Parts: 6 - 10
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
~Part: 6~
Buffy's eyes remained fixed on Connor. He was a stable point of reference as the rest of her world tilted at Angel's quiet confession. She listened to Connor's soft, steady breathing, which reminded her that she should probably suck in some oxygen herself.
Oh, yeah...
Breathe.
Dazed, Buffy managed to say, "I'm sorry...I thought I heard you say he was your--"
"Son," Angel confirmed, shifting self-consciously from one foot to the other. "I know it sounds--"
"Impossible...I mean...something like this isn't supposed to..." Buffy paused to sort through the confused jumble of her thoughts before locking her gaze on Angel and murmuring, "You told me that vampires couldn't have children."
Angel's voice resonated with the fervor of a repentant sinner as he confessed, "We can't. We shouldn't be able to...I mean, nothing like this has ever happened before, that I know of." As he looked down at Connor, Angel's eyes shone and he whispered, "I can't explain it, short of saying it was a miracle."
A bittersweet pang stabbed at Buffy as she watched Angel gaze lovingly at his son. Suddenly, she felt unbelievably small in the cavernous lobby, yet watching the two of them wrapped her in warmth. She couldn't remember when she'd seen Angel so content, and for the first time since she'd been torn from heaven, she felt happy. As overwhelmed as she was, she was happy for Angel.
However, it didn't stop her from feeling a little jealous that she'd been completely out of the picture for such a momentous turn of events. This changed everything -- it was quite possibly the most important development in Angel's troubled existence.
And she'd missed it.
Mustering her resolve, Buffy asked, "So...how did it happen? I mean, I know you can't explain *how* how, but...who's the, uh, mother?"
Angel froze. He didn't raise his head to look at her.
When several moments passed without a reply, Buffy felt her heart crumble even further, but she steeled herself to do the right thing. After all, she had made it clear to him at their last meeting how much death had changed her, how hard it was for her to feel any of the things she'd felt in what she increasingly saw as her "previous" life.
Even before that, they had both moved on.
And then, there was Spike...
Still, it hurt to think of Angel with someone else. It took every ounce of her willpower to resist the urge to cry or rant, and instead concede diplomatically, "Look, I know this is hard for you -- it's hard for me, too. But I'm really happy for you. It's weird, but I am. If things have developed between you and Cordy, I can deal..."
Angel's head snapped up and he fixed Buffy with a wide-eyed, almost panicked gaze. "Cordy and I aren't...she's not the mother," he explained awkwardly. Once more, he averted his eyes and mumbled something Buffy couldn't quite hear.
"I'm sorry, what?" Buffy prompted, frowning.
Angel swallowed, squared his shoulders and raised his head like a man facing a firing squad.
"Darla was Connor's mother."
*****
It was as if her brain were choking.
Willow grasped desperately at the few, fragile moments of clarity, when she almost recognized the people around her, before her mind slipped sputtering into another reality. She had been lugged around by the oddly unnerving man...
...not a man...he's a...
...he's a...
...he's...dead....
The fair-haired man deposited her on a narrow bed in a room. Not an unfriendly room...it seemed comfortable. No harsh lighting, not too much noise, the floor was soft and fuzzy.
And Tara was here. If there was one thing Willow knew, if there was one piece of reality she could hold onto, it was that this woman who watched her with such gentleness was named Tara, and her presence gave Willow the only peace she'd known in ages.
Then the images started flashing. It was like drowning, only worse. Gasping for air wouldn't help -- Willow was powerless.
The blond man, he has another face.
His voice echoed in her ears as she slipped away, the language almost familiar, yet frustratingly alien.
Many faces, dark room...no, not room -- cave. Cold, hard surface beneath her back, hairs...or...threads? No, a web, silky filaments strong as steel, binding her legs, her arms...he's raising the knife! Please, not this place!
She recoiled with a dreamlike sluggishness and the scene before her wobbled. Colors and light swam at a dizzying rate until resolving themselves into a familiar corridor. Willow vaguely recalled fleeing desperately through this corridor just before she had been bound by the web...on an altar. She had been sacrificed.
No. Executed -- she'd been executed. Exterminated. But it hadn't happened yet.
It was dark, and Willow could hear them coming for her.
For him.
She remembered now. In this reality, she had been Poydras, the Guardian.
She looked down at the powerful, masculine body she inhabited. Willow saw the angry scars and fresh wounds on her muscled arms. Dark green blood oozed like pitch from open gashes and was smeared across lighter green, weathered skin. She felt the weight of Poydras's mentor draped across her back.
Every single detail was just as it had been the first time.
Except...
It was strange -- she could sense everything she had experienced as Poydras, but her perception was skewed, as if she were observing from without.
"Poydras, leave me here," she heard Garat chide over her shoulder, "With my weight slowing you down, the Trackers will catch you for certain. If you leave me, there may yet be a chance for you to escape."
"Two go in, two come out," Poydras growled affectionately, shifting Garat's weight on his back. "You taught me that, old man."
"And you have all the sense of a constipated water fowl for throwing my own words back at me under these circumstances," Garat snapped.
Although she couldn't see the old master's face, Willow knew that reproving tone of voice well, and could picture the sharp quills on his chin bristling as he frowned.
Grimly, she realized how light and frail his body felt. Poydras didn't strain at all to carry him.
"Naturally, given that my mother 'must have been a stubborn she-goat and my father a nearsighted dung beetle'," Poydras chuckled. Willow remembered hearing that good-natured rebuke from Garat during many a training session when Poydras's concentration was off.
"More useless words," Garat grumbled, rapping his knuckles with gruff playfulness on Poydras's head. Then, in a more somber tone, he observed, "The amulet has failed us once already. We must consider the possibility that it is no longer able to cloak us, and that the Trackers have followed our movements."
Willow's mind flooded with fear and it was hard for her to separate her own sense of foreboding from Poydras's. With every fiber of her being, she struggled to warn him. But she was mute.
"It can't have failed," Poydras asserted, clutching with one hand at the obsidian amulet that hung from his neck. "It's impossible. The amulets were given to us by the Makers -- no power of this world can disarm them."
No power of this world.
The phrase echoed with ominous portent as Willow came to a terrible realization.
Her presence was to blame. She didn't belong here -- somehow, she'd trespassed and brought with her...she'd brought...
But when she concentrated on what it was about her that could have nullified the amulet's powers, Willow was wracked with a jolt of mind-numbing panic. Something about the memory that lurked just beyond her reach made her jerk back as if from a fire.
At that very moment, Garat voiced words she remembered with dread.
"Poydras, hold. Did you hear that?"
Run! she tried to scream, even as she felt Poydras go completely still, his Guardian senses alert.
There was a slight waver in the rank, clammy air of the tunnel, so faint it might have been caused by a moth's wings. Nothing disturbed the dim light given off by luminescent mineral seams in the rocky walls.
Then, without warning, one of the shadows lengthened. Before Poydras could whirl around to face the threat, Garat's weight was wrenched from his back. An agonizing scream told Willow that, as before, a Tracker had just slaughtered the old master.
"No!" Poydras shouted.
His anguish tore through her, and her mind flailed helplessly as the scene shifted once more. She sank into darkness, then emerged briefly to find herself back on the stone altar.
Through the eyes of Poydras, broken and defeated, Willow gazed at the cruel face of the Tracker who held aloft a ritual knife.
As the blade plunged into Poydras's chest, gouging through his flesh in a searing explosion of pain, Willow lost her grip on this reality and slipped into a confused wash of sound and shadows.
*****
Spike set Willow down on the twin bed that had been made up for her in a rather spartan room on the second floor. A cursory glance around at the bare walls and purely utilitarian desk, chair, and lamp had him comparing his crypt favorably with the witch's new accommodations. Smugly, he half-grinned to himself. The Poof might have holed up in a posh old hotel, but he was still a penitent monk at heart.
His grin vanished when he turned and came face-to-face with a stern, scowling Cordelia.
"Well, now that Willow's settled: You -- Get. Out."
Spike stared at her, unimpressed. "Gladly. But not 'til the gang's all ready. Like it or not, I'm part of the team, Girl Friday."
"Gunn, you still up for a little target practice with the cross-bow?" Cordelia asked coolly, her eyes never leaving Spike's.
"I'm always ready to work on my aim," Gunn affirmed smoothly, fixing Spike with a lethal stare. "Although it's pretty much dead-on, with all the vamps we been killin' lately."
Inwardly, Spike wondered if he hadn't just felt his stomach churn at the overload of testosterone in the room -- most of it coming off the snippy little brunette in front of him.
Meanwhile, Xander took the opportunity to play referee. Raising his hands, palms forward, he stepped forward and said in soothing tones, "Easy, Cordy, it's okay. Spike *is* part of the team. He's been helping us out...and I can't believe I just defended Spike to my ex-girlfriend. Okay, my nightmare is now complete."
Rolling his eyes in disgust, Spike muttered, "Thanks a lot."
"Shut up," Cordelia snapped at him, before turning to Xander and demanding, "What the hell has been happening in Sunnydale? It isn't weird enough that Little Miss Goody-Two-Shoes turned out to be just another Hellmouth-spawned psycho -- now you're telling me that Spike is one of the good guys? Xander, do you have any idea what he did to Angel the last time he was here?"
Xander's jaw clenched grimly and he jabbed his finger angrily at Cordelia.
"First of all, lay off Willow. You have no right," Xander spat with barely restrained fury. Relaxing his stance slightly, he added, "Besides, Spike can't hurt humans anymore. Some commandos put a chip in his head."
A sinister gleam danced in Cordelia's eyes. Resting her hands on her hips, she looked Spike up and down. "Oh, really?"
Suddenly, with brutal force Cordelia slammed her knee into Spike's groin. Cursing loudly, Spike vamped out, doubled over and dropped to the floor, clutching his privates. Instinctively, Xander, Gunn and Wesley cringed.
"Huh," Cordy remarked, grinning broadly. "Well, what do you know?"
Fred, who had shrunk meekly into the background during the confrontation, twisted a strand of hair around her index finger and cautioned nervously, "Cordelia, do you think it's a good idea to antagonize him? I mean, microchip technology has improved a lot since I was away, but it's still not failsafe. After all, depending on the design, you have to worry about degradation of the circuits, not to mention that a strong electro-magnetic field could--"
"You just moved yourself to the top of the list when I get this thing out," Spike snarled, his demon-gold eyes shooting daggers at Cordelia.
Before the situation worsened, Wesley diffused the tension by shifting the focus to Willow. "Look, hadn't we better concentrate on what has reduced Ms. Rosenberg to such a state? I have a fair idea of what she's been experimenting with, but I'm not sure why the attempt to contain her power has affected her this way."
"Sh-she'd gotten p-pretty strong by the time we confronted her," Tara piped up. "Her skills were so advanced that she started t-trying to tap into other dimensions."
Wesley nodded, narrowing his eyes. "As I thought. Trans-dimensional exploration would explain the reaction in the Ptersian spheres that Buffy described. Given that *four* spheres are involved, there's no telling how many she's traversed. Do you know if she was drawing energy from another dimension when you fought her?"
"How could we tell?" Tara asked, glancing uncertainly at Xander, who shook his head and shrugged.
Pursing his lips, Wesley struggled to clarify. "Well...did her magic seem to have a greater depth, or was it...er...did it have an odd resonance to it?"
Spike winced as he rose to his feet and brushed himself off. "Red was definitely darker, that last fight. Could feel the power comin' off her in waves. Stung like needles." With a sharp glance at Cordelia, he added, "Gave me a real thirst for blood."
A scathing retort was poised on Cordelia's lips when, abruptly, she halted and her eyes widened. She glanced at her watch and sighed, "Uh oh. Ten-thirty. Time for Connor's bottle."
Turning on her heel, Cordelia left without another word. Xander stared uneasily after her, then looked from Wesley, to Gunn, to Fred, and back to Wesley. Angel's associates glanced awkwardly at each other, then dropped their gazes to the floor.
"For a mother hen, she's a bloody bitch," Spike muttered. He stalked over to the desk chair, fished through his pockets for his flask, plopped down, uncapped it and took a deep swig.
Jamming his hands into his pockets, Xander rocked back slightly on his heels and ducked his head questioningly toward Wesley. "So, since we're on the subject, uh, what's up with Junior Demon Hunter downstairs? What is he -- Scrappy Doo in your Scooby Gang?"
Wesley grimaced, nibbled on his thumbnail, then gestured absently as he fumbled for words. "Well, you see...he's...ah...he's..."
Spike lazily stretched out his legs, folded his arms across his chest and observed the ex-Watcher's discomfort with amusement. Finally, he snorted impatiently, "Spill already."
"It's just that...it really isn't our place to tell," Wesley protested weakly.
Spike's countenance fell as Wesley's odd behavior shed light on the faint but curiously familiar scent he'd picked up from the child.
No, it had to be wrong. It was impossible.
Narrowing his eyes, Spike stared unflinchingly at Wesley and whispered in utter disbelief, "He's the Poof's, isn't he?"
Wesley quickly averted his eyes, but the abrupt increase in his heart rate gave Spike his answer.
"Bloody hell."
*****
Buffy was unable to disguise the betrayal in her eyes. "Darla? As in...Darla??!!??"
"I'm not proud of what I did," Angel interjected hastily. "It was a bad time. I'd lost faith. I was numb and just wanted to feel...something... and then she was just there..."
"And you turned to her?" Buffy murmured numbly, her face frozen in a horrified grimace. "You slept with her without a single thought about the consequences?"
"Connor isn't a consequence!" Angel retorted vehemently, before his eyes took on a distant, sorrowful gleam. "He's the one good thing Darla and I ever did together."
Buffy cocked her head reprovingly and lifted her eyebrows. "I meant your soul."
Angel looked suitably chagrined and stepped hesitantly toward Buffy, entreating her with the sorrowful eyes of a lover fallen from grace. "I've only known perfect happiness with one woman. I wasn't looking for it with Darla when we..." He paused and his brow furrowed slightly. In a soft, halting voice he continued, "Darla couldn't give me perfect happiness, not...like that." Shaking his head, he chuckled, "But I've found it in Connor. I don't know why I still have my soul."
A battle raged within Buffy between despair at the thought that Darla shared something with Angel that Buffy had only dreamed of, and a bitter, reluctant acknowledgment that, somehow, this was meant to be. It shouldn't have been possible, yet there Connor slept, innocent and fragile in his father's embrace.
Although she hadn't even begun to sort through her emotions, Buffy found herself asking, "Can I hold him?"
Angel's eyes beamed with pride. Shifting Connor slightly, he passed his son to Buffy. Placing his hands over hers, Angel gently showed her how to support Connor's head and cradle his tiny form close to her chest.
A breath hitched in her throat as Buffy felt the warm, salty sting of tears in her eyes. "He's beautiful. He looks just like you."
"Cordy thinks he's got my eyes," Angel murmured, gazing warmly at Connor. Then he drew up and added soberly, "But he doesn't have my fangs. We don't know how or why, but he's human."
Buffy raised her head and stared incredulously at Angel. "And Darla accepts this?"
"She's..." Angel began, then stopped. After a few moments, he explained brokenly, "The delivery was difficult. Vampire physiology isn't designed to give birth. Darla staked herself...so Connor could live."
Buffy had thought that nothing else could shock her that evening, but once again she found herself reeling. When she found her voice, she stammered, "Angel, I'm so...I'm...God, I don't know what to say."
"There's nothing to say. Darla surprised me. I wish she could have seen him," Angel confessed.
Connor squirmed in Buffy's arms and screwed up his face, on the verge of awakening. His breathing was punctuated by cranky whimpers. Angel reached for him and said, "Buffy, I can't justify what I did, and I'm sorry I hurt you. But I do not, will not ever, regret that it brought me my son."
As Buffy passed the child to his father, Connor began to fuss, releasing impatient gasps and irritated whines.
"Is he okay?" Buffy asked.
"He's just hungry," Angel explained, draping Connor against his shoulder and patting him reassuringly. "He's on a three-hour cycle, and it's been about that long since his last feeding."
Just as Connor began to wail in distress, Cordelia appeared at the top of the staircase and descended toward Angel and Buffy.
"Aww, somebody's hungry. Ten-thirty, right on schedule," she cooed, reaching out to take Connor from Angel. Buffy was startled by the familiarity with which Cordy handled Angel's son -- not to mention the fact that Angel relinquished Connor to her with scarcely a blink. As Cordelia carried Connor toward the office, she observed over her shoulder, "We've got Willow settled in. You two should go up and check in with Wesley. From what he says, Fred's little adventure in Pylea was a vacation at Club Med compared to what Willow's gotten herself into."
~Part: 7~
Sharp, heavy footfalls sounded through the lobby as Spike descended the staircase with purposeful strides. His leather boots slapped out a curt, determined tempo against the floor as he approached Angel and Buffy. Coolly, Spike appraised them. Angel bristled and squared his shoulders, his poise inviting combat. Buffy, on the other hand, wrapped her arms around herself and dropped her gaze.
Spike knew that stance too well.
Since her resurrection, he'd seen Buffy close herself off from the world enough to recognize her urge to flee -- from everything, from everyone, it was all pretty much the same. Once, she'd confided in him that the mere act of making it through each day was a struggle for her. The whole mess with Red hadn't helped matters, either. And now, she radiated quiet anguish -- and Spike was damned sure he knew why.
That did it.
He'd come down to confront the Noble White Knight about his dirty little secret. Now he wanted to stake the bastard.
Spike felt the muscles in his neck tighten.
No, he wouldn't stake the sodding Poof. It would hurt Buffy still worse, and Spike would most likely end up like his cigarettes did.
He drew to an abrupt halt before Angel, who stared coldly at him. In a tight, controlled voice, Spike asked, "Darla's?"
"Stay out of it, Spike," Angel warned.
"What, daddy wasn't planning on inviting Uncle Spike to the christening? Y'know, I'd love to see how that's going to work out," Spike sneered.
"Go to hell," Angel snarled and leaned menacingly toward the younger vampire.
"You first," Spike retorted, bringing himself nose to nose with his grand-sire.
"Stop it," Buffy interrupted quietly but firmly. She cast a stern glance at the posturing males.
It was the first close look at Buffy's eyes Spike had gotten since he'd come downstairs. They were red-rimmed, and traces of moisture clung to her soft lashes.
She hadn't been crying. Spike doubted she'd let herself. But she bloody well needed to.
With a final, challenging glare at each other, the two vampires backed down.
"So, how's Willow?" Buffy asked with a deep breath.
Ever the brave little soldier.
"The same," Spike shrugged. His eyes softened and he murmured, "How 'bout you? You okay?"
Smiling thinly, Buffy replied, "I'm fine. We should go talk with Wesley. The sooner we figure this out, the better."
Angel nodded and started toward the stairs. "We'll do everything we can. Wesley and Fred have been digging through everything they could find."
Buffy followed him. Spike walked alongside her, resting one hand ever so lightly above the small of her back. Although Spike realized that he was hovering when he felt her stiffen, he was pleasantly surprised when she didn't pull away.
Half-way up the stairs, Angel cast a quick glance over his shoulder. His eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched when he saw the small, thankful smile Buffy offered Spike. However, without a hitch in his stride the dark vampire looked away and continued up to Willow's room.
*****
Fred was used to watching quietly from a safe distance.
She had learned it was the best way to keep the monsters from noticing her.
Even now that she was back home and had a circle of friends who made her feel safe, she still felt awkward around strangers. It was more comfortable to stay in the background and observe.
The lighting was dim and soothing, except for the swathe of soft, golden illumination that fanned out from the lamp on the desk. The room was fairly quiet now that the grouchy blond vampire had stomped off. Wesley was talking with the other two from Sunnydale, questioning them about the witch, Willow.
Fred thought she seemed kind of like a willow. The little redhead bent whichever way she was tossed -- unresisting, like the tree. It was hard to imagine her being threatening at all.
Frowning slightly, Fred gazed with wide, sympathetic eyes at the young woman curled in a fetal position on the bed. Occasionally, Willow whimpered and whined, and Fred saw her leg twitch briefly. But otherwise, Willow seemed completely immersed in her own world.
At one point, when Willow gasped sharply, her friend from Sunnydale -- the blond woman -- broke off her discussion with Wesley, sat down on the bed, and stroked Willow's hair reassuringly. Soon Willow's troubled breathing calmed and the expression on her face relaxed.
With a shy grin, Fred observed, "She likes that."
Smiling sadly, the woman glanced at Fred and murmured, "I just wish we knew what was wrong."
Another whimper drew their attention back to Willow. Fred started in mild surprise when Willow's eyes slowly fluttered open and cautiously roamed over her surroundings.
Fred heard the sleepy-eyed woman draw in a sharp breath. For that matter, Fred's own breath was caught in her throat as Willow hesitantly raised herself to a crouched position and blinked at her friend.
At that moment, Angel, Buffy, and the rude, bad-tempered vampire walked into the room.
"Wesley--" Angel began.
His sentence died and the three of them halted sharply, their expressions mirroring Fred's anticipation.
Willow's initial disorientation seemed to be fading. A faint glimmer of recognition appeared in her eyes.
"Tara?"
Tears quivered at the rim of Tara's eyes before spilling over and running down her cheeks. "Willow?"
Her bottom lip trembling, Willow repeated, "Tara?" After a long pause, a frightened, pained expression crossed her face and she whimpered, "I got so lost."
A sharp sob broke from Tara's throat as she tentatively reached out and drew Willow into her arms. Hugging her tightly, Tara whispered, "We found you."
~Part: 8~
"Fascinating," Wesley murmured, breaking the silence that had reigned after Willow's abrupt return to consciousness.
The others continued to stare uneasily as Tara rocked Willow's trembling form against her. As touching as the gesture was, it hadn't been long ago that the crew from Sunnydale had struggled to combat a very powerful and defiant Willow.
"Are you sure the dampening field can prevent her from using magic?" Buffy asked, her muscles tensed for a fight and her eyes fixed on Willow.
"Well, nothing like this has ever been tested," Wesley admitted with an apologetic tilt of his head. "Angel has some...connections who modified a spell that prevents physical violence in a local demon bar. I think it should work."
Despite Wesley's effort at optimism, everyone present save Tara edged away from Willow. Angel and his co-workers exchanged questioning glances with each other, while Spike, Buffy, and Xander gazed steadily at the seemingly disarmed witch.
Angel felt a cold, dull ache spread through his chest at the sight of Buffy and Spike, shoulder to shoulder like comrades. Angel recalled a time when he had been the one to watch her back. True, he'd given up that role when he'd left Sunnydale, but he'd done it to set his beloved warrior free of his darkness, not create an opening for a demon whose darkness matched his own.
Yet their posture was unmistakably familiar. Spike stood resolutely at Buffy's side, ready to help her face the threat at hand. Buffy showed no discomfort at having a bloodthirsty killer at her back. Indeed, her eyes shone with the steady confidence of a fighter who has faith in her allies.
How the hell had things come to the point that Buffy would place her trust in Spike?
Before he grew too deeply consumed by his thoughts, Angel's attention was drawn to Willow, who was pushing Tara away.
"No...can't..." Willow muttered, eyes downcast. Once more, she curled up against the wall and refused to look at any of them.
"Can't what, Willow?" Tara asked, tentatively stroking the forlorn redhead on the shoulder.
But Willow gave no indication that she heard Tara's question. She huddled on the bed, impossibly still for a mortal, and didn't even whimper as she had earlier. The only hint that she was a deeply troubled human woman and not a statue was the faint scent of salt from tears that had yet to trace their tracks down her cheeks.
"She may be disoriented," Wesley advised.
"Willow," Buffy addressed her friend. After a moment, Buffy raised her voice and tried again. "Willow!"
"Wills?" Xander ventured, peering expectantly at her bowed head.
"I don't think you'll get a response," Wesley informed them.
Buffy finally tore her gaze from Willow and turned to him. "Do you know what's wrong with her? Why she's like this?"
Wesley's shoulders sagged apologetically as he explained, "It could be a number of things. Humans are generally unaccustomed to trans-dimensional exploration. The experience can be traumatic. No doubt she has sorely taxed her mind."
Xander's face paled, and he stared intently at the former Watcher. "But it's not permanent, right? Just a little brain strain? I mean, a little rest, a little time away from the mojo...?"
Before Wesley could muster a reply, Fred observed timidly, "She's afraid of you."
Buffy wrinkled her brow at the suggestion.
"We did hit her with all we had," Xander acknowledged.
"She hit first," Spike countered sternly.
Xander said nothing, merely nodded, then frowned and turned away.
"It might not be that," Fred ventured again, scrunching her face up in an awkward, wide-eyed grimace. "She might just be afraid of you -- of everything. We don't know where she was or what it was like or how long she was there. It can be pretty scary to come back to this world after spending time in an alternate dimension."
Fred's shy insight struck a chord with Angel. The back of his neck prickled and his eyes darkened as unpleasant memories of his time in hell resurfaced.
"Yeah," Buffy murmured, as the mask of the warrior crumbled to reveal a haunted, glassy-eyed girl.
Spike placed his hand lightly on her arm, gave a gentle squeeze and gazed at her intently until she shook herself out of her daze. She blinked at Spike, and with a final, reassuring squeeze he pulled his hand away.
Angel fumed in silence.
"So, how do we snap her out of it? And how can we make sure we get Willow back, and not...not who she became because of the addiction?" Buffy asked, clenching her jaw.
"Tara, remember how Willow went into Buffy's mind when Buffy... uh ...checked out for awhile after Glory took Dawn?" Xander suggested.
The honey-haired witch, who still sat close to Willow, bit her lip and frowned uneasily. "I don't know if my skills are advanced enough to do that. Besides, I think the less magic we use on Willow, the better."
At the pained expression on Tara's face, Spike muttered, "The thought of messin' with someone's head can't bring back fond memories."
Xander's eyes widened in realization of what he had asked of Tara, but before he could stammer an apology, Gunn spoke from his position near the doorway.
"Did it occur to anyone that she just needs time? Sometimes there's nothing you can do to help -- you have to step back and let it play out."
Angel felt a twinge of remorse, recalling how he had pushed his friends away last year. He looked over at his fellow demon-fighter. Gunn merely shrugged.
Wesley scrutinized the weary, pensive faces around him and sighed. "Gunn has a point. It may do us all good to step back for a few hours. A little rest might be in order."
For a few moments, they stood in silence. Then, Xander let his eyes wander over Willow's small corner of the spacious hotel and observed with an ironic half-smile, "So...I guess we should find ourselves...a hotel?"
*****
Buffy shook her head in disbelief. Only in her twisted little world could an argument about stakings, death threats and torture -- past, present and future -- be carried out in whispers over a baby's sleeping form. Yet Cordelia had managed to go ballistic over the prospect of Spike staying in the hotel without once disturbing the infant she rocked in her arms.
As she stepped out into the cool night air, Buffy released a haggard sigh. Had there really been a time when the toughest part of her job had been staking a vamp or two on patrol?
God, what she wouldn't give for a nice, quiet night like that now.
Spike was where she'd expected to find him after he'd stormed out, muttering something about preferring the trunk of his DeSoto to Hotel Chez Bitch. Sitting behind the wheel, flask in hand.
Buffy walked around the car, opened the door on the passenger side, and slid in.
"Hey."
"Someone needs to take a bite out of that bitch," Spike grumbled with a scowl.
"Wouldn't do any good," Buffy replied with a tired half-smile. "Cordy bites back."
Spike grunted and took a swig. A moment later he gave her a perfunctory once-over, then offered her the flask. Buffy took it, brought the cool silver to her lips and closed her eyes at the warm sting of Bourbon trickling down her throat. When she handed it back, Spike's glowering expression softened with concern.
"You holdin' up okay, Slayer?"
"Long night. Too long."
Buffy's mouth formed a slight pout and she stared absently across the dashboard. It was dusty. Spike probably hadn't cleaned it since sometime in the 1970s.
"Too many bloody surprises," Spike muttered, gulping down another mouthful of Bourbon.
For several seconds, Buffy said nothing. Then, closing her eyes, she asked, "How did you know?"
Spike cocked his head at her, puzzled. Opening her eyes, Buffy turned to him, the hurt evident in her expression.
"How did you know it was Darla's?"
"Oh. That."
"Yeah, that."
Spike's jaw tightened and he lowered his eyes. He fiddled briefly with the flask, then stilled completely. "Dru told me she was back. Knowing that, the rest was easy. Only one it could've been was Darla."
Buffy shifted uncomfortably and her lips quivered as the self-discipline she'd maintained all evening began to crumble. A tiny hitch in her breath drew Spike's attention. His voice softened as he clarified, "You'dve been my first guess. Bein' dead ruled you out -- should've ruled Darla out. Seein' as you've only had the one heartbeat since you came back, knew you'd never been pregnant. That left Darla."
More than anything, it was Spike's matter-of-fact reasoning that hurt her. Buffy knew that in his own, inept way, he'd been trying to soften the blow. It hurt all the same to see Angel through Spike's eyes, and realize that, on one level at least, Spike knew him better than she did.
She glanced away, numbing herself to emotions she wasn't ready to feel. "I guess I never saw something like this coming."
Spike's eyes narrowed. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then stopped. He stared at her briefly, then turned and glowered at the steering wheel, tapping his fingers sharply against it. After a long, uncomfortable silence, Buffy was jolted out of her melancholy by the deep rumble of the engine turning over.
Startled, she looked at Spike and demanded, "Where are you going?"
"*We*," he corrected smoothly, "are going to blow off some bloody steam."
A familiar knot twisted in her gut as Buffy's sense of responsibility kicked in. "I don't have time for this. If anything happens with Willow, I should be around."
"Buffy, luv -- shut up," Spike admonished her with a gentleness that was belied by the wicked, challenging gleam in his eyes.
Without giving her the chance to argue, he shifted into gear and sped away from the Hyperion with tire-squealing recklessness. Spike drove them back through streets they'd passed on their way to Angel's, earning a few curses and scowls from Buffy for gleefully terrorizing random pedestrians. When they came to a block of run-down storefronts, Spike swerved toward the curb and slammed the car to an abrupt halt.
Tucking his tongue against his bottom lip, Spike waggled his eyebrows at her and hopped out of the car. With a disgusted sigh, Buffy shook her head but climbed out and followed him.
"What was that, a flashback to your kill-the-Slayer days?" Buffy grumbled, her pulse still racing.
"Gets the blood pumpin' real nice," Spike leered at her over his shoulder.
Her patience wearing thin, Buffy asked, "Spike, what are we doing here?"
Not bothering to answer, the blond vampire ducked into an alley next to what looked like a seedy bar. Buffy rounded the corner, stopped, and rolled her eyes. For a reason she couldn't fathom, Spike wanted to poke around in a dingy, cluttered alley.
"Here we are," he drawled as he strode toward a stack of crates, filled with empty beer bottles.
"What, you got tired of doing it the regular way? You know, going *inside* the bar and buying a bottle that actually has something to drink in it?"
"Not very creative, are you?" Spike cocked an eyebrow and murmured suggestively. "Have to work on that. Still need to teach you about candles and fore--"
"Spike," Buffy cut him off impatiently.
"Just sayin' there's more than one way a bottle can make you feel good," he retorted with a smirk that was pure sin.
Buffy flushed hotly at what she thought he was insinuating, but before she could stammer a reply, Spike hefted one of the empty beer bottles in his hand and hurled it at the wall at the end of the alley. He grinned as it shattered in a cascade of brown glass shards, then grabbed another bottle and threw it with all his might. Spike's grin broadened at the harsh clink of glass on brick.
Wide-eyed and confused, Buffy watched him demolish a few more bottles, until he suddenly tossed one at her. Accustomed to fending off lethal projectiles, Buffy caught it without thinking.
"Go on, give it a go," Spike urged, gesturing toward the far wall.
"This is way beyond stupid," Buffy protested indignantly. "I'm not going to throw bottles in an alley like some juvenile delinquent vampire. It's...lame...and...and all it does is make a mess...and those bottles were probably going to be recycled..."
The look Spike shot at her was one of pure disdain. Then he shrugged.
"Suit yourself. Not like smashin' a few bottles is that great, anyway. Why bother with a little glass when flesh 'n bone are so much more satisfyin'? Angel's head...maybe the witch's spine...hmm. Wonder what'll make you snap first? Thought findin' out about the Poof's kid would do it. But, then, your troubles with the witch've been buildin' for a while -- she comes to, goes after Niblet again? Yeah, now that'll put you over the edge--"
Spike cut short his cruel taunts just in time to duck the bottle that Buffy had hurled at him. Missing its intended target, it hit the wall with a spectacular crash and sent angry, sharp fragments raining to the ground.
"Atta girl! Now you're gettin' warmed up. Want to try another, or are you ready to go back and pummel that ex of yours?"
"Shut up!" Buffy snapped, trembling.
She knew what he was trying to do, and it sickened her that he'd actually gotten under her skin. Her throat tightened as waves of rage, betrayal and anguish swept through her. Yet as much as she hated feeling her self-control slip at Spike's goading, Buffy found herself reaching for another bottle. She channeled all her frustration into her wind-up and release, and threw it against the wall. And as infuriating as it was, Spike was right. Her blood was pumping, her skin was tingling, and the oppressive ache of everything she'd kept locked inside crumbled.
It wasn't fair! She'd been happy. She'd known perfect bliss. But because it had been her own friends who had taken her away from it, because Dawn had been so happy to see her again, Buffy had kept her disappointment to herself. And what had they brought her back to? The same routine, night after night of trouble. Then Willow, her best friend in the world, had done the unthinkable: she'd willingly hurt Dawn.
And Angel. Oh, God...Angel. Tears blurred her vision. She was happy for him, but it hurt, and she could never, ever let him see the hurt. But why did it have to be Darla? Angel's child...It was a dream Buffy could scarcely have wished for, and whatever Powers controlled these things had let it happen with Darla, not Buffy. Nope. No happy ending for Buffy. They wouldn't even let her rest in peace.
Bottle after bottle sailed at the rough, brick wall and met with a satisfyingly violent end. Jagged fragments of brown, green and clear glass piled up at the far end of the alley.
Then it stopped. Buffy stood, breathing raggedly and quivering slightly from the rush of adrenaline. She closed her eyes and sobbed as the tears flowed freely down her cheeks.
A moment later, strong, leather-clad arms enfolded her. Unresisting, Buffy rested her head against Spike's chest and cried.
"It's okay...it's all right, luv," he murmured, caressing her gently. "No one here to see, nobody knows. You'll still be everyone's strength when we go back, you'll face the insurmountable one more time, you'll be the hero. But here...'s a nice, dark alley, just the place for dumpin' all sorts of sordid stuff. Leave your garbage 'n go, 's what alleys are for. So get it all out, luv."
Buffy sobbed harder as he spoke. Although Spike's words were comforting, they reminded her of how twisted her life had gotten. The people she had loved first and loved best had caused her the greatest pain, while Spike, a vampire who had originally been determined to kill her, seemed to be the only one who knew how to take away that pain.
His words had their intended effect. She let go, snuggled against him, and gave herself over to everything she felt. Spike offered her shelter, a place to hide from the world, if only for a little while, and she took it. Slowly, her anger and sorrow and frustration drained away until she felt her calm return.
Spike must have felt the change in her. He pulled back slightly, cupped her head in his palms and looked into her eyes. Brushing a stray tear from the corner of her eye, he smiled tenderly and placed a soft kiss on her forehead. When he drew away, Buffy reached up and tugged him down again, bringing his lips to hers. Spike willingly kissed her, tightening his arms around her and seducing her tongue with his.
After several heated moments, they parted and gazed at each other quietly -- she, in gratitude; he, in wonder.
"C'mon, then," Spike's voice hitched when he finally broke the silence. "Better be gettin' back to the party."
~Part: 9~
In silent shadow, one rested, one watched.
It had been a long time since Angel had observed a human being in this way -- not since before the curse. When his soul had been restored, he'd hidden from people in shame, unwilling to seek the company of those he had brutalized for so many decades. Then, after he'd enlisted to fight the good fight, most of his time had been spent doing just that: fighting. He hadn't had the luxury, or the desire, really, to sit in the darkness and study those whom he had once viewed as prey.
He almost felt guilty at how naturally it came back to him.
Eyes honed to darkness, sharpened by the instinct of the hunt, he observed her bowed head, tensed shoulders...the slight tremble of her lips. To him, as to all his kind, this was but the first level of perception, a superficial artifice compared to what lay beneath the skin. He knew: truth was buried deep. In the ebb and flow of life, coursing warm through veins. In the tenor of breath: at times deep and full, at others shallow and fragile as a moth's wing. In the sudden extremes of heat, chill, flush, cool...the body had its own seasons, its own sudden storms. Each sign, each change was part of the body's hidden language, so familiar to him that he didn't just hear it.
He tasted it.
Fred had guessed that Willow was afraid, an explanation that satisfied the others. But Willow's body wasn't marked by fear. Fear had its own, addictive allure. Fear washed over Angel's palate with the savor of adrenaline and salt, spiced with breathlessness and thundering heartbeat. In his two-and-a-half centuries, Angel had acquired a highly refined sensitivity to every nuance, every variation of human fear.
None of which he sensed in Willow.
No, Willow radiated the subtlety of grief. Slow, shallow breathing; slight cooling of the body, like dying embers; and muted, dormant skin in lieu of the indescribable, almost electric vitality that hummed over living things.
Willow's entire body spoke of a sadness that ran far too deep for one so small.
Angel normally didn't like to read his human friends this way. It felt...rude. Intrusive. Using his acute, predator's senses to gauge their moods would be an unwelcome reminder of the unnatural distance that separated him from those he cared about. Although he wasn't always very good at it, Angel had discovered that he liked talking. Talking put him on an equal level with his friends: it created a connection.
But Willow wasn't talking.
Not to him, not to anyone.
Truthfully, he wasn't sure he'd know how to talk to her. He'd never really known Willow. They hadn't known each other -- they'd known each other through Buffy. She had been Buffy's shy, sweet, enthusiastic supporter -- and so painfully innocent. Always eager to include him, always quick to forgive...and, like the schoolgirl she was, always seeing him as Buffy's dark, mysterious, romantic hero.
>From what little he'd been told, she'd changed since he'd left Sunnydale. And so he fell back on his primal senses, the only means he had for glimpsing what she might be going through.
She stirred. Her pulse increased slightly.
Slowly, Willow raised her head and looked at him. Angel saw her pupils dilate as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. When her brow knitted slightly, Angel remained silent and allowed her to scrutinize him. He had seen her retreat from her friends' efforts to draw her out, so he sat passively and waited for her to make contact.
Willow's stare told its own story. It wasn't blank -- indeed, her gaze was so intense it was almost unnerving. She blinked occasionally and frowned in concentration, but otherwise her face revealed nothing save great weariness. That, too, was unnerving. Willow had the look of someone too old for her own life.
Angel wasn't used to seeing that look on anyone under a century old.
When Willow finally spoke, her voice was steady but soft.
"Where am I?"
"You're in my hotel, in Los Angeles," Angel replied gently. He remained still, not wanting to disturb her with any movements or gestures that might be unwelcome.
"Your hotel?"
"Yes."
Willow was silent again for a few moments. Angel watched as she looked around her small room. When her eyes settled on him once more, they narrowed in recognition.
"Angel?"
"Yes."
"Is this...hell?"
"No, Willow. You're in Los Angeles. Buffy and your friends brought you here."
Willow nodded slowly and her gaze unfocused, as if turning inward. "I remember."
Angel decided to risk a question. "What else do you remember?"
Willow squeezed her eyes shut and exhaled a shaky breath. "Everything." She brought both hands up to her forehead and began massaging her temples. In a small voice, she confessed, "Too much...More than I can...oh, God..."
"It's okay, Willow," Angel attempted to reassure her. "You don't have to talk about this now."
Gulping for breath, Willow grimaced and leaned forward as if she meant to climb out of the bed. Angel tensed in alarm, sensing the increase in her pulse rate.
"I think I....I'm gonna be sick," Willow groaned.
*****
Willow glanced frantically about the room, disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings, but even more so by the thundering pain in her head as three-hundred and forty-seven years of memories flooded her mind. Each moment, each experience resolved in crystal clarity like thousands of tiny daggers that threatened to carve her skull from the inside out.
It was too much information for her to handle all at once. She felt her stomach lurch and her scalp prickle with a sudden, cold flash of sweat. Dizzily, her eyes settled on a metal trash bin by the desk. Choking to keep her guts down in her gut until she could reach it, Willow lurched off of the bed and staggered toward her goal.
No sooner had she dropped to her knees and gripped the rim of the waste basket than she emptied her stomach in one fierce heave.
Leaning on shaky arms, she panted as the nausea slowly faded. Her head still felt swollen to the bursting point.
A gentle hand rested on her shoulder.
"Willow? Can I get you anything? A glass of water?"
Unable to find her voice, Willow shook her head weakly and wiped the sour traces of stomach acid from her lips. A moment later, Angel held a box of Kleenex before her and waited patiently for her to take one.
That small gesture of kindness nearly drove her to tears.
Pulling a tissue from the box, she cleaned her mouth and nose in one long swipe, then discarded it in the waste basket. Finally, she looked up.
A dark, steady gaze met hers.
Angel.
She recognized him. The sensation almost made her pass out.
What she remembered of him stirred a kind of hazy, double-vision in her mind. On the one hand, it had only been a few short years since the dark vampire had lurked at the periphery of her life, joining the gang for research sessions, helping them fight Sunnydale's nasties. Yet from another perspective, all of that had happened almost three-and-a-half centuries ago. The problem was, her mind visualized both perspectives at once, and she wasn't equipped to live in two different time-lines. Willow wondered if it was possible to have brain squints.
But what really made her want to curl up and retreat into herself was the way Angel was looking at her.
His expression held such compassion.
More than she deserved.
Willow wanted to hide herself in shame, but she was too weak. So she followed her next instinct and slumped against the wall, her eyes closed in a vain attempt to block out the guilt.
She was dimly aware of Angel moving away and heard the faint sound of a door sweeping open, then closed, across smooth carpet. Several minutes later, the door brushed open again, but Angel's tread was so soft that it startled her when she felt his hand on hers.
Willow's eyes snapped open.
Uncertainly, she looked down as Angel rested one hand over hers and guided her fingers around a glass of water. He steadied her grip until she managed to raise the glass to her mouth. The water was cool and soothing, but it was Angel's silent kindness that cleansed her to her depths.
When she had emptied the glass, she glanced hesitantly at him and murmured, "Thanks."
The word felt trite and inadequate.
"Better?"
Willow nodded. Gently, Angel grasped her by the arm and helped her back to the bed.
"You should get some sleep. You're going to have a lot of questions to answer tomorrow." Although Angel's advice summoned painful memories of the damage she'd caused, there was no judgment in his voice.
"How...long have I been here?" Willow asked.
"Only a few hours. Your friends are concerned about you, Willow, but they also had to consider the safety of others. They thought it would be best to bring you here until everything is worked out."
With a wistful, resigned lift of her eyebrows, Willow mused, "They were right."
Angel eased into the chair beside the bed and faced her, resting his elbows on his knees. "I can't say anything about what's happened. I wasn't there," Angel acknowledged. "But I saw how Buffy and Xander and Tara were when they brought you here. They're upset with you, and from what Buffy has told me, they had good reason to be. That hasn't stopped them from caring about you, though. They all want to help you through this."
Bitter tears began to spill over Willow's eyelashes and she vigorously shook her head. "No, it's too late. What's done is done. It's gone way beyond anything they could help with."
Earnestly, Angel leaned forward and insisted, "I know what you did to Dawn--"
Willow cut him off sharply, her voice low and trembling with rage. "What I did to Dawn was horrible. It was selfish and irresponsible, and I will never, ever be free of the image of my own hands making her suffer...causing so much pain."
She had to pause for a moment, finding it difficult to breathe. Then she continued, "But that was only the beginning. Angel..."
God, how could she say this? How could she face anyone and say this?
Willow closed her eyes for a moment, then looked directly at Angel and confessed, "What I did to Dawn triggered something...and because of that, because of *me*, at least seven worlds were destroyed. Worlds, Angel -- whole worlds. Lives beyond numbering."
Angel's stunned silence was almost deafening. Willow had never seen such an expression of horrified disbelief on his face, but it didn't rattle her. She deserved it.
"Giles was right," she whispered, wishing desperately that she could return to that night and make herself listen to her mentor. "I was arrogant and stupid. I played with things I didn't understand, without even thinking of the consequences."
"Don't."
Angel's simple command held equal measures of sympathy and rebuke. In a softer tone, he added, "Willow, you couldn't have known."
Sadly, Willow shrugged. "That doesn't bring anyone back."
~Part: 10~
A few people laughed, a few people cried, most
people were silent. There floated through my mind a line from the Bhagavad-Gita
...
"I am become death: the destroyer of worlds."--J. Robert Oppenheimer's
recollection of the Trinity test, 16 July 1945
Wesley puzzled over the dormant spheres.
He alternated between squinting at the seemingly lifeless globes and scrutinizing the tome before him, running his index finger over the weathered page as he read. Every theory he'd formed about Ms. Rosenberg's trans-dimensional explorations had promptly dissolved when Buffy had placed the inactive Ptersian spheres on his desk that morning. Coupled with Willow's return to consciousness, apparently it had been quite an eventful evening.
Sighing, Wesley leaned back in his chair and rested his chin in his hand.
Why the delay?
If Willow had used the spheres to draw energy from another dimension, why had they remained active after her defeat -- only to go dormant this morning? What sort of energy had they contained up until now?
Wesley leaned back toward his desk and flipped to another section in Norton's Annotated Dimensional Index. He scrutinized several entries, cross-referenced "energy sources" with "trans-dimensional projection", reviewed his notes on portals and self-transference, but nothing remotely resembled the situation that had presented itself. Reluctantly, Wesley acknowledged the obvious: as extensive as Angel's library was, the answer to this mystery wouldn't be found in books.
There was no getting around it. He needed to speak with Willow herself.
All things considered, Wesley would rather bury himself in a nice, quiet stack of manuscripts. Cracking a conundrum was a challenge for which he'd been trained. Awkward personal confrontations were, sadly, all too familiar to him, but not his cup of tea.
It had been difficult enough for Wesley to overcome his own socially inept tendencies. Certainly, he'd had a crash course in juggling the spectrum of emotional volatility ever since he'd started working with Angel, who was even more repressed than he was, and Cordelia, who, bless her well-meaning heart, had raised tactlessness to an art form.
Theirs was an odd, dysfunctional family, albeit one that had become comfortable, even reassuring. That was, when someone or something wasn't trying to kill them. Or when Angel wasn't busy firing them....or...when Cordelia wasn't joking about having two brawny Pylean guards behead him and Gunn...
Well, all right, it was as comfortable is it got.
But the arrival of the Sunnydale group had introduced yet another element of tension to their lives. What little semblance of normalcy he, Angel, Gunn, Cordelia and Fred had managed to piece together after fending off the worst threats against Connor had been thrown completely askew.
He looked forward to entering Ms. Rosenberg's room about as much as he relished the thought of returning to Pylea for more abuse at the hands of boorish demonic louts. Confronting Willow about her experiences was the least of his worries. From what Angel said, she posed little threat in her current state. It was the constellation of temperaments surrounding her that Wesley dreaded. The tension between Angel and Spike was palpable; adding Cordelia to that mix merely ensured disaster. Worse still, the silent regret that hung thick between Angel and Buffy was suffocating.
Hardly the ideal conditions for a chat. Wesley estimated that his chances of getting Ms. Rosenberg to speak freely were: close to zero.
Considering how he and his colleagues usually fared, he'd faced worse odds.
Wesley sighed, rose from his seat, and gathered his notes and a few charts. No use putting it off any longer. If need be, he'd chase the others out of Ms. Rosenberg's room so they could converse free of distractions.
Now...which face should he use to stare down two dominant male vampires, a fearless, veteran Slayer, and a Seer whose stubbornness exceeded that of the other three combined? The stern, officious Watcher mask, or the grim scowl of potential doom?
As he climbed the stairs, he mused over how often he'd had the chance to use the latter expression lately. However, when he reached Ms. Rosenberg's room, he discovered that he needn't have worried about throwing everyone out.
Apparently, Angel had done it for him.
*****
At the soft rapping, Angel left the seat where he'd been keeping his vigil beside Willow and went to unlock the door. He hoped it was Wesley -- he didn't want to go another round with Buffy or Cordelia. Spike he'd just as soon pound into a wall or plunge in a vat of holy water.
Naturally, Buffy meant well, and Angel couldn't blame her for being a little gruff with the witch who had hurt her sister. But her stern cross-examination merely drove Willow into her shell. Meanwhile, Cordelia's unrestrained hostility toward Spike wasn't helping matters.
Although Angel couldn't help smiling at some of the scathing remarks she'd hurled at that eternal adolescent. Sometimes Cordy's razor-sharp tongue was a beautiful thing.
Thankfully, it was indeed Wesley waiting in the hall. He clutched an array of loose-leaf notes and weathered parchment documents. Angel surmised that Wesley had hit a snag in his research, and noted with amusement the look of relief on the ex-Watcher's face as he scanned the nearly empty room.
"How is she?" Wesley asked.
Angel ushered him in and locked the door behind them. "Okay for now. I sent Fred out to get her something to eat. She hasn't said very much. She's pretty drained, physically and mentally."
"Hardly surprising," Wesley acknowledged. "Do you think she'd be up to answering a few questions?"
Angel nodded curtly. "From you, yes."
The dark vampire crossed the room and settled himself on the edge of Willow's bed, motioning for Wesley to take the chair. Wesley set his papers on the desk, then sat down.
Willow reclined against a pile of pillows, feet tucked to one side. She stared at the lamp, apparently lost in thought and unconcerned about damaging her retinas. Angel drew her back to her current surroundings with a gentle prompt.
"Willow?"
She blinked and turned a drawn, solemn expression toward them. Seeing Wesley, she offered a hesitant smile that failed to enliven her eyes. "Research time?"
"Only if you feel able," Wesley replied, returning her smile with a bit more warmth.
Willow nodded, but said nothing. At her silence, Wesley hesitated briefly, then continued.
"I suppose we'd better begin by establishing the basic parameters. Can you estimate how long you were away from this dimension?"
Willow frowned thoughtfully, closed her eyes and mouthed silent calculations. When she reopened her eyes, she said, "I think it was about 350 years, give or take a decade."
Angel's lips parted slightly, his only outward reaction to her stunning revelation. Wesley's hand trembled as he jotted down a few notes.
"What is the last thing you recall before you left this dimension?"
The question seemed to upset Willow. Angel sensed her increased heart rate and body temperature, and observed how she wrapped her arms around herself and clenched her fists. He resisted the impulse to place a reassuring hand on her arm, since she'd cringed at previous offers of comfort. Eventually, Willow answered in a small, distant voice.
"We were in the cemetery. I remember...I was trying to break free. Buffy and the others had closed me in...they had Ptersian spheres. I tried to open a portal before they could drain me. Then...something ...snapped. I lost control. Everything was a blur in my head. The next thing I knew, I was in a village...on a wide, grassy plain...I wasn't sure where. I thought I'd transported myself a few hundred miles away, until I saw the sky."
"The sky?" Wesley echoed, his brow furrowing.
"Two suns," Willow explained. "I tried to convince myself that I was dreaming, or that I'd hit my head, but after growing up on a Hellmouth, it's kinda hard to persuade myself that something isn't real just because it seems strange. Usually, it's the strange stuff that's real. After four or five years, I stopped expecting to wake up."
Angel listened, dumbstruck, as Willow narrated her voyages. He knew from personal experience how hostile other dimensions could be to beings from this realm. True, he'd been pleasantly surprised to discover he could walk unharmed in the rays of the Pylean sun, but his centuries in hell had been pure torment, demon though he was.
Willow's litany of lifetimes held its own measure of pain. Her eyes grew haunted as she recalled starving to death, along with the entire village, when an endless drought had ravaged the world with two suns. She had been hunted, tortured, gutted, enslaved, and killed in one incarnation after another.
Each life, however, had been just long enough for her to forge bonds of friendship and love -- and see them torn asunder when tragedy struck.
Angel grieved for her.
He also worried about her. Willow was holding something back, something that troubled her deeply. Angel wasn't sure whether it was her inflection, or the way she paused, or the words she chose, but when she described her desperate struggles and failures from one dimension to the next, she gave the impression that something had been stalking her.
Something she knew.
A tentative knock at the door interrupted Willow's strange, sad tale. Wesley took the opportunity to scribble a few more notes, while Angel went to see who it was.
Fred grinned shyly at Angel as she stood clutching a brown paper bag in the hallway.
"Breakfast brigade! I wasn't sure what to get, so I got a little of everything. Juice, coffee, donuts, muffins, and those little breakfast burritos. You know, they didn't have breakfast burritos before I...I'm rambling, aren't I? Can I come in?"
"Sure." Angel managed a bemused half-smile and stepped aside.
Fred approached Willow hesitantly. "You're up. Angel thought you might be hungry."
Willow nodded and her eyes shone briefly with gratitude. "Thanks. Food would be of the good."
Willow's non-threatening demeanor seemed to encourage Fred, who became even more animated. "Great! I've got it all. Would you like coffee? I've got coffee?"
"Big neg on the caffeine," Willow declined hastily. "Makes me kinda spazzy, which would be bad. Got any blueberry muffins?"
"Poppy seed?" Fred offered hopefully.
"That sounds good."
Fred fussed with the paper bag for awhile, spreading its contents out on the end of the desk, then left Willow to her breakfast. Curious about Wesley's research, she peeked over his shoulder at his notes.
"Are you any closer to an answer?" Fred asked softly, her eyes darting self-consciously toward Willow.
Shaking his head, Wesley nibbled absently on the tip of his pen. "I'm going to have to look up the dimensions she described and try to map her trajectory. Something bothers me about that last fight before she left our dimension."
Fred and Wesley were soon engaged in an intense discussion of the new spin that Willow's description of her experience put on the data they had compiled thus far. So engrossed were they in their exchange of theories that they were oblivious to the wistful smile that spread across Willow's face as she watched them.
Angel did notice.
It was the first genuine, lasting smile he'd seen on her face since her arrival. It also seemed to be contagious, because Angel found himself smiling as well.
When Willow realized that Angel was grinning at her, her smile faded somewhat. She ducked her head and concentrated on her poppy seed muffin.
Hoping to lighten her mood, Angel teased quietly, "Careful -- for a minute there, you looked like Willow Rosenberg."
Angel was pleased to see her smile return, although it was weaker and her eyes glimmered with sadness. Willow gazed at Wesley and Fred and remarked, "I remember research parties. We'd all sit around and trade ideas about icky monsters and dire prophecies. Xander and Buffy would have contests to see who could eat the most junk food. It was fun, in a weird, trying-not-to-get-killed kind of way. I miss that."
"You'll be part of the research parties again," Angel assured her. He paused, remembering how desperately he'd wanted to work his way back into Cordy's good graces after he'd bottomed out last year. "It will take time for your friends to accept you as part of the team again. You hurt them, and you'll have to work to earn their trust. But they'll forgive you. If I learned anything while I was in Sunnydale, it was that you and your friends stick together. It's why nothing has beat you yet."
To Angel's alarm, his attempt to raise Willow's spirits had the opposite effect. The tears that she had been holding back now spilled over her lashes and she shook her head. "Angel, I know what you're trying to do, and I appreciate it. But that's not it."
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, Willow continued, "I'm not going back to Sunnydale. I can't. It would be too dangerous for me to be around the Hellmouth, or even near Dawn. I can't go home again."
*****
Anya's head snapped up. She halted her late-night inventory of amulets in the basement and listened. After a few moments, she heard a dull thump, followed by shuffling, coming from the store. Her heart pounded. Nervously, she reached for the heavy, wooden statue of a Minoan fertility goddess that sat on a nearby shelf.
She might be frightened, but she wasn't about to let a prowler abscond with *her* merchandise.
As cautiously and silently as she could, Anya crept upstairs and inched her way into the main shop area, hoping to surprise the intruder.
However, she stopped short when she saw a familiar figure struggling to pick up a weighty, oversized tome that had fallen from one of the bookshelves. A source of his difficulty was the thick cast over his right arm, which was apparently broken.
Further injuries were evident when he raised his head at her approach, revealing a few severe bruises on his bespectacled face.
Aghast, Anya murmured, "Giles?"