Judgment

AUTHOR: Medea

Parts: 16 - 20

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~Part: 16~

In a weird way, it was a lot like hanging out together when they'd been kids, Xander thought. Different room, sure, but he'd never felt very attached to specific places. Home hadn't really been the house his parents had raised him in. There was little about the Harris family that felt like home.

Home was Willow.

Wherever they ended up after school, just sitting and talking -- that became home for a few hours, until it was time to go eat dinner. It wasn't a white picket fence, milk and cookies, picture perfect kind of situation, but it its own, weird way, it had been the closest thing to a normal life Xander had ever experienced.

And it tore at him. This bed he sat on as he and Tara tried to bring Willow back to them, it wasn't that different from his, or Willow's...or even Jesse's. Even the pep talk was familiar.

"I'm so sorry I didn't see it," Tara murmured, tentatively stroking Willow's arm. "Maybe I could have helped you. If I'd recognized the call for what it was, we could have resolved it, and you wouldn't have been tempted by Rack."

Willow was scrunched up against the wall, the maroon blanket rumpled beneath her feet, her knees drawn tightly against her chest. She picked at fuzzy wisps of lint on the blanket and shook her head. "Tara, I can't let you blame yourself for this. It was my fault. You did try to help me. You did warn me that I was getting out of control." Willow's bottom lip quivered and her voice dropped to a bare whisper. "I wanted to kill Glory for violating your mind, and then I turned around and did the same thing."

Xander swallowed a lump. He couldn't just tell her that everything was all okay, even if part of him wanted to. He *had* been mad at her when she started using her magic to toy with all of them. He *had* felt betrayed by her sudden personality change. Worst of all, when Willow went after Dawn, for one terrible moment he'd lost any hope of recovering his friend -- he'd actually been forced to admit that they might have to...God, he couldn't think it.

But he couldn't let her take all this on herself. He didn't hate Willow, he hated what had happened to all of them. They'd fallen apart. And that wasn't her fault alone -- they'd all had their heads up their asses. In a really twisted way, Glory had beaten them.

"Hey Wills," Xander gently chided her. "I'm gonna have to cut the guilt trip short. Pull over and turn the car around. This was something we all did. I wasn't even thinking last summer -- I just assumed you could handle everything. You've always been the queen of problem solving, and we kept expecting you to handle more and more. But you and Glory? Sorry, no comparison. Not even close."

"You don't understand, Xander," Willow insisted, hugging her knees even more tightly to her chest. Her eyes haunted him, even heavier with guilt than they'd been when Oz and Cordy had found them at the factory. "All I cared about was the power, the rush. I didn't care who I hurt."

"But that wasn't entirely you," Tara assured her. Hesitantly, Tara clasped Willow's hand in hers and gave it a gentle squeeze.

Willow smiled at her with a warmth in her expression that sent a pang through Xander. He hadn't seen that look on her face in months -- God, how he'd missed the old Will. All too soon, the light in her eyes faded. She withdrew her hand from Tara's and Xander felt his throat tighten.

"It was more me than you know," Willow confessed, lowering her gaze. "Tara, remember the Vamp-me I told you about? She was bored, always bored, and what she did to take her mind off it was hurt people. That's exactly what happened with me. I wasn't overcome by some force, I knew what I was doing. I was bored. The only difference is that I convinced myself I wasn't really doing any harm -- and do you know what that means?" Willow's voice rose in pitch and an anguished grimace twisted her face. "It means that a vampire version of me was more honest about what she was doing than I was!"

"That's not true!" Xander protested, leaning in and fixing her with an intense gaze. "Wills, you're my best friend. I'll be the first to agree that you were out of control. But you're not like Glory, and you're not like the vamp you. You made a mistake -- a real doozie, bigger than the time you made me a demon magnet. But there isn't a vicious bone in your entire body. Angel had more deliberate, calculated malice in his big toe when he went psycho on us than you've racked up in your entire life."

"I'd have to agree with that."

Xander winced at the sound of Angel's voice. Yet another awkward moment with Deadboy.

However, Xander quickly forgot his discomfort at the sight of Willow, pale, wide-eyed, and desperately pressing herself against the wall. He turned to see what she was trying to shrink away from.

Standing beside Angel in the doorway, Giles regarded her with a quiet, pained sadness.

"Giles?" Willow barely squeaked.

"Hello, Willow," Giles greeted, a slight hitch in his voice. "It's good to see you're doing better."

Unable to speak, Willow merely stared at him, her lower lip trembling.

With slow, halting steps, Giles approached them and sat down on the edge of the bed. Tears pooled in Willow's eyes and Tara gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. In awkward silence, Giles and Willow regarded each other. Then, Giles reached out with his good arm and drew her, shaking, into a comforting embrace.

Xander watched his friend sob against her mentor's shoulder and felt a tell-tale sting in his own eyes.

Willow was home.

*****

Angel pulled the door closed and paused in the hallway, considering his options.

He wasn't ready to see Buffy again.

He *definitely* didn't want to see Spike.

He really wasn't in the mood to talk with his own crew, either, even though he knew they'd leap to take his side. But his side in what? That was the whole problem...things had changed so much that the sides weren't even clear any more. They'd all made choices. As much as some of those choices hurt, it would be pointless to try to assign blame.

That didn't mean Angel was ready to deal with the hurt, though.

There was always work, of course, but at the moment, research wasn't appealing. It would be tempting to slip back into Willow's room. She was suffering even more than he was right now, and consoling her allowed him to forget his own problems. But it would be selfish: he wouldn't be helping her so much as himself. She and Giles needed some time to themselves.

Angel's mood softened. There was always Connor...

...and Xander.

Angel blinked to see him leaning against the opposite wall next to Willow's girlfriend, staring at the door to Willow's room. Evidently, just as lost in thought as Angel had been.

Figuring Xander and Tara would talk with each other about Willow, Angel started down the hall.

"She's gonna be okay."

Hesitating in mid-stride, Angel glanced at Xander, who wasn't as lost in his thoughts as Angel had thought. It hadn't been a question, exactly, but the boy's statement had that desperate edge to it that hinted at the need for reassurance.

"You've spent more time with her than any of us," Xander continued with more than just a touch of resentment. "Does she seem like...do you think she'll be okay?"

Angel held his tongue for a few seconds. Somehow, Xander Harris managed to be vulnerable and irritating all at once.

"Willow has always been stronger than she looks," Angel said at last.

With that, he started back to his suite. As if on cue, Xander and Tara followed him. Angel resigned himself to their company only reluctantly. He wasn't really in the mood to look after them -- to look after Xander 'I-Hate-Vampires' Harris, of all people -- but they gave the impression that they needed someone to talk to. Anyone. Even a vampire.

"Angel's right," Tara said after a brief silence. "Willow's strength was never just in her magic. Her whole essence radiates strength. It's one of the things I first loved about her."

"Yeah," Xander added with shaky, false levity. "That Willow...her middle name is resolve."

"I thought it was Ann," Tara countered with soft humor.

Angel felt the cadence of their pulses ease. The acrid scent of anxiety which had enfolded them like a cloud dissipated somewhat. The dark vampire was familiar with this physiological response from the numerous crises he'd weathered back in Sunnydale with Buffy and her friends. They never realized how much they healed each other. Angel knew they understood the emotional benefits of their tightly-knit group, but he doubted that they had ever sensed the physical healing as tangibly as he could.

Letting himself into his suite, a faint smile warmed Angel's face as he looked toward Connor's crib. He crossed the room, reached down with infinite care and gently lifted his sleeping son into his arms.

Tara drew up beside him. "What's his name?"

"Connor," Angel answered, grinning fondly down at tiny, dream-heavy eyelids and downy soft cheeks.

"What's it like? Being a dad, I mean," Xander asked.

"It's the best thing that ever happened to me," Angel replied truthfully. He looked over at Xander and saw a mixture of fascination and unease on his face. The boy's anxiety loomed large. Angel's heightened senses were bombarded by a thready, agitated heartbeat and the sudden rush of sweat.

"Is it ever...does it scare you to have that much responsibility? To have someone depend on you that much?" Xander pressed, shifting and fidgeting awkwardly.

Angel chuckled. "All the time."

Xander's brow knit in frustration. Tara grinned and explained, "He's getting married."

"So I heard," Angel acknowledged, still regarding Xander with bemused curiosity. "Congratulations."

"Thanks," Xander said, frowning slightly. After a pause, he added, "I guess I just don't know what to expect."

"That shouldn't be so hard for someone who's lived on a Hellmouth," Angel countered with a shrug, gently rocking Connor in his arms.

"Yeah, well you never met my parents," Xander retorted darkly, with an edge that surprised Angel. The dark vampire stopped bouncing his son and stared intently at the conflicted youth. "I don't know. Maybe what scares me is thinking I should know *exactly* what to expect, considering what they were like."

Tara moved away from Angel and approached Xander, concern etched across her features. "Don't let your family determine your future. You're not trapped. Think of what would have happened to me if all of you hadn't helped me break away from that."

Nodding, Angel agreed. "Letting my problems with my father rule me was the worst mistake of my life. If I'd been able to get past that, we wouldn't be talking with each other."

Xander frowned, then opened his mouth to reply but was cut off by a sudden commotion out in the hallway. Sharp, hasty footfalls resounded in the air as someone ran down the hall. Voices were raised in alarm. For a split second, Angel, Xander, and Tara looked at each other. In a flash, Xander and Tara hurried out to see what was going on. After he had safely returned Connor to his crib, Angel followed.

*****

"Giles, I'm sorry -- so, so sorry," Willow whispered. "I let you down."

"Don't you dare say that!" Giles protested vehemently. Careful not to crush her against his injured arm, he tightened the half-embrace he'd managed with his good arm. "Willow, you've made me so proud, so many times." Pushing back slightly, he cupped her cheek in his hand and raised her head so he could look her in the eye. "What you did was dangerous and foolhardy, without a doubt. But you don't know how fortunate, how privileged, I feel to have had the chance to watch you develop from a very sweet girl into a remarkable, accomplished young woman. If there was an error in judgment, it was mine."

Willow edged away. "Giles, you're not responsible for--"

He cut her off. "I accepted responsibility for all of you when I allowed you to partake in Buffy's mission. In the past, Slayers worked alone. As her Watcher, I knew why -- I knew how dangerous it could be to involve others. I endangered you by permitting you to be drawn further and further into this world."

"But I wanted to be drawn in. I wanted to help. It was my choice, and you couldn't have stopped me," Willow insisted, briefly mimicking her 'resolve' face.

"I know, Willow," Giles assured her with a fond smile, recalling the many times Willow had stubbornly refused to be daunted by a supernatural threat, or even an equally stubborn, officious Watcher.

"I merely wanted to protect you -- you and the others. As proud as I was of all of you, I knew where it could lead. An early grave was certainly my worst fear, but in your case I was also worried about the temptation of dark magic. You know about my experience...the price I paid. I wanted to spare you that, but I should have realized I couldn't spare you, no matter how much I wanted to," Giles admitted ruefully. "It's typical of elders to want to pass on what wisdom they can, so that the next generation might learn from their mistakes. It's equally typical for us to forget that mistakes are a necessary part of learning and can't be avoided. No matter how many times the same mistakes are repeated, each situation is unique and can't be predicted."

"Says the man who's always been Mr. Prophecy Guy," Willow chided with a sad smile. Giles returned it with one of his own.

"Well, you and I both know how aggravating it can be to try to make sense of prophecies," Giles retorted forcefully, although his words were softened by the amused twinkle in his eyes. "At any rate, I think the problem is that sometimes, under certain circumstances, what might seem like the right decision can be wrong, and what might seem like the wrong decision can be right."

Willow nodded. She glimpsed a familiar, embarrassed expression on his face and took a guess. "Like Buffy and Spike."

Giles released a beleaguered sigh and confessed, "I can assure you that I hadn't seen that coming. But they seem to have a good influence on each other. Unfortunately, my lack of vision has endangered both of them."

"What do you mean?" Willow asked, frowning in sympathetic concern.

Briefly, Giles related to Willow the same events he'd described to the others. He was touched at the belated, albeit protective, alarm that crossed her features when he recounted the two attempts on his life and the injuries he'd sustained. However, when he returned to the present and explained the precautionary measures he and Angel felt were necessary, Willow grew violently agitated.

"No! No, I can't. Please don't bring Dawn back here...or, no, it's safer here. She deserves to be safe. But, then...then I have to go! I have to leave. I can stay where she's been--"

"Willow, calm down," Giles interrupted. "The whole point of bringing Dawn back to the hotel was to keep everyone in the same place. It will be safer if we aren't divided."

"It's not safe!" Willow protested, her voice rising to panic pitch. "It isn't safe for anyone when I'm near Dawn! Don't you understand!?!"

Suddenly, Willow sprang from the bed and raced toward the door. Giles hastened to stop her.

"Willow, wait!"

But before he could restrain her, Willow fled down the hallway and disappeared down the grand staircase. Giles chased after her, shouting for her to stop, but a jet-lagged, injured Watcher was a poor match for a frenzied, terrified young woman.

Xander, Tara, and Angel appeared at his side.

"It's Willow," Giles explained. "She's gone."

*****

Attuned to the rhythms of the night, Spike sauntered alongside Buffy. Her tension was palpable. Bugger it, she was wound tight.

"Ease up, luv. We'll find her," Spike assured his companion.

Buffy knit her brow and frowned. Her eyes were haunted with concern. "It could take hours. There's no telling what could happen to her in the meantime. Or what she might do -- Willow still isn't herself. And we have no way to find her!"

"Yes. We. Do." Spike halted and gripped Buffy firmly by the arm, forcing her to stop as well. Forcing down his revulsion at the stench of exhaust from the bus that passed by, he said, "Willow's lousy with magic. 'S like a bloody homing beacon."

Sulking, Buffy lowered her gaze. "I know. That works for you, but I hate feeling helpless. All I can do is tag along for the ride."

"Always love havin' you on for a ride," Spike leered suggestively. Buffy slugged him on the arm in playful disgust.

"You know what I mean," she protested.

Spike sighed and chucked her beneath the chin. When her eyes met his, he explained, "You're not helpless. You've got it in you to sense her, same as I do. 'S just not something you've ever wanted to think about."

"Huh?" Buffy stared at him in bewilderment.

"You're made for the hunt, same as me. Means you can sense things an average human can't. How d'you think you can sense one of my kind?"

"Me Slayer, you vamp," Buffy retorted, as if he were a child. "I'm supposed to be able to recognize vamps. This is different."

"It's preternatural," Spike corrected. "It's the power you sense, the magic that lets the demon animate a dead body. You could sense so much -- you'd be amazed. But you're afraid to give it a go."

"Afraid of what?" Buffy challenged skeptically, folding her arms across her chest.

"Afraid of what it'd mean. We're more alike than you want to admit."

Buffy paled and her expression hardened. "I am *not* a demon."

Oh, sod. They'd gone through this before, when they'd first discovered the resurrection had changed her, had made it possible for him to hurt her. He'd bloody forgotten.

"I'm not sayin' you're a demon," Spike reassured her. He rested his hands on her arms, pleased when she didn't shake him off. "But you've got power in you, same as me, same as Red. Doesn't make you a monster like me, just means you've got an edge if you'd bloody well use it."

"Don't do that," Buffy snapped.

"Don't do what?" Spike arched an eyebrow, confused.

"Don't talk about yourself like you're nothing but a monster."

He smirked, ran his hands down her arms, and grasped her hands in his. "I am a monster, luv. I'm every bit as bad as you've always said I am. You just make me not want to be. Or, maybe you make me want to be very, very bad..."

Spike released Buffy's hands, reached around to cup her ass, and drew her intimately against him. She sighed a small laugh but pushed him away. "This is not the time, Spike. Come on, we've still got to find Willow. Lead the way, oh sinister fiend."

Spike narrowed his eyes at her and coyly pursed his lips. "Flirt," he muttered. Then, taking her hand in his, he set a slow pace and said, "You lead the way. C'mon, give it a go."

"What?"

"Try to feel her. See what you can sense."

"Spike--" Buffy protested, but he hushed her and stopped them again.

"Close your eyes," Spike ordered in a deep, suggestive voice. Buffy let out an exasperated sigh but closed her eyes. "Just listen...hear the sounds you tune out when you depend on sight. Now...feel the air...the stillness...and the energy in it..."

The rich, soothing timbre of his voice, rumbling from deep within his chest, entranced her. Buffy felt him beside her, radiating the energy that she had come to associate with vampires. But she began to be aware of other, fainter sensations in the distance.

Her eyes snapped open. Almost in shock, she pointed down a cross street and murmured in awe, "That way."

They turned in the direction that had beckoned to Buffy and continued their search. Their slow progress, and the Slayer's process of self-discovery, was abruptly interrupted by a car's blaring horn and screeching tires.

With a sense of dread, Buffy and Spike broke into a run.

*****

Willow wandered the streets, knowing it was stupid to be out alone after dark in a fairly deserted part of town. L.A. had to have more than the two vampires in the hotel she'd fled. And demons.

But she had to get away. They didn't understand. None of them understood. It was too dangerous. She refused to put her friends in jeopardy ever again.

She didn't know what she would do or where she would go. She just had to get away.

Her entire body churned in conflict. Agitated and distracted, she paid no attention to her surroundings.

Suddenly, Willow let out a gasping yelp and clutched her head as a barrage of images assaulted her mind. She doubled over and sank to her knees in the middle of the sidewalk, oblivious to the onlookers who gawked at her odd behavior.

A rapid, staccato pulse of faces, voices, and events paralyzed her. No, please! It couldn't be starting again! Willow hunched down and released a tortured, keening whine as she fought to stabilize herself.

Slowly, she realized it was working. The more Willow focused on regaining a sense of calm, the more the chaos of memories receded. After a few more minutes she was able to stand up, albeit shakily.

Willow looked around and met curious, shocked stares. One older man muttered "addict" with disgust. Willow quickly glanced away and began walking again, her eyes downcast and arms wrapped tightly around herself.

Streets, intersections, buildings, cars, and people came and went, but Willow scarcely noticed them. She lost all sense of where she was or what time it was. All she could think of were the lives -- millions of lives -- she'd ruined. In her mind's eye, she could see their faces.

She could hear Dawn screaming, crying, begging her to stop. Willow desperately wanted to block out the memory of that night and how badly she'd hurt Dawn, but it was burned into her.

A painful flash of images seared through her brain. Digging her fingernails into her scalp, Willow staggered forward. Stop it! Stop it! Light and color danced before her eyes in a disorienting wave of sensations. Unable to calm her rising panic, Willow stumbled blindly.

So vivid were the impulses firing through her neurons that Willow never heard the squealing brakes or saw the truck bearing down on her.

~Part: 17~

The scent of antiseptic permeated the air of the emergency room foyer. Nurses prepared legions of admitting and insurance forms atop sterile, white counters for the anxious cross-section of humanity who waited for news of their friends and family. Old, young, black, white, stoic, haggard, weeping, they stood or sat, scattered amid chairs and magazines.

Against a far wall leaned a leather-clad blond, his face a studied mask of detachment save for an occasional flair of the nostrils, signaling his distaste for the pervasive, sterile hospital aroma. Occasionally, his alert eyes shifted toward another blond, who stood by the pay phone a few paces away.

"So long as someone can pick us up before sunrise, we'll be okay," Buffy said into the telephone receiver. "Uh huh....uh huh....I will. Thanks, Giles."

Hanging up, Buffy rejoined Spike.

"Nurse flitted by while you were on the phone. Said they'd be ready to discharge Willow in fifteen or twenty," the blond vampire informed her, nodding toward a set of swinging doors further down the corridor.

"She's okay?" Buffy pressed.

Spike snorted and his lips twisted into a wry grin. "Far as they can tell, yeah. Nurse said somethin' 'bout a sprained wrist, but 's mostly scrapes and bruises. 'Course, they don't know 'bout her other problems."

Sternly, Buffy warned, "And they're not going to."

Shrugging indifferently, Spike asked, "We got a ride back?" At Buffy's awkward, silent nod, he groaned, "Oh balls -- Peaches, right?"

Another nod. Spike released an exasperated sigh. "Guess it'll be one hell of a ride."

"Wesley's coming with him," Buffy explained. "Giles told me Angel nearly flipped when he heard about Willow's near miss with a truck. Something about a charge from some 'powers that be'."

Rolling his eyes in disdain, Spike observed, "Knew he'd manage to twist this 'round to be his fault. Bloody champion for the forces of all that's good and right--"

"Hey!" Buffy glared indignantly and elbowed him in the ribs. "No sneering at White Hats around yours truly. Slayer, remember? I'm one of those champions of all that's good and right." After a pause, Buffy's expression clouded and she murmured uncertainly, "At least...I'm supposed to be..."

Spike narrowed his eyes and rested a hand on her shoulder. "What're you on about, luv?"

"Just...I don't know..." Buffy sighed. Her brow wrinkled in contemplation as she tried to put her anxieties into words. "Nothing makes sense, or maybe everything is starting to make a kind of sense that's really scary. Do you know what my worst fear was when I first found out I was the Slayer?"

Sobering, Spike brushed his knuckles tenderly across her cheek and guessed, "Short life span?"

Buffy shook her head. Locking her eyes on his, she confessed, "Being turned. Becoming the very thing I was chosen to fight."

Spike tensed and steeled her with a resolute gaze. "I told you. I'd never change you against your will," he protested in a low voice.

"I'm already changing," Buffy countered. She stepped back, folded her arms across her chest and leaned against the wall. Her expression grew introspective. "Every day, it gets harder and harder to see things the way I used to. I never thought of myself as a killer...but I *am* made for the hunt. What you showed me tonight about what I can sense? It was...hard...I don't want to be *that*, a hunter. But I met the first Slayer. I know that instinct has been part of all of us. You said it yourself: death is my art."

Moving to stand in front of her, Spike lightly gripped her forearms and insisted, "Bein' a hunter isn't like bein' a killer, not in the way you're worried about. You're not evil."

"But I'm not as different as I used to think I was. I know what your world feels like. And I...I guess it's harder to make choices. Nothing stands out as the right path any more. I used to be afraid that the darkness I fought would swallow me up, that it was a future I couldn't escape. Now I'm in my future, and I *am* part of the darkness...it's part of me...and it seems normal. I don't know what to think."

For a few moments, Spike said nothing. He drew closer and raised one hand to stroke her cheek. Then, nudging her beneath the chin to bring her eyes up to his, he said, "Dying changes you. So does coming back from the grave. There aren't any rules you can have faith in any more. Can't even count on death to be certain. It can be frightening to know that you make it up as you go along -- terrifying, exciting, and powerful. Sorry, luv, I can't give you any answers to make it easier. I've been at this for over a century, and I haven't found any."

Seeing the conflict in the Slayer's eyes, Spike leaned in and kissed her. Her lips parted beneath his, allowing him to indulge in a tender exploration. Buffy's mouth was warm and sweet, as always, and it spurred him on. His lips caressed hers, now teasing, now demanding, punctuated by gentle nibbles and bites that reflected his true nature.

Suddenly, Spike stilled and withdrew his lips a hair's breadth from Buffy's. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against Buffy's, scowling in momentary frustration. Without needing to glance over his shoulder, he growled, "Hello, Peaches. Come to give us a lift?"

Shifting to Buffy's side, the blond vampire finally looked at his elder, who stood, glowering and silent, a few paces away next to Wesley. Although it was evident that Angel was struggling to conceal his emotions, he wasn't able to mask the betrayal in his eyes. Spike felt Buffy tense beside him and gave her a reassuring squeeze.

"Thank you for coming, Angel," Buffy murmured.

Angel stared at her with a heartbreaking expression of loss for a split second, before answering tightly, "I need to make sure Willow is okay. She has an important task to complete."

In the awkward pause, Wesley shifted uneasily, turned toward the swinging doors down the corridor, and said, "I'll go see if they're ready to discharge Ms. Rosenberg."

*****

Angel glanced in the rear view mirror as he steered his convertible back to the Hyperion. Buffy and Willow were reflected back to him -- minus a devious, conniving blond vampire Angel unfortunately knew was with them. The mirror allowed Angel to pretend, if only for a while, that things were different.

He would always love Buffy. He knew they couldn't be together. It was more than a simple matter of his curse. They were both champions, they each had their duties -- but not in the same place. Painful as it was, Angel had forced himself to accept it. He was ready to wish her happiness with whomever she could find it.

But did it have to be Spike?!

Did it have to be one of his own line? So close to what he, himself, had been. Spike's love of violence and destruction was second to none. His trail of victims, impressive enough in itself, also included two Slayers. It stabbed at Angel's heart to see him with Buffy.

*Why could it work for Spike, but not for me?* Angel lamented inwardly. *What's so wrong with me?*

Willow's voice, soft and frightened, pulled Angel out of his melancholy thoughts.

"Please don't take me back there. Don't make me stay near Dawn."

"Willow, enough," Buffy ordered. "Get a grip on yourself. I don't like this any more than you do. Giles convinced me you weren't trying to hurt Dawn, but you're not entirely stable, either. That doesn't change the fact that there are too many people threatening all of us. I'm all for safety in numbers right now. Maybe we could have Tara and Giles try to bind your powers again."

Angel opened his mouth to disagree, knowing that this would interfere with what Whistler had said about the Powers expecting Willow to repair the damage she'd done. However, before he could speak, Wesley beat him to the punch.

"That's not likely to work," Wesley ventured diplomatically, meeting Buffy's eyes in the rear-view mirror.

"Why not?" Buffy demanded warily.

With a thoughtful lift of the eyebrows, Wesley explained, "Well, there's the obvious: it didn't work the first time you tried it with the Ptersian spheres. Then there's the unusual response the spheres had to your attempt. I continued my research on the phenomenon you described, and I think I understand it better."

"What's the sitch?" Buffy's voice had an urgent edge to it, which Angel recognized as the sign that she knew the conversation was important. Gone was her characteristic flippancy. "What went wrong with them?"

"Nothing went wrong, per se, but it appears that higher Powers used the spheres as vessels for their own purpose. You said that Tara threw one against a wall, but a force of some sort prevented it from shattering?" Wesley asked.

"Yeah. Tara was pretty sure it wasn't Willow's doing, but other than that we couldn't figure it out," Buffy confirmed.

"Ptersian spheres were designed to contain magic energies, or to serve as a conduit for those energies," Wesley continued. "You were unable to bind Willow's powers within the four spheres because someone -- the Powers That Be, I suspect -- had pre-empted your use of that space. I'd suspected as much, but wasn't sure because I couldn't imagine what could have been so important that the Powers would wish to utilize the spheres right at the moment of your attempt to contain Willow."

Angel's eyes narrowed in dawning realization. "The worlds -- all six of them. Somehow, the powers channeled them through the Ptersian spheres into Willow's mind."

Wesley nodded. "It would explain why the spheres went dormant when she regained consciousness. Until her mind was stable enough to host the worlds, the Powers suspended them in the spheres. I would venture to say that the spheres also served as an environment in which the worlds could be adapted sufficiently to the human mind -- we are finite creatures, after all, and there are limits to what we can handle."

"Whoa, hold on!" Buffy yelped in alarm. Angel's gaze flicked to the rear-view mirror again, and he saw her glance from Wesley to Willow and back again. "What's the deal with Willow's head?"

"You've got to be bloody joking!" Spike exclaimed simultaneously. "After all the damage she's done, you're sayin' these Powers wanted to make sure she kept her mojo?"

"I'm supposed to make it right. All of the lives I destroyed -- they're still with me, and I have to fix it," Willow murmured in a tight voice.

Before anyone could press further, Angel pulled up before the Hyperion and shut off the engine. As they all climbed out of the car, Willow whispered numbly, "I can't do it...I can't. It's too big, and I'd have to use magic..."

Angel studied Willow intently as they walked toward the hotel's entrance. He saw her shrink away from Buffy's attempts to draw her out, and watched as she slowly turned in on herself, returning to the haunted shell she'd been when the Sunnydale crew had first arrived. He wished he knew how to help her. Whistler seemed to think he could do it, but Whistler's only advice had been to "use what he's got".

What was that supposed to mean?

The dark vampire had little time to consider this, because the instant he, Buffy, Spike, Willow, and Wesley entered the lobby, Willow let out a pitiful whine and tried to back out the door. She backed right into Angel, and it was only his firm grip on her arms that prevented her from fleeing again.

Angel was unsurprised to discover the source of Willow's agitation: Dawn, who stood in the center of the lobby, with Giles.

"Hi, Willow," said Dawn, offering a shy, hesitant wave.

Trembling in Angel's grip, Willow begged, "Please, Dawn, go away. For your own sake, go upstairs...or...or...Giles, set up a dampening field. Anything. Dawn, you're too close!"

"I thought we should talk," Dawn insisted. "I think I can help you."

"It's too dangerous. I can't risk hurting anyone!" Willow protested.

As the frightened witch pressed back against him, Angel had a flash of insight. Still uncomfortable addressing Buffy, he said to Giles, "I'll take Willow to her room and stay with her until she calms down. She's not ready to talk with Dawn yet."

Giles nodded and gave Dawn a reassuring smile. Angel guided Willow past them. Her heart thundered deafeningly for the few paces that brought her near Dawn and Angel worried that Willow might hyperventilate. He hoped she wouldn't -- for this to work, he needed her fully conscious.

As soon as they were in Willow's room and he'd closed the door behind them, Angel shoved her so violently that she stumbled and fell to the floor. Stunned, she looked up at him with wide eyes, her earlier panic replaced by confusion. His acute sense of smell picked up on her sudden rush of sweat and the tell-tale scent of adrenaline. Good. Somewhere in there, Willow still had a sense of self-preservation.

"I don't have time for this," Angel bit out tersely, staring coldly at the fallen redhead. In his stance, his voice, and his demeanor, he projected the daunting image of his dark alter-ego. "I let Buffy bring you here as a favor, but I have enough to worry about without your problems. There are more fanatics after my son than I can count, and your little stunt tonight diverted too much attention away from the hotel. That left him vulnerable. I won't let that happen again -- nothing takes priority over Connor."

Angel stalked toward her. Cowering, Willow stammered, "I-I'm sorry! I d-didn't mean--"

"Shut up."

His voice was soft, and all the more terrifying for the absolute calm with which he menaced the confused girl. Grabbing her by the upper arms, Angel yanked Willow up against him and morphed to his demon face.

"Draining you would be quick, but too suspicious," Angel murmured against her neck. He thrust her away and she collided against the wall with a resounding thud. "But if I snap your neck, I'll probably be able to convince them that I had no choice. It's obvious that you're about to lose it."

"Angel, what are you doing?!" Willow squeaked in terror.

"Protecting my son," he answered coldly, moving toward her. He seized Willow and spun her around, crooking his arm around her neck in a head-lock. Willow expelled a desperate gasp as Angel tightened his grip. "You're too unstable, and dealing with you and your problems is putting Connor at risk. My energies have to be focused on him, no matter the cost."

Angel jerked her forcefully against him. Please let this work...

"You don't want to do this. Angel, this isn't you!" Willow protested, tears flowing down her cheeks.

"What do you know about me? You think as long as my soul is intact, I'm all sweetness and light? News flash, Willow: even with a soul, I'm still a vampire. Crossing me is dangerous, because I *will* protect what's mine. If this means sacrificing you, it's a price I'm willing to pay."

"The price is too high. Not because of what will happen to me. I deserve to die. But because of what will happen to you. You're willing to destroy the good in you, all to protect Connor. It will hurt him more, though, if you sacrifice yourself just to--"

Willow stopped abruptly. Angel released her from his stranglehold and stepped back, knowing that she had just grasped it. She turned to face him. Gone was her fear and self-loathing, replaced by narrowed, accusing eyes.

"That was mean, Angel."

He offered her a brief, apologetic smile before his expression sobered to one of deep empathy. "You're no more evil than I am, Willow. You don't deserve to die. And it doesn't do anyone any good if you're so set on protecting other people from yourself that you destroy the core of who you are."

Willow's shoulders slumped and her eyes closed in defeat. "But I don't want to hurt anyone. I've already done so much harm...I can see their faces all the time...hundreds of them..."

Gently, Angel placed his hands on Willow's arms and guided her over to her bed. He sat down with her, rested his elbows on his knees, and stared into the distance for a few moments, searching for the right words.

Eventually, he confessed, "There isn't a day that goes by that I'm not reminded of someone I killed...someone I tortured. I see them in my dreams...when I'm trying to concentrate on a book and lose focus...Sometimes, by sheer coincidence, I see someone on the street who looks like a past victim. It happens to everyone -- like seeing someone who could be a movie star's double, or who resembles an old high school friend. For most people, the experience is just...curious. For me, it's a past I can never escape. The faces are always there and the memories never fade."

Willow looked up at him with forlorn, yet wondering, eyes. "How do you do it? How do you keep going?"

"I just do. I have to," Angel explained, gently grasping Willow's hand in his. "You can, too, Willow. Let me help you."

*****

From a concealed vantage point across the street from the Hyperion, Daniel Holtz studied the movements of the hotel's occupants through a pair of binoculars.

Much improved, since his time.

The recent arrivals in the lobby seemed troubled to the point of distraction, arguing animatedly with each other, from what he could tell.

Good.

The greater their distraction, the greater their weakness. Soon, he would strike and exact his revenge on the demon Angelus.

~Part: 18~

In the hotel room that served as her new home, Willow rested on her knees, eyes closed, and let Angel's soothing voice guide her in her inner journey.

"Focus on your breathing, Willow...Breathe in...and out...let the air fill you...feel it rise and fall like the tide...evenly...there is only your breath...rest your mind on your breath...the breath is your mind..."

It had been a week since her trip to the emergency room and Angel's own, vampire-style "intervention", which had finally forced Willow to confront her fears and work through them rather than hide from them. From that moment on, Angel had steadfastly assisted her in meditations that helped sharpen her mental acuity and enhanced her ability to navigate the worlds compressed inside her head.

She did wonder how a vampire knew so much about meditation routines that involved breathing.

Willow had asked Angel about that once, and he'd grinned at the apparent absurdity of the idea, but explained that it was merely one method among many he'd learned. According to Angel, meditation helped him channel his energy and control the demon. He might not have any breath to focus, but he could concentrate on a candle's flame.

Under Angel's patient guidance, Willow concentrated on deep, regular breathing and followed the velvet timbre of his voice as it led her down a fluid, shimmering tunnel of memories. As if emerging from a dark cave, her mind's eye suddenly opened onto warm sunlight and green, cloud-bedecked mountains.

There was a momentary disorientation as she adjusted to being "inside" the Guardian, Poydras. Willow still found it kind of...weird. She was completely within his sinews, his stride; she could feel the cool, fresh air on her face; yet Poydras, and everything else about his world, was in her mind.

Willow quickly took stock of her surroundings. It was a rocky path that ran along a steep cliff. Garat had taken Poydras along this path every year on the way to the annual gathering of Guardians. Remembering these journeys well from her first pass through this dimension, Willow knew that old Garat had used their long, solitary traverse of the mountains to lecture Poydras about his sacred calling and the challenges he would face in protecting his people from the Trackers. A rush of adrenaline flooded her and she listened intently, hoping to pick up the thread of Garat's words before he suspected that his student's mind was wandering.

"--or just you and three other apprentices," Garat intoned as he trudged forward, leaning on his gnarled walking stick. "How would you answer, if those were your choices?"

Willow groaned in the deep recesses of Poydras's mind. Since her first attempt to tamper with the worlds in her head, she'd learned that her presence had a far different effect when she was trying to alter events than when she was merely observing. Her arrival was more disruptive of her host's perceptions -- in this case, she couldn't count on Poydras to answer for her. For better or for worse, she was in control of his mind.

And she had no clue what Garat had just been saying.

"Er...the three?" she stammered in Poydras's gruff, masculine voice.

Garat paused and narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

"Safety in numbers?" To Willow's chagrin, her reply came out as barely a squeak. Just great. Poydras was officially in for a scolding. And Garat was worse than Giles.

"Safety in--?" Garat choked indignantly. The quills on his chin twitched beneath a stern frown, and Willow knew she was in for it, big time. "What does that have to do with deciphering runes? Hmph! So, an old man like me is worth less to you than three knuckleheaded youths where magic is concerned? You would rather have them by your side during the magic trials at the gathering?"

Willow had no doubt that Poydras's green skin was rapidly deepening to a mottled blue, signaling his embarrassment. "No, no, I meant--"

"If you are that confident in your abilities, then how would you approach this rune, hmm?" With a deft flourish of his hand, the dwarfish Master murmured a brief incantation and an intricate, spiral rune appeared on the path before them.

Warily, Willow crouched down within the Guardian's body to peer at the rune through his eyes. However, no sooner had she done so than the rune ignited and expelled a puff of smoke. Poydras barely had the chance to blink before he vanished and rematerialized in mid-air, just over the edge of the cliff. Yelping in alarm, he managed to catch hold of a rocky ledge as he fell.

To Willow's amazement, Garat's spell sent her flying back through her consciousness into her own surroundings in L.A. The sound of his boisterous, hearty laughter was abruptly replaced by Angel's cry of astonishment. In a heartbeat, Willow discovered her predicament, and her cry joined Angel's.

Somehow, Willow had been teleported from her meditative position in the center of her room and hung suspended outside her window. Just as she felt gravity tugging her downward, she scrambled for purchase on the windowsill. Behind the closed window and heavy drapes, the panicked redhead could hear Angel calling out to her in confusion.

"I'm out here!" Willow shouted, gripping tightly onto the ledge and scraping her shoes against the Hyperion's exterior wall.

Instantly, the drapes were swept aside and Willow caught a brief glimpse of Angel's astonished face before he recoiled from the sunlight. She cursed the mid-afternoon sun which burned down on her rapidly tiring shoulders. A moment later, Angel managed to raise the window, albeit with a few colorful phrases Willow hadn't ever heard him use before.

"Hang on, Willow," Angel urged through clenched teeth.

"Definitely good with the hanging," Willow agreed shakily. "But--uh, getting tired pretty quick here. Thinkin' floor under feet would be a good idea really soon."

Angel reached out and grabbed hold of her upper arms. He began to pull her up, gritting his teeth as his skin smoked. However, when his arms caught fire he growled in pain, released her, and ducked back inside.

As he smothered the flames, Angel hollered for assistance. "Gunn! Wesley! Buffy! We need some help up here!!"

Willow's arms began to tremble, but she grit her teeth and hung on. After a few moments, she heard a jumble of voices and to her great relief was soon being hoisted to safety by Gunn and Buffy. As they pulled her through the window, she saw Wesley examining the damage to Angel's arms.

"What happened?!" Buffy demanded, her cheeks flushed and her eyes wide with concern.

It took a second or two for Willow to catch her breath. Gunn eased her over to the desk chair and helped her sit. Buffy moved from Willow's side to crouch down next to Angel and gently examine his burned arms. He tensed slightly, but seemed to welcome her concern.

Shakily, Willow gasped, "Garat...someone from one...of...the other dimensions...conjured... a...rune...teleported me..."

"Hold on -- you mean one of the people in your head zapped you out the window?" Gunn asked incredulously. He exchanged a doubtful look with Wesley. "How's that supposed to work?"

"Well, it isn't," Wesley conceded with a frown. "That shouldn't happen, although in theory, it is possible that events that transpire during Ms. Rosenberg's journeys into her mind could somehow channel her own magic and produce effects on this end."

"What?!?" Willow squeaked. The implications were too staggering to comprehend. How was she supposed to fix these worlds if any small change might rebound on her in this dimension? She slumped against the back of the chair, floored by this unexpected twist. Furrowing her brow in helpless disbelief, Willow protested, "I thought this was supposed to be a one-way deal. Are you saying that when I change something in one of the other dimensions, it could have consequences in this one?"

Wesley grimaced apologetically, folded one arm across his chest and rested his chin on the knuckles of his other hand. "I guess more research is in order."

"I'll go let the others know," Buffy volunteered. She rose from her place beside Angel.

Willow glanced at her and was grateful when she saw the sympathetic expression on her friend's face. The young witch knew that Buffy was still somewhat uncomfortable with their situation. For one thing, Buffy refused to allow Dawn near Willow unsupervised, and even then the Slayer kept watch like a prison warden. Still, though, Buffy had been nothing but supportive since Willow's return from the emergency room, and had made it clear that what she wanted most was to have her old friend back.

Gratefully, Willow flashed her a smile. "Thanks, Buffy."

"Sure." Buffy smiled back, and left Willow to grapple with the daunting challenge that confronted her.

This was getting way too complicated.

*****

A familiar sight greeted Buffy when she poked her head in the office just off the lobby. Lorne sat in one of the cushy, upholstered armchairs, bouncing Connor gently on his knee and crooning soft, melodious nonsense. Either that, or maybe a lullaby in his native, demon language. Connor grinned up at Lorne's jade green face, wide-eyed, apparently enchanted by the smooth, subtle tones. Without warning, Connor's grin became a wide, warbling cavern of glee as he let out a laughing shriek, responding to some unknown message or insight only comprehensible to infants.

Buffy smiled. She may have been getting anxious recently about her prolonged absence from the Hellmouth, which left Sunnydale's residents unprotected, but part of her was deeply grateful that scenes like this had become a regular part of her day. Completely unaware of the troubles that surrounded him, Angel's son embodied all that was normal, serene, and hopeful. He was the one, tiny grain of normalcy that Fate had seen fit to allow any of them.

On the other hand, the discussion between Cordy and Fred, who were crowded together behind Cordy's desk, focusing intently on the computer monitor, was a reminder of how twisted "normal" business was for this motley group.

"And Gunn is sure he can trust his source?" Cordy asked, frowning as she clicked the mouse, then typed with a rattle of manicured nails against keyboard.

Fred nodded, screwing her nose to the side in an effort to nudge her glasses upward. "Not only that, but he's heard the rumor on the street a couple of times, so it's a pretty safe bet there's some truth to it."

"Truth to what?" Buffy asked as she approached the desk. She sat down on the smooth wood surface and craned her neck for a better view of the screen. "What rumor?"

Without looking up from her work, Cordy explained, "Oh, just a smooth-talking psycho who has apparently been holding a majorly powerful vampire prisoner for the past week and slowly starving it."

Buffy frowned. "Creepy. Any idea who'd be suicidal enough to keep a starving vamp under wraps?"

Still bouncing Connor, Lorne glanced up and volunteered, "I know who gets my vote for Most Dangerously and Single-mindedly Obsessed this year."

In unison, Cordy and Fred chimed, "Holtz."

Buffy folded her arms across her chest and lowered her gaze thoughtfully. Angel's gang had filled her in about the self-appointed vampire hunter from Angel's past, whose sole ambition seemed to be Angel's complete and utter destruction. The office was silent save for Cordy's rapid typing and Lorne's cooing, allowing Buffy to evaluate the situation. It was possible that Holtz was doing a trial run of tortures he planned to inflict on Angel. However, it was more likely that he intended to set the vamp loose on Angel when it was so insane with hunger that it would be uncontrollable. Or, it could be something too depraved for Buffy to imagine yet.

"Does Angel know?" Buffy asked at last, her voice hoarse with concern.

Cordy's eyes never left the computer screen as she sighed impatiently, "Uh huh. Gunn broke the news yesterday. That's why Wesley has me searching through *two* *freaking* *months'* worth of reports logged by the Watchers of any notable vampire activity in North America. Angel was planning to check around with his contacts this evening when he was done coaching Willow for the day."

"That reminds me," said Buffy, her expression sobering even further. "Something happened while Willow was tinkering with one of the worlds crammed in her head. Somehow, someone cast a spell in the other world and it affected her here. Wesley said it meant back to the research."

Fred gaped back at her. A second later, the petite physicist sprang from her seat, crossed behind Buffy, and began pacing agitatedly from one end of the office to the other. Gesturing absently with her hand, Fred babbled, "Oh my! This isn't good at all. I mean, it's not end-of-the-world bad, on account of those worlds already ended, but this will make it a *lot* harder to fix things. At least ten to the sixteenth more complicated...or...I'm not sure by what factor this increases the variables--"

The clatter of keystrokes stopped.

"Fred," Cordy cut in, diverting her gaze from the computer screen to stare patiently at the jittery brunette. "Why don't you go check in with Wesley, see what he thinks?"

With an embarrassed smile, Fred stammered, "Oh...right...I'll just...I'll go...oh, gosh!"

Buffy shook her head slightly behind Fred's retreating form. Her own stomach was in knots, as if Fred's nervous energy had left behind a residual trace. Turning back to Cordy, Buffy asked, "Why didn't anyone tell me. I mean, I know I'm out of the loop on a lot of the details, but I could still help out. Might as well not take a total vacation from the Slayerly duties."

Once again, Cordy's hands stilled over the keyboard. The Seer fixed Buffy with a cool, pointed stare that instantly reminded Buffy of the catty, aloof cheerleader from high school. "You probably could. And when Angel decides he needs your help, he'll ask for it. But he hasn't, has he? You know, he does have his *own* friends who are happy to look out for him." Arching a slender eyebrow in disdain, Cordy concluded, "He's uncomfortable enough having you and your fangless vamp-toy around as it is. Don't expect him to turn to you for everything the way he used to. You're not in Sunnydale any more."

Buffy's cheeks burned as if Cordy had slapped her. The edge of the desk creaked in protest as she gripped it so tightly that her nails dug into the wood. Even the pain of splinters gouging into her fingertips did little to take the edge off the shock.

"Uh, Cordelia? Sweetheart?" Lorne urged warily. "Now may not be the time to re-open old wounds. I've got a pretty happy little man over here, and I'd like to keep him that way."

Before Cordy could reply, Buffy seethed bitterly, "How dare you?!" Shaking, Buffy fought to contain her rage, lest she do serious, bodily harm. Too angry to see straight, Buffy choked again, "How dare you?!"

Livid, Buffy stalked out of the office. She had wanted to scream at Cordelia, but the brunette Seer's words had struck at the heart of Buffy's own insecurities about being an outsider in Angel's world -- both because of her involvement with Spike, and because he had a new circle of trusted confidantes. Worst of all, Buffy had been poised to ask Cordy who she thought she was, but the cold truth had stopped her. Once upon a time, Buffy may have been his heart's desire, but Angel now shared an equally profound, albeit different, connection with Cordy, who served as his liaison to the Powers That Be. Cordy may not have replaced her as the love of Angel's life, but neither was she the same, inconsequential girl from high school, a mere bystander who knew the dark vampire only through Buffy.

Feeling a lump rise in her throat, Buffy headed toward the basement where she knew Spike was teaching Dawn the basics of self-defense. Buffy desperately needed to wrap herself in the solace of her own loved ones.

*****

"C'mon, Bit, you're not even tryin'," Spike taunted, feinting at Dawn, then circling behind her.

They'd been going at it in the basement workout room for nearly half an hour. Dawn glowed with a light sheen of sweat. Spike could hear the blood pounding vigorously in her veins. Something was missing, though. He was all for the Little Bit learning to defend herself, what with all she'd been through, but she was still holding back, like she was waiting for someone to do all the work. Time to step it up -- she needed a good scare.

Seizing her abruptly, Spike pinned her arms to her sides with one arm and yanked her head to the side with the other. Dawn cried out in alarm as he plunged his head down at her exposed neck--

--and gave her a quick kiss right over the jugular.

He pushed her gently away.

Panting, Dawn managed to say, "You *so* scared me for a second there. What was with the Big Bad routine?"

A rush of pride surged through Spike. It was nice to know that even though the damned Scoobies had grown used to seeing him as a tame little kitten, he could still scare somebody. Nevertheless, he frowned sternly and retorted, "You're supposed to be scared, pet. That's the idea. D'you think any of the nasties we're tryin' to get you fit to handle would settle for a little peck on the cheek? Need to make you take this seriously."

Pouting defensively, Dawn insisted, "I'm taking this seriously. I'm totally down with the training."

"You're holdin' back. Can't always assume Big Sis'll be there to watch your back."

"I'm not assuming anything! Why do you think I'm down here with you? I'm tired of everyone treating me like they have to take care of me. I want to be able to take care of myself," Dawn argued, stalking over to the edge of the mat where a white towel lay heaped beside a water bottle. She grabbed the bottle, twisted the cap, and took several, deep swallows.

Spike sauntered over. "Then put a little effort into it. Haven't even given me a scratch yet. What would you do if some nasty vamp had you cornered and Buffy couldn't come running right away?"

Dawn's expression clouded and all the fight seemed to drain out of her. Softly, she murmured, "I'd tell him I thought he loved me, stake him, and try not to cry too hard that the only guy who ever acted like he was interested in me turned out to be a creep."

Sod it. He'd forgotten about that little escapade on Halloween. Seemed like that was ages ago, and bloody tame compared to everything that'd come after.

Spike sighed, scooped up the towel, and began gently dabbing sweat from Dawn's forehead. "Sorry, luv. Wasn't thinkin'."

Dawn sat down on the mat and Spike followed suit. She shrugged. "It's okay. I know you're just trying to help out. And it's been fun, hanging out with you like this."

"If you even think of using the words 'like a brother', I'll rip that tongue right out of your head, chip be damned."

Grinning, Dawn swatted playfully at him. "Fine, but then you can kiss the Buffy action good-bye."

"Oooooh, naughty girl, Dawn," Spike teased. "I can see who got all the vixen in your family."

Dawn's grin broadened and she blushed a little, but said nothing. After a few moments, she grew thoughtful and said, "It's still weird knowing that it's not just Buffy. I mean, that there have been other Slayers that fell in love with vampires."

For a moment, Spike felt the hollow, still, emptiness in his chest as his lifeless heart ached at Dawn's innocent remark. Softly, he corrected, "She's not exactly in love -- least, she hasn't said it yet. But I take whatever she'll give me."

"She so totally does love you," Dawn protested, rolling her eyes at him as if he were the densest git on earth. Her expression softened and she added, "Buffy's just been trying too hard to be things she's not. Ever since mom died...it's like she doesn't think it's okay for her to make a mistake...like she thinks if she'd done everything right, mom might still be alive."

Resting his arms across his knees, Spike fiddled with the laces on his right boot. Nodding, he agreed, "Hurt her pretty bad. Guess it's hard, her bein' the Chosen One, savin' the world over and over again, and yet she couldn't save her own mum."

Dawn hugged her knees to her chest and they sat together in silence for a few minutes. Then Dawn asked, "Did you ever meet him?"

Puzzled, Spike frowned. "Who?"

"Ramon Diaz," Dawn clarified, eyes twinkling eagerly.

Spike shrugged. "Once. 'Bout a hundred years ago. Thought he was a ponce."

"A ponce?"

"Real pathetic bugger. I'd heard the rumors about him an' his Slayer, but it was right around the time I'd...well, back then, I had a different opinion about Slayers."

//Amsterdam, 1902//

The pub was crowded and boisterous. It teemed with the stench of human vice: beer, smoke, the rich odor of sex wafting from beneath a whore's skirts, and the acrid, diseased miasmas exhaled by poor wretches who were infected with everything from consumption to syphillis.

Not the sort of place Dru cared to visit. But it suited Spike just fine. He rested his head against the dingy plaster wall and surveyed the drunken human patrons of the establishment. Not many he'd care to bite -- on the whole, they were a filthy lot. However, a few looked like they might be good for a nice, bloody fight. He could do with a spot of violence. Ever since China and that glorious kill -- his first Slayer! -- he'd had an edginess that just couldn't be stilled. He itched for a rematch with a worthy opponent. His body quivered in anticipation...for something...

As his studied, predator's gaze roamed over the pub's raucous denizens, his lips curling in a slow, feral grin at the multitude of churning heartbeats, he sensed the arrival of his own kind. Spike glanced across the room to the entryway and narrowed his eyes at the curious pair of vampires who had just come in. One was tall and dark-haired with a slight hint of beard on his chin. Spike figured him for a Spaniard. He looked proud but...sad? With a sneer, Spike reached for his stein of ale and took a swig. What self-respecting vamp'd go about looking sad?

'Course, maybe it had something to do with the wretch taggin' behind him like a dog. Looked like a minion, but there was something about its eyes...Dull, dim, haunted in that way only something very old can look. A network of scars cris-crossed its face, punctuated by a fresh, ugly bruise darkening its cheek. All the way across the room, Spike was able to detect a faint blood scent that suggested further injuries were concealed by its ragged clothes.

Spike's gaze returned to the first vamp. Their eyes locked and a tacit acknowledgment passed between them. Neither was interested in a fight over these hunting grounds. The somber, dark-haired vampire made his way across the pub, radiating an aura of command that prompted one human patron after another to give way. Without hesitation, the minion trailed obediently in his wake.

With a diplomatic nod of his head, the lead vampire sat down at Spike's table.

"Cómo es la caza?"

Spike shook his head. "Sorry, mate. Don't speak Spanish -- or Italian, if that's what that is."

"Spanish. I asked how the hunting is."

"Fair enough," Spike acknowledged with a shrug. "Haven't made my choice yet."

The taciturn vampire merely nodded and turned his attention to the surrounding humans. He reminded Spike of Angelus: all business. Get in, make a clean kill, get out. Spike, on the other hand, planned to stick around for a while, maybe stir up a fight.

A thought came to him.

"Get caught by a mob?" Spike asked conversationally. When the other vampire stared at him blankly, Spike cocked his head toward the battered minion, who certainly looked like he'd been roughed up by an angry crowd.

Pure, cold hatred hardened the dark-haired vampire's eyes, so intense it sent a slight shiver through Spike. Now this was a demon.

"He belonged to the Council of Watchers before. I turned him, and now it amuses me to torture him. It is a small revenge, but one that has taught them a lesson."

Spike warmed to the venom in the dark-haired vampire's evenly spoken words. Sounded like a wicked arrangement. He was intrigued.

"Revenge, eh? For what? Who're these Watchers?"

A slight clench of the jaw was the only reaction the Spaniard gave him. For several moments, the dark vampire stared absently at the humans carousing at other tables. Then, quietly, he said, "The Council is composed of pretentious mortal fools who think it is their place to control the Slayer."

"You don't say?" Spike mused with a feral grin. "Thought the girls just worked alone. S'pose it don't matter -- they fight alone and they die alone." Warming to the memories of his battle with the Chinese Slayer during the Boxer Rebellion, Spike thought little of it when the dark-haired vampire stiffened suddenly and stared at him with the same, slightly crazed look that Drusilla had. Smugly, Spike boasted, "Y'know you're lookin' at the vamp who killed the last Slayer. Damn, but they've got sweet blood, 's like--"

Without warning, the dark-haired vampire delivered a vicious, powerful blow to Spike's chin and sent him hurtling across the next table. Several of the humans bellowed indignantly as their drinks clattered to the floor. Abruptly, their cries sharpened in terror and Spike sensed the thundering increase in their heart rates. Rubbing his sore jaw, he looked up and saw the Spaniard looming over him, enraged, demon to the fore.

Spike had been chilled by the vamp's demeanor before; now there was something terrifying about the stranger. His eyes had the desperate, wounded look of an animal that wants to die.

Spike let his own true face emerge. Looked like he was about to get that fight he'd been hoping for. All too soon, and to his humiliation, Spike found himself outclassed. The dark vampire attacked him with a fury unbound, like all the forces of hell unleashed. They battled back and forth across the abandoned pub -- the humans having fled in mortal fear at the sight of two unholy monsters locked in combat. Spike managed to hold his own for a while, but eventually fell beneath the frenzied onslaught. He howled in pain as his skull cracked against the floor and curled in on himself to defend against brutal kicks to his ribs, only to suffer more kicks to his back. Slowly, oblivion swallowed him up.

When he came to, whimpering in agony, the Spaniard and his minion were gone. Drusilla sat beside him, gently stroking his hair.

"D-Dru?" he rasped painfully.

"Sshhhh," she soothed. "Musn't hurt yourself any more than you are, precious Spike."

"How'd...you...f-find...?" Spike's question trailed off as he coughed up stolen blood.

Gently, Drusilla gathered him in her arms and cradled him across her lap like an infant. Shifting to her demon visage, she sank her fangs into her own wrist, then held the wound to Spike's swollen, bruised lips and urged him to drink.

"I followed the fear...all the people scurrying away like little mice from the hungry cat!"

Strengthened by his Sire's blood, Spike pulled away from her wrist, blinked up at her dark, glistening eyes and asked, "The vamp I was fightin'...did you see him?"

Dru, consoling her wounded childe, murmured sadly, "My poor boy. You still have your princess. He lost his -- naughty men! She gave him her heart, but the nasty Watchers stole it away and cut it into tiny little bits, snip, snip, snip..."

Spike shivered, his entire body in searing torment, as his Dark Goddess continued to stroke his hair. Too tired to press her for answers, he clung to her and let the rich scent of his beloved's blood soothe him and wash away the pain and humiliation.

// Los Angeles, 2002 //

"How did you know it was Diaz?" Dawn asked.

Spike cocked his head to the side in surprise. He'd expected her to be more upset that he'd bragged about killing a Slayer, but Dawn relaxed companionably beside him, her legs stretched out before her on the mat, seeming more curious than angry.

With a wry grin, Spike sighed, "Word got around about the fight -- no way it couldn't have. Dru got me out of town all right, but my reputation had been buggered good and proper for a few years. Couldn't turn around without hearin' how Ramon Diaz gave me a sound thrashing. Spent a long time fightin' with tossers who rubbed my nose in it, workin' my way back. Meantime, I heard more than enough about Ramon Diaz -- most of it rumors. Told me himself he'd turned a Watcher, but everything else I got were vague stories -- he'd turned a Slayer, he'd killed a Slayer, he'd loved a Slayer...I just thought he was a bloody psychopath."

Dawn smirked. "Pot calling the kettle?"

"Yeah, well..." Spike's retort trailed off as he caught the faint scent of blood.

Very familiar, intoxicating, blood.

He looked to the stairwell and a moment later Buffy appeared at the top of the stairs and started down. Spike's eyes narrowed in concern at the sight of her hand gripping the handrail. Small traces of blood dappled her fingertips. Yet when he searched her eyes, it was emotional pain he saw.

Rising to his feet, Spike crossed the mat to meet her. "Buffy? What's wrong, luv?"

When she didn't answer, merely gazing at him in numb sorrow, he drew her into his arms. Tenderly, he brought one of her abused hands up to his mouth and kissed it. One by one, he took each finger between his lips and soothed the damaged flesh with his tongue, struggling to keep it relatively chaste in Dawn's presence. Buffy closed her eyes and leaned into his embrace, sighing at his loving ministrations.

After several moments, Buffy murmured, "I don't belong here."

*****

In the darkened basement of a run-down, abandoned building, behind a thick metal door reinforced with dead-bolts, a vampire slumped against the chains that bound her. Her senses were agitated, painfully inflamed by hunger, and she could hear the mice skittering across the floor in the shadows.

She could hear their blood -- sweet, tempting blood.

Little mice, with little blood, but, then, a little was better than none.

She wanted to eat the naughty man who kept her here. Every time he came to taunt her, to tell her about daddy's new family, his warm blood called to her. How she wanted to sip the man's blood from a china cup as the little mice crawled over his body, nibbling, nibbling at the house...

With a low, frustrated growl, Drusilla tugged on her chains.

~Part: 19~

The room was still and shadowed. Not terribly cozy, but, then, Angel hadn't been expecting guests and nobody from Sunnydale had anticipated staying this long. Still, what the room lacked in comfort, Spike intended to make up for it by pampering his heartsick, steadfast little soldier as much as she'd let him.

With supreme tenderness, Spike knelt before Buffy and gently took one of her hands in his. He searched her expression for some clue as to what had cast a cloud over this girl who was the closest thing to sunlight he'd touched in a century. Wordlessly, he ventured a smile, squinting in quiet wonder when she hesitantly smiled back. So radiant. It almost hurt to look at her.

Delicately, he began dabbing her tattered fingertips with a washcloth he'd soaked in warm water. He'd already checked her hands and removed a few splinters. Now he soothed and caressed, wiping away the traces of blood and, he hoped, whatever else had caused her pain.

And she let him.

Damned if it wasn't one of the sweetest moments he'd had all week.

As he patted her hands dry with a towel, the barest hint of a smirk on his lips, Spike asked, "How is it I've spent so much time patchin' up your hands since you came back to us, luv?"

Buffy grinned awkwardly and half-exhaled, half-laughed. Almost shyly, she lowered her gaze to their joined hands. But she didn't answer. Must be bad. Spike hadn't known her to be without a blithe quip or snappy comeback more than a handful of times.

Like the time her mum told her about the tumor.

Or after the royal hell bitch took the Niblet away from her.

Spike wondered what she was trying to escape this time. Not a coffin, but obviously traumatic enough that she'd clawed her fingers bloody again.

"D'you want to talk?" he asked, gently circling his thumb over her palm. After a pause, he offered, "D'you want me to talk? I could tell you how the Little Bit is doing. Got some of your fight in her and her moves aren't half bad. Might be holdin' back a bit, but she's--"

"Could you just hold me?" Buffy interrupted softly. She raised her eyes to his. Such a simple gesture, a plea for consolation and an act of faith all in one, yet it rocked Spike to the core.

Could he?

*Could* he?

That wasn't a request, it was a gift.

Wordlessly, the blond vampire rose from his knees and sat beside Buffy on the edge of her bed. He encircled her waist with his arms and drew her back against him, nuzzling her brow with his cheek.

Minutes crept by. Beautiful, perfect minutes. Spike didn't know when he'd get another chance like this one, so he savored every second, every sensation. The heat of her body radiating over his deathly chill. That fierce, relentless Slayer pulse humming through him everywhere they touched. Smooth, silky hair, heady with the scent of flowers from that ridiculously over-priced designer shampoo she treated herself to. And just the feel of her relaxing against him.

If trust was something you could touch, if you could reach out your hand and grab it, Spike guessed it would feel like this.

He treasured it.

"Why do you do this for me?" Buffy whispered against his chest. "None of this is the way it's supposed to be."

*****

"It isn't supposed to be this way," Willow protested, resting her forehead in her palms, her elbows propped on the small desk near her bed. "Those worlds, those people inside my head. They shouldn't be able to affect me like that."

"Slow down, Willow," Angel urged. He sat calmly, a few feet away, leaning forward in his seat and resting his arms on his knees as he watched her intently. "You're about to hyperventilate."

Willow let her head sink to the table with a soft moan. This was going to be a lot harder than she'd anticipated.

"It's okay to feel discouraged," Angel added after a few moments of silence.

A weak, shaky laugh slipped out. "I left discouraged way back a few panic attacks ago. Right now I'm hanging with 'severely crushed' and 'soundly defeated'. I'll *never* fix this! Not if someone from another dimension who's in my head can zap me out a window..."

As Willow rested her forehead against the cool wood of the desk, trying to clear all thought from her weary, sorely overtaxed mind, she could hear Wesley and Fred murmuring to each other across the room.

"Maybe if we enter this into our calculations and redo them--"

"No, too many variables. This has gone beyond anything we can plot. I can't even fathom the equations it would take--"

Above their hushed exchange, Angel's voice rose, calmly dispelling the nervous tension that filled the air. "Fred, Wesley, we're done for now. Willow needs some down time. We'll take the rest of the afternoon off and come back to this later."

After a brief pause, the soft sweep of a door opening and closing signaled the departure of Angel's co-workers. Willow was fairly sure that Angel was still seated across from her. She hadn't felt him get up and leave, although she realized she couldn't really trust her senses where he was concerned. Vampires could be pretty darn stealthy.

"I meant what I said." Angel's voice prompted the disheartened witch to raise her head. She saw understanding and compassion in his eyes. "You shouldn't push yourself too hard, especially not with something this big. Trust me, I've been there before."

Willow managed a small, rueful smile. "So, even vampires have their limits, huh?"

Angel managed a rueful half-smile, his eyes downcast. "Believe it or not, most do. If they don't learn on their own, eventually even the most driven learn the hard way from the Slayer. Including me." He fixed a sad yet compassionate gaze on Willow. "Determination can be a good thing, Willow, but not when it's pushed to the point of obsession."

A familiar, perplexed look descended upon Willow's features like a veil. Occasionally, her head bobbed and her lips parted as if she were about to speak, but for several moments she grappled silently with her thoughts. At last, in a small, meek voice, she whimpered, "But what if I don't know how to find those limits? I t-try," Willow's breath hitched in her throat, "but nothing is ever enough. When we stopped Glory, the very next night all the creepy ghoulies were out as usual, like nothing had happened. So we kept going...and there was always more danger...and how could I say no and let everyone down? They were counting on me, but I wasn't enough. I just wanted everyone to be-"

*****

"-happy," Buffy whispered, blinking her eyes as she fought back the tears. "It was so hard for me, trying to hide what I really felt about being back from everyone. My friends were so happy...and so ready to have the strong, reliable Slayer back. But...the only thing...the only one who made me feel anything," Buffy paused and exhaled shakily, "was you."

"Shh," Spike hushed her, brushing his lips against her temple and enfolding her possessively in his embrace.

"No," Buffy shook her head weakly and squeezed her eyes shut. "I can't...it's all wrong. I'm wrong. I tried to be what everyone needed me to be, but it just ate away at me...and I couldn't stop wanting what you made me feel *every* *time*...and I hurt him. I've hurt him, and I've lost him, and I feel bad for thinking about him when you're holding me like this, and I *don't* feel bad, because no matter how much he loved me, it was Darla he turned to, and nothing makes any sense any more!"

"Stop."

Spike's grip was firm on Buffy's arms as he turned her to face him and silenced her with a stern, smoldering gaze. "No more fretting," he commanded in a low, velvety rumble. "You think this mess is because of something *you* did? Bollocks. Takes two to tango, luv. Even if your life were as cocked up as you think it is - which it's not - blame's not all on your shoulders, which means you can't make it right just by beating yourself up. And you bloody well don't owe anyone an apology for what you feel. So, enough talking."

"But-" Buffy protested, only to be cut off by a firm kiss. Anguish and compassion dueled in the joining of their mouths, yet Spike's relentless, sensual exploration gradually vanquished the pain and sorrow and frustration. In its place a primal hunger blossomed between them. Spike's kisses soon passed from soothing to demanding. Teeth came into play, tugging at lips and capturing tongues.

An urgent, desperate heat burned in icy blue depths as Spike pulled away and gazed into Buffy's eyes. "Just for a few hours, stop trying to save the world...stop trying to save everyone else but yourself," he entreated softly as his hands slipped beneath her shirt to caress her bare skin. He leaned forward and pressed his brow reverently against hers, letting his eyes slip shut. "So many nights, I dreamed of saving you. Let me save you now."

Buffy let out a yearning sigh, the last gasp of her inner doubts and self-recriminations, and gave herself up to the delirious, comforting sensations that Spike's fingertips teased out as they skimmed over her warm, soft curves. Their lips joined once more in loving communion as Slayer and vampire clasped each other tightly and sank down onto the bed.

*****

"It won't make your job any easier for you to turn it into a punishment or imprisonment without parole," Angel said as he walked beside Willow toward the stairwell. He sympathized with her frustration, having shouldered his own burden of guilt for a hundred years, and he knew how paralyzing and oppressive that burden could be. Voices filtered up from the lobby, rising and falling in lively, carefree cadence, so *human* in their chorus that Angel grew even more convinced about what Willow needed right now. "You've run up against a wall. Take some time off to re-focus. The work will still be here when you get back."

Willow sighed, her eyes downcast, her face drawn and pensive. Angel paused and turned to face her. God, he hated this. He knew exactly how she felt and it pained him to think of Willow, or anyone else, grappling with the same gut-wrenching shame and regret that had reduced him to a miserable recluse for the better part of a century. He knew so well what it meant to make a series of poor judgments in the recklessness and innocence of youth, only to find himself transformed into a monster that visited unspeakable horrors upon the world.

Angel's chest ached where once a living heart had been. He felt a pang of sympathy for Willow, who looked both as young and uncertain as she had when he'd first met her in Sunnydale, and as old and weary as he sometimes felt.

"It just seems wrong. I mean, how can I take a break, kick back with chocolate and scented candles and fuzzy slippers...and...all that other self-indulgent, pamper-y stuff when all the people in those worlds I destroyed are...they're..."

Her rant faded and they stood together for several moments in awkward silence.

"Dead," Angel finished for her. "Willow, they're dead. You have the power to change that. I don't know how. I can't even fathom the kind of power it would take, but I wish someone had given me the same chance to do what you can, what you *will*. For now, though, they're dead, which means they're not going anywhere, and they won't get any worse if you take a few hours for yourself."

Another heartbeat approached. Angel's gaze flicked away from Willow toward the stairwell, and he smiled at the perfect timing as the gentle, doe-eyed face of Willow's girlfriend came into view.

"Leave the dead behind this afternoon," the dark vampire suggested. The slight racing of Willow's pulse as she glanced shyly at Tara told Angel all he needed to know about which buttons to push. "You can't save the world, let alone six worlds, if you can't even forgive yourself. Believe me, Willow, I've tried. You need to reconnect with what matters. Go out into the sunshine. Be with the living."

Tara stood a few paces away from them, patiently waiting for Willow's decision. Willow hesitated, her eyes still heavy with remorse and failure. She looked at Angel and he gave her a reassuring nod. When Willow shifted her gaze toward Tara, the honey-haired witch extended her hand in invitation.

Angel caught the faint scent of salt from Willow's grateful, if unshed, tears as she went to Tara.

Slipping her hand into Willow's, Tara asked, "Want to go for a walk?"

A hesitant grin blossomed on Willow's lips and she squeezed Tara's hand in reply. As they turned to go, Willow looked over her shoulder and said, "Thanks, Angel."

"Enjoy the sunshine," the dark vampire answered, acutely aware of the burns on his hands and arms: his own painful reminder of the limits to what kind of help he could offer her.

He looked down at his inflamed, partly charred skin and decided it might be a good idea to doctor them up with more aloe. His accelerated vampire healing had already kicked in, lessening the severity of the burns in the short time since he'd tried to haul Willow in through her window, but his arms still smarted.

It was on the way to his suite that he noticed it.

A sensation so far below what could be perceived by human senses that there was no equivalent in smell, sound, or taste. Something primal and feral that his demon recognized on a preternatural level; familiar, yet almost unfamiliar because it had been so long since he'd sensed it.

Even before Angel's conscious mind recognized what it was that tugged at his senses, he was filled with a strange foreboding, a desire both to seek out and to hide. Curiosity got the better of him, and without really thinking about it, he made his way up to one of the hotel's higher floors where the sensation grew stronger.

The truth bombarded him from multiple directions: his brain finally caught up with his surroundings as he realized he was in the corridor that led to Buffy's room; his sensitive hearing detected heady gasps and soft moans; rich, spicy pheromones wove their spell beneath his nose; and with sudden, painful clarity, Angel recognized the mysterious sensation that had drawn him here in the first place.

A vampire in heat.

Not just any vampire. Spike. It had been over a century, but Angel recognized Spike's unique signature of intensity and lust, felt it resonating in the air, and stopped cold. A sickening, bitter ache clenched inside him. He'd known. Buffy had even admitted as much when Giles had informed her of the threat from the Council. But it still hadn't prepared him for being confronted so brutally, so intimately, with the facts.

He stood, rooted to the floor for several moments, awash in a contradictory array of emotions. Jealous rage burned through his veins at the thought of his first, true love with Spike of all people. The fire of his anger was quelled, however, by bitter shame at the fact that he, himself, had hurt Buffy just as badly. A cruel, ironic voice in the depths of his mind even taunted him with the thought that this was probably what Spike must have felt when Angel, during his brief return to soullessness, had flaunted his intimate relations with Drusilla.

Angel wanted to charge in there and pull Spike off of her.

Without a word, he turned back to the stairwell instead.

*****

"It's agonizing, isn't it?"

Such a furry, purring sound, Drusilla thought to herself as the odd, gray man spoke to her. His voice tickled her ears like a cat's whiskers, but above all else she heard his blood rushing like a mighty river. Silly kitty, to be so near the water. Doesn't realize the danger.

"You thirst for blood, don't you, demon?" the bearded, gray-haired man spoke again.

"He wants to play a game, but I am too cross for grandfather's riddles," Drusilla mused. Languidly, she leaned forward as far as her chains would allow and growled at him. "Naughty boys go to sleep without their bedtime story."

The odd man stared at her. It made Drusilla laugh. She could almost hear the clickety-clack of thoughts in his brain, but oh! was he in for a surprise. The lords and ladies were all at court, but they would not dance with him.

"He really did drive you insane," the man purred, although he was not at all warm and soft. "It's perfect. Angelus will have no one to blame but himself when you feed on his only son. He'll lose the one he holds most dear in this world to a creature of his own making."

"Ssshhhh," Drusilla chided him with a sly grin. "Mustn't make noise. Your house is made of glass and the little witch has been skipping stones." Her grin widened as she whispered, "Come closer and I'll tell you a secret, dearie."

The man wrinkled his brow, but moved closer, wary as a little mouse. Drusilla eyed him with interest. Suddenly, without warning, she pounced, but he was a quick one. She managed only to scrape his neck with her fangs and taste a tiny drop of his sweet blood before he leaped away. His voice was no longer warm and soft, and he called her bad, nasty names.

Angrily, he drew a cross out of his pocket and pressed it against her cheek.

Drusilla wailed and thought how nice it would be if she could eat the nasty man.

~Part: 20~

Orange and white darted in random, fluid paths beneath the water's surface. Willow watched, mesmerized, as the carp swam easily around their pond, oblivious to the comings and goings of the land creatures who stared down at them. She'd been trying to wrap her brain around impossible twists and turns in multiple dimensions for days now, yet somehow it felt soothing to watch the unpredictable twists and turns of the fish. It didn't really make sense. Maybe it was because all she had to concentrate on were the fish, their random wanderings, and she could just let go and follow wherever they led.

"Imagine what would happen if we let fish design the freeways," Tara mused beside her, tilting her head thoughtfully.

Willow grinned and squeezed Tara's hand. "Actually, I think traffic might be better if we did," she countered, wrinkling her brow as she followed the dizzying, repetitive loops made by a few carp on the fringes. Her gaze wandered toward Tara's hand clasped in hers. A surge of warmth washed over her at the sight of their entwined fingers, although the feeling was clouded by her ever-present guilt. Slowly, she raised her eyes to meet Tara's and said, "Thanks for showing me this. It's so pretty here."

Tara nodded in agreement as the two of them admired the peaceful, secluded Japanese garden Tara had discovered a few days earlier. A slight frown tugged at her mouth. "Just about anything would have to be pretty after being cooped up in a hotel room for so long," Tara surmised.

"Yeah," Willow agreed.

Boy did she ever agree. She'd forgotten how much she needed the feel of a breeze fanning across her skin or the scent of green, living things.

A honeyed ray of sunshine bathed her face and Willow gave herself over to the delicious, breathtaking feel of life around her. The warm air was so thick with it that she almost swooned. Bees and blue dragonflies darted about and if Willow concentrated on them, she could block out the street noises in the distance. The buzzing and hum of gossamer wings was softened by the occasional rustling of leaves when the wind stirred them.

Sultry was the only word for it.

Los Angeles had its fair share of smog and sun and haze, but this was sultry. In the late afternoon heat, the air was moist and heavy with the scent of lotus and azalea. Without realizing it, Willow slowly grew attuned to the web of life surrounding her. Her skin literally tingled with it. The heady sensation soon drew her mind upwards and outwards. Here, the brief fragrance of cherry blossoms that had bloomed in the garden many weeks earlier. There, the cool salt spray of the ocean, miles from any coastline, where only they great whales ventured. Still further, the rich musk and damp-wool scent of wildlife on a high mountain ridge.

Layer upon layer melted away...sensations blended into one another...

Then Willow noticed something, not wrong exactly, but *off*. A musty, smoky, faintly herbal smell tickled her senses - one she associated with dusk and quiet companionship, with that satisfying, restful moment when the day's work was done. But it didn't belong here. Frowning, Willow realized where she remembered it from.

Garat's pipe.

"Yours is a beautiful world."

Willow's eyes snapped open and her heart nearly leaped into her throat.

There before her stood Garat.

In. Her. World.

"This can't be real," Willow breathed, astonished. She closed her eyes, steadied herself, then re-opened them.

Garat was still there. He blinked at her in silent bemusement, the quills on his chin twitching as they had so many times when Poydras had done something foolhardy or impulsive.

Perplexed and mildly disoriented, Willow took a step back. "Oh, God," she gulped. Her stomach churned and she half expected the ground to fall out beneath her as a prelude to the leap into another dimension. Panic rose at the thought that everything was destabilizing again, so soon after she'd adjusted to being back. How was this possible? She gaped at the diminutive yet commanding trainer she'd grown to know so well during her stay in Poydras's dimension. "How did you get here?"

"Willow? Are you all right?" Tara asked warily, following Willow's wild-eyed gaze to empty air near a bamboo grove.

Startled, Willow spared a dumbfounded glance for her companion, then looked back to Garat. Couldn't Tara see him?

Garat smiled cryptically and explained, "You brought me here."

*****

A nondescript, navy blue cargo van rolled to a stop before a warehouse near the Santa Monica freeway. Four men, lean but muscular, climbed out. They entered the warehouse silently, without the easy banter or joking of comrades. Everything about their demeanor suggested a team of professionals.

Inside, another man sat before a laptop that was perched on a folding card table. The wall nearby was lined with surveillance cameras and electronic communications devices of every kind. Not raising his eyes from the keyboard, the seated man observed brusquely, "You're late. Travers expects an update within the hour."

Without flinching, one of the newly arrived men replied, "It's confirmed. The Slayer and her Watcher are holed up at a hotel in the city with two vampires and a number of humans."

"Threat assessment?" the seated man asked.

"The vampires are old, fairly powerful. The Slayer herself has survived beyond expectations; she's stronger than most, and battle-hardened. The Watcher knows our organization; he's probably anticipating an attack, so we can't count on the element of surprise. As for the others, not enough information yet. They have their weaknesses, though. There's an infant, and one of the humans seems to be an invalid, maybe even crazy. She nearly took a leap out of a window," a second man from the van reported.

A third man from the team pulled a carton of leftover Thai noodles from a small refrigerator, shoveled a large clump onto his fork and mumbled around the mouthful, "So what now?"

"Now we wait for final authorization to eliminate. This job's the big one. This time, we do things strictly by the book," the man at the laptop answered.

The others nodded indifferently, settling down for a quick meal or a cigarette while they waited.

*****

The long, dark silence was punctuated every now and then by hollow, echoing drips of water. Otherwise, the vast network of sewer tunnels was tomb-like in its silence.

In that silence, Angel wandered alone, jaw clenched with grief and pain as he waited for sunset so he could escape into the night. The heartache had been so bad, he'd crept away from the hotel, unnoticed.

It had been pure torment.

Not for the first time in his long existence, Angel cursed his vampire senses. He'd tried to block it all out. He'd retreated to the basement, as far from Buffy and Spike as he could go, and if it had been any other couple, he would have been able to tune them out. Vampires weren't quite the slaves to their senses that so many humans imagined them to be. Indeed, in order to maintain control, they *had* to develop discipline over their heightened awareness of scents and sounds, lest the dizzying array of stimuli around them drive them mad. But once he'd realized what Buffy and Spike were doing, once the image of his first love writhing in ecstasy with someone who had betrayed him and caused him so much pain had been burned into his mind, he couldn't block out the scents and sounds, even as faint as they were across such a long distance.

Onward he trod through dank passages, everywhere the surfaces slick with moisture. Dark, glistening walls; pipes sweating with condensation; his face damp with tears.

Desperately, he sought the numbing cold he'd felt just over a year ago. Anything, anything to make the hurt go away.

Still, the water drops fell from pipes into shallow puddles pooled below, each drip like the ticking of a clock, marking the painfully slow passage of seconds, minutes, hours until he would be free to venture out into a darkened city.

Angel walked on.

*****

Somehow, even after all the supernatural beings and freakish monsters he'd faced, Xander still managed to find this particular situation bizarre. Maybe because it almost verged on being kind of...normal?

Anya was sitting nearby on one of the overstuffed lounges in the lobby, leafing through a copy of Modern Bride that was thick enough to rival the Los Angeles yellow pages. Giles, Wesley, and Angel's friend, Fred, were gathered together at the counter to the office, poring over a sea of papers, all covered with scary Fred scribblings - the kind of incomprehensible, trans-dimensional calculations that Xander was glad *he* didn't have to try to figure out.

Instead, stripped down to jeans and a tee shirt, he leaned into powerful strokes as he sanded the side of a cradle.

A cradle he'd started building for Angel's son about four days ago.

Angel's. Son.

As in infant human child fathered by Deadboy.

It shouldn't be possible.

Yet Xander had seen the child, as real and solid as the wood beneath his hands. He could hear Lorne singing softly to him from the office, which summoned up all sorts of quivery-stomach thoughts about parenthood. Was he ready? Would he ever be ready, after everything he'd seen in his life on the Hellmouth? And more importantly, would their lives ever get to a point where things were quiet enough and safe enough for him even to consider bringing a child into the world? Shoot, maybe kids existed in some nice, happy dimension before being born here - some nice, happy dimension where they'd be better off staying, given what he'd seen in less than a quarter-century of living.

As it was, with Willow's most-recent setback, not to mention the likelihood that the Watchers Council would be sending a team of friendly assassins for a visit, it was beginning to seem like they'd never be able to go back to-

"Xander, don't you think the lobby of Angel's excessively opulent place of business would make a lovely site for our wedding reception?"

--huh?

Xander sighed and shook his head with amused chagrin. Trust Anya to have the right priorities. For Anya, that is. In a really crazy way, she was a source of sanity for him amid the never-ending crises. If Anya was still able to think about wedding receptions and frilly, godawful bridesmaids' gowns, the world couldn't be ending, could it?

"Ahn, somehow I don't think a vampire's lair is the kind of address you want to be putting on wedding invitations. There's something about white, papier-maché church bells and blood that just doesn't mix," Xander suggested patiently, not breaking the rhythm of his strokes.

"Oooh, a wedding? Here?" Fred piped up excitedly. She crossed from her place near the counter to drop beside Anya and peer over her shoulder at the bridal magazine.

"Well, it's not like we'll be able to return to Sunnydale any time soon. Not with the Watchers out to kill their own Slayer. After all, it's always the sidekicks who get caught in the crossfire," Anya observed blithely. She narrowed her eyes at the sight of Fred's attire: jeans, plain sneakers, and a red tee shirt with a picture of Marvin the Martian on the front. "You really shouldn't wear a shirt like that, especially around a warrior in the battle between good and evil. It marks you as expendable."

"Oh?" Fred stammered awkwardly, her nose wrinkling above a timid smile. "I guess I'd never thought about it. Actually, *not* being treated as expendable is still kind of a novelty for me. They don't really care too much for humans in Pylea."

Anya scowled in distaste. "You mean that dimension with the ridiculous dances and loud-mouthed demons in need of serious dental work? Ugh! I hope you weren't stuck there for long. I visited once about three hundred years ago, and I didn't like it at all..."

Xander shifted his position to sand the foot of the cradle, letting the soft scratch of the sandpaper soothe his mind and drown out the conversation. He was still preoccupied by what had happened to Wills this afternoon, and wasn't quite ready for Anya's chit-chat mode. True, their lives had slipped into an odd kind of normalcy during the past few days. He'd even found work at a local construction site. The money helped, but it wasn't really about that. He just cared about Willow and Buffy, and couldn't handle the endless waiting, day after day, not kowing if or when the Council would launch and attack, not being able to do a damned thing to help Willow fix the mess she'd made. He'd learned pretty early on that he wasn't Book Guy. He was more Hands-On Guy; he liked having something to do.

So he ran his fingers over the smooth grain of the wood, its surface lightly powdered from his repetitive sanding, and tried to think of what he *could* do for his friends instead of dwelling on all the things he couldn't do. And truthfully, he had to admit that he wasn't totally helpless. Xander was even pretty sure he knew what Willow needed most: a chance to laugh, to smile, to be Willow. He didn't need super powers or a Watcher's years of training to help with that.

It had been a long, long time since he'd felt insecure or inadequate about himself for being plain old Xander, Mr. Regular Guy, surrounded by friends who all seemed to have some supernatural goodness to offer. He'd had his moment of truth in a face-off over a ticking bomb in the basement of Sunnydale High. In one, breathtaking, life-altering heartbeat, with death literally staring him right in the eye, everything had resolved in crystal clarity, and from then on, he'd known. He didn't have to prove himself to anyone.

Deadboy might be able to teach Willow about meditation, and he'd probably cornered the market on dealing with mountains of guilt at leaving a trail of destruction in his wake. Giles, Wesley, and Fred might be Willow's best source of tech support on the whole trans-dimensional puzzle. Tara could definitely make Willow feel loved. But Xander had something crucial that Willow needed, something more powerful than magic or Slayer strength or all the volumes of Watcher learning ever compiled.

He had her past.

He *was* her past, her link to a time when life was innocence and wonder.

Xander had been there for her through everything, knew her from way back before their lives had grown so complicated. More than anyone, he could help Willow find her way back to herself. If it was at all possible, after her centuries of out-of-control dimension-hopping, Xander knew he had the best shot at it.

As he pondered what he'd do when Willow and Tara got back from their walk, a chance remark broke into his thoughts.

"...anyway, it should have been obvious to anyone who knows anything about dimensional manipulation that this would happen," Anya observed off-handedly, flipping a page in her mammoth bridal compendium. Her eyes lit up and she exclaimed, "Oooh, now there's a centerpiece for the reception! See, honey?" She leaned toward Xander and held the magazine out for him to admire. "An ice-sculpture swan. We could have one custom designed in a different shape, like a Nagork'n demon. That way, if anyone attacked during the wedding, we could snap off the spikes and use them as spears."

Xander grinned somewhat incredulously. He loved Anya, he really did. Her often baffling outlook on the world was a large part of that, although he didn't think he'd ever get used to her bizarre logic.

"Ahn, only you would think to include a tastefully subdued arsenal in our wedding decorations." He leaned up to give her a quick kiss. "Who says you can't mix romance and practicality?"

Anya beamed adoringly at him, accepting his wry remark as a compliment.

"Er, Anya, do you mean to say you'd anticipated Willow's latest setback?" Giles asked, a pained expression signaling his frustration.

"Oh, sure," Anya answered with a shrug. "Anyone knows that the human mind isn't equipped to handle all the variables involved in working with multiple dimensions. The human brain is finite. It doesn't have nearly the capacity it would take to maintain control over every contingency. Why else do you think there's a need for vengeance demons? Humans are restricted within a clear-cut set of boundaries and physical laws for a reason. If people could make their own wishes a reality, it would be total chaos. Any time you mess with the what ifs and might have beens of alternate realities or parallel dimensions, it has repercussions in this world. How do you think I managed to grant wishes for all those scorned women?"

Xander blinked at his fiancée, dumbfounded by her revelation.

The entire lobby was silent for several moments.

Giles was the first to find his voice again. Quietly, he asked, "Do you think you might have said something sooner?"

"Why?" Anya looked completely taken aback. "It's part of the test. If I'd said anything, it would have ruined it."

Xander dropped his forehead against his palm and closed his eyes. Once again, he was baffled by the mysteries of Anya-logic. Raising his head, he reached out, grasped Anya's hand in his, and prompted gently, "Ahn, sweetheart? How would you like to share with the rest of the class what you know about this test?"

*****

Night fell at last, banishing the sun's deadly rays, and once again it was safe for a vampire to roam out in the open.

Footsteps echoed through a bright, sterile corridor at LAX. A solitary figure strode from the gate, having debarked from a private, chartered flight, to the Immigration checkpoint. Although the darkness outside caused the interior scenery of the corridor to reflect back off of the long window panels, the lone traveler's image could not be seen. To an independent observer staring at the window's reflections, only the clipped sound of purposeful steps would mark the mysterious, phantom passage.

The traveler arrived at the Immigration counter, manned by a bored, uniformed official who looked like he would rather be anywhere else. Reaching into the breast pocket of an impeccably tailored, black suit, the traveler withdrew his passport and slid it across the counter toward the Immigration officer.

The officer glanced down briefly at the photograph in the passport and compared it to the refined, dark-haired man who waited patiently before him. Satisfied as to the man's identity, the officer asked, "How long do you intend to stay in the country?"

"A few weeks, unless complications arise."

"And what is the purpose of your visit?"

"Business."

Following his usual routine, the Immigration officer stamped the passport and slid it back across the counter. "Welcome to the United States, Mr. Diaz."

The official greeting was met with a silent nod.

Ramon Diaz proceeded toward the exit, where a limousine awaited him.

And after that...to business.

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