DISTRIBUTION: Anyone who wants it, take it. Just keep my name attached.
RATING: PG-13
CONTENT: Willow/Angel
SPOILERS: Becoming
SUMMARY: Angel crawls out of the pit of Hell, and guess who he turns to for help.
DISCLAIMER: If we all just started saying, "Hey, Joss, why would we want characters as lame as these?" do you think Joss'd give 'em to us? ;) Anyway, don't own 'em. Wish I did but don't.
NOTE: This is my first attempt at Willow/Angel fic, so don't kill me if it sucks, okay? ;)
Words in < > are thought
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Willow was thrust out of a very good dream about ducks by the sound of pounding coming from her balcony, and as she pushed herself out of bed, she thought ruefully, <If it's Xander, I'm gonna kill him.> She glanced at the clock. <Scratch that. Whoever it is, I'll kill 'em anyway,> she commented as the red numbers changed from 1:15 to 1:16.
"What?!" she practically yelled as she yanked the door open. "Gleep," she squeaked when she actually got a glimpse of who was outside. "A,Angel?" The vampire was standing on her balcony managing to look both sheepish and pathetic.
"Willow," he offered, wiping drops of water out of his eyes. "Could you...help me?"
"With what?" she asked, backing up.
"With how I got here. One minute, I'm in that damn mansion with Buffy, and the next I'm here." At the mention of her friend's name, Willow turned away from him. "Willow, what's wrong?" He took a step forward, but met an invisible barrier.
"Angel, we haven't heard from Buffy in three weeks. We were hoping she was with you," she replied, still facing away from him.
"Three weeks?" he whispered. "Do you...Willow, do you know what happened to me?"
"Don't you remember?" she asked, her voice surprisingly cold as she turned to face him. She sat down on the edge of the bed, but made no indication she was going to invite him in.
"What happened, Willow? Why can't I remember?"
"You killed Ms. Calendar," she replied, bluntly but softly.
"No," Angel denied.
"You tried to kill us all. You delighted in tormenting Buffy," her voice rose with each word. He shook his head constantly repeating the word 'no', and he backed away from Willow's door until his back hit the railing. "You *killed* my fish!" Angel looked up at the absurdity of that statement.
"God, Willow, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I shouldn't be here; I'll go," he turned away from her, but jumped slightly when he felt her hand touch his shoulder. "Willow? Don't," he ordered. He turned around, and suddenly found her pressed against him. Her arms were tight around him as she hugged him.
"It wasn't you," she whispered, more to convince herself than to convince him. He grabbed her shoulders and pushed her away roughly. They stared at each other before he turned and leapt over the railing.
And he was gone back
into the night.
____________________
The next morning...
"Willow, honey, wake up," the voice prodded as she felt her mom's hands shaking her slightly.
"Five more minutes, Mom," Willow begged, groggy.
"Willow Ann Rosenberg, get up this minute!" her mom ordered. She sat up slowly and cracked her eyes open. The first thing she noticed was the fishbowl her mom held in her hands. Willow's eyes narrowed in confusion. "What do you want me to do with these?"
"With what?"
"The fish," her mom replied simply.
"Oh," Willow replied, stifling a yawn as she saw the clock; it was just after dawn. <Five hours since Angel's visit.> "Um, just set the bowl down. I'll do something with them later."
"Oh." Her mom's hands searched through the pockets of her jeans before pulling out a small card. "This was with the fish." Willow took the card with shaking hands. She waited until her mom set the fishbowl down and left the room, before she ripped open the card. Silently, her eyes went over the words.
**Willow, I know these won't make up for the ones that were...lost. I have a long way to go before I'm ever worthy of your forgiveness, but I hope that someday I will be.
Do you realize how difficult it is to find a pet store open at this time of night?
Angel**
Willow had to laugh at that last statement, both for its absurdity and for its pure innocence. She glanced up from the note to stare at the bowl of fish on her desk.
<Maybe things
will turn out okay,> she thought.
The End