Judgment 2

January 5, 2002

AUTHOR: Medea
TITLE: Judgment (6/?)
E-MAIL: medealives@hotmail.com
PAIRING: Willow/Angel friendship, Buffy/Spike
RATING: PG-13
SUMMARY: Willow's joyride in 'Wrecked' was only the beginning of her
downward spiral.
SPOILERS: Season 6 BtVS "Smashed" and "Wrecked"; and Season 3 AtS "Lullaby"
ARCHIVE: Please do.
DISCLAIMER: Joss created. I am not Joss. Therefore, not mine, never will be.
NOTE: A response to Kendra A's challenge to "fix" Wrecked, although I don't
really feel that the ep needed fixing. There's nothing wrong with taking a
character through the moral gray zone. I kinda thought it gave Willow some
interesting nuances.
NOTE 2: This is not part of the Masters and Minions universe -- Willow is
human. This went out un-beta'd, so all ghastly mistakes are wholly my fault.
DEDICATION: To Carrie and Jonquil, friends I'm glad I've made along the way.
Many thanks!
FEEDBACK: Much appreciated: medealives@hotmail.com

Chapter Six

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."

Chapter 10:

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 7: