more clothes?

Y’know, I don’t want to know. It could just be the Hyperion. Nothing in this place smells spring fresh unless you douse it with bottled spring freshness.

Buffy gave up and grabbed the first thing she saw that might come close to fitting: a simple, Empress cut, mint-green cotton sundress with flowery embroidery along its scalloped hem. It was cute enough. It might even fit. She was past the point of caring.

She turned around. There was a dresser on the other side of the room. She went to it. The first drawer she opened almost made her jaw drop. It was full of tangled leather straps and bands and strands. A handle with the braided leather grip stuck up among the jumble. I really don’t want to know. She shut the drawer and set about putting some distance between herself and it. Suddenly, reusing my underwear doesn’t seem nearly so gross. The bathroom was as good a place to go as any. She went there, posty-hastey. Okay, maybe not, it is gross, but there are worse things. Maybe later, after the brain trust figures things out—

The dress went onto a hook on the back of the door. Having to adjust a dozen minor movements was always annoying. Buffy didn’t need any more annoying. She was sufficiently annoyed. In fact, it was a miracle that she went about the business of finding the light switch, turning on the light, figuring out how the shower worked, adjusting the temperature and all the other little crap it took to get clean somewhere unfamiliar without breaking anything important. There was one minor incident involving a shampoo bottle that seemed insistent that it belonged on the floor, not on the low, narrow sill it occupied. It fell twice and—although it squandered her whole reserve of self-control—she didn’t throw it.

The mirror was still intact. That much was good. Buffy stripped and climbed into the shower. Even with the spray that should’ve been soothing, she felt like a spring that’d been wound too tight. Or maybe the flimsy doohickey that held the spring. Something was going to give. She hung her head. The water flowed around her face. She breathed in through her mouth. The tension had to go somewhere. She hoped it’d go here, without the ‘boom.’

I don’t get it. Two times. Two times we’ve been through this. Three times if you count Halfrek’s hellacious wake over. No one slept. But that was more annoying than earth shattering. I don’t get why Willow couldn’t just put me back. She put her vampy self back. That wasn’t that huge a deal. Wasn’t putting me back the same thing? I asked her that. ‘No’ was all she said. No elaboration, no explanation, just ‘no.’

Then there was Anya. We made a deal with D’Hoffryn to undo that. That was major. There were at least a dozen bodies and the resulting trauma.

I mentioned D’Hoffryn and Will got snitty. There was snit and all I did was say his name.

All I want to know is what she plans to do. She obviously has a plan. I mean, she wouldn’t be talking to Will—the other Will—if she didn’t. Something’s up and no one’s bothering to tell me what. All I got was ‘There’s always a price, Buffy,’ ‘I’ll talk to you later, Buffy,’ ‘I’m sorry I can’t say more, Buffy.’ What am I five? Now she’s talking to herself—literally with the duality—and I’m cooling my heels. I don’t see why—

Oh, and I got a really weird, totally obscure, chronologically spurious, backhanded compliment buried in a goofy comment. Most people do that with insults—without the ‘goofy.’ Or the smarter ones do. Not my Will. She hides cute, sweet, only-mildly-insulting things that aren’t meant to be insulting at all in her inane comments. I s’pose I should see that as a good sign. She still has a certain brilliantly obtuse Willowiness, even with the color changing hair and the flexible wardrobe and skin that looks like the inside of an oyster without all the goopy bits.

Also, the no-touching thing is just wrong. I think she should have to make with the full disclosure before she’s allowed to go all Violet Parr on me. There should be a rule.

And if I think about this much longer, I’m going to—

Well, I don’t know what I’ll do. It won’t be good. Not that any of this bears the slightest resemblance to something good.

Buffy picked up the obnoxiously flighty shampoo bottle. When she stood up, a great big clump of hair stuck to her face. She tossed it back. The distracting ‘tossing’ cost her the shampoo bottle. It hit, ringing the bottom of the cast iron tub like an atonal gong. A dozen potentially choice responses came to mind, not to mention the nagging need to throw a fit. Her jaw clenched, she stooped to retrieve the ever-elusive shampoo. One tiny thing…

Willow regarded herself in the ‘look ma, no mirror’ way that only someone who grew up on a Hellmouth could appreciate without turning green or going catatonic. That is what she could see of herself—her second-self—a doppelganger. Though, in truth, Willow was the interloper here. The doppelganger was in her element, buried up to her neck in rumpled heaps of bedding. The view was enough. Plenty. It was like looking into a mirror at someone she’d never been.

This is like a disturbingly tangible, all too intimate, shockingly animate demonstration of dualism. I prefer my second-self stay to part of myself, thank you very much.

Oh! Or it could just be like having a twin. That wouldn’t be so bad, would it?

As if in answer to Willow’s question, her alternate-self caused herself pain with alarmingly casual efficiency. The blankets scarcely even moved. The only indication of the fingernails that gouged her flesh was the relaxation of her expression, like somehow pain brought her clarity.

At least this one has a pulse.

Willow watched, recognizing the signs, sensing the changes, helpless to do anything about them. She wasn’t even sure whether her counterpart understood what she was doing. Her reaction—or lack thereof—seemed to suggest that she wasn’t. Worse were the memories. Willow knew exactly how broken this person was. She saw dozens and dozens, perhaps hundreds of views—all gruesome—as if through her own eyes. Assaulting herself was a new, deeply disturbing low. Her double had been beaten bloody too many times to count. So many times that she’d come to expect it, even enjoy it.

Suddenly, any of the notions Willow’d had that she might ‘fix’ things—or even improve them a little—seemed naïvely foolish. She shook the feeling off. It’s too late to think better of any of this now. I have to go on. Get over it. I was committed before I knew anything about this. It isn’t like I suddenly have bunches of choices now. All I can do is try to do some good.

Okay. I do have one choice. Would it be better to send Buffy back alone? It’d totally freak her out. I’m not sure short of actual ‘making’—with the unconsciousness and the—that I could make her go. That felt so much like betrayal, Willow had to try to make good here. There was just no other choice. Either Captive Bond—not to be confused with James Bond—will snow crash or she won’t. What I need is a good, solid Connery Bond, all sexy, sneaky, secret agenty. Even Brosnan Bond would be better. Depressing, but—

All I can really do is do it and hope she won’t pull a Patty Hearst on me. Or worse, on Buffy somewhere down the road.

That line of thought was just too horrible to follow. Willow scrabbled for something else to occupy her mind. There just wasn’t much to distract her: a vanity, its mirror reflecting herself, twice; the bed, full up with rumpled linens and the object of her angst; a pair of arm chairs; and between the two a table. Her eyes drifted over the remaining contents of the room: a desk; a window, its thick draperies leaking daylight; a tacky reproduction, renaissance painting of a swan; and lots and lots of truly tasteless, antiquated, two-tone burgundy and ochre wall.

Suddenly, finally, the cause of Willow’s unrest decided it was time to get up. She shed the bedclothes, coming to rest sitting on the edge of the bed in one fluid motion. As she stooped to put on her boots, which stood neatly on the floor at the bedside, Willow began to give her exactly what she craved. Not pain, she couldn’t do that, but she could offer some control. She began by tucking and buttoning the tail of her double’s blouse without touching her, just manipulating the fabric from across the room.

It was hard to imagine how, but the other woman didn’t appear to notice. She didn’t even flinch when her vest disappeared, replaced by a satin half-corset in deep teal-blue embroidered with scrollwork trimmed with tiny wildflowers. Her posture straightened but that was all. Willow rolled down the sleeves and fastened the cuffs of the other woman’s blouse, smoothing the fabric. Her double looked up when Willow added bracers to match the corset, lacing them tightly over her forearms. Her boots were on, so Willow commanded her to stand.

A pang of jealousy caused Willow pause. Caring how her double looked was just too much, too altruistic, and maybe too narcissistic in a crazy, backward, mixed-up kind of way. She had to force herself to continue. The overall effect was good, but her double’s white satin bra didn’t go with the teal accessories. Buttoning the shirt would’ve been the easiest solution, but Willow chose to change the fabric, coloring it to match the bracers and corset. Then she straightened her double’s blouse, removing all of the wrinkles, leaving it crisp as if freshly starched.

It’ll be better for both of them if I can package this attractively. I know how Buffy feels. She has a surprisingly black and white view of the world. It’s almost naïve. She sees this as bad. I bet she labeled it so without a second thought because of how it came about. And she’s right, but that reaction won’t exactly do anything good for the things that just are—the things that won’t change overnight. This doesn’t have to be bad. It’s like anything else. What matters most is your intent. Love will change it. Love changes everything.

The idea that Buffy could love this duplicate for their similarities both warmed Willow’s heart and caused her deep sorrow. Like it or not, the proof was there in Kennedy’s memories. Buffy resisted the temptation out of a sense of honor, but how she felt was clear as day. I guess I should be flattered that she fell for my Willowy charms once again. She missed me. It’s sweet, in a really aggravating way.

Anyway, they’ll need to meet somewhere in the middle for this to work. Might as well start here. I’m not even sure how the other me will be after…

Willow forced herself to focus again. Her double’s skirt needed an alteration or two as well. It grew fuller and shorter to just below her knees. The fabric changed to a similar teal, a smidge darker, with a scalloped, crocheted lace trimmed hem. It was a cute look, kind of a mix, like renfest meets Old Navy.

The next thing was going to hurt to do. Not that the magic would be hard. It was the violation that troubled Willow. She suppressed a sigh. She’d always been a bit of a hedonist. Sex, food, comfort…but there had always been balance. Sex without nymphomania. Food without being one of those boring, obsessive ‘foodie’ types…or fat. Comfort without being lazy. This was just—

This was brokenness in a way she could plausibly be broken. It was the extreme. And that was highly disturbing. Well, I’m about to throw her life into chaos, so…the least I can do is make her feel helpless, which will translate as ‘comfy’ to her.

In one swift, decisive act, Willow bound the two bracers where the laces tied at the wrist behind her back while ‘poofing’ and adding leather cuffs that banded the outside of her double’s boots. The changes brought a sharp hiss from the other woman. Willow answered with an ethereal tap to the backs of her knees, dropping her counterpart to the ground. The whole thing seemed lots harsher than it was. The simple slip knots Willow tied in the bracer’s laces weren’t tight or out of reach. She did the same thing with the cuffs at her double’s ankles. Releasing two clips would free her legs. Being bound was an illusion—one that appeared to be necessary.

Yeah. I could do more. Maybe I should do more, but I think I’ve sufficiently plumbed the depths of my own perversity for one night. Drawing the line at ‘minor moral turpitude’ is, er, umm…yeah.

Willow rose and strode over to her quasi-helpless counterpart. “I’m sorry,” she said in a tone she hoped would be soothing. “You know Buffy doesn’t understand, right?” She reached down and made to lift her double’s chin, but what pushed at the other woman wasn’t physical. It’s easier, safer and much less pervy to do what needs to be done with magic. Not that I think she’s a demon or that there’s anything even remotely demonic about her, but what if Buffy touches her? Discretion can be good.

The double wouldn’t meet Willow’s eyes. Her chin dipped ever so slightly. “I didn’t know how to explain,” she said, sounding abashed. “I wasn’t sure I even wanted to.”

“Would you mind if I tried?” Willow asked, releasing her not-so-physical hold on her counterpart’s chin. Why’d I do that? “She needs to understand for both of you,” she added, hoping that maybe the guilt would sway her second self. Because nothing could possibly go wrong if I meddle.

Guilt had one noticeable effect. That, and the absence of magic fingers. Red hair curtained her counterpart’s face. “No,” she admitted. “I guess not.” She didn’t sound sure at all. Which was good. The rest of the sitch slurped patootie, but—

There had to be something else. Willow waited patiently for the caveat. Moments later, a sharp intake of air had underscored her double’s reticence to speak. “What?” Willow prompted.

Of course, the other woman replied, “Nothing,” like that was even productive.

“Just tell me,” Willow said, curbing none of her exasperation.

“It’s just—” her double stammered, breaking off with a gasp. Much hemming and hawing later, she asked, “Why would it matter?”

“Because it does,” Willow insisted with a laugh. It sounded so sardonic, she gave up. It wasn’t worth explaining. I’ll just talk with Buffy. “Look. I have something to show you. I could tell you, but we don’t have much time. There are things I need you to understand.” She knelt down in front of her double. No reaction came, so Willow prodded. “Is that okay?”

She wanted more assent than just a slight nod. It’d be nice if she was at least a little bit curious. This is kind of a big deal.

A nod was all she expected and that was all she got.

Well, that was a new one. Willow melted Marcus Hamilton. He looked like that Stretch Armstrong I left on the dash of Dad’s car that one summer, minus the leaky puddle of syrupy goo.

Y’know, I think we should have meeting—maybe set some ground rules before Will gets her dander up and turns someone else into a Rorschach test.

Xander folded the morning paper, tucking it under his arm. There was nothing earth shattering on the front page. Nothing involving them, at least. Though it was hard to see how the media had missed the spectacle, he supposed it was good that they had. He’d have to dig a little deeper, see if maybe there was a story buried somewhere. You’d think that half the windows getting blown out of a downtown office building without an earthquake or so much as a violent gust would rate at least a four-by-five with color art.

Not that I’m complaining. Low is exactly how we like our key here at Casa Anathema.

Turning, Xander ducked into the shade of the Hyperion, through the gates into the portico, gardeny thingy, and past the fountain. He froze when he reached the lobby, startled by what he saw, or more aptly who he saw.

Angel was back, standing in the lobby near the intake desk, looking strangely lost. The door swung shut with a thud causing him to wheel around. “Oh, Xander,” he said, appearing taken aback. His manner eased, shifting to concern. “Is everything alright? Nothing’s happened since last night? I was worried that the office might send someone. That’s why I, uh…” He trailed off, taking in Xander’s cadaverous reaction.

Xander felt frozen solid like Pitcher Lady in the fountain room behind him, unable to do anything except gape. It was twice as hard now. Impossible to see anything besides a sociopath with a taste for living corpuscles draped in gallingly dashing Italian leather. A sociopath who was closing in on Xander’s position at an alarming rate.

Worse Angel’s a sociopath whose only son joined the list of the ‘no longer with us’ Little Miss Monstery Psychosis has put so much effort into growing.

Willow being weirdly Willowy had taken the death and grown something else: a tree. Xander damned his own observance. Had he not noticed that tree, he wouldn’t be one of the three people who knew about Connor’s currently, all too literally, vegetative state. Somehow Xander felt it was up to him. The other two weren’t talking. And he was here. Angel was here. Too close now for comfort. Xander needed to open his fool mouth. A question hung—a benign one. He couldn’t even bring himself to answer that.

‘Yes, everything’s just ducky—coming up all rosy goodness—peachy with a side of keen…if you’re dense enough to miss the portents that all seem to be saying that apocalypse season is starting early this year.’

Yeah, that won’t do.

So, maybe another of others will be. Up for it, that is—the question-answering, bad new-bearing part of the program. Well, maybe not Buffy. It’d be best to avoid putting those two together in the same room. Not that I’m worried about either of them. There are cats with less lives. It’s the rest of us. We’d be lucky to make it out with—

It suddenly occurred to him that Willow—not his Willow—the other Willow. Snow Willow might have something to say about the pending smack down and she— “Willow melted Marcus Hamilton,” Xander mumbled. The instant he said it, regret blossomed, thick and heavy, like a wet, icy blanket. He was damned.

Angel’s expression changed. Questions built behind his eyes. Xander could see the wheels spinning furiously. Answers would be expected. All degrees, especially three, would be probed, poked, prodded. Squealing would be heard.

“Did you say ‘melted’?” Angel prompted. It was good that he’d settled on simply looking bemused. That had promise.

It was way past time to leave.

I did it.

Willow remembered all of the feelings that rushed through her in that moment: wonder, disbelief, excitement, joy… Awash with relief, she slumped. It was done. Kennedy swept up the scythe and ran from the room.

The path diverged from there, taking an unexpected turn: Buffy lived.

Willow expected joyous celebration, merrymaking, a madcap jamboree to beat all jamborees. There was a little of that. Not much. Not enough. The mood was pretty sober. Somber. And it stayed that way. They weren’t sure what they should do. She marveled at that. Everything for her had been decided. Her people had done what needed to be done to take their minds off of the thick, pervasive sorrow that had blanketed their lives.

The memories cascaded. Data dumped. Backed up. The AirPort swarmed, bits and bytes buzzing in a holding pattern, preparing to land. Just like that. It was amazing. How—?

Willow couldn’t exactly track it, but she could form an impression. The other Scoobies had regrouped and done things that were very similar to the things her people had done. Simple things. Logical things. Things that didn’t twist up—turn around to bite them in the butt—or at least the biting wasn’t as vicious. They actually built something. An organization formed in the wake of their victory—in the wake of their loss. They had, after all, still lost everything they’d ever known. Their home was gone and the people with it. Important people. People who were missed.

It was too painful. Her double had withdrawn, but she knew. Her friends sought the newbie slayers out. Bodies didn’t pile up, or at least they didn’t pile up in the same way. It wasn’t all cookies and cream, but it was better.

It was also growing faster. What Willow had assumed to be a torrent had actually been a trickle. The floodgate was opened now. Dizzying, nauseating, overwhelming…

Buffy was dead.

That one piece of knowledge came. Willow caught hold of it, forcing it to float to the top. It stayed there, taunting her. A single red spot stained the front of Buffy’s shirt. It seemed so harmless. Again. The spot could’ve been from a nosebleed or a spill—ketchup, cocktail sauce, nail polish—anything but what it was—a spot of blood that made Willow want to die.

Tara.

A thick, sluggish ache filled Willow. Intermingled with the dullness, sharp stabs echoed violent sobs. The remaining nightmare, the roar of sensations, colors and sounds flowed through her. Her muscles tensed. She sprang. Up became forward. She sprawled across the floor flat on her face. Her arms and legs were bound. She flopped, struggling to roll over.

My God. Buffy’s dead.

The grief was unbearable. The grief was the same. The grief was brief. Rage supplanted it. Willow lashed out. She felt it claim her. The gun went flying. The man went flying too. They went flying in different directions. They were in a room—a tight space with white walls—a cell. Buffy had attacked the man. She lay crumpled on the floor. Her vacant stare—

Buffy was dead.

The man—a stout, older fellow with glossy, greasy, graying, Dick Tracy hair—an officer in military garb with crisp lines, drab colors, his right jacket breast festooned with medals—a ‘decorated officer’—the man died. Willow crushed him. She remembered how fancy the last death she’d caused had been. She’d been particularly proud of that spell. It was intricate, elegant, beautiful in its cruelty. The monster Warren Mears had been alive. He was fully aware of every strip of flesh the peeled from his body. Normally such things were shocking. They put one into shock. General Voll had gone into shock the instant his body struck the wall. He hadn’t known what I was like to be squished like a bug…and Willow was fine with that.

He was dead.

Satsu had screamed at her—was screaming at her. Willow didn’t hear. She hadn’t heard. She was on her knees. She held Buffy, cradled her. Things had gone horribly wrong. Again.

Buffy was dead.

Willow was on the floor, on her side, her legs drawn up to her chest. She couldn’t hug them. Her arms were tied behind her back. Her ankles were tied together too. She was helpless. The memories roared inside her head. They kept coming, kept flowing, churning incomprehensible froth. A deluge where latent images reflected, cast up, caught, exposed like mist by the sun.

Buffy was alive. She’s alive now. It’s obvious. She lived. How did she live?

Voices cried out—hundreds, many hundreds—all speaking at once—the thoughts of everyone around her—a vast cacophony. They came from the memories. She understood. Every memory came with every thought of everyone around her. There just were so many. Too many.

‘I see the moon and the moon sees me.’

The flow ebbed. Willow’s mind raced. It was too much to make sense of. There were too many thoughts, too many ideas, too many sensations, too many sights, too many sounds—all of them tangled together in a glutted, roiling mass.

‘The moon sees the somebody I'd like to see.’

Willow opened her eyes. A light cotton, Tapa print skirt fanned out beside her. Willow focused on the hands resting on the abstract, smoky, geometric pattern. They were all too familiar, except for one blisteringly obvious, nonetheless wigsome detail: the pigmentation was wrong. The fact that the pearlescent sheen seemed to swirl made Willow squeamish. She looked away, picking something else, something safer. A table leg. That’d do.

I thought that their lives had been so much easier. I was almost jealous. The thought shamed Willow. Her face burned hot. She wanted to run. She needed to hide. She didn’t move.

’Kay, so, I was jealous.

I was wrong. She fought. I stagnated.

Her counterpart took a deep, clearly audible breath, an overture to some announcement. Worry over what it might be made Willow tense. She hunkered down to weather the storm in a purely mental, metaphorical sense. Moving would be pointless. Doing anything at all would be pointless. The other shoe would drop and there wasn’t a darned thing she could do about it.

Moments later it did drop. “I nee—” It dropped, crackling and sputtering. “I-I need you to keep her safe.” Not at all like a shoe dropping. A shoe dropping was supposed to be forceful. This sounded so subdued. Broken.

Willow wanted to look, but she couldn’t bring herself to. Her double was either exhausted or weeping or both.

Chapter Text

Gnawing tension, seething with too much potential, like over-caffeination, fire prickling beneath the skin, smothered and died. Buffy went cold. It was her. She was at fault.

The door was opening. Its protracted motion was like something from a horror movie. At first only an arm showed in the gradually broadening gap, then the slope of a shoulder. She wanted to reach out, swat the door and get it over with, like tearing away a scab. She knew it was Willow. She just wasn’t sure which Willow, what she wanted, what was happening, what they were doing…

The door opened. A different person met Buffy’s eyes and she froze, like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming car, torn between wanting to flee and needing to know.

When had this happened? It hadn’t been that long. A few days that felt like a week. How had Will become so cold in such little time? Was she cold? She looked it. What had she done?

Buffy’s hand lifted, driven by the desire to understand. It hit an invisible barrier. She groped across its surface. It had to have limits. I have to know what’s left. There has to be something—

“Can I come in?” Willow asked.

So cold.

“Please?”

The second request struck Buffy like a physical jolt, though no one had touched her, physically or otherwise. Willow wouldn’t touch her. Buffy still flinched. Then she stepped aside, making way for her ‘visitor’ to enter the room. Actually, it was more like she staggered. The way they responded, her feet might’ve been stuck in mud or weighted with lead. She shuffled, stricken, clumsily tracking Willow’s progress as she sauntered across the room to the nearest chair and sat down.

“Shut the door,” Willow said.

Buffy didn’t move. She couldn’t move. Finally, another “please” sent a shiver through her that damn near made her gasp. The simple civility acted as a reminder: this isn’t Willow’s problem. She isn’t the one who’s wigging out. I am. The near fugueish shockiness chafed like a polyester jumpsuit. I need to get over it. She just wants to talk. I just need to let her. No big.

Buffy shut the door. Her hand lingered against its cool surface. The paint felt strange, the way paint sometimes does, somewhere between tacky and slippery. The internal pep talk was all well and good; unfortunately, the resulting ‘stiff upper lippiness’ had a tragically abbreviated life. The stumbling block was the actual act of facing a Willow who just wasn’t very Willowy. As Buffy grappled with the urge to lean there, rest her forehead, hide her face, the unWillowy Willow said, “I need to get you home.”

Buffy flinched. The whole ‘hiding,’ ‘leaning,’ ‘cool surface’ thing would’ve been good. It would’ve felt nice against her clammy brow. It would’ve been peaceful. It would’ve been better if Willow’s tone hadn’t been mopey. This wasn’t how this was supposed to turn out. She should’ve been happy. What she should’ve said should’ve meant that the nightmare was over. It should’ve meant that she and a very Willowy Willow could both go home. Buffy bit her lip just to feel something—something right—the way it should feel. Willow hadn’t said that. It hadn’t gone anything like that at all. She said ‘you’ not ‘us.’ For whatever reason, this unWillowy Willow was staying here or going somewhere else—somewhere not ‘home.’ Buffy flung herself around. “What happened to you?” I swear if she says ‘nothing,’ I’ll…

Willow didn’t say anything at all. She just hung her head, which Buffy supposed was no wonder. What started off as ‘saying’ had come out something more like ‘shouting’ or ‘demanding.’ Of course, that made Buffy feel like a lottery winner who’d just recognized the absurdity of bitching about the taxes. She’s right. I can’t even begin to imagine what she must’ve gone through to get here. So of course she gets here and the first thing I do the second we’re truly alone is yell at her.

Nice. Very nice.

“I’m sorry,” Buffy said in some approximation of a stage whisper, which was much better than yelling. She smoothed her skirt as she leaned back against the door. The plain cotton fabric felt coarse beneath her palms. That struck her right then as strange. The dress didn’t feel rough where it pressed against her shoulders. After a moment’s consideration, she guessed that sort of figured. Everything below her neck did feel pretty disjointed, distant and icky. Not that it mattered.

What mattered was that Willow was mumbling something. Buffy caught about half of it. Something like: “…that you’re okay.”

‘I need to know…?’ ‘I have to know…? Whatever. Whichever. Either one works. That sounds like her. She’s always been more concerned about me than herself. At least ‘always’ since last year. She thinks I have a talent for getting myself dead. Not totally unfounded. I do seem to do that lots more than the other girls. She’s afraid next time it’ll stick. I just wish I could see her face.

Unfortunately, it was covered by a curtain of hair, which made this a lot like talking to Cousin Itt—the black and white one—what with the whiteness of her hair—without the kid-sized Ray Bans. Not that Buffy had been doing a whole bunch of talking. She decided to fix that. “I want to stay,” she said, sure in the knowledge it was pointless to say anything at all. “Whatever you plan to do, I belong with you.” She still had to say it even though Willow was bound to have a different opinion.

Willow expressed the difference by first getting over her Cousin Itt look. Only a fool would’ve wished for what came next. The whole ‘hair in face,’ ‘mopey Willow’ act had been much easier to deal with. Her ‘resolve face’ had matured over the years into something of near surgical precision. With the unhealthy dose of supernatural whammy attached and her gaze set to ‘wither,’ she was equipped to win a staring contest with a basilisk. It was just plain creepy and way past time to find something safer to look at. Buffy controlled the shiver that was threatening to turn her spine to jelly and located a nice, harmless, fascinating patch of carpet near her feet to study.

“I still need to know that you’re okay,” Willow said with vocal intensity to match her mystical makeover. “But it’s not just me who matters. It’s everyone else who depends on you. Our world wouldn’t be the same without you. Look at this one.” A long, dramatic pause broke up her spiel. Buffy spent it conflicted, wanting to interject something witty and persuasive, drawing a total blank, and trying to work up the nerve to look the Terminatrix in the eye. What she actually managed to accomplish was diddly with a generous side of squat. “I need you to go. I’ve spoken with the other Willow and she’s willing to go with you.”

That was the last straw. Buffy’s temper flared. She found her voice, “I—” and in short order, got stomped on. Not literally, but verbally. Willow talked right over her.

“I know that isn’t what you want.” The fact that Buffy might want to choose who she was going to spend her life with was inconsequential. Even if it wasn’t a bad choice, it wasn’t her choice. This Willow had made up her mind. “You don’t understand what I’ve done—what I’ve gone through to get here,” she explained, the broken record act indicating that she might well be distracted. “I can’t stop.” She sounded pretty distracted. “I have to keep going. I need to finish, and the biggest part of finishing is knowing that you are where you belong. This wouldn’t even be happening if—”

If I’d just stayed put. Like I had a choice.

As if she’d heard Buffy’s thoughts, Willow said, “I know. I’m sorry. It’s not your fault.” She raked her fingers through her hair, stopping at the crown of her head to make a fist. That gesture always looked ouchy, but it was one of those typical ‘gimme a minute,’ ‘I’m thinking,’ Willowy things.

Buffy waited patiently for her to continue, mostly because doing anything else had proven in the past to be a fantastic way to pick a fight. And there was the internal debate—the vain search amid the jumble of conflicted, hyperemotional reactions for something ‘witty and persuasive’ to say.

Eventually, Willow collected her thoughts and deigned to explain, “I’m going to try to find the vengeance demon who’s responsible for this mess. I couldn’t get through to D’Hoffryn, but I might be able to put things back by—” She let go of her hair and looked up. Lines creased her brow, suggesting she had a headache. Another bad sign. “I’m not even sure. I don’t think killing the demon will work, but there has to be something I can do. And if I can, that should put everything back the way it was. It’s the best idea I have, but I need you where you belong before I start in case I can’t—in case things go wrong.”

“And if you can’t? If your plan doesn’t work, what then?” She said something about ‘finishing.’ I want to know what it is she plans to finish.

“Be careful with her,” Willow said, switching subjects so like the slamming of a door that an audible clap wouldn’t have seemed out of place. It was such a drastic shift that Buffy didn’t know what the hell she was talking about until Willow met her eyes and went on, “She’s going to be really confused for a while. I’m not sure how long it’ll last. I gave her a lot to think about.”

“I will,” Buffy replied, then without missing a beat prodded hopefully, “What are you going to do?” I’m sick of not knowing. The least she can do—

Willow let out a brittle, humorless laugh, all nerves, a chink in her armor. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m just being pragmatic. Don’t you see I have to be? If I think about what this is—what it means—”

Buffy wondered for moment whether she had even listened. The right response would’ve been annoyance, if the admission, and strangely that quirky little self-deprecating laugh, hadn’t been exactly what she needed to hear. It went a long way towards saying that this Willow—her Willow—was still Willowy enough. Combined with the extra added goodness of a little humility displayed through pose and expression, it said enough. She still hasn’t answered my question, but—

“Yeah, I do,” Buffy replied, feeling somewhat better, even if she did add a conditional, “I guess.” That was a vocal tic that made her feel just that much more in the wrong.

“If things don’t work out, I plan to stay here.”

Finally, an answer. It had been too long in coming, but it was definitely an answer. Buffy waited with bated breath and was rewarded with more.

“I think I can do some good here. Our world isn’t as simple as this one. The things that are broken here are really broken. Ours is more cloudy, shades of gray all over. It’ll take a gentle hand—a human hand—to make things better there. In case you haven’t noticed, that’s something I’m really not. Not anymore. You and your Willow—the human Willow—belong there.”

An ethereal smile—a pretty smile, but ghostly just the same—flitted across Willow’s lips, thawing her expression. It wasn’t an improvement. She seemed no more fine, smiling or not. She was right. Something was broken. Something ineffable, aside from the aesthetic, that made her less herself. She rose from her seat. “Now come on,” she said. “Let’s get you crazy kids home.”

Daylight trickled into the room through cracks in the blinds. In the muted, golden light, understanding came to Wesley in the form of something truly mundane: a bedrail. Everything about the room he was in was stark and sanitary, but the curved plastic rail was uniquely conclusive, a feature only found in hospital.

I’m alive. Curious how, when that comes as a surprise, it’s rarely a pleasant one.

Details came back to him in ragged bits and snips. Nothing came easily. His mind was a place where perfectly good thoughts went to drown in the thick, murky haze. Angel had been there. Wesley couldn’t remember what had been said, if anything. He wasn’t even certain that the memory was authentic. It had that indistinct quality of mental abstraction. Assuming that his mind could be trusted to report facts, Angel’s presence meant that things had gone well…or as well as usual, with the accustomed bone-deep aches and the medications that kept them at bay, while laying his wits to waste, which sent his whole line of reasoning whirling to cyclical oblivion. He needed more information.

Even the simple act of turning his head sent twinges through his neck and chest. They fanned out, reaching his midriff. He winced, which naturally made matters worse. Reflex took over, screwing his eyes shut and setting his jaw.

When the nasty business of life after a major trauma had passed, he found that Illyria was still there. Seeing her hurt in a very different way. She hadn’t moved, or he didn’t think she had, since last time he was presumably awake. She stood by the doorway like a sentinel, unchanging, inhuman and still wearing the face of the woman he loved.

It was weakness. Trauma made him think that. Trauma made him vulnerable. Trauma and a pharmacological cocktail of lord knew what—

Her expression softened, transforming with subtle amusement as she watched him. It was the look Fred might’ve given a particularly interesting insect, which sounded far less flattering than it was. Fred loved life—all life, even the lowliest forms. Coming from Illyria, that expression seemed tantamount to gushing from anyone else. Anyone human.

Wesley smiled, or he tried. He might’ve just made a face. It was difficult to tell. Anyway, he hoped that what he felt on the inside had somehow translated to the outside. Despite the discomfort, he was very much pleased to see a familiar face.

He lay there for some time discovering that he had arms, and that his arms were no more pleasant to move than his head had been. The pain passed. Illyria still hadn’t budged. She had nothing to offer, not a word, not a gesture, just amusement, faint and enigmatic. Why is she even here?

The events of the previous evening were difficult to suss out. Was it the previous evening? I have no way of knowing— “How long?” he asked.

His voice was so thready, it came as no surprise when she quirked an eyebrow, an addition which made her look devious when combined with the lingering grin, transforming it into a smirk. He wasn’t certain whether her mood had actually changed to match her expression. With her it was difficult to tell. He had to try again, “How long has it been?” else he might upset her.

She readily replied, “I don’t know.”

Hours, days, weeks…surely she can tell me that much? I would assume hours, but wouldn’t be surprised by days. Weeks would be—

He knew he’d been shot. He remembered that in the same vague way he remembered his fifth birthday. The only reason he remembered that was that his family had gone on holiday. Strange faces and places left an impression. He couldn’t remember who had shot him. That struck him as odd. Every major trauma in his life was coupled with a face. This one was different. All he could recall was men in black—not in the ‘silly sci-fi feature,’ ‘Will Smith,’ ‘Tommy Lee Jones’ sense, but men in tactical gear. They were all nondescript. The shooter could’ve been any one of them.

No matter. A gunshot wound would necessitate surgery. Surgery would indicate hours. Hours of unconsciousness, days in hospital and weeks—perhaps even months—of recovery. “Surely you can make some estimation?” he prompted, hoping she would recognize his disorientation. But why would she? This sort of thing would be as alien to her as cricket to a frog.

Illyria tilted her head as if considering the question. “Twelve hours perhaps,” she replied, not bothering to provide a frame of reference. That was fine. It narrowed the field down to ‘hours.’ He could live with hours. Hours were far better than days.

The next question of interest was one of survival. How had he? He didn’t remember much, just falling; something or someone was towing him toward the edge; and terror, raw, visceral panic. He couldn’t reckon how he’d gone from that state of freefall to here.

It was really very simple. There was only one thing he need know: she saved my life. He was uncertain how, but her intervention was the only thing that could’ve altered the outcome.

“Why—?” he asked, breaking off. His throat was so dry. It hurt. He wanted something to drink. The last thing he was going to do was ask Illyria. The nurse would be by soon. He would ask for something then. Her head titled questioningly again. He regrouped to make another attempt. “Why did you save me?”

Her expression set in a communicative frown that said everything. She didn’t need to tell him she was uncertain, but she did. Then she speculated, “Perhaps because this world would have been dull without you.” Coming from her that was highly unusual.

Something had changed and all he could say about it was, “Thank you.”

‘Mollify,’ ‘mortify,’ there’s just not enough difference between those two words. Maybe that’s right. Maybe it’s intentional. Maybe I’m irrational.

Again, not enough damn difference.

Movement on the stairs caught his eye. Willow sure looks good. Happy. Normal even. Not the one who melts people and turns bodies into shrubs, the sane one. My Willow looks happier than I’ve seen her look in—

I don’t remember. It’s been years.

Angel had turned his head too. A quick glance told Xander that they were both watching the procession that was descending the stairs, with Willow the human transmogrifier in the lead. Or almost human—kinda quasi, semi, sort of—not a cardboard box. Giles brought up the rear, sandwiching his Willow and her Buffy.

Something was up. Something big. Something that had thankfully given Angel something else to focus his politely Machiavellian charms on. Angel’s interest in him had driven Xander to desperation, looking for an out. He could’ve found a way if…

Guilt always caught up with him. Of course ‘your kid’s dead’ wasn’t the sort of thing anyone with any scruples would brush off. The last half hour or so had been murder…in more than one sense. Luckily, the subject hadn’t come up. Had it, Xander would have folded like an accordion. As it was, Angel knew something was wrong—nothing more, nothing less—which made the fact that he was distracted now a welcome relief that showed on Xander’s face. He let it. Angel wasn’t watching him now, so what did it matter?

Because reveling in it at all made it short lived. It was like a law or something. A moment’s peace meant at least two moments’ pain. Enter pain: the next guilt trip was almost down the stairs. Considering the fact that Xander didn’t have a leg to stand on…

The shift was devastating. He went from the faint, light, airy, wonderful swell of something close to calm, to a crashing, gut wrenching wave of anxiety that made his face flash hot. He felt lightheaded and queasy. He wanted to bolt. The door was right there. He stared longingly at it, willing his feet to move.

“I’m not even sure how to say this, so I guess I should just get it over with. I’m leaving.”

It went without saying which Willow was speaking, not that he could tell for sure without looking. The one who’d just gotten there was bound to leave. She’d come for Buffy. She’d leave with Buffy. Everything would go back to normal then. But why announce it? Why the finality in her tone? He turned his head. His Willow, the pretty girl with red hair who’d been his friend since they were little kids, wouldn’t meet his eyes. He didn’t understand.

“Xander, I’m leaving,” she repeated, stomping the stuffing out of his denial, his hope. It was his Willow. His Willow was—

The other Willow—the one he could never relate to—said, “I’m staying here. I think I can help.”

Someone was screwing with his thermostat. It was horrible. His face felt cold. He felt faint. His chest felt tight. In an awful way, this was fair. He was the one who had made this mess. He’d caused all of this. It made a sick sort of sense that he’d have to pay for his actions. He should lose something. Not that he was losing much, mostly just history. He and Willow hadn’t been close in—

Over the past six months, her presence had been more ‘in’ in the corporeal sense—the Ghost of Willow Past—felt more than seen, hidden away, suffering for—

This was actually good. She looked good. Buffy was good for her. She’d shown herself to be capable, honorable, kind…more so than even the Buffy he remembered. Willow was going to be with her. She’d be fine. Better than. No wonder she’s so happy. She probably feels like a kid on Christmas.

Willow and Christmas?

Her birthday then. Whatever.

“Can I go with you?” Xander asked. The corner of his mouth twitched. He gave them a quirky, lopsided grin. He knew the answer. They knew he was kidding. Sort of. Before she could answer, he added, “I’ll miss you,” and held out his arms. Willow strode over to him. He embraced her. It had been a long time. She felt wonderful, soft with just the right amount of girlish lumpiness.

Finally, after much frozenness, and maybe some reluctance, she asked, “Are you okay?”

No. “Sure. I’ll be fine,” he lied, trying to put a little pep in his voice. He wanted to sound convincing. It didn’t work. Slurring would’ve been the only thing that might’ve made him sound more like he’d been thwapped between the eyes with a hammer. His diction was fine. That was all that was fine. A lump formed in his throat. The pained pressure that built behind his eyes was much better than crying. Pain always was.

She probably knew how bad it was, but she moved on anyway, giving him a small, sad smile in parting. Angel was next, he was closest, then Giles. They all got hugs. Hugs all around. Buffy even hugged Xander. It was like being thanked for wrecking her life. She didn’t know what he’d done and he didn’t share. He swallowed his guilt and said his goodbyes. They all did—the others presumably without the guilt. The only one who didn’t join in was Snow Willow. That wasn’t surprising.

Everything went exactly the way it should except for one tiny thing: Xander couldn’t feel his legs. Well, he could, but he couldn’t. Not really. They didn’t feel right. Nothing did. Nerveless, as he was, it wouldn’t have seemed out of place for his vantage to be overhead—floating over his head—floating over all of their heads. This couldn’t be real.

It didn’t feel real when Willow—the insane Willow, who like Arnie, ‘would be back’—turned away and a glowy spot bloomed in the air in front of her. She stepped through, followed by the other two. The glow winked out and they were gone.

The life Willow had known had been wearing away since Buffy’s arrival, sloughed off like old skin, one particle at a time. Nothing about that had been hard until she’d looked on Xander’s face, seeing grief and desperation in his one watery eye, the creases in his skin, the set of his jaw. He’d been miserable. That realization had driven the gravity of her situation home. Not her home. Another home. A different home. A home she knew intimately, although she’d never been there before in her life. That was the trade. She was leaving everyone and everything she’d ever loved behind, exchanging them for someone else’s family—a different family with matching visages—the sting of transition barely cushioned by a snarl of cast-off memories.

It was a hell of a thing. Her sails were definitely looking a bit droopy. Only Buffy’s grip on her hand stopped her from turning back the way she’d come. Natural reflex, brilliant light and a strong desire not to walk into any situation blind fueled her unrest. Only Buffy’s gentle urging kept her going at all. Willow scrunched her eyes shut, blinking furiously, squinting, trying to figure out where in the world she was.

White and blurry resolved into green and blurry. Finally the remaining tapestry of cheerful colors resolved. They were in a glade that Willow recognized as the glade from her borrowed memories, an idyllic forest clearing that could’ve been the perfect setting for any fairytale, except for the ones that involved mean, old, reputation-tarnishing witches or evil queens that were almost always witches too. But even those stories tended to have respites in places with patches of wildflowers, fluttering butterflies and brocades of artfully disparate greenery. Consequently, it seemed it was all the same, so beautiful that Willow momentarily forgot she was upset.

That lasted until the woman who’d tied her up and poured several seasons worth of ‘This is Your Alternate Life’ into her brain sat down. Why that upset her, Willow didn’t know. It was a sign that they’d be sticking around for a while. That was all. It wasn’t nearly as upsetting as that other thing—the thing that had confused her so much that being tied up by her doppelganger had felt like a minor annoyance. The last time that had happened she’d feared for her life; this time, only her sanity came into question. She wondered if getting out of the fix on her own had constituted passing some sort of test. The expression on her double’s face had certainly seemed to suggest so.

Now her crazy alter ego only looked expectant as she gestured for Willow to join her. Buffy already had. The gentle tug on her hand caused Willow to change focus. It was Buffy’s look—somewhere between pleading and questioning—that caused Willow to relent and join them. Buffy sought out her hand when Willow broke contact to smooth her skirt beneath her. It wasn’t nearly long enough. The feathery grasses tickled her legs. They were bound to get itchy. There might even be chiggers.

When did I start to think of my double as ‘crazy’? I had this picture of someone altogether more together than me. A confident woman who knew what she wanted, unlike me. I mean, she had to be confident to woo Buffy.

Only now I know. I know that there was very little wooing and that Buffy was the wooer. Not that she wooed. This b-side variation of me thought the same thing that every reasoning, reasonable, self-respecting lesbian in the same shoes would think. She thought that Buffy wanted to try on said idiomatically ‘sensible’ shoes and take them for a stroll. She didn’t see that Buffy had seen the whole ‘stick-to-tiveness to the point of self sacrifice’ thing as a sure sign that my counterpart was in love.

And me—I was in love—via the same mechanism—the same set of circumstances. I am in love. I’ve been in love…and totally heartbroken, utterly demoralized by that special someone becoming the Evil Queen in a screwed up switcheroony facilitated by the misguided machinations of a conceited, unhealthily obsessed vampire—like there’s any other kind.

On the other side of the dimensional fence, this Buffy’s game wasn’t a game. It wasn’t an experiment. It was a logical conclusion with all of the warm fuzzy feelings that amounted to the necessary kindling.

Why she didn’t see the same thing in Xander? It was there. He loves her dearly. He—

They were both staring at her. Willow was the center of attention. She hated that, especially when she felt this lost, looking into the past, like looking through the surface of a pond, like that one book—the one about the girl and her friend— Umm… Memories rose to the surface, churned up by the current, drawn by shadows, fractal patterns reflected in the water, random, chaotic, not linear at all…

Maybe I’m the one who’s insane?

The name came to her: Cat’s Eye. Not that it mattered in the slightest. That was just a book that she’d read long ago, when she was a girl, before all of this.

What I need to be worried about is them, not her. She thinks I’m the cat’s meow. That much is obvious. I can tell just by the looks she gives me—the looks I used to wish she’d give me that she gave to other people. People like Riley and Angel, even to icky people like Parker. I was so—

I’m so scatterbrained. It’s sad.

Resigned, Willow looked up from where her hand rested clasped with Buffy’s. Meeting her double’s eyes, she ventured, formulating a tenuous preamble to the only thing that really mattered, “I need to know one thing before I go along with this.” I’ll be fine. I know I will. I just need some reassurance. Surely she won’t—

“Okay,” her double drawled, stretching the word out quizzically before clipping the next two off, “Fair enough.”

“What do you plan to do?” Willow asked, her mind firmly focused on Xander to keep the other thing at bay—the thoughts that plagued her—the recognition that this woman—this alternate rendition of herself—was disturbing on a level that she’d only sensed on a couple of other occasions. Glorificus had been disturbing in a similar way: terrifying, chaotic, palpably powerful, and quite insane. The only saving grace of Willow’s current situation was that she wasn’t sure about that last part.

And she wasn’t thinking about this. She was thinking about Xander. She was explaining, after what she hoped wasn’t too long of a pause, “Not with us. I get that we’re leaving—exiting stage left or whatever. What do you plan to do with them—with my friends—my world?”

In an echo of Willow’s own voice, her doppelganger said, “Nothing,” through a tinkle of laughter. It was irksome. “You make it sound like I might have it in me to hurt them.” The familiar voice forming such jarringly dismissive tones made Willow wonder if she’d ever been that crass, if it had looked that unattractive. “I’d say you don’t know me very well if it wasn’t for the obvious absurdity of that statement.” A mawkish smile punctuated the sentiment. “You should know that whatever I do will be in their best interests. I want to make things better for your friends. They’re my friends too, in a roundabout way.”

Willow’s resentment dwindled with those last few statements. I’m being too hard on her. Too suspicious. Maybe even kind of mean. She capitulated, “Okay, but how?” Not that she gave up any ground. She was still curious. It was the tone of her voice that marked the change, no longer quite so dubious. She sighed.

“The same as usual,” her second, sallow self said in crisp parody. She was too sharp, too hard, teeming with wrongness, any goodness drowned in a froth of placating tones. “You have to understand that nothing’s really changed. Everything’s changed, I know, but the fundamental things remain fundamentally the same. The way to help is to eliminate the bad, while shoring up the good. I thought I’d start with what you left me. You and Buffy have already affected things for the better.”

Buffy.

Buffy sat watching the exchange like a spectator at a tennis match, her attention turning, seemingly discerning subtle changes for good and ill in each participant’s humor. That made Willow nervous to say the least. Nervouser and nervouser…downright antsy, afraid she might say the wrong thing. Again, she capitulated, “Alright, well…” This time completely. She still didn’t tell me anything, but—

The other Willow wasn’t finished. “What I want to know is how Buffy—the other Buffy—has dodged your attempts to ensoul her. I assume you tried. I assume that was the first thing you tried. I’m very curious how she’s been getting away with murder all this time.”

“I don’t know,” Willow replied, shame washing over her. She was inadequate. That much was clear.

“Well, I’ll figure it out,” her paradoxical counterpart said in what Willow was sure were supposed to be reassuring tones. A little something to take the sting out. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean this to rub you the wrong way, but I don’t have the same problems you did. I have nothing to be afraid of. She’s just another vampire to me. And vampires are—”

“Probably pretty passé to someone who pancaked a liaison to the senior partners,” Buffy interjected rudely. “Willow’s right to be worried about you. What the hell happened?” A soft, fretful breath seemed to betray her tears, but when Willow looked, Buffy wasn’t crying at all. Her eyes were narrowed with suspicion. Her jaw was set. She looked livid. Through clenched teeth, she asked, “What are you?” Each word came out as a separate challenge, bitten off, standing apart.

Willow felt several conflicting things in such close succession they seemed to hit her all at once. She hated that. It was like being torn or picked apart, pecked at by a bevy of emotions. First, she hoped that Buffy would never look at her like that. The whole exchange frightened her. That was quickly shadowed by sympathy, closer to sorrow. Buffy looked miserable in her anger. Having to ask something so severe of the person she loved had to be horrible. Willow was also grateful and relieved that Buffy had mustered the nerve. She had the same questions, or similar ones. That was the problem: how to ask and not upset. There was a sense of solidarity in the fact that Buffy had. Finally, Willow felt ashamed for feeling relieved at all. It was wrong, terrible, selfish…not to mention a truly annoying note for such a taxing rollercoaster ride to end on.

A jarring note that wasn’t eased one bit by the other Willow’s indignant retort, “I’m still me.”

Willow fixated on the gnarled thicket at the forest’s edge, all viney and wild, overgrown with woodbine, speckled with trumpet-shaped flowers in fiery hues and the poofy, purple pompom plumes of thistles. An elusive thought flitted through her mind: how could she be so miserable in such an idyllic location? The place seriously needed pixies. She struggled to hold fast against reason as the electric tension cascaded over her in waves. Running away seemed like the better idea, the best idea ever. Buffy squeezed her hand. The gesture was almost reassuring. Though not quite reassuring enough in the Clash of the Titans context this was building up to. A thick wall of bulletproof glass would’ve been much better; a bomb shelter, even better still.

Before anyone went the way of Lot’s wife, the other Willow calmed, the white hot bristle of her magic fading. It seemed such an unlikely thing that Willow had to look. She needed a peek. She needed to understand where the tension, so tangible moments before, had gone. It was Buffy. She glared defiantly, daring her estranged paramour to try something.

Willow’s heart swelled. She loved Buffy more in this moment than she ever had. Funny, this was a different Buffy. It was growing more and more difficult to separate the two—the one she’d known from this new person. The vampire was the one who was someone entirely different, easily compartmentalized. It felt like there’d been lapse in this saner Buffy’s presence, and now that she’d returned, Willow was once again safe. Truly strange.

“Look, I asked,” Buffy said. “You wouldn’t tell me. I think I have a right to know. We both do.” She included Willow with another convulsive twitch of her hand, squeezing without squishing. “You say you’re going to ‘make things better.’ Your ‘more human’ Willow wants to know how. I don’t see that as too much to ask. Her friends are there. Y’know, the people she loves? That should give her rights to at least a rough idea of what you have planned.” Her head tilted, giving her a contemplative air. “My personal thoughts are veto rights, but that’s me. I tend to be pretty sensitive when it comes to the unknown screwing with my friends.”

“Unknown?”

“You heard me. Tell me I’m wrong.”

“I could knock you out and take you home. You wouldn’t be able to do anything to stop me.”

“You won’t.”

“What makes you so sure?”

Their rapid exchange was charged with incredulity, disdain and hurt. Willow sat, frozen, awkward, displaced, awaiting the verdict, as if the decision would change the rest of her life…which she supposed it would. She was after all set to leave her world. Or was she? Would Buffy decide not to go? Could she?

After an angsty wait, filled with so much discomfort it made Willow want a shower, Buffy smoothed things over by saying, “Well, I’d like to think you still love me.” Not that Willow had taken anything her mismatched double had said as an actual threat. It was more like a statement of truth. Buffy operated on the same premise, soothing hurts with a few words, “I mean, why else would you go through all this just to get me home? I know it’s not for them. You’ve never been that magnanimous.” She beamed fondly, displaying a genuine, yet vaguely conspiratorial smile. Wryness entered her tone too. “It’s okay. Neither have I. I’ve done some pretty crazy things to protect the people I love.”

Willow’s disparate double looked thoughtful. Then she yielded to the analysis. “I can’t tell you exactly what I have planned because I don’t know yet. I have a few ideas.”

Buffy replies, “Okay,” drawing the word out into an invitation.

Questions were offered in answer intended as shorthand memory triggers, “Remember Darla? You know how Connor came into being?”

Buffy quirked an eyebrow while Willow just felt foolish. She put the pieces together before her double picked up again, “No, I’m not going to create a magical love child,” laughing at the implication.

Willow wasn’t laughing. She wanted to ask about Mohra blood. She’d only found out about by being sneaky and persistent, not to mention desperate. She wondered if her double knew. Finding a Mohra would be the trick. They were rare, if not extinct. It was too late. The opening was gone. Her double had moved on.

“The fact that Darla was returned from ashes to mortal existence by Wolfram and Hart is of interest. The Connor thing was just because. Time frame, y’know?” She quirked her eyebrow too, but Buffy was over the expression—her bit of good natured teasing had ended. She listened with interest. “I need to know what kept Willow…” nodding to her diminutive, or that’s how it felt “…from ensouling Buffy, because I’m not sure how her soul being locked away will affect the spell. Otherwise, I think I can fix it. I need to know where the scythe is. I can do this. Hopefully, her mind isn’t too broken from—”

“I get it,” Buffy cut her off, seeing where the line of reasoning was going. There was nothing anyone could do about that.

“That’s my only worry,” the other Willow added unnecessarily. They all knew the problems.

The sun beat down on Willow’s back, turning the stiff, shiny satin cincher at her waist hot. She’d long since sweated through the blouse beneath it. Though she scarcely noticed then, she was well aware now. Her disconnection from the conversation had given her the leeway to take stock of her own discomfort. As a spectator, she wanted to find a better seat. She could slip her fingers free of Buffy’s and lie down in the grass. Her fingers were getting kind of sweaty too. It was gross. The grass would be cool, or more the earth beneath it would. This had to be almost over, at least she hoped so. She wished she hadn’t started it. They would be wherever they were going by now, not sweltering in a thicket full of bugs.

“What else?” Buffy asked, shooing a gnat that was now bugging her. “You’ve got something else up your sleeve. There’s a reason you won’t let me touch you. There’s a reason that Mr. Master Race melted like a gummy bear left in a pocket—with the dryer and the—umm…yeah, don’t ask. Mom wasn’t impressed.” Her brow crinkled in that cute way. Light banter, mock thoughtfulness, bubbly and hopelessly endearing. “Juvenile traumas aside, there’s a reason for all of this.”

All of it—the whole show—rolled off of her double like water off a duck’s back. If anything, she looked distracted. “Yes, there is,” she said. “And while I’d love to answer your question, I’m running a little short on time. I need to do this now.”

Buffy turned serious too. “What do you mean?”

Willow suddenly felt so much like an interloper she wanted to hop to her feet and run away. Yes, this was all about her, her interests, her concerns, but it was also about them. They were the important part. Their relationship had obviously been a good one and it was ending. Running away wouldn’t work. They would come after her. Even distancing herself by lying down might be seen as rude, but Willow could pull away. She could turn away, so she did.

“I mean I can’t,” the other Willow replied. “I don’t have time. I’ll do what I can to make things better. I need you to trust me.” A brief pause divided answer from question, adding gravity to her request, “Can you do that?”

The fine blades of grass beside Willow stirred in the breeze. She watched them, touched them, ran her fingers through them as she listened to the back and forth of their conversation in an aloof way—the way you listen to strangers in a restaurant, accidental eavesdropping that blended in with the other sounds. Instead of other patrons talking, dishes clattering, background music…this place had birds fluttering their wings, chirping, chattering; the rustle of leaves; the occasional barks of squirrels; the buzzing of bees; even the croaking of frogs in the distance…

“I want to, but I still need to know why.”

“Why am I in a hurry?” Willow’s double asked, the lilt of her voice mocking the question. Her incredulity vanished. “That’s simple.” She sighed, resigned. “Because I’m dying.” Paused, perhaps for effect. “I have to get back there to fix this. I need to go now.” As if responding to some unseen change, her tone turned sharp. “Look, Buffy, I told you there was a cost. Remember what I did to Giles?”

Willow could easily imagine the unseen. Buffy’s voice cracked, affected, though what she said was plain enough, “Which time? There’ve been lots of times with Giles. There were lots of times with all of us.”

Willow’s double mumbled, “I get that.” It seemed like it was hard for her to continue, like she was ashamed. “The bad time. The one we never talk about.” Avoiding her double’s gaze, Willow gave Buffy a sidelong glance in time to see her nod. She wondered how. She wouldn’t be able to talk about this. She couldn’t even imagine. Somehow her double managed to admit, “Well, I did it again. I didn’t have the power to save you, so I took it. You know I can, so don’t ask. What you really want to know is from whom.”

“Yeah,” Buffy replied, her tone distant and dry.

“D’Hoffryn,” the other Willow confided. “I stole what I needed from his minions.” A hiss of a snicker interrupted her confession. She picked up with barely a pause, sounding more self-satisfied, “Actually, I stole a little more than I needed. I was a teensy bit miffed when he told me ‘no.’ The insufferable old goat gave me the option of joining him or saying goodbye to you. I kind of went overboard. Now I need to fix things before—”

“Before? Before what? Before you explode?” Buffy sounded angry now. Willow supposed it was no wonder. This seemed like something she would’ve done: senseless, filled with emotion, the want for revenge. Her double was flawed too. Knowing this wasn’t helpful, but it was. At the same time it was tummy troubling in the rumbly, bubbly way, it was also like being shown conclusive proof that Buffy could love her, warts and all.

There was a caterpillar in the grass. No hookah. Good sign. It was too fat to climb the spindly, flimsy blades—like hairs, like the earth had hair—but it kept trying. It’d get part way up and the fine, fragile stem would fold. Willow put her fingers in its path, so it would climb up and she could put it on a tree or something. Caterpillars liked trees.

She was flawed and her double was sick, but not dangerous to hear her tell it. Willow didn’t know what to believe. The caterpillar climbed her hand with its funny, tickly feet. She turned it when it reached the edge, giving it something to do, something to strive for, an endless climb. There was a metaphor in there somewhere.

“What I need to do is finish what I started,” her double said. “Go play Typhoid Mary, or that other thing. One or the other—whichever one works out. I’ll know when I get there. I just need you to trust me.”

“You made it work?” Buffy said, decidedly curious, but there was something else about her voice, some small hesitation. Willow wondered what it meant. Although she wanted not to be, she was curious too.

“I did,” her double affirmed. Her tune changed, she turned apprehensive. “And I’d prefer not to debate ethics anymore. It’s a little late in the game for that. I’ve already sent a gift to Wolfram and Hart.” This had been another point of contention. One of many points to judge from the subtle shifts in the conversation. “It’s okay. I know what I’m doing. I understand the implications. I’m going to make things better for the people your Willow loves. No more fighting. No more war. Not our kind, anyway.” It sounded like she was trying to sell a particularly sticky point with the raw power of her charm and the wiliness of her wits. She was a snake oil salesman, purveyor of discount remedies for doomed worlds.

She’d also relegated Willow to an outsider. A possession. Willow didn’t know how she was supposed to feel about any of this, so she tried to feel nothing. This would be over soon. It’d be just her and Buffy. The stigma of ‘interloper’ would shift. She would belong and this other Willow would fade to memory.

“Okay,” Buffy said. “Y’know D’Hoffryn’s going to be ticked off, like more than he already is.”

“I hope so,” the other Willow replied. She seemed pleased by this, as if she’d accomplished something of value in placing this burden on Buffy’s back. A target, more like. D’Hoffryn wasn’t the sort of thing Willow would ever consider pissing off. Just the idea made her nervous.

Her double continued in honeyed tones, “It’ll be okay. Just be careful. He can’t really do anything besides be a pest without another wish. That’s where his power lies.”

Willow wasn’t convinced. She wondered what she was getting herself into.

Chapter Text

This had been such a lovely way to start another lovely day. Not that sleep had been enough of a thing to even blunt the edges of the bone-deep weariness Buffy felt. Not that the day was even starting here…or there, for that matter. Here, it actually seemed to be ending, which was weird. It had been like mid-afternoon, last time she looked. The sun wasn’t quite overhead…in another world. In this one, the western sky had started to take on that pinkish cast that meant nighttime wasn’t far off.

’Kay, so…that was interesting.

Buffy glanced down. She really was naked, not that she could tell with the icky case of teeth-gritting, spine-tingling heebie-jeebies she’d picked up during the other Willow’s latest shenanigans. The current Willow had tipped her off to her condition—what with her own glaring lack of attire and wandering attention. Buffy blew that last part off. She could’ve gone through the tired ‘my eyes are up here’ routine, but—

It’s all good.

Really not. ‘I’m naked’ and ‘that feels funny’ aren’t things that go well together. Not this kind of funny. Her skin was still crawling and her core temp was flashing from hot to cold with the manic tedium of a strobe lamp. She felt sick.

Suddenly conscious that she might be gripping it too hard, she let Willow’s hand fall from hers. The way Willow’s expression drooped after Buffy let go told a totally different story. Buffy curled the right corner of her mouth in a weak half smile as if to show sympathy.

Actually, this kind of funny—with the nakedness, the publicness and the poofiness, not to mention the abruptness—I think I deserve at least a day between each weirdness, preferably a week, and some warning.

She rocked forward, shoved off and sprang to her feet, extending a hand down. She slipped her hand free once Willow was up. Being touched when she felt this bad was just too much. She hoped Willow would understand.

They were in the front yard of their home in another world—hopefully the right world—a few feet, a few stairs and a doorway away from solitude. Solitude went much better with nudity. Buffy strode across the blacktopped driveway—which was unpleasantly warm against her bare feet—to the porch, not quite running, glancing over her shoulder to ask, “You coming?” She turned away as Willow took her first step.

Buffy slipped around the corner, down the stairs, and through the postern door, well aware that she was, ‘oh, joy,’ on camera. There was nothing to be done about it, just go through the biometric checks. Be grateful that biometrics were a thing. Not that long ago they weren’t. Breaking the unbreakable door had gotten her better goodies, which she rushed through, relieved there wasn’t a keycard to hamper her progress anymore.

Willow made it into the small, stone-walled foyer just in time to slip through the inner door behind her. Buffy was happy to be out of the foyer. The damn thing always made her nervous. It was a basically a claustrophobic cell with the charming added function of a killing jar. Fail the checks, screw up bad enough, and the house would bite back.

The place seemed painfully empty, which Buffy supposed was preferable to the alternative. They might’ve landed in yet another world where they were both duplicated again and something was deeply wrong with one or both of their alts. That seemed to be the running theme. Being home was a relief. Things were pretty messed up here too, but they were a more manageable, less gut-wrenching brand of crazy. The trouble was she couldn’t allow herself to feel any comfort or sense of closure. There was just too much else—too much unsettled, too much askew, too much weirdness.

She focused on the emptiness. The generous space made the impression worse. Their home was reminiscent of a penthouse suite with an open floor plan that could’ve been located in any major city. That was the inside. The smooth plaster walls, pale hardwood floors and sparse, yet modish furnishings didn’t hint at the outside, which was more ‘fortress’ than ‘luxury high-rise.’ With thick stone walls and battlements, it looked like a guard tower to complement the castle on the hill.

The views out the ‘windows’ were incongruent in an unexpected—totally expected way. Most were massive video screens, displaying static, directionally apposite views of the surrounding forest. The forest was the thing that was off. No high-rise had a view like this one, except maybe the one at the back wall, which was one of the few actual, real windows. The land behind the house dropped off into a valley, making the view from this part of the room mostly of the horizon, which fit.

It also made a massively slab of bulletproof glass less of a strategic problem to what was obviously intended to be the biggest panic room ever. It was arguably a pretty prison, depending on how you looked at it. Buffy didn’t like to think about that. Those thoughts were up there with the killing jar in her foyer. She had a home of her own that she shared with the person she loved. She would try to be happy if it killed her.

There was another weirdness that barely rated in the shadow of all the other weirdnesses: the floor beneath her feet felt solid in a way that a high-rise building would never be able to pull off. It was all an illusion. Everything. The trick was to allow herself to be dazzled just enough.

She quickly assessed the room, taking it all in. Nothing had changed. Even the mugs they’d been drinking from the night before Team Vengeance decided to play musical Buffys rested on the coffee table undisturbed, and—what with the cream—probably more than a little bit gross.

She veered right, toward the wooden spiral staircase that always reminded her of a giant whirligig. Fittingly enough. Fun had definitely had been had in the bedroom loft. The joke was cute. They’d laughed about it in a past. That was like the furthest thing from her mind today. She was all funned out. She wanted something boring: her robe. From there, she wasn’t even sure. She had no idea what she was doing. The robe was a good start.

Upstairs the bedding was rumpled. It was heartbreaking, like everything had frozen when she left. She went to her wardrobe, took down her frumpy, white terrycloth bathrobe and put it on. When she returned to the railing to look down into the living area, she saw that Willow hadn’t moved. This was the first look Buffy’d had at the whole tattoo. She thought it was striking before from the part she’d seen, but she really hadn’t gotten the full picture. It was so much more—umm…huge than she’d concluded. Seeing it in all of its glory bowled her over. It was pretty. She wasn’t sure about the lack of pubic hair. The path of the tattoo was different too. It was like a conspicuously inconspicuous sign that this wasn’t her Willow. There was just no way…

Willow tried to meet her eyes as Buffy turned away. It wasn’t meant to be a snub. Buffy just figured that Willow wouldn’t want to be naked any more than she had and that she was probably feeling completely out of her element. Buffy went to the other wardrobe to get Willow’s robe and took it to her.

She noted that only the tattoo had made it through the transition. After handing off the robe, she reached up to touch her ears. It made sense that if Willow’s piercings had been stripped of their jewelry, her earrings would be gone too. They were right where they should be. It made no sense. Buffy’s brow tensed. Why had her clothing vanished? It seemed like it’d be all or nothing. And that what happened to one of them should’ve happened to both of them. She quickly decided that what it really made was no real difference at all. A few pieces of jewelry meant nothing, except maybe to her. She liked her earrings. She was glad to still have them.

She grumbled, “I need coffee.” Or a cranial avulsion. Every bit of the discomfort had decided to migrate to her head. At least the hot flashes and creepy-crawlies were over. What was left was just a bad headache.

She turned to make her way to the coffee table, collect the mugs, and carry them into the kitchen. Once they were rinsed and all the ickiness was down the drain, she moved on to playing with the coffee maker. Or at least, that was how Willow had always seen it. Buffy had been fairly certain that a coffee maker should be a simple thing that you added a filter and grounds to, poured water in, and ‘presto,’ it made funny gurgling noises, wonderful smells and yummy, life-giving, caffeinated beverages.

Apparently she’d been mistaken. Willow had located a coffee maker at N.A.S.A. It had to be them. The thing had more widgets and gadgets than a space shuttle. It was like a chemistry set with a boiler. It had always given Buffy headaches—sometimes literally—which pretty much defeated one of the purposes of making coffee.

She glanced over her shoulder. Willow still hadn’t moved. At least she was wearing her robe. The instant nudity had been more than a little bit awkward. Not that Buffy was body conscious. This was just a ticklish sitch. Getting to pick the first time this Willow saw her naked had been a given that had—big surprise—been taken by a surreal set of circumstances. It was nice to get to choose, which is probably why that hadn’t happened.

Buffy gestured for Willow to come, directing her to, “Have a seat.” Instead, Willow took mercy on her. It might’ve had something to do with the shower of powdered coffee beans that had just covered the countertop and part of the floor. Buffy had only tamped the cocoa-like coffee down like Willow had shown her. It had gone badly. The clattering and grumbling even earned her a look. Buffy took a seat at the breakfast bar outside the kitchen warzone, stationing herself to see if this Willow could handle the evil coffee maker too. That’d be a major bonus.

The one real problem with turning coffee into a spectator’s sport was that now Buffy had nothing to do except guilt over what she wasn’t doing. It was that or worry about Willow—the other Willow. Not that the two things weren’t connected. The freakishly obsessive, massively compulsive, scary powerful witch was currently amped up on demon juice and running around in the world behind the mirror doing heaven knew what. It was like a recipe for unnatural disaster that Buffy didn’t want to think about, which of course, meant she was. She was in love, wigged transference to her present situation aside. She should be worried as hell. Loving someone who was predisposed to detonate on crisis wasn’t easy. Like she had any room to talk.

She’d planned on waiting to call the funny farm they called ‘ops’ until she had a cup in hand, but it was time to get moving before she drove herself nuts over the ‘would’ve, should’ve, could’ve’ factor. “I need to call Xander and let him know we’re alright,” she announced, hoping this Willow would have the good sense to offer her an excuse to stall.

She was in luck. As she wearily turned away from the counter, swiveling on her stool, Willow asked, “Did he really flip out over being saved by sushi?”

Buffy couldn’t imagine where that had come from. It made no sense. The witchy summit hadn’t lasted that long. Surely Willow squared would’ve had more important things to confer about. Buffy brushed the reaction off, giving in to the other: she laughed. It had been funny. Mostly. Too funny. “Yeah,” she said. “He’d, umm…” Another weirdness caused her pause. She felt a desire to defend him. Her brow crinkled. She decided to go with it. “He’d been through a lot.” A smile spread across her face as she gave in again. It was one of the single most absurd things that had ever happened to any of them. And that was saying a lot.

Go figure, the entire debacle had occurred as a result of Dawn’s deflowering. There was a certain twisted symmetry to that. Massive public humiliation, buckets of angst and pain to everyone around was the going rate for intimacy in the Summers family.

‘Indignant’ only began to describe Xander’s reaction. Not that he’d had a single thing to do with the thing that had caused the whole thing. He was one of those mostly innocent bystanders. The look on his face had been precious, frameable, a total Kodak moment, not that anyone had thought to take a picture or even had a camera.

They were covered. There were enough video cameras around H.Q. that if somebody really wanted a picture…

Buffy wondered how much Willow really knew. Did she know that Dawn had been cursed?

She’d have to. The other stuff wouldn’t make any sense without that. She’d have to know that Halloween had come early last year and that Dawn had had the coolest costumes ever. She spent the summer doing the Monster Mash. She’d been a giant for almost a month. The logistical problems that had created were impossible to list. It had been a nightmare. Speeding things up to limit the damage was the best Willow could do, which had been a thousand times better than anyone else had done. Even that had been horrible.

The coup de grâce had come the final evening when Dawn changed from a centaur into a gorgon. No one had seen that coming. Satsu and Xander had both been reduced to collateral damage. Or just plain collateral. They made attractive lawn ornaments, except that one thingy.

Willow had come to the rescue again in a way that only someone with her esoteric background could have. She speculated by cross-referencing untold ancient texts that gorgon tears might be the solution. She was right. Dawn was carefully milked and Satsu was cured. But before they could get enough of the precious stuff to cure Xander, Dawn had disappeared.

They’d gotten her back. Buffy didn’t even want to think about how that had gone. She’d ended up with some pretty personal, semi-permanent problems that were only now clearing up. But they’d fixed it. Or Satsu had. She took Dawn because only she could handle her. The cure had made her immune to the gorgon’s stare, among other things. It was a truly twisted time. And Satsu had been brilliant. She fed gorgon Dawn sushi with lots of wasabi. As a solution, that sounded totally harebrained. It was actually really effective. They had a full vial of gorgon tears tucked away now just in case, like that would ever be a problem again. The last thing Buffy wanted to do was play gorgon tag.

She stared just in front of where her hand rested on the charcoal gray marble countertop, which was actually more of a pretty blue despite what the brochure said, wondering if gorgon tears had an expiration date. Other medications did. It seemed reasonable. And it was a much better thing to contemplate than how her right hand had been flayed nearly to the bone. Even if the hand in question was right there, giving her a visual prompt to make with the mulling.

Moments later Willow slid a cup in front of her, completely derailing her pointless mental rambling. It hit Buffy right then, like a bolt from the blue: She isn’t coming back.

That had nothing to do with anything. She should’ve been asking this Willow what she knew. She should’ve been calling ops and telling them that they were okay, like that was even remotely true. She should’ve at least taken a sip of her coffee.

Instead, Buffy sat like a lump certain in the realization and petrified by it. Like some obscure logic puzzle, the pieces just fell into place. Willow—her Willow, the one she’d committed herself to—had wanted her to leave. She’d looked, acted, done everything she’d done just to press the point. The promises she’d made—

A kick in the teeth would’ve been easier to take than that. Buffy felt utterly defeated, drained, useless… Tears clouded her eyes, streamed down her cheeks. She couldn’t even bring herself to wipe them away.

Her Willow had shared her memories with this Willow. Buffy wasn’t even sure if that was possible, but it had to be. The story she’d just gone through in her head would take at least half an hour to tell to a stranger and make them understand. They’d ask questions. It’d be slow going. All told, the Willow squared confab hadn’t lasted much longer than that. It was ridiculous to think that that was all they’d talked about.

The only way this Willow could possibly come up with such an obscure question would be if she knew the whole sordid tale. She’d brought it up to make Buffy feel better. She was trying to engage her. Take her mind off of things. Instead…

Buffy was sure that her Willow had set this Willow up to be the perfect replacement because she had no intention of returning. She didn’t know why she felt so certain. She couldn’t begin to figure it out. Her head felt stuffed full of cotton. Really warm cotton. It was hard to even breathe.

I’m overreacting. I have to be. That’s what this is. This is the worst possible—I’ve snapped to the worst possible conclusion. I’m just tired. I need to sleep. I’ll—

The replacement’s hand rested on her shoulder. Buffy wanted to brush it away. She wanted to run away. She wanted—

Why am I wigging out?

Xander was seated in one of the best spots he knew: the garden courtyard that led into the Hyperion. He stared impassively at the fountain, the little bronze woman with her urn. It was a beautiful day, which was nothing new in Southern California. The spot was shady, cave-like, but with lots of nice indirect sunlight. Sprayer nozzles overhead misted the tropical plants in the beds surrounding the walkway and fountain, taking the edge off the heat and providing near perfect comfort. It was a great place to read a paper, which is what he’d been doing.

The only uncomfortable thing about the spot was the concrete bench. After a while, it got a bit rough on the backside. His butt teetered on the point between prickly nothingness and aching discomfort. He’d been ignoring it, choosing to enjoy the upside, which wasn’t exactly peace and quiet. He was right out in the open. Cars and people passed by beyond the wrought iron gate. Anyone entering or exiting the Hyperion would see him. The funny thing was that they almost never did. He’d come back inside and they’d ask him where he’d been, assuming he’d gone somewhere. It was like the perfect spot to hide without hiding.

So far today had been a bad day for that. First Angel and now Willow. Worse, she’d known exactly where to find him. She sat beside him, for no good reason creeping him out. Not that she was there for no good reason. It was the creep-factor that made no sense. She was totally over her Snow Willow act. It was like he’d imagined the whole thing. He might’ve believed that his Willow had returned if it weren’t for subtle differences, like the fact that she was actually engaging. She smiled. She laughed. She talked with enthusiasm, using her hands to demonstrate as she explained things. It was like some dormant something that made her who she was had been revived. She was suddenly back to her old self. It was spooky.

Of course, deep down, Xander knew better, but he couldn’t help enjoying this blast from the past, which was basically over. She’d gotten down to business, asking him about the vengeance demon not that long ago, but a little too long. He’d squandered his reprieve gawking at the fountain, as blank in the brain as he was in the eyes. She cleared her throat to say something else, causing him to glance nervously.

The illusion she’d spun was dear to him. He couldn’t even begin to explain why. He just knew he had to preserve it. She’d destroy it if he let her open her mouth. He knew that with unerring certainty too. He scrambled to say, “He was an old guy with the personality of a pit bull. Not the Petey type. More like Cujo, only a little less with the ‘I’m going to eat your face off’ vibe.” His brow furrowed. What he’d just said was accurate, but absolutely inane. He’d effectively told her nothing. She knew that the vengeance demon was a crotchety old man now. Really helpful info.

Sighing, he went on, “Yeah, that simile sucked. My point is that he was totally surly and completely the opposite of any vengeance demon I’ve ever—” I’m repeating myself. She gets the point. I, uh…the point is… “I didn’t know. I had no way of knowing. What I did was stupid. I know that, but I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

“It’s okay, Xander. I understand,” she replied, sounding for all the world like she meant it. It bowled him over so hard he almost missed her asking, “Where’d you meet him?

It was the same question she’d asked before reworded. A logical progression in baby steps for the tediously mentally challenged. He should’ve already answered it. “He tends bar at a place called Barnaby Rudge in Covina. I don’t know what his hours are and I didn’t catch his name. I’d know him if I saw him.”

To his surprise Willow chirruped, “No big. I’ll find him.” She sounded confident. So that was that. It was over. She’d find the demon and put things back the way they were. There seemed little doubt of that.

Xander wasn’t sure how he felt about that. On the one hand, he’d have his Willow back. That’d be good. Maybe he’d manage to get her to open up this time. Maybe he’d have the sense to try. On the other hand, he was pretty sure that Buffy wouldn’t be locked up in their basement, Angel wouldn’t be on the rebound and things would be pretty crappy again. It wasn’t good news, but there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it either.

He was about to get up and leave when Willow asked, “Tell me what you know about Buffy. The one here, I mean. Besides the fact that she makes Angelus look like Mr. Rodgers.”

At the mention of the name, a torrent of gruesome images rushed through Xander’s mind, none of them pertinent to the question. He remembered the bodies. That’s all he could remember. His throat felt tight. He coughed, quickly cupping his hand over his mouth. He needed something more, something to jog the morbid montage. He asked, “What do you want to know?” More like ‘squeaked.’ His voice cracked like he was having a second puberty.

If Willow noticed, she didn’t let on. She just redirected. “Where does she hang out? Who does she hang out with? I’d ask her myself, but something tells me she’d be less than receptive. And while it might be fun to make her squeal…”

He had no idea how to answer. It wasn’t like he was going to all of the hottest demon bars looking to spend quality time with any psychopaths. His tastes ran more to Cheers. He said as much, “I’m not sure,” then quickly amended, “I don’t think she hangs out with anyone.” He could answer that with relative certainty. He imagined Buffy’s date book to be a weird mix of facials, manicures and mayhem. Who are we going to mutilate today, Brain?

Willow wasn’t going to give up. He could tell just by how her breath caught. The tensing of her posture he picked up with his peripheral senses. She turned the question again, “Well, I assume you try to avoid her. Where don’t you go?”

“Nowhere.”

It was an honest answer, but she responded by saying his name like she was truly annoyed, punctuating with a sigh.

“I swear, I’m not trying to be difficult,” Xander said in tones just this side of pleading. “I don’t go anywhere. Maybe to a neighborhood bar every once in a while, but—” He wasn’t going to sidestep this. She’d keep at it until she got an answer. And that was if he got lucky. Who knew what this Willow would do if he didn’t? He replied with the first thing that came to mind, “If I had to guess,” and he really, really was, “I’d say she haunts Forest Lawn. I know that sounds crazy. It’s like the one of the most renowned cemeteries in the world. It’s also the closest. It makes a kind of twisted sense. I think it’d appeal to her to hang out in a cemetery that has daily tours. Do nightly performances of Singing in the Rain on Bogie’s grave. She’s just that full of herself.”

“That was Gene Kelly.”

“What?”

“Singing in the Rain.”

“Oh, I thought it was Malcolm McDowell.”

Xander cracked a lopsided grin when Willow turn to glance at him. Their quippy exchange had been good. Almost like old times. She looked amused and bemused both at once. It was funny.

Willow couldn’t understand what had happened. Things had been going okay, or as okay as could be expected. It was a bad situation. That much was easy to work out, but something had changed. She’d opened her mouth and everything had fallen apart. She couldn’t imagine how something so harmless—something so cute, light, funny—had caused the transformation she’d seen. It had been like night and day. All she’d done was call to mind an amusing anecdote that she’d hoped would lighten the mood and storm clouds had moved in.

Buffy was asleep now. Without a word, she’d gotten up, trudged upstairs and fallen into bed. As far as Willow could tell, she still had her robe on. At least, it wasn’t anywhere that she could see. Buffy’s coffee sat on the counter downstairs untouched. It was reasonable to infer that she’d been exhausted—that she hadn’t been ‘in her right mind,’ so to speak. Not that she was insane—temporarily or otherwise—as the phrase implied, but she had been through a lot. She wasn’t responsible for her actions.

Willow wanted so much to blame what had happened on that. She wanted to believe that she wasn’t responsible either—snit happens—but as she leaned back against the rail in the dark, sipping her coffee and watching Buffy sleep, she couldn’t help thinking that she’d said something wrong and screwed everything up. It was her fault. She’d been stupid. She’d ruined everything. Buffy would never want to speak to her again. She’d push her away. She’d finally see the truth: I’m a worthless, sorry excuse for a human being. Everything I touch turns to shit. If Buffy’s smart, she’ll distance herself before I infect her with this—

Tears flowed down Willow’s cheeks. Her face felt sticky. The salt burned her skin. She mopped at the mess aggressively with the sleeve of her robe. She was making too much noise. She’d wake Buffy if she didn’t stop. That’d be just one more reason—

There was really only one place in the house she could go to be alone. The video screens downstairs had dimmed when she turned out the lights. There was barely enough illumination to see by. Willow didn’t really need any. She’d made the walk around the upstairs balcony to her office countless times, though she’d never been here before in her life. The glass rail glinted, refracting cold, muted colors picked up from the monitors as she followed it around to her sanctum, hidey hole, pit, whatever it was.

She was too snuffley to sense the musty smell of knowledge that should’ve all but knocked her down when she crossed the threshold. The room was packed floor to ceiling with bookshelves, all of them full. Some of them too full with smaller books stacked two deep. In other places books laid flat across the tops of books of mostly matching heights. It was bad for them. So was the mess on the research table. It was buried under more of the overflow, stacked nearly as high as she was tall in places. She felt bad about the books on the bottom. It was a horrible thing to do to them, like dog-earing pages or bending spines.

The room had a feel of barely controlled chaos that she really didn’t like. There was just too much stuff. She needed two rooms this size to store it all. That didn’t mean much to her right now, other than that a place where she should’ve been at ease, pricked at her fraying nerves.

She made her way to her desk, set her cup down and turned on the lamp before retracing her steps to shut the door. All of this was done in a haze. She scarcely remembered how she’d gotten there moments later when she returned to her desk to have a seat. She stared numbly through the fog at the blotter on her desktop with its days and dates mapped out, notes scribbled that she remembered, appointments made that she’d kept. But it hadn’t been her.

Tears tickled as they trickled down her cheeks. It was weird—strange that something that hurt so much one way could be so irritating, niggling, like the tag in a shirt. The sensation made her spine crawl. Something vile, powerful, ugly…writhed inside of her. She wanted to scream. But of course she didn’t dare.

Finally, when she just couldn’t stand it anymore, she struck herself. First one cheek, then the other. Hard slaps that stung. She swung wildly. Her face throbbed. She knotted her fingers in her hair and pulled. Her scalp stung too. It stung until it was numb. One thing canceled the other. She felt nothing. From head to toe, her body was rigid, muscles tightened like rubber bands. She sobbed, shaking, letting out one tremulous wail after another. Each breath became a growl, rumbling deep in her chest. The noise lost its meaning. It had no meaning. None of this meant anything. She felt nothing. Rage churned up and out, pouring from her, boiling over, reduced to snot, hot air and tepid brine.

Her hands went limp and dropped into her lap. She slumped. Her attention landed on a cloudy smear of blue ink on her blotter. It was so washed out it looked like watercolor. The number four was still legible. She thought it’d been part of a page number. Something she’d researched. The room was so full of those sorts of notes that she couldn’t remember which one this was or what it pertained to. It didn’t matter.

All that tension had turned to a warm, tingly nothing. Emptiness. Apathy. She felt wrung out, but she was drenched. She looked up, pulled two Kleenexes from the box by her laptop, and wiped her eyes. They barely made a dent. Soggy tissue stuck to her fingers. She shook it off and kept pulling, mopping her face, blowing her nose, wiping her hands until she lost track. Eventually, the mess cycled into the trashcan near her feet. It felt like deconstructing. She shed little bits of herself with each tissue. That was silly.

Her predicament was impossible. What would she do if Buffy decided that she was an inadequate substitute? The idea that she was a substitute at all was just ridiculous in this situation. It was ludicrous to consider replacing someone’s lover, life partner, wife…whatever—especially someone as passionate as Buffy. If Willow’s proposed role was to be something a little more traditional, serving a man to whom she was little more than a domestic serf with benefits, that’d be entirely different. But this? This was just—

How can I even compete?

Willow found herself staring at the phone. She was supposed to be Willow. The Willow she remembered in all those borrowed memories was together enough to at least check in. It wouldn’t be unheard of for Buffy to collapse and not let them know she was okay. She was like that. Willow would handle it. That was how it went. She was the one who kept things together even when everything was falling apart. That was her job. She cleared her throat, picked up the phone and dialed Xander’s extension.

The phone rang. This was another thing she’d done hundreds of times. She knew the number by heart, along with scores of other numbers belonging to people she thought of as ‘friends’ that she’d never met before in her life. This promised to be a running theme for a while, unless Buffy came to her senses and kicked the imposter to the curb.

And maybe even then. Maybe she could explain that she wasn’t who they thought she was. That would go against everything that they’d decided—everything that had been decided for her. She was supposed to slip in, fit in, become someone she wasn’t, infiltrate the slayer enterprise like some sort of secret agent.

Willow was just about to hang up when Xander came on the line. He said, “Hello,” like a normal person.

She opened her mouth to speak. Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat and tried again. “We’re home.” She sounded like hammered crap. The rumbly, scratchy badness was getting old. She cupped her hand over the receiver this time when she cleared her throat. It hurt.

Xander was making the expected noises of concern. He asked, “What happened” and “Are you okay?” along with a few more platitudes she didn’t catch. No doubt they were classics—tried and true in the realm human sympathy.

“We’re fine. I’m fine. I’m just tired,” she rattled off. That last thing was a lie. She couldn’t sleep now if she tried, but it seemed a good excuse.

“Are you sure?” he asked. “You don’t sound fine. Is there anything I can do?”

It was good to hear his voice. And it was his voice. The same vocal tics. The same inflections. This was Xander, even if her Xander was somewhere over the rainbow still in L.A. This Xander was worried about her too. Maybe there’s something to this. Maybe I can get used to it. Maybe I’m wrong.

“Willow?”

A healthy dose of guilt was just the thing. Exactly what she needed. “I’m fine,” she said. Scout’s honor. Cross my heart and hope to die. Pinky swear. All that. Just great. Absolutely peachy. Walking on sunshine. Don’t worry. Be happy. Of course, she’d tried too hard and overplayed the part. She could’ve sold Prozac with that voice.

Xander didn’t buy it. “You sound like you could use some company. Want me to come down?”

The thought of seeing him looking any way other than the last way she’d seen him was too compelling. She answered, “Yes,” without thinking. Maybe. I don’t know.

It was too late. Like it or not, she was going to have company.

Chapter Text

Sneaky I’m not.

Well, almost always ‘not.’ I have my moments. This just isn’t one of them. Mostly because it’d be truly pointless. Maybe even dangerous. Probably foolish. Better to warn the itchy witch that I’m coming than to try to sneak up on her.

Even pretending at sneakiness seemed like a bad idea. As a result, Xander’s approach sounded like a small stampeding herd of bison, or at the very least, one excessively nimble Shetland pony capable of walking on its hindquarters. He threw in a Frisbee for the equestrian acrobat to balance endwise on its nose for the sake of richness of imagery.

In a perfect world, the roar of a v-eight engine would’ve replaced his Clydesdale clomp, accompanied by the disorienting glare of flood lamps. The shriek of shredding tires would’ve followed, along with gouts of smoke. Extinguishing the lights would’ve left the Weird Sister effectively as blind as Destiny for a few moments, during which his jackboots would’ve hit the ground with a whisper, not a thud. His stealthy, super-ninja-self would’ve stolen up to Broom Wilda and disarmed her with a smile. Which by then she would’ve seen—what with the temporariness of the blindness.

Unfortunately, he’d left the Rover at the driveway’s end. But only because the truck—with its large, unwieldy turn radius—was a pain in the butt to maneuver in the tight area in front of the house. Staying on the asphalt was nearly impossible and leaving it had always earned him lumps. Experiencing that kind of ‘damned if he did, damned if he didn’t,’ catch-22 quandary before he even reached the house was just—

Well, it was pretty trivial, but no less ridiculous. Being reduced to a sticky spot on the tarmac over parking wasn’t part of his evening plans. Which is exactly why I’m here.

Or mostly exactly. Someone needs to be here and I have a documented deftness when it comes to disarming twitchy witches. The fact that history exists past May of two-thousand-two is proof. Better me—the experienced one—than any of the girls. Slayery slickness only goes so far. Fact is, I stand less chance of getting gooshed.

Light reflecting from stone shown at the end of the tunnel formed by the boughs of trees. He was getting close. Mingled with the chitter-chat of critters—creepy-crawly, winged and furry—was a soft breathy trill. He stopped to listen. It was Willow. It had to be. No critter sounded like that. She was either laughing or crying. It was easy to guess which, if he discounted the idea that Willow might be crazy. A sane Willow would be crying.

The forefront of his mind was perfectly willing to settle for that. It was a reasonable conclusion. It would’ve suited him just fine to go on thinking that had it not been for the lowdown, dirty, wicked, tricksome, conniving, undermining, cynical, sardonic, party-pooping part of his mind. That niggling, nagging, annoying, backward part was sure that he was doomed.

He took a jerky step. So, how’d I get sucked into this?

Oh, that’s right. I volunteered—with the gooshing. Am I just—?

Yeah. Yeah, I am. But she asked me to come and she’s waiting outside. Invitations don’t get much clearer than that.

Slower than before, he traipsed toward the house. His feet moved like he was slogging through a marsh. The tunnel vision, courtesy of the rural setting, added to the Apocalypse Nowish mood. But even with the dramatic hesitation, it didn’t take him nearly long enough to trudge the last few dozen meters.

Willow had to know he was there, but she gave no sign. Other than the slight shuddering her—now verified—weeping caused, she didn’t move an inch. She sat on the glider, hunched over with her hands clasped above the bend of her bare knees. Wearing only a bathrobe, she was a little underdressed for company. That, as much as anything else, held Xander back. He positioned himself as close to her as he could, without invading her territory, by climbing onto the porch and leaning against the left pillar that framed its entrance.

Well, at least her hair’s red. That’s good news, right?

Right. Okay, so…now what?

I could say something really stupid. I’m good at that. Maybe make her laugh. Maybe make her mad.

Yeah. Let’s not. ‘ We can't all be lion tamers.’

So, how ’bout something tactless? Something like, ‘Are you alright?’ when she so obviously isn’t. That’d work. Or I could ask…

“What’s wrong?” Outright prying seemed pretty darned tactless, if not exactly stupid. Funny, that’s what most people go with. They call it ‘showing concern.’

And I am concerned. There’s lots of concern here. Concern and a healthy amount of fear.

When, after several moments, Willow hadn’t answered, Xander resorted to the truly tactless, “Are you okay?” That got him a snuffle. It was progress of sorts. Not exactly the sort of sign that said he was poking a sleepy bear with a sharpened stick. He said her name, questioning, hoping she’d snap out of it without snapping anything else in the process, most specifically him.

Willow didn’t lift her head, but she did mumble, “Yeah, uh—” and sputter, “I—” and gasp, before finally arriving at something sensey, “I don’t belong here,” that wasn’t very sensey at all, but at least it was a complete, quasi-coherent sentence.

“Wha—?” he gasped. “What do you mean?” Her hair hid all but the lowest parts of her face. He watched her mouth, what he could see of it, willing it to move, wanting some clarification.

After a time, she licked her lips, took an unsteady breath and answered, “I meant what I said. I don’t belong here.” Unfortunately, her answer was no answer at all, just a reassertion.

At least, patience wasn’t a problem. Xander wasn’t tired, and—other than the obvious, wiggy-witchy-woman-induced apprehension, with its potential for smiting—he was in a pretty good mood. “I think I’m going to need you to back up,” he said in his best gently probing tone. “Maybe start at the beginning. Or somewhere close. Add some details. Any would help.”

Willow looked up, looking perfectly Willowy, if not a little soggy. Funny thing, she said, “I’m not who you think I am.” When Xander returned a perplexed stare, she went on, “I’m from the other place—the one where Buffy went. I’m not the Willow you know. She was scary. She wanted me to replace her. She gave me her memories. I’m not your Willow.”

“Oh,” he gasped, catching up and immediately flashing on the doppelganger in their past. “You aren’t a vampire, are you?”

A wry grin flashed like a glimpse of sunlight. It warmed Willow’s face and was gone. “No,” she said, sounding world-weary. “Not me. Not this time.”

“So why did Willow stay? Did she say? Is she—?” The questions that flowed out broke off as Xander observed the changes they wrought. His heart softened like crackers in soup, minus the icky pastiness. He was demanding answers of someone who was confused and frightened. Someone who’d been thrown into a role she didn’t know how to fill. More significant still, he was making demands of someone he cared for who was in pain. Or thought he knew her—everything about her set off feelings of fondness and familiarity. Those impressions would have to do. She needed help, not interrogation.

Her eyes closed. Tears leaked out, trickling down her cheeks as she implored, “I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m doing here. I can’t replace her. I—” A shuddering breath squelched her frantic voice. Before Xander could interrupt to tell her it was okay, she found her voice, collected her thoughts, or whatever. “Buffy went to sleep. She acted like I’d done something wrong. I don’t know what to do. She doesn’t love me. She loves…”

Conflicting impulses and emotions whirled through Xander’s head as Willow trailed off. He wanted to sit down beside her and put an arm around her, but he couldn’t seem to move. He wanted to ditch the bleeding heart and see her as an intruder. She’d said it herself: she wasn’t his Willow. The appropriate reaction would be something like revulsion, maybe a little anger tossed in for good measure. He couldn’t feel either, not with her all vulnerable and bawling her eyes out. She really had been handed the crappy end of the stick. That emotion stuck. He really was a big old softy after all.

That settled, his feet finally decided to work. He walked up to her, kneeled at her feet and put his hand over hers. When she looked up, he said, “That’s not true,” convinced he was right. It seemed right. He’d felt sympathy just that fast. Willow’s fingers felt soft and warm under his. She turned her hand, taking his.

“The last thing Buffy wants to do is hurt you,” he explained, giving voice to his thoughts. “Which ‘you’ doesn’t so much matter. I wouldn’t have known you weren’t you without the heads up. The story is just too—” He managed to stifle an inappropriate chuckle, but amusement still edged his voice. “Well, maybe ‘too bizarre’ isn’t the way to put it. We’re pretty much magnets for the bizarre. I think I’ve been bizarre-proofed. My point is that you act like you. You’re too obviously you. She won’t last long once she sees that what she’s doing is hurting you.” He allowed himself a quirky half-smile, knowing it was filled with compassion.

Poor soppy, soggy, extremely Willowy, displaced Willow smiled too.

“Give her some time,” he said with complete conviction. “She’ll come around.” He very nearly had, and in only a few minutes.

Whitewashed adobe walls, hued tawny by a sunset dense like a sky full of sorbet, framed double wooden doors set into an arched alcove. To the right of the doors, a wooden sign trimmed with old timey scrollwork hung suspended on a wrought iron bracket perpendicular to the façade, announcing the establishment to be ‘Barnaby Rudge.’ Everything except the sign was exactly the opposite of anything conjured in Willow’s imagination by the name. Where was the clapboard construction, the leaded glass, the slate roof?

The Jamba Juice just down the street didn’t help much either. Nor did the palm trees gently swaying in the arid breeze, but this was Southern California. She’d expected to have to overlook that much. She suspected that there wasn’t much hope of finding a raven here either. Let alone a raven capable of proclaiming itself the devil. The only thing that might still hold true is the idiot as a central character.

The whole ‘gently rapping,’ ‘chamber door’ spiel she’d worked up in transit—racking her brain to remember snippets from The Raven by Poe—was pretty much blown unless she was up for playing out a parody. It had somehow seemed more relevant then. Anything that kept her mind off what had happened seemed relevant then. Now, not so much. Oh well.

“Open up,” she mumbled while rapping on the door, voice and patter both magically augmented to sound ominous, not bored. Or at least louder. Keeping that part of her plan seemed reasonable, if not efficient. Although the truly efficient thing would’ve been just to go inside. The fact that the door was locked was hardly a problem. All this pretense to alert the pesky demon was just that. It was the witchy equivalent of a letter from the I.R.S. It really didn’t matter what he did, she was going to exact her pound of flesh. The only matter left to debate was how flashy did she want said ‘flesh exacting’ to be.

She was starting to favor ‘pretty darn flashy’ when Old and Crusty bellowed, “Piss off! We’re closed!” He had one of those voices that seemed made from screaming, or maybe smoking, or in some way abrading his vocal chords. Anyway, his bellow sounded painful and really grumpy. Degrumpifying the tetchy sexagenarian sounded like a plan.

So, flashy had it…something really, really witchy like blowing the door off its hinges—with a hail of wooden shrapnel and big boomy sounds.

The only problem was the steady flow of traffic. It didn’t work so well with her intent. Ending up on the evening news wasn’t a good idea. She could’ve gotten fancy. Cast an illusion. Hidden the mayhem. She could’ve made do. It just wasn’t worth it for one piddly, attitudinal demon, so she went with the sneaky brand of showy—the ‘poof,’ ‘I was here, now I’m there’ brand of showy. At least, appearing from out of nowhere seemed showy to her. It seemed like the demon should’ve been startled. If he was startled, he didn’t stop picking his teeth long enough to show it. Jeez. I should’ve added the cheesy, fakey pyrotechnics. Maybe that would’ve gotten his attention.

“Whatdaya want, witch?” the demon grumbled.

Willow was a little surprised to feel some sense of recognition as she stared across the generic expanse of gloomy, wood-toned barroom. Xander hadn’t alluded to that—maybe he just hadn’t seen it—but to her the old man looked a little like a Caucasian Redd Foxx in his role as Fred Sanford, including wardrobe with the plaid shirt, suspenders and Dickies. He was a little paunchier and his hair was a little thinner and—obviously—straighter, but otherwise….

For one fleeing moment feelings of something akin to nostalgia softened her heart. Then she decided this was utterly irrational and swept into a bounding, blur of forward motion. This thing was a vengeance demon, not an old man. She could feel it.

While in transition, she removed her necklace. It was the one thing she actually had on that wasn’t conjured. As a result, it and her hair were the only things affected by the sudden burst of speed. She suspected it looked freaky. It was difficult to say from the demon’s reaction. He looked shocked out of his skivvies, but would’ve looked that way anyway—what with being slammed into the liquor cabinet behind him by a hundred pounds of seething witch. The shocked look was the last look he’d wear. The fist that held the pendant plunged past layers of flannel, ribbed cotton and flesh into the demon’s chest.

Willow had been having enough trouble controlling what she had to want the power herself. Instead, she siphoned the demon’s essence into the pendant. Her theory seemed plausible.

The print had begun to blur again. Giles blinked to put it back into focus, not that the affectation bore any effect, negative or positive. He’d long given up trying to concentrate on the page. The words had forfeited their significance to flights of downhearted rumination. The book had once again been reduced to a prop that, with any luck, would inform the others he was otherwise engaged.

He’d been trying to convince himself their situation wasn’t all that bad. He repeatedly returned to the opinion that what Willow had alluded to in their brief time together had sounded harmless enough. He chided himself that he should find the fact that she wished to help encouraging. In fact, he should be thrilled that anyone cared enough to put themselves at risk in order to come to the aid of a group of people so abjectly damned by fate. Sadly, he was too pessimistic for any of that to stick.

Instead, her potential maneuverings had made him uneasy. And with good reason. Her past experiments had been intriguing, if often traumatic. She had a gift for taking what might otherwise have been simple personal matters and turning them into elaborate fiascos. Memories of blindness and amnesia flitted through Giles’ mind. He wryly admitted that both states would no doubt dramatically improve his current situation.

Of course, his many musings assumed that the doppelganger’s past bore a resemblance to the experiences of her native self. But what other assumption could he have made? It came down to a simple matter of believing that he knew something or admitting he knew nothing at all. The former choice seemed the more attractive of the two.

Giles had hesitated to speculate how she might handle a severe issue that affected a large number of people. The one example he had of that was the working she’d done to empower the potential slayers. That had been propitiously successful; a fact that had failed to hearten him so far. Regrettably, he had to admit that that particular spell had also led them to the turmoil they now faced. Though, in fairness, that had happened through no fault of hers. Still, he’d found it difficult to separate the myriad consequences from any of their actions. One thing had, after all, led to another. Who was he to say that they weren’t inextricably linked to the spell in some way? There was always a price exacted for elaborate magical workings. The greater the payoff, the more devastating the penalty. There was little doubt that—

Movement in the doorway drew his attention. Angel was there with his knuckles to the open door. He rapped lightly, unnecessarily, to announce himself. Giles supposed that he should find the gesture complimentary. This was after all his office. He assumed it had been Angel’s office before him. The concession was undoubtedly courteous. But when Angel opened his mouth to ask, “Is there something going on that I should know about?” any positive effect it had had was negated.

“Not that I can think of,” Giles replied, commanding a cordial tone from his ire. At that moment he wasn’t even certain why Angel’s question had angered him. He merely wished his guest would bugger off. Perhaps find somebody else to bother.

As the vampire explained, droning on—bemoaning Willow and her unexpected plurality, coupled with what he deemed unusual behavior; Wesley and his injury; Xander and his awkwardness, which Angel imagined to be some attempt at subterfuge; Illyria and her aloofness, combined with what Angel perceived as an unusual fixation on the injured Wesley—Giles only half listened. Nevertheless a pattern emerged. It became clear that Angel’s complaints were all bollocks. So far as Giles could ascertain, no one was behaving unusually, except for the alternate Willow. And wasn’t that to be expected?

Giles suspected that the real issue was that Angel was no longer in control. All of these people were running around doing things that hadn’t been demanded of them. Giles imagined that all of this rampant freewill expressing itself must be quite upsetting to an ego-maniacal mastermind. It was a position that garnered Angel no sympathy. The final straw dropped when he broached the topic of Buffy.

“We should question her,” he said, fixating on the cabinet that housed the displays that monitored their prisoner. “She might know—”

“Nonsense!” Giles erupted, sending Angel into stunned silence. “What you really want to know is that you still have some say in how things will proceed. I’m afraid that, even if I cared to, I couldn’t offer you that sort of reassurance.”

Angel huffed, “That isn’t—”

“It is,” Giles insisted, now thoroughly peeved. “That’s essentially what you’ve been saying. Up until today you were the chief muckety-muck over at Lucifer’s Lapdogs, Attorneys at Law. Now you’re just a befuddled, rather boorish vampire with an aching conscience and innumerable sins. Were I capable of altruism, I might consider coddling you. I’m not. Consequently, you’re rather low on my list of priorities.” Sometime during his rant, Giles had risen from his desk and craned over it, resting his weight on his palms as if coiling to pounce. He righted himself, tugging at his jacket to straighten it before he switched tack, “Do you realize that we have a witch of extraordinary power primed to—?”

“Giles, I—” Angel tried to interject.

“No,” Giles said, “You will listen to me. If you really want to make a contribution, you might consider how to deter Willow. The last time I faced her in a similar state, I was imbued with the power of an entire coven. She came within inches of ending my life.”

Angel had progressed forward, obviously intent on the scene playing out on the monitors. Giles glanced to see what held his attention. Buffy was still strung up tight as an E-string, spread like a tuning fork, just like her doppelganger had left her. Nothing had changed. She even affected the same defiant glare.

Giles stepped around the desk to stop Angel short before he picked up his thought, “The only thing that stopped her from killing me outright was another distraction. In my drained and bloodied state, I was no longer of sufficient interest. I slipped her mind. She moved on to something else.” Realizing he sounded moderately self-absorbed, Giles arrived at his point, “That afternoon she came within an ace of triggering an apocalypse. Perhaps you heard about that?” He paused to await acknowledgement.

With some reluctance, Angel nodded. “Alright,” he drawled. His Neanderthal brow knitted. “Look, maybe I’m missing something, but I just don’t see it. You’re saying that Willow’s a threat? I mean, Xander claimed she ‘melted’ Marcus Hamilton. I s’pose that could be seen as threatening. It might also be the best thing that’s happened all year. But I thought it was just some sort of bizarre innuendo. I wasn’t sure. That was true? He meant that literally?”

“Yes,” Giles replied, adopting a casual pose with his right hand and hip planted against his desk. “Xander was correct, to a point. She reduced Marcus Hamilton to something that resembled a discolored, deflated balloon. ‘Melted’ is an apt, if not awkward, description. Very much the sort of thing I’ve come to expect from Xander. The remains weren’t runny, as that term implies. In fact, they were flattened and appeared to contain the same volume as before, which makes my description somewhat dubious as well. Suffice it to say, Mr. Hamilton’s dancing days appeared to be over.”

It was good to see that Angel received the news with appropriate portions of slack-jawed incredulity and silence. His reaction afforded Giles the latitude to proceed. “As to the rest, I have no idea. I believe it’s possible. Willow certainly has sufficient power to pose a problem.” He paused to collect his thoughts, filling the vacancy by clearing his throat and shifting his weight. “We mustn’t overlook the fact that she found her way to our world. That was no small matter. I assume her method of travel was raw, brute force—something which only the more powerful demons are typically capable of. Otherwise, making such an incursion could be quite tedious. Merely locating the correct terms in order to begin the search for the appropriate portal spell could represent years of research.”

It occurred to Giles that there was something missing from his analysis. He rushed to put it into words, “Even that fails to take into account how she located the Buffy from her reality in the first place. Searching for a single individual throughout all of creation would be a daunting task. I have only the vaguest of notions how one would go about it. She successfully completed her objective in a handful of days.” These were hardly the actions of a gawky, scatterbrained girl. Depending on her motivations, this might be a cause for optimism that he’d overlooked until now.

The only sign Angel had made to indicate whether he was following was a sustained air of pensiveness that had come about as his surprise faded. Giles took that for interest, and after a short pause, resumed his explanation, “I suppose it’s no surprise that this incarnation of Willow has disarmed any physical threats with alarming ease. She treated the Buffy from our realm as if she were a ragdoll. We certainly have reason to be wary. Still, I believe we should hear her out. She claims to have our best interests at heart. Should those sentiments prove genuine, she could become a formidable ally. Conversely, should it become necessary to stand in her way….” There was no need to explain that the outcome would be very messy indeed.

Angel summed the trouble up concisely. “That wouldn’t be good.” His manner then turned introspective. “I don’t need to explain who Marcus Hamilton is, do I? What he represents? Why I assumed Xander was making a joke?”

“No,” Giles replied smartly. It was no mystery to him that the creature Willow had flattened was a very powerful demon. And that her actions would doubtless irk the overlords of Wolfram and Hart. He wasn’t exactly looking forward to the backlash. The deep, slow breath he took in an effort to master his anxiety came out a sigh. “I’ll gratefully accept any suggestions you have should things turn ugly. Until then….”

“Until then, it sounds like all we can really do is wait,” Angel concluded as he turned to leave.

He was halfway to the door when Giles replied, “Precisely.” He almost let Angel go, but Giles felt it would remiss of him not to offer a few words of caution. “Oh, and, Angel,” he said, causing the vampire to linger in the doorway. “You do know that, if you attempt to interrogate Buffy, the last thing she’ll be is agreeable? Of all people, you should understand the subtleties of that game. Trusting her to offer you anything but lies and grief would be pure folly.”

Angel turned to show his profile, capitulating with a curt nod.

Willow wondered if it hurt when Angel lost his soul. She assumed it did, mostly because she did. She imagined the ache in her chest, the sensation of bleeding—of losing something—some vital part. Disconnected, floating away, venting life. Just that little hiss, without any other interference, caused her to spin. Air, like her soul, leaking out, contained in a body adrift, whirling out of control.

It was all terribly melodramatic. She wasn’t losing her soul. Her soul was the part that hurt. She was sure of it. She could probably shed the offending part if she wanted to. There had to be some trick—a way to tear away the tattered remnants of conscience and caring without vamping out.

She’d be a monster either way. Being a less ouchy monster held a certain appeal.

No. She was better off stuck with the tender, battered thing. It would continue to sting, like a bone caught in her throat. She wouldn’t spit it out. She’d spend the rest of her days choking on it, in pain, leaking from all of her pores.

Still too dramatic.

She wiped her eyes and opened them. It was useless. All she’d managed to do was make her fingers wet. Warm air blew in off the water, caressing her skin with its briny tendrils, chilling her hands and her slick cheeks, making her shiver. But maybe that was just everything else. She wasn’t cold.

A sliver of the sun peeked above the breakers, blurry, or maybe blurrier. Viewed from underwater. Under tears. The sunset had richened from the pastels of sorbet to a deeper shade of pink, darker than strawberry ice cream, with shades of bright red like a maraschino cherry near the horizon. Bloody colors. Blood wicked through pink gift box tissue. Blood and tissue. Brains spattered across the sky. But she didn’t want to think of it that way. Better to stick with something sweet and yummy. She should think happy thoughts. This was such a beautiful place. Water beat the rocks around her, lapping like the tongue of an overly friendly dog.

She still wasn’t sure why she’d come here. It reminded her too much of Buffy. She wondered if Buffy had gotten to visit the coast while she was here. This was one of the things she loved best about California. Willow would’ve rather it had been her, but that was unlikely. Buffy had been busy.

Oh, Buffy. What am I going to do?

Why? What did it matter? It was done. Willow’s mind was made up, but she still wasn’t sure. She wanted it to be over. No more oceans. No more sunsets. No more stars. But it still hurt. She wished that her life was like a scab she could tear away. Something mercifully fast. Something that once she’d started, she couldn’t stop. A point of no return. Simple. Quick. To the quick. Neat. ‘Poof,’ no more Willow.

She could do that, but then everything she’d done would be meaningless. She needed to see this through. That or stop. Hit the reset button.

No.

The fact that she could—that she might start over—was making her crazy. She didn’t want to start over. Starting over would be bad.

Coward.

She looked down at her palm, where the faceted piece of aquamarine lay. The pendant was pretty. Caught in the last remnants of light, caught in her tears, it glistened. Rainbows refracted. All she had to do was destroy it—crush the tiny rainbows—and everything would go back to the way it was. She’d wake up in bed with Buffy. None of this would’ve ever happened. She knew it.

Not that she really knew it. It was speculation at best based on a flippant comment Anya had made about being tied down by a piece of jewelry, getting married, all of that. It was a ‘timing’ thing. Willow put it together from bits that she’d read and what she knew. She was sure, even if she couldn’t be certain.

It made a certain sense that D’Hoffryn would have a way to leash his problem children—a way to siphon off their essence and store it, just like Willow had done. Admittedly, her method wasn’t quite as tidy, but it had still worked. She could feel the power pulsing in the gem. Extinguish the power, unravel the essence, and reset—

Reset everything. Erase all of the horror, except the most obvious. The horror that was her. What she’d done. What she could do.

Or it might just be a happy placebo. Something to salve a wound.

She didn’t want to know.

The Willow from here might be broken, but so was she. The Willow from here might be many things, but at least she wasn’t a monster. Buffy was better off with her. It’d hurt for a while, but in the long run….

Willow needed to be strong. She had to go on. She was too broken to go back. It wouldn’t be fair to Buffy to expect her to take her back, not after what she’d done. Whatever else she became, she’d always be the person who was capable of—

She could help the people here. She could do something noble with her lack of boundaries—with her lust for power.

Or she could be selfish.

Chapter Text

Willow remembered the feeling of security a fewish centimeters of wood and some teensy dabs of glue could bring. It seemed silly to her now. An illusion. Such a funny thing, she mused, touching the smooth painted surface. People think this is what protects them.

The wood hummed faintly. Her senses extended to probe the energy that vacillated beneath her fingertips. It was a remarkable working: an invisible barrier built of love, amity, a sense of family, loyalty, trust—humanity in all its myriad grace. It gave her hope that Buffy would be okay. The wards her double had created were beautiful, elegant things.

She knocked. Her current situation amounted to role reversal of a particularly eloquent kind. A part of her hoped that Xander would perceive her as some sort of leering fiend.

Okay, so…maybe not ‘leering.’ She was way too depressed to get her leer on. Still, better she be outside the wards, outside the door, unable to enter. If he somehow managed to find the smarts to leave it that way, she wouldn’t have to—

He called out in restrained tones, “Who is it?” and she answered him. From there he failed utterly. His great big heart had him tripping across the room in a series of audible thuds. He didn’t even ask what she wanted. The silly boy just turned the key and opened the door. The ward fell with a faint, audible pop, like the touch of static.

Willow stared bemused, which was so much sillier than Xander or the flimsy door, because his great big heart was exactly why she was there. She just couldn’t believe how little it had taken. He saw her. He knew what she’d done to Hamilton. He’d been totally wigged out, which was a legitimate reaction. A few hours later she’d smoothed the whole thing over with a first rate illusion and a little mindless chitchat.

He’d said something. She knew she’d missed it to look at his face. In the past few moments, he’d gone from bubbly, ‘happy to see you’ to curious to concerned. He was just getting around to snapping his fingers or something like that, something attention getting. It was safe to assume he’d gotten around to asking after her intentions. The time had come to get this over with. It’s the right thing to do.

Maybe if I tell myself that enough times, it’ll help.

Rushing forward in a figurative sense, she reached down, found the chain and removed the pendant from around her neck. Xander’s brow furrowed when she held out her hand to show him the three carats of aquamarine, facetted in a teardrop shape, set in a delicate gold prong mount. She enfolded the pendant in her hand and turned it over as if to give it to him.

“Umm, I really don’t have anything that’ll go with that, Will,” he said, eyeing her hand.

A smirk quirked one corner of her mouth. He had a point. The necklace was a little girly. She hadn’t cared what it was. It had been available and of sufficient capacity to hold the essence. Those were the only things that had mattered. Beggars, choosers—that sort of thing.

He cared only because he hoped to make her smile. He was predictable like that. This was the right thing to do. He’d do the right thing even if she failed to.

Her smile faded into something sobering. It hurt to say, “Take it,” but she did, even if her voice did crack a little. Her throat had drawn tight. As she tried to clear it—a totally futile act that almost left her choking—he held out his hand. She dropped the tiny trinket there. Its loss left a cold spot in her chest. Her hand felt unusually, absurdly empty. Her palm itched. She willed herself to speak. She had to explain. “I need you to hold onto that for me. Be careful. Put it somewhere safe.”

His intuition kicked in. He asked, “What is it?”

Buffy.

Something inside Willow’s chest caved. Her heart dropped into the void it left and kept falling.

She didn’t say that. She couldn’t speak the name. Instead, she gathered her resolve. “It’s insurance,” she replied, her voice unsteady. She cleared her throat again. Her mind writhed, spewing out the same phrases over and over: I’m sorry. I can’t.

Xander had started to back away. If he took the charm into his room, it’d all be over. He’d lock the only means of change behind his door, behind the ward and—

This is the right thing to do.

Willow clamped her eyes shut, quieting herself again to gather her resolve. It took several moments of careful breathing and intent focus to calm her mind.

She met his wary eyes. “That’s how you fix this,” she said, sounding a whole lot better, saner. She backed away, moved on, the words pouring from her, “If I do something—if I can’t—if things go bad—if something goes wrong, break the stone. It’ll put things back the way they were before the wish. It’ll undo what you did. I—” Her back hit the opposing door, stopping her cold. “I can’t be trusted.”

She stepped forward and Xander shrank back. She supposed he expected her to rush him. She didn’t. She wouldn’t have needed to. All it would’ve taken was a single thought, an ounce of focus. She found the idea—its recognition—horrifying. Broken, beaten, she turned to walk away, back down the hall.

“I have things to do. Keep that safe,” she said. The words came out weak and breathy, like she was winded.

It was the right thing to do.

It wasn’t clear whether anything had happened at the Hyperion. No one was talking. Nothing had changed. Angel wasn’t certain whether Buffy had done anything herself, though the Law of Averages suggested that on any day with a name ending in ‘y’ she probably had. She was just that industrious. Goal oriented. A real go-getter. He took a chance and hedged, “What happened here? What’d you do?”

She’d been watching him like a hawk since he entered the room—a smug, superior, malevolent, bloodthirsty hawk. Her eyes narrowed, crinkling at the corners. She threw her head back and laughed with reckless abandon. The sound resonated against the stark concrete walls like peals of tinkling bells. It was interesting to see someone in so desperate a situation exude such confidence. Locked in a cell, her arms and legs chained and splayed. Her feet weren’t even touching the ground. All of her weight rested on her wrists. Steel shackles bit into her skin. Irregular runnels of blood striped her forearms, some dry, rusty, crusty and flaking; some a vibrant shade of scarlet.

He remembered how that had been as the blood worked against him, causing him shame for his weakness. He’d departed that position only hours before she’d shown up and taken his place. The cell had barely had time to cool. His demonic half had reacted the same way to the anguish.

Her head lifted. She wore a radiant smile that hurt him to see. That smile had used to mean something very different from what it did now. “I brought you a present,” she cooed. “Something you’ve always wanted, whether you were man enough to face it or not.”

Chills slithered down Angel’s spine. He cringed in sympathetic horror. Turnabout was fair play, but this— He’d never— It’d never—

Her charm slipped, the sex appeal soughed off, soured, rotten. She sneered, “Willow ruined the surprise. Meddling bitch.”

“What?” The question had been reflexive. He damned himself the second the syllable slipped out. This wasn’t going well. Giles had been right. She was playing him. The idea made Angel nervous. Whatever she’d done, it’d been designed to hurt him. There were only so many ways….

“I should go see Dawn,” she drawled lazily, sounding tired, or bored. “See how she’s getting along. Do the same for myself. Family’s alright, but when they’re some sort of abomination conjured from who knows what….”

His, “What?” echoed hers. The same thing had slipped out again with a vehement edge and a thirst for violence. He had been helpless to stop it. Shock and fear assaulted his senses. He knew what she was driving at. Her hints just weren’t that thickly veiled. Knowing what she meant and believing it was true were two different things. He had to be wrong. There had to be some sort of misunderstanding. She had to be yanking his chain. He couldn’t—

Buffy watched intently, allowing his emotions to fester. Angel opened his mouth to ask—well, he wasn’t sure what he was going to ask. He hadn’t worked that part out. He just knew he needed to ask something. The silence—her staring—it was making him crazy. Suddenly, she was saying, “It was beautiful. Perfectly pathetic, a cheap imitation, an extra brought in for his one real skill: he squealed like a little girl. I barely touched him and he sniveled. I crushed him. It wasn’t hard. He died groveling, mewling…”

“Liar!” The pronouncement left Angel’s mouth with a wave of fury. Heat surged though him. His muscles snapped tight like bow strings. She was talking about Connor. His child. His son. His mind reeled. He couldn’t—

“But why would I lie about that, lover?” she purred. “What could I possibly hope to gain?”

My god. Her haughty little smirk said she wasn’t. She was dead serious. There was something in his hand. Then there wasn’t. It was gone. Its absence puzzled him more than its presence. It had been such a solid object, smooth and cylindrical. The sensation of it touching his skin, shaping his flesh, lingered. Then her face spider webbed with cracks, like an old ceramic doll, and he looked down.

This wasn’t going well at all. These people were such insufferable do-gooders. It was revolting. Willow’s actions over the past few moments had left D’Hoffryn aghast and desperate for another drink. He was behind in the game, two stiff belts in the hole. One for each unfathomable action had built up quite a pile of debris. A row of dead soldiers, drained of their ‘Hedonism,’ lined the back of his liquor cabinet. He’d had to call Lloyd to restock so often, his assistant had grown weary and brought several cases.

D’Hoffryn sighed, stooped down and drew another bottle from his dwindling reserves as he stood. His head swam a little. He pushed the latest empty away to join its fellows. His hand wavered as he poured three fingers into a crystal tumbler. He didn’t spill a drop and the glass didn’t overflow. He was doing alright, pleasantly desensitized, a little wobbly. He raised the glass of amber liquid, peering through it into the darkened distance of his cavernous home for a moment, before he tossed it back. He topped his glass again and repeated the process. The smooth Scotch whisky warmed all the way down, something agreeable in a sea of unpleasantness.

The bottle came with him when D’Hoffryn staggered to his chair. He replenished his glass before taking his seat. Doubtless the game would claim it shortly, another moron would do the right thing, or at very least, something profoundly dumb. That appeared to be these people’s common defining trait. He couldn’t imagine how they’d lived this long. It seemed to him that all lemmings eventually found one dilly of a drop. Yet somehow these fools had managed to sidestep not only the cliffs but nearly every minor furrow. It was like those commercials with that irritating pink windup bunny beating its little drum. He smirked. Anyanka had used to flail about over those, driven nearly to—

D’Hoffryn’s mouth dropped open. He’d just cast an absent glance down at the scrying pool near the base of his chair. What he saw made him cackle with delight. The vampire lovers were having a spat. He wasn’t even certain what had enticed him to look in on Pollyanna’s evil twin—she was awfully boring strung up like she was—but he sure was glad he had.

The tiny blonde had a thick dowel sticking out of her chest. That was bound to leave a mark. Lover boy stared at her in horror, which was funny considering it had to have been him who’d done the deed. There was no one else in the room. She’d probably driven him to rage. He’d acted. Now he was decimated by the outcome of a bout of temporary insanity. He collapsed to his knees weeping as Buffy Summers, bane of the underworld, caught fire and fell to ash. The shackles that had held her legs clattered to the floor. The ones overhead swung wildly.

It was one of the most beautiful things D’Hoffryn had ever seen. Tears blurred his eyes. Somehow, he’d ended up on the floor, his legs bent beneath him. All that without falling into the pool. His bottle rested cockeyed against his left shin. The same mysterious force that had saved him from the drink had preserved his drink as well.

Barely stifling his mirth, he chimed musically, “Uh-oh, someone did something stupid. Imagine that.” He finished the thought by pounding back the contents of his glass and swabbed his mouth with the length of his sleeve.

Giles threw himself down the stairs at a gallop as if he presumed his haste might make some difference. The damage had already been done. His actions were those of a desperate man with no recourse and he knew it. Even so, outrage thrilled through him, hurling him faster. He burst into the hallway, charged down its length and into the room that contained the now vacant cell.

There he froze, taking in the tableau. Angel had crumpled to the ground. His legs were askew, bent beneath him, splayed one way and the other. Hunched over, he hugged himself, weeping. Ash had scattered, dusting his clothes and hair. Giles imagined that he’d aged. It seemed so, though he couldn’t see the vampire’s face.

He’d had dozens of scathing indignations resting right at the tip of his tongue. Now that he’d arrived, his tongue was no longer working. His mouth was dry and his throat felt closed. He swallowed. A blink brought tears to his eyes. It was over. Buffy was gone. After this, there were no more chances. No viable ploys or deceptions. No means to subvert death its due. She was really gone.

His attention wavered beyond the bars to the ashen starburst strewn across the floor as if someone had dropped a bag of flour. Or what he could see of it. Angel’s body blocked the majority of the sight. Several moments of quiet repose passed for his part while Angel carried on like he’d lost his wits.

Finally, Giles rasped, “Why?” It wasn’t a conscious effort. He’d simply been trying to sort things out—understand how they’d come to this end. It seemed so extraordinarily unjust. The question slipped out. He heard his own voice, barely audible around the caterwauling, and decided it was a worthy thing to ask. He had to try again. He coaxed his dusty mouth to life and swallowed to soothe his throat. On the second go, he overcompensated. “Why?” His voice cracked like a whip, hard and cold as the concrete box around them.

Angel twisted around, his legs splaying even further. Rage not age warped his boney features. The demon had come out to play, full of fury, seething, “She murdered my son! Do you understand what that means?”

Oddly, that didn’t concern Giles at all. Perhaps his sense of self preservation was off. He didn’t think so. Truthfully, he didn’t care. Every single person under this roof had experienced a loss equal to what Angel was feeling now. It was about time he had his turn. Something on the floor of the cell had caught the light in an unusual way when Angel turned. Giles’ attention remained fixed on that. Angel could rant and rave until his head exploded. It wouldn’t matter one lick to Giles. He advanced on the vampire to better see the object. It was beautiful, glowing with the otherworldly radiance of a thousand fireflies. His crisp voice cut through Angel’s tirade, “What is that?”

Angel snapped still and silent, like the dead. His eyes seemed to take a moment to focus, then he followed Giles’ gaze. “Where was that?” he stammered.

That was an awfully good question.

Pain was s’posed to make a man sharper, temper him, give him strength. The feckless spacker who came up with that one should try living with their rended guts stuffed inside little Chernobyl for a year or two. See how it suited. There was no sodding upside. Spike had more in common with a baby’s head than the witch or any of her, bloody, bleeding heart Scooby gang now. And there was no getting around that. No matter how much hope he felt seeing her, this could only go one way.

That was fine. Dust on the floor had it better than him. He’d spent days, weeks, maybe even months wishing he could join it. Be that peaceful. Go back to where he’d come from. Ashes to ashes, etcetera, etcetera….

She could change that. She’d finish it. The thought gave him hope. He’d make one last trade with the witch—get past the agony. He was pretty sure he knew what she wanted and she was only getting colder. He’d pass off the keys to psycho slayer’s kingdom and her witch would let him rest.

It was a good plan. Only Little Witch Lost had been arsing around digging through crypts for the last five minutes. She was s’posed to be the smart one. She hadn’t even noticed him. Not that there was much to notice. He wasn’t much more than a potted plant these days, spine to spleen and only so much in between stuffed into an urn. There wasn’t enough of him left to nod, let alone be threatening until he caught someone’s eye. Rarely did that end well. Usually left his crypt smelling like a loo.

Funny, but not so much what he wanted.

Her presence made him wonder what had changed. She’d been absent since pulling that last rabbit from her hat. He thought she was out of the game. He wanted to ask. All he could do was grunt. Bitsy Lizzie Borden had seen to that. He’d wanted to kick himself over that one for—well, time was pretty transitory here. He had no idea. It’d been a while. Too bleeding long. Best to cut this short.

Bugger it. Spike let out a moan to rival Romero’s best shamblers.

Willow turned. Her eyes fixed on him. Her expression changed, cycling through a kaleidoscope of emotions to end at pole-axed. It was funny watching her jaw hit the ground again for old time’s sake. Spike wished he could laugh, but he couldn’t even do that right.

Now all he had to do was get her to understand that what she wanted was in the hollow beneath his urn. How hard could that be?

Even stunned stupid, Willow was doing so much better than he was. She figured out she had a mouth. And a tongue. She could talk, or croak. “Are you—?”

Spike rolled his eyes over where that was headed. No, I’m not bloody alright. Do I look alright?

That cock up set off another ridiculous pantomime, this one depicting embarrassment in all its subtle hues. Eventually she composed herself enough to ask her next witless question, “Can you talk?”

Spike rolled his eyes again. If I could talk, don’t you think you’d be getting an earful?

“Alright,” Willow stammered. “You’re right. That’s stupid. So, I guess you can’t shake your head either?”

Spike gave her another eye roll. Some genius.

“Right,” the genius said, finally, hopefully, catching on, “because you kind of need muscles and bones to do that. All you have is a head…” she made a face “…and whatever’s in that.” She pointed at the urn.

Spike shut his eyes and sighed in assent.

“So, blink once for ‘yes’ and twice for ‘no’?”

He blinked once. About sodding time.

Sounds permeated the grayness of sleep. They were ordinary, electronic pops so faint no one else could ever hear them. At one time, just after they moved in, Buffy had thought she might be going nuts until she’d timed it just right and gotten the utility closet open and Willow inside so she could hear them too. And there was mechanical whirring—the stirring of fans, the whooshing of air through ducts. From that unique set of sounds and the general, snuggly comfiness, she recognized that she wasn’t just in a bed—some stranger’s bed—but in her bed.

It felt glorious. She just had to ruin it by reaching out an arm. She was alone. That was decidedly bad. Her tummy gave a little lurch. Willow had been with her. Buffy wondered what happened. The ‘wondering’ lasted for all of ten seconds. That’s about how long it took her to realize she’d been a great big jerk—an exhausted jerk; a jerk with a headache like something hammering inside her skull, trying to get out; a jerk who desperately needed to hole up until the world stopped spinning—but a jerk nonetheless.

All of those assumptions—the ones she was used to making where Willow was concerned—meant nothing now. This Willow needed an invitation. She needed to be made to feel welcome. Buffy wondered whether she’d gone—uh, well, she didn’t go to bed, obviously, but when she went wherever she went—probably the couch—did she even do—umm, anything—any of her usual routine. All that stuff Willow would’ve done at home wouldn’t have been the same if she didn’t feel at home.

Buffy rolled out of bed, feeling addlepated, like a ginormous twit, with the temperature spike and the dread, like anvils on her chest. She skipped the usual wakeup routine and went to face the music. The low belly, full bladder ache and general unwashed ickiness hardly seemed to matter—what with each step adding another anvil.

Willow was exactly where she’d predicted. She hadn’t even found the extra blankets or a regular pillow. She just used what was there. The lap blanket was only big enough to cover her lower legs. She’d wrapped it around them so her feet wouldn’t slip out. Not that it mattered—what with the holeyness. Piddies always escaped crochet. And the pillows were hard. Buffy had passed out just like that more than once. She’d always woken up cranky and come to bed after a few hours without any intervention. Weird how ‘nice to look at’ almost never meant ‘comfortable’ when it came to furniture. That seemed to be a rule.

There was barely enough room between the coffee table and the couch for Buffy to kneel down. She wiggled her way in. The glass top pressed against the small of her back. It didn’t take more than one repetition of Willow’s name for her eyes to flutter open.

It was bad. Besides the obvious careworn rumpledness that sleeping on upholstered rocks would reasonably bring, Willow eyes lacked their usual sparkle. The hollows beneath them were deeply circled the icky purple of a bruise. Her complexion was a blotchy study in lividity. Her lips were puckered and chappy like she’d chewed them. Buffy had seen that look before when Willow had been up all night mulling over any of the many totally impossible problems life seemed to delight in throwing at them. ‘Mulling,’ more like a wicked mix of ‘desperation’ and ‘insomnia.’ It was really bad.

And it was probably—definitely her fault. She slipped the grating intensity of Willow’s gaze by hanging her head and did the only thing she could: she apologized. “I’m sorry.” A glance revealed no progress—no reaction at all—so she forged on to the ‘flimsy excuses’ part of the program. It was just a bigger, better shovel to bury herself with and she knew it, but— “I didn’t think. I thought you’d come to bed. It isn’t like we haven’t slept together before and this is your house too. I thought you’d get that. I’m really sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Willow said and levered herself up to a seated position, swinging her legs around. Buffy tried to help, but Willow ignored her and caught the afghan herself before it hit the ground, draping it across her lap. The whole process looked so painful that her dismissal didn’t carry much weight.

Buffy hadn’t quite knocked the coffee table over. The spot where the heavy glass top hit her back throbbed. She was just about to pooh-pooh the whole bogus reaction and start in with the self-deprecation when Willow decided to put in her two cents, “It isn’t about that. Don’t you see? This isn’t about property. It’s about how you feel. I’m not her. What she owned or was owed has nothing to do with me.”

“I get that,” Buffy replied without really thinking it through. Then it hit her that Willow was totally right. This whole thing was about her—about how she felt. She could invite this Willow into her life and make it all better. In fact, that was what she should do. But what if she couldn’t get over the loss? How could she predict how she’d react to something that hadn’t really sunk in yet? She could end up miserable, making this Willow miserable because she wasn’t—

Willow was watching her intently as if waiting for something.

Buffy settled for a lame admission, “It’s just confusing.” She was too close, practically sitting on Willow’s foot, not to mention really uncomfortable. The floor was hard. It hurt her knees. Added to everything else, it was just—

As she slipped free of the coffee table / couch limbo trap, Willow sighed. The despondent sound ended in agreement, “Yeah.” Lounging cockeyed on one thigh, Buffy settled just in time for the follow up. “Y’know what the worst part is?” Rhetorical question or not, she had an answer, but she held it, allowing Willow to explain, “I love you. I’ve loved you for as long as I’ve known you. For me, the choice wasn’t a choice at all. I was offered something that I hadn’t even dared dream about, something completely impossible: an opportunity to be with you. I jumped on it.”

Buffy opened her mouth to point out that they hadn’t known each other for a week yet, but Willow picked up her thought, “That was probably one of the stupidest things I’ve ever done.” Buffy shut her mouth. “For you, there was no choice. You’ve been forced by someone you love to accept an unacceptable situation, a lover by proxy, some substitute. I can’t even imagine how you feel. Abandoned probably. Betrayed maybe. Likely. I know you’ve got to be hurting. And how can you possibly mourn for her with me in your life?”

That was all just a little too insightful. Buffy rose to her feet before Willow could point out how else their situation was awful. The impulse to turn away was strong. She stood her ground long enough to suggest, “You’re right. We need to talk about this, but is there really such a rush? Can we get cleaned up first? Maybe brush our teeth? Have some coffee?” It was lame and she knew it, but there was something nagging at her. Something not right. She needed to buy some time to think.

Willow seemed taken aback. “Yeah,” she replied, faltering. “Uh, I guess.”

“You first,” Buffy said, gesturing for Willow to go on. As she did, Buffy put on her good hostess hat. “There are some new toothbrushes in the top drawer to the right in the vanity. Just poke around. Make yourself at home. Anything you need.” It was like lamest thing ever, so much lamer than that other thing. When Willow was gone, she flopped down onto the couch, listening to the relative peace and quiet of running water and whistling furnace ducts.

Sitting still only lasted so long. Not very long at all. First, Buffy picked up the afghan and folded it, returning it to where it belonged, hanging over one arm of the couch. One of the pillows leaned against it. The other went on the other end. It was busy work, something to take her mind off—not that it helped. She kept her hands busy anyway. There were only the two mugs to rinse and put in the dishwasher. She wiped the counters. That left her to debated wrestling the coffeemaker again. The idea didn’t thrill her, so she decided on juice instead.

All that took place to the nagging feeling that Willow’s assessment, while astute, had been totally wrong. Neither of their situations was all that different. Willow was assuming something—a pretty big something. She thought she knew Buffy—like Buffy was the same Buffy from before—the one native to her world. That wasn’t true. It couldn’t be. There had to be differences, even pre-fangy.

The situation they were in might as well be a new relationship. It was a rebound relationship for both of them and not on the sunniest of terms. In fact, these might be the worst of terms. An arranged marriage might’ve been better. At least they wouldn’t be clambering over mangled mounds of history, like an active Mount Vesuvius. They’d be able to start out fresh. Getting emotionally Pompeiied didn’t even sound like fun. We need to be careful. Take it slow. Otherwise—

Footsteps upstairs made Buffy tense. By the time the bathroom door opened, she was already in motion, headed for the stairs. The juice had been a bad idea. The gentle nagging in her belly was edging its way toward a full blown command. It was a close thing, but she made it into the bathroom before things turned dire. Sitting there afterward, she wanted nothing more than to shower. The thought of being clean in her own house in her own clothes was all too tempting, just this side of heaven.

On the other hand, stalling any longer would probably upset Willow, which could place her on the other side of perdition. Before life could normal up even a little, they needed to bury the hatchet at least in part—preferably in a part made from something neutral and inorganic. Buffy finished up, washed her hands and face, brushed her teeth and opened the bathroom door. Before it was shut, she started in on the flaw in Willow’s analysis, “You’re right, but—”

The sight of Willow reflected in their dresser mirror stopped her cold. Buffy’s heart took a little dip. Then the stupid thing started to flutter, and not in that pleasant twitterpated sort of way. Willow’s lips were parted in surprise, much like Buffy’s were now. Unlike Buffy, something had really set Willow off. Her complexion looked pasty, her stance rigid, her eyes wide. She looked like she’s seen a Bombina. Ghosts were so passé.

Buffy figured from the angle of the mirror and the focus of Willow’s eyes that the offensive ‘whatever’ was just to her left. The only things there were a doily, a jewelry box, several fancy little dishes to hold more jewelry and trinkets as they were cast off, some perfume bottles and a piece of rock. Any jewelry that was truly sentimental stayed with the one it was sentimental to, so…

From this angle, the rock looked like nothing special, just a big chunk of plain vanilla crystal. Only was it was more like grape or raspberry. The direction Willow was viewing from was totally different. From that angle it looked like nothing Buffy had ever seen. The surface was grainy like drusy quartz, which would’ve been unremarkable if the color had been even close to uniform. It wasn’t. It looked like extra-vibrant granulated rainbow or Peeps dandruff, all clumped up like the little nodules inside a geode.

According to Willow it was supposedly some sort of super-duper, hopped up focus for specialized hocus pocus. Buffy didn’t know anything about that. She only knew that it was best avoided. The few times she’d touched the rock the skin at the base of her spine had tried to skitter up over her head. She’s categorically classified it as one of those weirdnesses that came with Willow’s witchiness. Surprisingly, there were quite a few of them. More than she would’ve thought. Thankfully, most of them weren’t sitting around the house like landmines.

The way Willow was looking at the rock told the story. Pretty much. Not enough that Buffy didn’t feel the need to ask, “What’s wrong?” She found the presence of mind to finish shutting the bathroom door and went around the bed to sit on the corner nearest Willow.

“I thought I’d lost this,” Willow replied. “Now I remember…” She couldn’t have remembered much. Or maybe she remembered a lot, none of it helpful, all of it conflicting. Confusion hung over her like a big neon sign.

“Remember what?” Buffy asked. It stood to reason that Willow couldn’t remember anything about something that had happened here. Maybe she was remembering something that had happened there. That rock had been in the bag of things that Willow had rescued from Sunnydale. If it had been important enough to save it in one place….

“She must’ve brought this with her,” Willow said, “just like I did.” Her voice had a dreamy quality, which was probably no wonder considering her fingertips were gliding over the surface of the rock as she spoke.

It made Buffy’s skin crawl to watch, so she didn’t. That rock was just plain creepy. She verified the assumption, “Yeah, she did.” When she turned her attention back to Willow, she was leaning casually against the dresser. In spite of that, nothing had really changed. Buffy decided to try to feel her out. There was still the sushi comment from the previous evening to consider. That might have something to do with this. “You remember that?” Buffy asked.

“No,” Willow said. “Not exactly.”

That was probably on some top-ten list of noncommittal answers. The expression on Willow’s face didn’t suggest anything encouraging either. It was time to admit that this was going nowhere and try switching tack. Buffy still wanted a shower sometime this week. “What you said about us was almost fair, but you’re missing something.”

Willow’s expression underwent a subtle change, shedding some of its wistfulness. “I am?” she asked.

There was no nice way to say this, so… “Yeah, individuality. I’m my own person. My double isn’t me, not any more than yours is you. Unless everything there happened exactly the same way it happened here. And I know that’s not true. There have to be differences. So you can’t know me. Not like that. Not that well.” Buffy didn’t point out that there was no way Willow could really love someone she’d only known for less than a week. The truth might not be nice, but she didn’t have to make it mean.

“Oh, I know you,” Willow said, “more than I should.” She exuded more confidence than Buffy would’ve thought possible. Their eyes met and Willow didn’t waver. Either she was totally deluded or— “My counterpart saw to my education. I’m pretty up on what’s happened here since Sunnydale. You probably won’t believe me, but I know you as well as she did. I know everything she did, what you’ve become, how she changed you, how she planned to help you….”

Suspicion was one thing, but the truth with all its messy implications was almost too much to take in. The change in Willow’s demeanor helped a lot with that. Her sober gaze punched right through the denial Buffy wanted to throw up like a shield. Spaghetti legs won out. Buffy fell back on her sorry, should-be-repentant butt. The bed beneath her bounced. She rasped, “Everything?” The truly sad part was she wasn’t certain when she’d risen or why.

“Yeah, everything,” Willow confirmed, but she had to look away.

That made Buffy antsy, not to mention mildly suspicious.

Again, suspicion would’ve been preferable to what came next. “It would’ve been nice to experience a few things for myself before—” Willow’s face flushed gradually, prettily, bright as a strawberry. She didn’t need to continue, which might’ve been why she did. “Well, you get what I mean. I know you.” Stubbornness did nothing to strengthen her voice.

Great. And here I was worried about a little nudity.

Buffy realized that she was scowling when Willow got defensive. “Before you go feeling violated by me, I didn’t choose this, not on purpose. I didn’t know what she meant. She didn’t explain. I just agreed to help her and she started. I started remembering. Only not. It was so fast. It scared the hell out of me. It hurt. I wanted it to stop, but she was so much stronger. I couldn’t. I was—”

Buffy never found out what this Willow was. It didn’t matter. The blank was easy enough to fill in. Willow had systematically broken down as she explained. She was weeping too hard to continue.

Things weren’t much better for Buffy. It was going to take a while for her to come to terms with what she’d learned in the past few minutes. Not only had her Willow violated her trust by sharing the most intimate details of her life with someone who was for all intents and purposes a stranger, she’d also violated the stranger’s mind. She’d laid it open, pouring whatever she wanted inside. A physical violation probably wouldn’t be that much different.

Willow spared her the trip down memory lane by proving a distraction. “I don’t know exactly what happened to her after you left. She didn’t share that part. Thank goodness. From what she did say, just the memories might’ve made me as wiggy as she was. Whatever it was must’ve been pretty awful to make her—” Her voice was so brittle it wasn’t any wonder that it broke off.

And of course, as it turned out, what Willow had to offer wasn’t any more cheery than the memory. Buffy stared at the carpet for another moment or three chewing everything over. It was a mess. No one in this scenario came out unscathed. “I am sorry.” There was nothing else she could say.

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Vanishing

Valyssia

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Chapter 1: Slip Away

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Chapter 2: Among Friends

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Chapter 3: The Price

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Chapter 4: The Prize

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Chapter 5: A Blind Eye

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Chapter 6: Yoko Rides Again

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Chapter 7: Unfinished Music: No. 1

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Chapter 8: Unfinished Music: No. 2

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Chapter 9: White Noise

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Chapter 10: Success Measured

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Chapter 11: Try, Try Again

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Chapter 12: Desperation Game

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Chapter 13: Hold Your Fire

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Chapter 14: Counterparts

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Chapter 15: Totentanz

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Chapter 16: Fractured Mirror

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Chapter 17: Last Flowers

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Chapter 18: Afterimage

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Chapter 19: In the End

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Chapter 20: Random Sample

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