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."
(To Be Continued)
AUTHOR: Medea
TITLE: Judgment (9/?)
E-MAIL: medealives@hotmail.com
PAIRING: Willow/Angel friendship, Buffy/Spike, Willow/Tara
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
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."
(To Be Continued)