AUTHOR: Medea
TITLE: Judgment (18/?)
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. When her addiction to power makes her a destroyer of
worlds, Angel may be the only one who can help her deal with the aftermath.
Meanwhile, an old friend returns with news of a threat to Buffy and Spike.
SPOILERS: Through BtVS "Smashed" and "Wrecked"; and AtS "Birthday"
ARCHIVE: Please do.
DISCLAIMER: Joss created. I am not Joss. Therefore, not mine, never will be.
Unbeta'd, so all suckiness falls upon my head.
DEDICATION: To Ms. Dark, who reminded me that quality is better than haste.
Thanks for keeping me honest.
FEEDBACK: Much appreciated: medealives@hotmail.com
Chapter Eighteen
In the hotel room that served as her new home, Willow rested on her knees,
eyes closed, and let Angel's soothing voice guide her in her inner journey.
"Focus on your breathing, Willow...Breathe in...and out...let the air fill
you...feel it rise and fall like the tide...evenly...there is only your
breath...rest your mind on your breath...the breath is your mind..."
It had been a week since her trip to the emergency room and Angel's own,
vampire-style "intervention", which had finally forced Willow to confront
her fears and work through them rather than hide from them. From that moment
on, Angel had steadfastly assisted her in meditations that helped sharpen
her mental acuity and enhanced her ability to navigate the worlds compressed
inside her head.
She did wonder how a vampire knew so much about meditation routines that
involved breathing.
Willow had asked Angel about that once, and he'd grinned at the apparent
absurdity of the idea, but explained that it was merely one method among
many he'd learned. According to Angel, meditation helped him channel his
energy and control the demon. He might not have any breath to focus, but he
could concentrate on a candle's flame.
Under Angel's patient guidance, Willow concentrated on deep, regular
breathing and followed the velvet timbre of his voice as it led her down a
fluid, shimmering tunnel of memories. As if emerging from a dark cave, her
mind's eye suddenly opened onto warm sunlight and green, cloud-bedecked
mountains.
There was a momentary disorientation as she adjusted to being "inside" the
Guardian, Poydras. Willow still found it kind of...weird. She was completely
within his sinews, his stride; she could feel the cool, fresh air on her
face; yet Poydras, and everything else about his world, was in her mind.
Willow quickly took stock of her surroundings. It was a rocky path that ran
along a steep cliff. Garat had taken Poydras along this path every year on
the way to the annual gathering of Guardians. Remembering these journeys
well from her first pass through this dimension, Willow knew that old Garat
had used their long, solitary traverse of the mountains to lecture Poydras
about his sacred calling and the challenges he would face in protecting his
people from the Trackers. A rush of adrenaline flooded her and she listened
intently, hoping to pick up the thread of Garat's words before he suspected
that his student's mind was wandering.
"--or just you and three other apprentices," Garat intoned as he trudged
forward, leaning on his gnarled walking stick. "How would you answer, if
those were your choices?"
Willow groaned in the deep recesses of Poydras's mind. Since her first
attempt to tamper with the worlds in her head, she'd learned that her
presence had a far different effect when she was trying to alter events than
when she was merely observing. Her arrival was more disruptive of her host's
perceptions -- in this case, she couldn't count on Poydras to answer for
her. For better or for worse, she was in control of his mind.
And she had no clue what Garat had just been saying.
"Er...the three?" she stammered in Poydras's gruff, masculine voice.
Garat paused and narrowed his eyes. "Why?"
"Safety in numbers?" To Willow's chagrin, her reply came out as barely a
squeak. Just great. Poydras was officially in for a scolding. And Garat was
worse than Giles.
"Safety in--?" Garat choked indignantly. The quills on his chin twitched
beneath a stern frown, and Willow knew she was in for it, big time. "What
does that have to do with deciphering runes? Hmph! So, an old man like me is
worth less to you than three knuckleheaded youths where magic is concerned?
You would rather have them by your side during the magic trials at the
gathering?"
Willow had no doubt that Poydras's green skin was rapidly deepening to a
mottled blue, signaling his embarrassment. "No, no, I meant--"
"If you are that confident in your abilities, then how would you approach
this rune, hmm?" With a deft flourish of his hand, the dwarfish Master
murmured a brief incantation and an intricate, spiral rune appeared on the
path before them.
Warily, Willow crouched down within the Guardian's body to peer at the rune
through his eyes. However, no sooner had she done so than the rune ignited
and expelled a puff of smoke. Poydras barely had the chance to blink before
he vanished and rematerialized in mid-air, just over the edge of the cliff.
Yelping in alarm, he managed to catch hold of a rocky ledge as he fell.
To Willow's amazement, Garat's spell sent her flying back through her
consciousness into her own surroundings in L.A. The sound of his boisterous,
hearty laughter was abruptly replaced by Angel's cry of astonishment. In a
heartbeat, Willow discovered her predicament, and her cry joined Angel's.
Somehow, Willow had been teleported from her meditative position in the
center of her room and hung suspended outside her window. Just as she felt
gravity tugging her downward, she scrambled for purchase on the windowsill.
Behind the closed window and heavy drapes, the panicked redhead could hear
Angel calling out to her in confusion.
"I'm out here!" Willow shouted, gripping tightly onto the ledge and scraping
her shoes against the Hyperion's exterior wall.
Instantly, the drapes were swept aside and Willow caught a brief glimpse of
Angel's astonished face before he recoiled from the sunlight. She cursed the
mid-afternoon sun which burned down on her rapidly tiring shoulders. A
moment later, Angel managed to raise the window, albeit with a few colorful
phrases Willow hadn't ever heard him use before.
"Hang on, Willow," Angel urged through clenched teeth.
"Definitely good with the hanging," Willow agreed shakily. "But--uh, getting
tired pretty quick here. Thinkin' floor under feet would be a good idea
really soon."
Angel reached out and grabbed hold of her upper arms. He began to pull her
up, gritting his teeth as his skin smoked. However, when his arms caught
fire he growled in pain, released her, and ducked back inside.
As he smothered the flames, Angel hollered for assistance. "Gunn! Wesley!
Buffy! We need some help up here!!"
Willow's arms began to tremble, but she grit her teeth and hung on. After a
few moments, she heard a jumble of voices and to her great relief was soon
being hoisted to safety by Gunn and Buffy. As they pulled her through the
window, she saw Wesley examining the damage to Angel's arms.
"What happened?!" Buffy demanded, her cheeks flushed and her eyes wide with
concern.
It took a second or two for Willow to catch her breath. Gunn eased her over
to the desk chair and helped her sit. Buffy moved from Willow's side to
crouch down next to Angel and gently examine his burned arms. He tensed
slightly, but seemed to welcome her concern.
Shakily, Willow gasped, "Garat...someone from one...of...the other
dimensions...conjured... a...rune...teleported me..."
"Hold on -- you mean one of the people in your head zapped you out the
window?" Gunn asked incredulously. He exchanged a doubtful look with Wesley.
"How's that supposed to work?"
"Well, it isn't," Wesley conceded with a frown. "That shouldn't happen,
although in theory, it is possible that events that transpire during Ms.
Rosenberg's journeys into her mind could somehow channel her own magic and
produce effects on this end."
"What?!?" Willow squeaked. The implications were too staggering to
comprehend. How was she supposed to fix these worlds if any small change
might rebound on her in this dimension? She slumped against the back of the
chair, floored by this unexpected twist. Furrowing her brow in helpless
disbelief, Willow protested, "I thought this was supposed to be a one-way
deal. Are you saying that when I change something in one of the other
dimensions, it could have consequences in this one?"
Wesley grimaced apologetically, folded one arm across his chest and rested
his chin on the knuckles of his other hand. "I guess more research is in
order."
"I'll go let the others know," Buffy volunteered. She rose from her place
beside Angel.
Willow glanced at her and was grateful when she saw the sympathetic
expression on her friend's face. The young witch knew that Buffy was still
somewhat uncomfortable with their situation. For one thing, Buffy refused to
allow Dawn near Willow unsupervised, and even then the Slayer kept watch
like a prison warden. Still, though, Buffy had been nothing but supportive
since Willow's return from the emergency room, and had made it clear that
what she wanted most was to have her old friend back.
Gratefully, Willow flashed her a smile. "Thanks, Buffy."
"Sure." Buffy smiled back, and left Willow to grapple with the daunting
challenge that confronted her.
This was getting way too complicated.
*****
A familiar sight greeted Buffy when she poked her head in the office just
off the lobby. Lorne sat in one of the cushy, upholstered armchairs,
bouncing Connor gently on his knee and crooning soft, melodious nonsense.
Either that, or maybe a lullaby in his native, demon language. Connor
grinned up at Lorne's jade green face, wide-eyed, apparently enchanted by
the smooth, subtle tones. Without warning, Connor's grin became a wide,
warbling cavern of glee as he let out a laughing shriek, responding to some
unknown message or insight only comprehensible to infants.
Buffy smiled. She may have been getting anxious recently about her prolonged
absence from the Hellmouth, which left Sunnydale's residents unprotected,
but part of her was deeply grateful that scenes like this had become a
regular part of her day. Completely unaware of the troubles that surrounded
him, Angel's son embodied all that was normal, serene, and hopeful. He was
the one, tiny grain of normalcy that Fate had seen fit to allow any of them.
On the other hand, the discussion between Cordy and Fred, who were crowded
together behind Cordy's desk, focusing intently on the computer monitor, was
a reminder of how twisted "normal" business was for this motley group.
"And Gunn is sure he can trust his source?" Cordy asked, frowning as she
clicked the mouse, then typed with a rattle of manicured nails against
keyboard.
Fred nodded, screwing her nose to the side in an effort to nudge her glasses
upward. "Not only that, but he's heard the rumor on the street a couple of
times, so it's a pretty safe bet there's some truth to it."
"Truth to what?" Buffy asked as she approached the desk. She sat down on the
smooth wood surface and craned her neck for a better view of the screen.
"What rumor?"
Without looking up from her work, Cordy explained, "Oh, just a
smooth-talking psycho who has apparently been holding a majorly powerful
vampire prisoner for the past week and slowly starving it."
Buffy frowned. "Creepy. Any idea who'd be suicidal enough to keep a starving
vamp under wraps?"
Still bouncing Connor, Lorne glanced up and volunteered, "I know who gets my
vote for Most Dangerously and Single-mindedly Obsessed this year."
In unison, Cordy and Fred chimed, "Holtz."
Buffy folded her arms across her chest and lowered her gaze thoughtfully.
Angel's gang had filled her in about the self-appointed vampire hunter from
Angel's past, whose sole ambition seemed to be Angel's complete and utter
destruction. The office was silent save for Cordy's rapid typing and Lorne's
cooing, allowing Buffy to evaluate the situation. It was possible that Holtz
was doing a trial run of tortures he planned to inflict on Angel. However,
it was more likely that he intended to set the vamp loose on Angel when it
was so insane with hunger that it would be uncontrollable. Or, it could be
something too depraved for Buffy to imagine yet.
"Does Angel know?" Buffy asked at last, her voice hoarse with concern.
Cordy's eyes never left the computer screen as she sighed impatiently, "Uh
huh. Gunn broke the news yesterday. That's why Wesley has me searching
through *two* *freaking* *months'* worth of reports logged by the Watchers
of any notable vampire activity in North America. Angel was planning to
check around with his contacts this evening when he was done coaching Willow
for the day."
"That reminds me," said Buffy, her expression sobering even further.
"Something happened while Willow was tinkering with one of the worlds
crammed in her head. Somehow, someone cast a spell in the other world and it
affected her here. Wesley said it meant back to the research."
Fred gaped back at her. A second later, the petite physicist sprang from her
seat, crossed behind Buffy, and began pacing agitatedly from one end of the
office to the other. Gesturing absently with her hand, Fred babbled, "Oh my!
This isn't good at all. I mean, it's not end-of-the-world bad, on account of
those worlds already ended, but this will make it a *lot* harder to fix
things. At least ten to the sixteenth more complicated...or...I'm not sure
by what factor this increases the variables--"
The clatter of keystrokes stopped.
"Fred," Cordy cut in, diverting her gaze from the computer screen to stare
patiently at the jittery brunette. "Why don't you go check in with Wesley,
see what he thinks?"
With an embarrassed smile, Fred stammered, "Oh...right...I'll just...I'll
go...oh, gosh!"
Buffy shook her head slightly behind Fred's retreating form. Her own stomach
was in knots, as if Fred's nervous energy had left behind a residual trace.
Turning back to Cordy, Buffy asked, "Why didn't anyone tell me. I mean, I
know I'm out of the loop on a lot of the details, but I could still help
out. Might as well not take a total vacation from the Slayerly duties."
Once again, Cordy's hands stilled over the keyboard. The Seer fixed Buffy
with a cool, pointed stare that instantly reminded Buffy of the catty, aloof
cheerleader from high school. "You probably could. And when Angel decides he
needs your help, he'll ask for it. But he hasn't, has he? You know, he does
have his *own* friends who are happy to look out for him." Arching a slender
eyebrow in disdain, Cordy concluded, "He's uncomfortable enough having you
and your fangless vamp-toy around as it is. Don't expect him to turn to you
for everything the way he used to. You're not in Sunnydale any more."
Buffy's cheeks burned as if Cordy had slapped her. The edge of the desk
creaked in protest as she gripped it so tightly that her nails dug into the
wood. Even the pain of splinters gouging into her fingertips did little to
take the edge off the shock.
"Uh, Cordelia? Sweetheart?" Lorne urged warily. "Now may not be the time to
re-open old wounds. I've got a pretty happy little man over here, and I'd
like to keep him that way."
Before Cordy could reply, Buffy seethed bitterly, "How dare you?!" Shaking,
Buffy fought to contain her rage, lest she do serious, bodily harm. Too
angry to see straight, Buffy choked again, "How dare you?!"
Livid, Buffy stalked out of the office. She had wanted to scream at
Cordelia, but the brunette Seer's words had struck at the heart of Buffy's
own insecurities about being an outsider in Angel's world -- both because of
her involvement with Spike, and because he had a new circle of trusted
confidantes. Worst of all, Buffy had been poised to ask Cordy who she
thought she was, but the cold truth had stopped her. Once upon a time, Buffy
may have been his heart's desire, but Angel now shared an equally profound,
albeit different, connection with Cordy, who served as his liaison to the
Powers That Be. Cordy may not have replaced her as the love of Angel's life,
but neither was she the same, inconsequential girl from high school, a mere
bystander who knew the dark vampire only through Buffy.
Feeling a lump rise in her throat, Buffy headed toward the basement where
she knew Spike was teaching Dawn the basics of self-defense. Buffy
desperately needed to wrap herself in the solace of her own loved ones.
*****
"C'mon, Bit, you're not even tryin'," Spike taunted, feinting at Dawn, then
circling behind her.
They'd been going at it in the basement workout room for nearly half an
hour. Dawn glowed with a light sheen of sweat. Spike could hear the blood
pounding vigorously in her veins. Something was missing, though. He was all
for the Little Bit learning to defend herself, what with all she'd been
through, but she was still holding back, like she was waiting for someone to
do all the work. Time to step it up -- she needed a good scare.
Seizing her abruptly, Spike pinned her arms to her sides with one arm and
yanked her head to the side with the other. Dawn cried out in alarm as he
plunged his head down at her exposed neck--
--and gave her a quick kiss right over the jugular.
He pushed her gently away.
Panting, Dawn managed to say, "You *so* scared me for a second there. What
was with the Big Bad routine?"
A rush of pride surged through Spike. It was nice to know that even though
the damned Scoobies had grown used to seeing him as a tame little kitten, he
could still scare somebody. Nevertheless, he frowned sternly and retorted,
"You're supposed to be scared, pet. That's the idea. D'you think any of the
nasties we're tryin' to get you fit to handle would settle for a little peck
on the cheek? Need to make you take this seriously."
Pouting defensively, Dawn insisted, "I'm taking this seriously. I'm totally
down with the training."
"You're holdin' back. Can't always assume Big Sis'll be there to watch your
back."
"I'm not assuming anything! Why do you think I'm down here with you? I'm
tired of everyone treating me like they have to take care of me. I want to
be able to take care of myself," Dawn argued, stalking over to the edge of
the mat where a white towel lay heaped beside a water bottle. She grabbed
the bottle, twisted the cap, and took several, deep swallows.
Spike sauntered over. "Then put a little effort into it. Haven't even given
me a scratch yet. What would you do if some nasty vamp had you cornered and
Buffy couldn't come running right away?"
Dawn's expression clouded and all the fight seemed to drain out of her.
Softly, she murmured, "I'd tell him I thought he loved me, stake him, and
try not to cry too hard that the only guy who ever acted like he was
interested in me turned out to be a creep."
Sod it. He'd forgotten about that little escapade on Halloween. Seemed like
that was ages ago, and bloody tame compared to everything that'd come after.
Spike sighed, scooped up the towel, and began gently dabbing sweat from
Dawn's forehead. "Sorry, luv. Wasn't thinkin'."
Dawn sat down on the mat and Spike followed suit. She shrugged. "It's okay.
I know you're just trying to help out. And it's been fun, hanging out with
you like this."
"If you even think of using the words 'like a brother', I'll rip that tongue
right out of your head, chip be damned."
Grinning, Dawn swatted playfully at him. "Fine, but then you can kiss the
Buffy action good-bye."
"Oooooh, naughty girl, Dawn," Spike teased. "I can see who got all the vixen
in your family."
Dawn's grin broadened and she blushed a little, but said nothing. After a
few moments, she grew thoughtful and said, "It's still weird knowing that
it's not just Buffy. I mean, that there have been other Slayers that fell in
love with vampires."
For a moment, Spike felt the hollow, still, emptiness in his chest as his
lifeless heart ached at Dawn's innocent remark. Softly, he corrected, "She's
not exactly in love -- least, she hasn't said it yet. But I take whatever
she'll give me."
"She so totally does love you," Dawn protested, rolling her eyes at him as
if he were the densest git on earth. Her expression softened and she added,
"Buffy's just been trying too hard to be things she's not. Ever since mom
died...it's like she doesn't think it's okay for her to make a
mistake...like she thinks if she'd done everything right, mom might still be
alive."
Resting his arms across his knees, Spike fiddled with the laces on his right
boot. Nodding, he agreed, "Hurt her pretty bad. Guess it's hard, her bein'
the Chosen One, savin' the world over and over again, and yet she couldn't
save her own mum."
Dawn hugged her knees to her chest and they sat together in silence for a
few minutes. Then Dawn asked, "Did you ever meet him?"
Puzzled, Spike frowned. "Who?"
"Ramon Diaz," Dawn clarified, eyes twinkling eagerly.
Spike shrugged. "Once. 'Bout a hundred years ago. Thought he was a ponce."
"A ponce?"
"Real pathetic bugger. I'd heard the rumors about him an' his Slayer, but it
was right around the time I'd...well, back then, I had a different opinion
about Slayers."
//Amsterdam, 1902//
The pub was crowded and boisterous. It teemed with the stench of human vice:
beer, smoke, the rich odor of sex wafting from beneath a whore's skirts, and
the acrid, diseased miasmas exhaled by poor wretches who were infected with
everything from consumption to syphillis.
Not the sort of place Dru cared to visit. But it suited Spike just fine. He
rested his head against the dingy plaster wall and surveyed the drunken
human patrons of the establishment. Not many he'd care to bite -- on the
whole, they were a filthy lot. However, a few looked like they might be good
for a nice, bloody fight. He could do with a spot of violence. Ever since
China and that glorious kill -- his first Slayer! -- he'd had an edginess
that just couldn't be stilled. He itched for a rematch with a worthy
opponent. His body quivered in anticipation...for something...
As his studied, predator's gaze roamed over the pub's raucous denizens, his
lips curling in a slow, feral grin at the multitude of churning heartbeats,
he sensed the arrival of his own kind. Spike glanced across the room to the
entryway and narrowed his eyes at the curious pair of vampires who had just
come in. One was tall and dark-haired with a slight hint of beard on his
chin. Spike figured him for a Spaniard. He looked proud but...sad? With a
sneer, Spike reached for his stein of ale and took a swig. What
self-respecting vamp'd go about looking sad?
'Course, maybe it had something to do with the wretch taggin' behind him
like a dog. Looked like a minion, but there was something about its
eyes...Dull, dim, haunted in that way only something very old can look. A
network of scars cris-crossed its face, punctuated by a fresh, ugly bruise
darkening its cheek. All the way across the room, Spike was able to detect a
faint blood scent that suggested further injuries were concealed by its
ragged clothes.
Spike's gaze returned to the first vamp. Their eyes locked and a tacit
acknowledgment passed between them. Neither was interested in a fight over
these hunting grounds. The somber, dark-haired vampire made his way across
the pub, radiating an aura of command that prompted one human patron after
another to give way. Without hesitation, the minion trailed obediently in
his wake.
With a diplomatic nod of his head, the lead vampire sat down at Spike's
table.
"Cómo es la caza?"
Spike shook his head. "Sorry, mate. Don't speak Spanish -- or Italian, if
that's what that is."
"Spanish. I asked how the hunting is."
"Fair enough," Spike acknowledged with a shrug. "Haven't made my choice
yet."
The taciturn vampire merely nodded and turned his attention to the
surrounding humans. He reminded Spike of Angelus: all business. Get in, make
a clean kill, get out. Spike, on the other hand, planned to stick around for
a while, maybe stir up a fight.
A thought came to him.
"Get caught by a mob?" Spike asked conversationally. When the other vampire
stared at him blankly, Spike cocked his head toward the battered minion, who
certainly looked like he'd been roughed up by an angry crowd.
Pure, cold hatred hardened the dark-haired vampire's eyes, so intense it
sent a slight shiver through Spike. Now this was a demon.
"He belonged to the Council of Watchers before. I turned him, and now it
amuses me to torture him. It is a small revenge, but one that has taught
them a lesson."
Spike warmed to the venom in the dark-haired vampire's evenly spoken words.
Sounded like a wicked arrangement. He was intrigued.
"Revenge, eh? For what? Who're these Watchers?"
A slight clench of the jaw was the only reaction the Spaniard gave him. For
several moments, the dark vampire stared absently at the humans carousing at
other tables. Then, quietly, he said, "The Council is composed of
pretentious mortal fools who think it is their place to control the Slayer."
"You don't say?" Spike mused with a feral grin. "Thought the girls just
worked alone. S'pose it don't matter -- they fight alone and they die
alone." Warming to the memories of his battle with the Chinese Slayer during
the Boxer Rebellion, Spike thought little of it when the dark-haired vampire
stiffened suddenly and stared at him with the same, slightly crazed look
that Drusilla had. Smugly, Spike boasted, "Y'know you're lookin' at the vamp
who killed the last Slayer. Damn, but they've got sweet blood, 's like--"
Without warning, the dark-haired vampire delivered a vicious, powerful blow
to Spike's chin and sent him hurtling across the next table. Several of the
humans bellowed indignantly as their drinks clattered to the floor.
Abruptly, their cries sharpened in terror and Spike sensed the thundering
increase in their heart rates. Rubbing his sore jaw, he looked up and saw
the Spaniard looming over him, enraged, demon to the fore.
Spike had been chilled by the vamp's demeanor before; now there was
something terrifying about the stranger. His eyes had the desperate, wounded
look of an animal that wants to die.
Spike let his own true face emerge. Looked like he was about to get that
fight he'd been hoping for. All too soon, and to his humiliation, Spike
found himself outclassed. The dark vampire attacked him with a fury unbound,
like all the forces of hell unleashed. They battled back and forth across
the abandoned pub -- the humans having fled in mortal fear at the sight of
two unholy monsters locked in combat. Spike managed to hold his own for a
while, but eventually fell beneath the frenzied onslaught. He howled in pain
as his skull cracked against the floor and curled in on himself to defend
against brutal kicks to his ribs, only to suffer more kicks to his back.
Slowly, oblivion swallowed him up.
When he came to, whimpering in agony, the Spaniard and his minion were gone.
Drusilla sat beside him, gently stroking his hair.
"D-Dru?" he rasped painfully.
"Sshhhh," she soothed. "Musn't hurt yourself any more than you are, precious
Spike."
"How'd...you...f-find...?" Spike's question trailed off as he coughed up
stolen blood.
Gently, Drusilla gathered him in her arms and cradled him across her lap
like an infant. Shifting to her demon visage, she sank her fangs into her
own wrist, then held the wound to Spike's swollen, bruised lips and urged
him to drink.
"I followed the fear...all the people scurrying away like little mice from
the hungry cat!"
Strengthened by his Sire's blood, Spike pulled away from her wrist, blinked
up at her dark, glistening eyes and asked, "The vamp I was fightin'...did
you see him?"
Dru, consoling her wounded childe, murmured sadly, "My poor boy. You still
have your princess. He lost his -- naughty men! She gave him her heart, but
the nasty Watchers stole it away and cut it into tiny little bits, snip,
snip, snip..."
Spike shivered, his entire body in searing torment, as his Dark Goddess
continued to stroke his hair. Too tired to press her for answers, he clung
to her and let the rich scent of his beloved's blood soothe him and wash
away the pain and humiliation.
// Los Angeles, 2002 //
"How did you know it was Diaz?" Dawn asked.
Spike cocked his head to the side in surprise. He'd expected her to be more
upset that he'd bragged about killing a Slayer, but Dawn relaxed
companionably beside him, her legs stretched out before her on the mat,
seeming more curious than angry.
With a wry grin, Spike sighed, "Word got around about the fight -- no way it
couldn't have. Dru got me out of town all right, but my reputation had been
buggered good and proper for a few years. Couldn't turn around without
hearin' how Ramon Diaz gave me a sound thrashing. Spent a long time fightin'
with tossers who rubbed my nose in it, workin' my way back. Meantime, I
heard more than enough about Ramon Diaz -- most of it rumors. Told me
himself he'd turned a Watcher, but everything else I got were vague stories
-- he'd turned a Slayer, he'd killed a Slayer, he'd loved a Slayer...I just
thought he was a bloody psychopath."
Dawn smirked. "Pot calling the kettle?"
"Yeah, well..." Spike's retort trailed off as he caught the faint scent of
blood.
Very familiar, intoxicating, blood.
He looked to the stairwell and a moment later Buffy appeared at the top of
the stairs and started down. Spike's eyes narrowed in concern at the sight
of her hand gripping the handrail. Small traces of blood dappled her
fingertips. Yet when he searched her eyes, it was emotional pain he saw.
Rising to his feet, Spike crossed the mat to meet her. "Buffy? What's wrong,
luv?"
When she didn't answer, merely gazing at him in numb sorrow, he drew her
into his arms. Tenderly, he brought one of her abused hands up to his mouth
and kissed it. One by one, he took each finger between his lips and soothed
the damaged flesh with his tongue, struggling to keep it relatively chaste
in Dawn's presence. Buffy closed her eyes and leaned into his embrace,
sighing at his loving ministrations.
After several moments, Buffy murmured, "I don't belong here."
*****
In the darkened basement of a run-down, abandoned building, behind a thick
metal door reinforced with dead-bolts, a vampire slumped against the chains
that bound her. Her senses were agitated, painfully inflamed by hunger, and
she could hear the mice skittering across the floor in the shadows.
She could hear their blood -- sweet, tempting blood.
Little mice, with little blood, but, then, a little was better than none.
She wanted to eat the naughty man who kept her here. Every time he came to
taunt her, to tell her about daddy's new family, his warm blood called to
her. How she wanted to sip the man's blood from a china cup as the little
mice crawled over his body, nibbling, nibbling at the house...
With a low, frustrated growl, Drusilla tugged on her chains.
(To Be Continued)
JUDGMENT
by Medea
E-Mail: medealives@hotmail.com
Home: http://members.fortunecity.com/medealives/index.html
DISCLAIMER: Property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, etc. Not making profit, please don't sue.
Chapter Nineteen
The room was still and shadowed. Not terribly cozy, but, then, Angel hadn't been expecting guests and nobody from Sunnydale had anticipated staying this long. Still, what the room lacked in comfort, Spike intended to make up for it by pampering his heartsick, steadfast little soldier as much as she'd let him.
With supreme tenderness, Spike knelt before Buffy and gently took one of her hands in his. He searched her expression for some clue as to what had cast a cloud over this girl who was the closest thing to sunlight he'd touched in a century. Wordlessly, he ventured a smile, squinting in quiet wonder when she hesitantly smiled back. So radiant. It almost hurt to look at her.
Delicately, he began dabbing her tattered fingertips with a washcloth he'd soaked in warm water. He'd already checked her hands and removed a few splinters. Now he soothed and caressed, wiping away the traces of blood and, he hoped, whatever else had caused her pain.
And she let him.
Damned if it wasn't one of the sweetest moments he'd had all week.
As he patted her hands dry with a towel, the barest hint of a smirk on his lips, Spike asked, "How is it I've spent so much time patchin' up your hands since you came back to us, luv?"
Buffy grinned awkwardly and half-exhaled, half-laughed. Almost shyly, she lowered her gaze to their joined hands. But she didn't answer. Must be bad. Spike hadn't known her to be without a blithe quip or snappy comeback more than a handful of times.
Like the time her mum told her about the tumor.
Or after the royal hell bitch took the Niblet away from her.
Spike wondered what she was trying to escape this time. Not a coffin, but obviously traumatic enough that she'd clawed her fingers bloody again.
"D'you want to talk?" he asked, gently circling his thumb over her palm. After a pause, he offered, "D'you want me to talk? I could tell you how the Little Bit is doing. Got some of your fight in her and her moves aren't half bad. Might be holdin' back a bit, but she's--"
"Could you just hold me?" Buffy interrupted softly. She raised her eyes to his. Such a simple gesture, a plea for consolation and an act of faith all in one, yet it rocked Spike to the core.
Could he?
*Could* he?
That wasn't a request, it was a gift.
Wordlessly, the blond vampire rose from his knees and sat beside Buffy on the edge of her bed. He encircled her waist with his arms and drew her back against him, nuzzling her brow with his cheek.
Minutes crept by. Beautiful, perfect minutes. Spike didn't know when he'd get another chance like this one, so he savored every second, every sensation. The heat of her body radiating over his deathly chill. That fierce, relentless Slayer pulse humming through him everywhere they touched. Smooth, silky hair, heady with the scent of flowers from that ridiculously over-priced designer shampoo she treated herself to. And just the feel of her relaxing against him.
If trust was something you could touch, if you could reach out your hand and grab it, Spike guessed it would feel like this.
He treasured it.
"Why do you do this for me?" Buffy whispered against his chest. "None of this is the way it's supposed to be."
*****
"It isn't supposed to be this way," Willow protested, resting her forehead in her palms, her elbows propped on the small desk near her bed. "Those worlds, those people inside my head. They shouldn't be able to affect me like that."
"Slow down, Willow," Angel urged. He sat calmly, a few feet away, leaning forward in his seat and resting his arms on his knees as he watched her intently. "You're about to hyperventilate."
Willow let her head sink to the table with a soft moan. This was going to be a lot harder than she'd anticipated.
"It's okay to feel discouraged," Angel added after a few moments of silence.
A weak, shaky laugh slipped out. "I left discouraged way back a few panic attacks ago. Right now I'm hanging with 'severely crushed' and 'soundly defeated'. I'll *never* fix this! Not if someone from another dimension who's in my head can zap me out a window..."
As Willow rested her forehead against the cool wood of the desk, trying to clear all thought from her weary, sorely overtaxed mind, she could hear Wesley and Fred murmuring to each other across the room.
"Maybe if we enter this into our calculations and redo them--"
"No, too many variables. This has gone beyond anything we can plot. I can't even fathom the equations it would take--"
Above their hushed exchange, Angel's voice rose, calmly dispelling the nervous tension that filled the air. "Fred, Wesley, we're done for now. Willow needs some down time. We'll take the rest of the afternoon off and come back to this later."
After a brief pause, the soft sweep of a door opening and closing signaled the departure of Angel's co-workers. Willow was fairly sure that Angel was still seated across from her. She hadn't felt him get up and leave, although she realized she couldn't really trust her senses where he was concerned. Vampires could be pretty darn stealthy.
"I meant what I said." Angel's voice prompted the disheartened witch to raise her head. She saw understanding and compassion in his eyes. "You shouldn't push yourself too hard, especially not with something this big. Trust me, I've been there before."
Willow managed a small, rueful smile. "So, even vampires have their limits, huh?"
Angel managed a rueful half-smile, his eyes downcast. "Believe it or not, most do. If they don't learn on their own, eventually even the most driven learn the hard way from the Slayer. Including me." He fixed a sad yet compassionate gaze on Willow. "Determination can be a good thing, Willow, but not when it's pushed to the point of obsession."
A familiar, perplexed look descended upon Willow's features like a veil. Occasionally, her head bobbed and her lips parted as if she were about to speak, but for several moments she grappled silently with her thoughts. At last, in a small, meek voice, she whimpered, "But what if I don't know how to find those limits? I t-try," Willow's breath hitched in her throat, "but nothing is ever enough. When we stopped Glory, the very next night all the creepy ghoulies were out as usual, like nothing had happened. So we kept going...and there was always more danger...and how could I say no and let everyone down? They were counting on me, but I wasn't enough. I just wanted everyone to be-"
*****
"-happy," Buffy whispered, blinking her eyes as she fought back the tears. "It was so hard for me, trying to hide what I really felt about being back from everyone. My friends were so happy...and so ready to have the strong, reliable Slayer back. But...the only thing...the only one who made me feel anything," Buffy paused and exhaled shakily, "was you."
"Shh," Spike hushed her, brushing his lips against her temple and enfolding her possessively in his embrace.
"No," Buffy shook her head weakly and squeezed her eyes shut. "I can't...it's all wrong. I'm wrong. I tried to be what everyone needed me to be, but it just ate away at me...and I couldn't stop wanting what you made me feel *every* *time*...and I hurt him. I've hurt him, and I've lost him, and I feel bad for thinking about him when you're holding me like this, and I *don't* feel bad, because no matter how much he loved me, it was Darla he turned to, and nothing makes any sense any more!"
"Stop."
Spike's grip was firm on Buffy's arms as he turned her to face him and silenced her with a stern, smoldering gaze. "No more fretting," he commanded in a low, velvety rumble. "You think this mess is because of something *you* did? Bollocks. Takes two to tango, luv. Even if your life were as cocked up as you think it is - which it's not - blame's not all on your shoulders, which means you can't make it right just by beating yourself up. And you bloody well don't owe anyone an apology for what you feel. So, enough talking."
"But-" Buffy protested, only to be cut off by a firm kiss. Anguish and compassion dueled in the joining of their mouths, yet Spike's relentless, sensual exploration gradually vanquished the pain and sorrow and frustration. In its place a primal hunger blossomed between them. Spike's kisses soon passed from soothing to demanding. Teeth came into play, tugging at lips and capturing tongues.
An urgent, desperate heat burned in icy blue depths as Spike pulled away and gazed into Buffy's eyes. "Just for a few hours, stop trying to save the world...stop trying to save everyone else but yourself," he entreated softly as his hands slipped beneath her shirt to caress her bare skin. He leaned forward and pressed his brow reverently against hers, letting his eyes slip shut. "So many nights, I dreamed of saving you. Let me save you now."
Buffy let out a yearning sigh, the last gasp of her inner doubts and self-recriminations, and gave herself up to the delirious, comforting sensations that Spike's fingertips teased out as they skimmed over her warm, soft curves. Their lips joined once more in loving communion as Slayer and vampire clasped each other tightly and sank down onto the bed.
*****
"It won't make your job any easier for you to turn it into a punishment or imprisonment without parole," Angel said as he walked beside Willow toward the stairwell. He sympathized with her frustration, having shouldered his own burden of guilt for a hundred years, and he knew how paralyzing and oppressive that burden could be. Voices filtered up from the lobby, rising and falling in lively, carefree cadence, so *human* in their chorus that Angel grew even more convinced about what Willow needed right now. "You've run up against a wall. Take some time off to re-focus. The work will still be here when you get back."
Willow sighed, her eyes downcast, her face drawn and pensive. Angel paused and turned to face her. God, he hated this. He knew exactly how she felt and it pained him to think of Willow, or anyone else, grappling with the same gut-wrenching shame and regret that had reduced him to a miserable recluse for the better part of a century. He knew so well what it meant to make a series of poor judgments in the recklessness and innocence of youth, only to find himself transformed into a monster that visited unspeakable horrors upon the world.
Angel's chest ached where once a living heart had been. He felt a pang of sympathy for Willow, who looked both as young and uncertain as she had when he'd first met her in Sunnydale, and as old and weary as he sometimes felt.
"It just seems wrong. I mean, how can I take a break, kick back with chocolate and scented candles and fuzzy slippers...and...all that other self-indulgent, pamper-y stuff when all the people in those worlds I destroyed are...they're..."
Her rant faded and they stood together for several moments in awkward silence.
"Dead," Angel finished for her. "Willow, they're dead. You have the power to change that. I don't know how. I can't even fathom the kind of power it would take, but I wish someone had given me the same chance to do what you can, what you *will*. For now, though, they're dead, which means they're not going anywhere, and they won't get any worse if you take a few hours for yourself."
Another heartbeat approached. Angel's gaze flicked away from Willow toward the stairwell, and he smiled at the perfect timing as the gentle, doe-eyed face of Willow's girlfriend came into view.
"Leave the dead behind this afternoon," the dark vampire suggested. The slight racing of Willow's pulse as she glanced shyly at Tara told Angel all he needed to know about which buttons to push. "You can't save the world, let alone six worlds, if you can't even forgive yourself. Believe me, Willow, I've tried. You need to reconnect with what matters. Go out into the sunshine. Be with the living."
Tara stood a few paces away from them, patiently waiting for Willow's decision. Willow hesitated, her eyes still heavy with remorse and failure. She looked at Angel and he gave her a reassuring nod. When Willow shifted her gaze toward Tara, the honey-haired witch extended her hand in invitation.
Angel caught the faint scent of salt from Willow's grateful, if unshed, tears as she went to Tara.
Slipping her hand into Willow's, Tara asked, "Want to go for a walk?"
A hesitant grin blossomed on Willow's lips and she squeezed Tara's hand in reply. As they turned to go, Willow looked over her shoulder and said, "Thanks, Angel."
"Enjoy the sunshine," the dark vampire answered, acutely aware of the burns on his hands and arms: his own painful reminder of the limits to what kind of help he could offer her.
He looked down at his inflamed, partly charred skin and decided it might be a good idea to doctor them up with more aloe. His accelerated vampire healing had already kicked in, lessening the severity of the burns in the short time since he'd tried to haul Willow in through her window, but his arms still smarted.
It was on the way to his suite that he noticed it.
A sensation so far below what could be perceived by human senses that there was no equivalent in smell, sound, or taste. Something primal and feral that his demon recognized on a preternatural level; familiar, yet almost unfamiliar because it had been so long since he'd sensed it.
Even before Angel's conscious mind recognized what it was that tugged at his senses, he was filled with a strange foreboding, a desire both to seek out and to hide. Curiosity got the better of him, and without really thinking about it, he made his way up to one of the hotel's higher floors where the sensation grew stronger.
The truth bombarded him from multiple directions: his brain finally caught up with his surroundings as he realized he was in the corridor that led to Buffy's room; his sensitive hearing detected heady gasps and soft moans; rich, spicy pheromones wove their spell beneath his nose; and with sudden, painful clarity, Angel recognized the mysterious sensation that had drawn him here in the first place.
A vampire in heat.
Not just any vampire. Spike. It had been over a century, but Angel recognized Spike's unique signature of intensity and lust, felt it resonating in the air, and stopped cold. A sickening, bitter ache clenched inside him. He'd known. Buffy had even admitted as much when Giles had informed her of the threat from the Council. But it still hadn't prepared him for being confronted so brutally, so intimately, with the facts.
He stood, rooted to the floor for several moments, awash in a contradictory array of emotions. Jealous rage burned through his veins at the thought of his first, true love with Spike of all people. The fire of his anger was quelled, however, by bitter shame at the fact that he, himself, had hurt Buffy just as badly. A cruel, ironic voice in the depths of his mind even taunted him with the thought that this was probably what Spike must have felt when Angel, during his brief return to soullessness, had flaunted his intimate relations with Drusilla.
Angel wanted to charge in there and pull Spike off of her.
Without a word, he turned back to the stairwell instead.
*****
"It's agonizing, isn't it?"
Such a furry, purring sound, Drusilla thought to herself as the odd, gray man spoke to her. His voice tickled her ears like a cat's whiskers, but above all else she heard his blood rushing like a mighty river. Silly kitty, to be so near the water. Doesn't realize the danger.
"You thirst for blood, don't you, demon?" the bearded, gray-haired man spoke again.
"He wants to play a game, but I am too cross for grandfather's riddles," Drusilla mused. Languidly, she leaned forward as far as her chains would allow and growled at him. "Naughty boys go to sleep without their bedtime story."
The odd man stared at her. It made Drusilla laugh. She could almost hear the clickety-clack of thoughts in his brain, but oh! was he in for a surprise. The lords and ladies were all at court, but they would not dance with him.
"He really did drive you insane," the man purred, although he was not at all warm and soft. "It's perfect. Angelus will have no one to blame but himself when you feed on his only son. He'll lose the one he holds most dear in this world to a creature of his own making."
"Ssshhhh," Drusilla chided him with a sly grin. "Mustn't make noise. Your house is made of glass and the little witch has been skipping stones." Her grin widened as she whispered, "Come closer and I'll tell you a secret, dearie."
The man wrinkled his brow, but moved closer, wary as a little mouse. Drusilla eyed him with interest. Suddenly, without warning, she pounced, but he was a quick one. She managed only to scrape his neck with her fangs and taste a tiny drop of his sweet blood before he leaped away. His voice was no longer warm and soft, and he called her bad, nasty names.
Angrily, he drew a cross out of his pocket and pressed it against her cheek.
Drusilla wailed and thought how nice it would be if she could eat the nasty man.
(To Be Continued)
JUDGMENT
by Medea
E-mail: medealives@hotmail.com
Home: http://members.fortunecity.com/medealives/index.html
DISCLAIMER: Property of Joss Whedon, Mutant Enemy, etc. Not making profit, please don't sue.
Author's Note (September 21, 2002): Pursuant to the decision of fanfiction.net's administrators to ban all NC-17 fanfiction from the site, I will be removing all of my stories and closing my account from ff.net in the event that protests against this decision are unsuccessful and they do indeed impose their censorship. For now, I'm waiting to see how it all plays out. For the handful of people who are actually reading 'Judgment', I would suggest that you copy the URL for my home page, where any further updates of this story will be located should I be obliged to stop posting at ff.net. Yes, this may seem like a pointless, hollow gesture, but it is the only means I have left to make a political statement, small though it may be. However, this is one case where ff.net has exercised very poor and narrow-minded judgment, and they need to know that by bowing to the pressure to delete an entire category of creative works, they run the risk of chasing away some of their membership. Arbitrary limitations on creative expression can be just as offensive as explicit writings.
Chapter Twenty
Orange and white darted in random, fluid paths beneath the water's surface. Willow watched, mesmerized, as the carp swam easily around their pond, oblivious to the comings and goings of the land creatures who stared down at them. She'd been trying to wrap her brain around impossible twists and turns in multiple dimensions for days now, yet somehow it felt soothing to watch the unpredictable twists and turns of the fish. It didn't really make sense. Maybe it was because all she had to concentrate on were the fish, their random wanderings, and she could just let go and follow wherever they led.
"Imagine what would happen if we let fish design the freeways," Tara mused beside her, tilting her head thoughtfully.
Willow grinned and squeezed Tara's hand. "Actually, I think traffic might be better if we did," she countered, wrinkling her brow as she followed the dizzying, repetitive loops made by a few carp on the fringes. Her gaze wandered toward Tara's hand clasped in hers. A surge of warmth washed over her at the sight of their entwined fingers, although the feeling was clouded by her ever-present guilt. Slowly, she raised her eyes to meet Tara's and said, "Thanks for showing me this. It's so pretty here."
Tara nodded in agreement as the two of them admired the peaceful, secluded Japanese garden Tara had discovered a few days earlier. A slight frown tugged at her mouth. "Just about anything would have to be pretty after being cooped up in a hotel room for so long," Tara surmised.
"Yeah," Willow agreed.
Boy did she ever agree. She'd forgotten how much she needed the feel of a breeze fanning across her skin or the scent of green, living things.
A honeyed ray of sunshine bathed her face and Willow gave herself over to the delicious, breathtaking feel of life around her. The warm air was so thick with it that she almost swooned. Bees and blue dragonflies darted about and if Willow concentrated on them, she could block out the street noises in the distance. The buzzing and hum of gossamer wings was softened by the occasional rustling of leaves when the wind stirred them.
Sultry was the only word for it.
Los Angeles had its fair share of smog and sun and haze, but this was sultry. In the late afternoon heat, the air was moist and heavy with the scent of lotus and azalea. Without realizing it, Willow slowly grew attuned to the web of life surrounding her. Her skin literally tingled with it. The heady sensation soon drew her mind upwards and outwards. Here, the brief fragrance of cherry blossoms that had bloomed in the garden many weeks earlier. There, the cool salt spray of the ocean, miles from any coastline, where only they great whales ventured. Still further, the rich musk and damp-wool scent of wildlife on a high mountain ridge.
Layer upon layer melted away...sensations blended into one another...
Then Willow noticed something, not wrong exactly, but *off*. A musty, smoky, faintly herbal smell tickled her senses - one she associated with dusk and quiet companionship, with that satisfying, restful moment when the day's work was done. But it didn't belong here. Frowning, Willow realized where she remembered it from.
Garat's pipe.
"Yours is a beautiful world."
Willow's eyes snapped open and her heart nearly leaped into her throat.
There before her stood Garat.
In. Her. World.
"This can't be real," Willow breathed, astonished. She closed her eyes, steadied herself, then re-opened them.
Garat was still there. He blinked at her in silent bemusement, the quills on his chin twitching as they had so many times when Poydras had done something foolhardy or impulsive.
Perplexed and mildly disoriented, Willow took a step back. "Oh, God," she gulped. Her stomach churned and she half expected the ground to fall out beneath her as a prelude to the leap into another dimension. Panic rose at the thought that everything was destabilizing again, so soon after she'd adjusted to being back. How was this possible? She gaped at the diminutive yet commanding trainer she'd grown to know so well during her stay in Poydras's dimension. "How did you get here?"
"Willow? Are you all right?" Tara asked warily, following Willow's wild-eyed gaze to empty air near a bamboo grove.
Startled, Willow spared a dumbfounded glance for her companion, then looked back to Garat. Couldn't Tara see him?
Garat smiled cryptically and explained, "You brought me here."
*****
A nondescript, navy blue cargo van rolled to a stop before a warehouse near the Santa Monica freeway. Four men, lean but muscular, climbed out. They entered the warehouse silently, without the easy banter or joking of comrades. Everything about their demeanor suggested a team of professionals.
Inside, another man sat before a laptop that was perched on a folding card table. The wall nearby was lined with surveillance cameras and electronic communications devices of every kind. Not raising his eyes from the keyboard, the seated man observed brusquely, "You're late. Travers expects an update within the hour."
Without flinching, one of the newly arrived men replied, "It's confirmed. The Slayer and her Watcher are holed up at a hotel in the city with two vampires and a number of humans."
"Threat assessment?" the seated man asked.
"The vampires are old, fairly powerful. The Slayer herself has survived beyond expectations; she's stronger than most, and battle-hardened. The Watcher knows our organization; he's probably anticipating an attack, so we can't count on the element of surprise. As for the others, not enough information yet. They have their weaknesses, though. There's an infant, and one of the humans seems to be an invalid, maybe even crazy. She nearly took a leap out of a window," a second man from the van reported.
A third man from the team pulled a carton of leftover Thai noodles from a small refrigerator, shoveled a large clump onto his fork and mumbled around the mouthful, "So what now?"
"Now we wait for final authorization to eliminate. This job's the big one. This time, we do things strictly by the book," the man at the laptop answered.
The others nodded indifferently, settling down for a quick meal or a cigarette while they waited.
*****
The long, dark silence was punctuated every now and then by hollow, echoing drips of water. Otherwise, the vast network of sewer tunnels was tomb-like in its silence.
In that silence, Angel wandered alone, jaw clenched with grief and pain as he waited for sunset so he could escape into the night. The heartache had been so bad, he'd crept away from the hotel, unnoticed.
It had been pure torment.
Not for the first time in his long existence, Angel cursed his vampire senses. He'd tried to block it all out. He'd retreated to the basement, as far from Buffy and Spike as he could go, and if it had been any other couple, he would have been able to tune them out. Vampires weren't quite the slaves to their senses that so many humans imagined them to be. Indeed, in order to maintain control, they *had* to develop discipline over their heightened awareness of scents and sounds, lest the dizzying array of stimuli around them drive them mad. But once he'd realized what Buffy and Spike were doing, once the image of his first love writhing in ecstasy with someone who had betrayed him and caused him so much pain had been burned into his mind, he couldn't block out the scents and sounds, even as faint as they were across such a long distance.
Onward he trod through dank passages, everywhere the surfaces slick with moisture. Dark, glistening walls; pipes sweating with condensation; his face damp with tears.
Desperately, he sought the numbing cold he'd felt just over a year ago. Anything, anything to make the hurt go away.
Still, the water drops fell from pipes into shallow puddles pooled below, each drip like the ticking of a clock, marking the painfully slow passage of seconds, minutes, hours until he would be free to venture out into a darkened city.
Angel walked on.
*****
Somehow, even after all the supernatural beings and freakish monsters he'd faced, Xander still managed to find this particular situation bizarre. Maybe because it almost verged on being kind of...normal?
Anya was sitting nearby on one of the overstuffed lounges in the lobby, leafing through a copy of Modern Bride that was thick enough to rival the Los Angeles yellow pages. Giles, Wesley, and Angel's friend, Fred, were gathered together at the counter to the office, poring over a sea of papers, all covered with scary Fred scribblings - the kind of incomprehensible, trans-dimensional calculations that Xander was glad *he* didn't have to try to figure out.
Instead, stripped down to jeans and a tee shirt, he leaned into powerful strokes as he sanded the side of a cradle.
A cradle he'd started building for Angel's son about four days ago.
Angel's. Son.
As in infant human child fathered by Deadboy.
It shouldn't be possible.
Yet Xander had seen the child, as real and solid as the wood beneath his hands. He could hear Lorne singing softly to him from the office, which summoned up all sorts of quivery-stomach thoughts about parenthood. Was he ready? Would he ever be ready, after everything he'd seen in his life on the Hellmouth? And more importantly, would their lives ever get to a point where things were quiet enough and safe enough for him even to consider bringing a child into the world? Shoot, maybe kids existed in some nice, happy dimension before being born here - some nice, happy dimension where they'd be better off staying, given what he'd seen in less than a quarter-century of living.
As it was, with Willow's most-recent setback, not to mention the likelihood that the Watchers Council would be sending a team of friendly assassins for a visit, it was beginning to seem like they'd never be able to go back to-
"Xander, don't you think the lobby of Angel's excessively opulent place of business would make a lovely site for our wedding reception?"
--huh?
Xander sighed and shook his head with amused chagrin. Trust Anya to have the right priorities. For Anya, that is. In a really crazy way, she was a source of sanity for him amid the never-ending crises. If Anya was still able to think about wedding receptions and frilly, godawful bridesmaids' gowns, the world couldn't be ending, could it?
"Ahn, somehow I don't think a vampire's lair is the kind of address you want to be putting on wedding invitations. There's something about white, papier-maché church bells and blood that just doesn't mix," Xander suggested patiently, not breaking the rhythm of his strokes.
"Oooh, a wedding? Here?" Fred piped up excitedly. She crossed from her place near the counter to drop beside Anya and peer over her shoulder at the bridal magazine.
"Well, it's not like we'll be able to return to Sunnydale any time soon. Not with the Watchers out to kill their own Slayer. After all, it's always the sidekicks who get caught in the crossfire," Anya observed blithely. She narrowed her eyes at the sight of Fred's attire: jeans, plain sneakers, and a red tee shirt with a picture of Marvin the Martian on the front. "You really shouldn't wear a shirt like that, especially around a warrior in the battle between good and evil. It marks you as expendable."
"Oh?" Fred stammered awkwardly, her nose wrinkling above a timid smile. "I guess I'd never thought about it. Actually, *not* being treated as expendable is still kind of a novelty for me. They don't really care too much for humans in Pylea."
Anya scowled in distaste. "You mean that dimension with the ridiculous dances and loud-mouthed demons in need of serious dental work? Ugh! I hope you weren't stuck there for long. I visited once about three hundred years ago, and I didn't like it at all..."
Xander shifted his position to sand the foot of the cradle, letting the soft scratch of the sandpaper soothe his mind and drown out the conversation. He was still preoccupied by what had happened to Wills this afternoon, and wasn't quite ready for Anya's chit-chat mode. True, their lives had slipped into an odd kind of normalcy during the past few days. He'd even found work at a local construction site. The money helped, but it wasn't really about that. He just cared about Willow and Buffy, and couldn't handle the endless waiting, day after day, not kowing if or when the Council would launch and attack, not being able to do a damned thing to help Willow fix the mess she'd made. He'd learned pretty early on that he wasn't Book Guy. He was more Hands-On Guy; he liked having something to do.
So he ran his fingers over the smooth grain of the wood, its surface lightly powdered from his repetitive sanding, and tried to think of what he *could* do for his friends instead of dwelling on all the things he couldn't do. And truthfully, he had to admit that he wasn't totally helpless. Xander was even pretty sure he knew what Willow needed most: a chance to laugh, to smile, to be Willow. He didn't need super powers or a Watcher's years of training to help with that.
It had been a long, long time since he'd felt insecure or inadequate about himself for being plain old Xander, Mr. Regular Guy, surrounded by friends who all seemed to have some supernatural goodness to offer. He'd had his moment of truth in a face-off over a ticking bomb in the basement of Sunnydale High. In one, breathtaking, life-altering heartbeat, with death literally staring him right in the eye, everything had resolved in crystal clarity, and from then on, he'd known. He didn't have to prove himself to anyone.
Deadboy might be able to teach Willow about meditation, and he'd probably cornered the market on dealing with mountains of guilt at leaving a trail of destruction in his wake. Giles, Wesley, and Fred might be Willow's best source of tech support on the whole trans-dimensional puzzle. Tara could definitely make Willow feel loved. But Xander had something crucial that Willow needed, something more powerful than magic or Slayer strength or all the volumes of Watcher learning ever compiled.
He had her past.
He *was* her past, her link to a time when life was innocence and wonder.
Xander had been there for her through everything, knew her from way back before their lives had grown so complicated. More than anyone, he could help Willow find her way back to herself. If it was at all possible, after her centuries of out-of-control dimension-hopping, Xander knew he had the best shot at it.
As he pondered what he'd do when Willow and Tara got back from their walk, a chance remark broke into his thoughts.
"...anyway, it should have been obvious to anyone who knows anything about dimensional manipulation that this would happen," Anya observed off-handedly, flipping a page in her mammoth bridal compendium. Her eyes lit up and she exclaimed, "Oooh, now there's a centerpiece for the reception! See, honey?" She leaned toward Xander and held the magazine out for him to admire. "An ice-sculpture swan. We could have one custom designed in a different shape, like a Nagork'n demon. That way, if anyone attacked during the wedding, we could snap off the spikes and use them as spears."
Xander grinned somewhat incredulously. He loved Anya, he really did. Her often baffling outlook on the world was a large part of that, although he didn't think he'd ever get used to her bizarre logic.
"Ahn, only you would think to include a tastefully subdued arsenal in our wedding decorations." He leaned up to give her a quick kiss. "Who says you can't mix romance and practicality?"
Anya beamed adoringly at him, accepting his wry remark as a compliment.
"Er, Anya, do you mean to say you'd anticipated Willow's latest setback?" Giles asked, a pained expression signaling his frustration.
"Oh, sure," Anya answered with a shrug. "Anyone knows that the human mind isn't equipped to handle all the variables involved in working with multiple dimensions. The human brain is finite. It doesn't have nearly the capacity it would take to maintain control over every contingency. Why else do you think there's a need for vengeance demons? Humans are restricted within a clear-cut set of boundaries and physical laws for a reason. If people could make their own wishes a reality, it would be total chaos. Any time you mess with the what ifs and might have beens of alternate realities or parallel dimensions, it has repercussions in this world. How do you think I managed to grant wishes for all those scorned women?"
Xander blinked at his fiancée, dumbfounded by her revelation.
The entire lobby was silent for several moments.
Giles was the first to find his voice again. Quietly, he asked, "Do you think you might have said something sooner?"
"Why?" Anya looked completely taken aback. "It's part of the test. If I'd said anything, it would have ruined it."
Xander dropped his forehead against his palm and closed his eyes. Once again, he was baffled by the mysteries of Anya-logic. Raising his head, he reached out, grasped Anya's hand in his, and prompted gently, "Ahn, sweetheart? How would you like to share with the rest of the class what you know about this test?"
*****
Night fell at last, banishing the sun's deadly rays, and once again it was safe for a vampire to roam out in the open.
Footsteps echoed through a bright, sterile corridor at LAX. A solitary figure strode from the gate, having debarked from a private, chartered flight, to the Immigration checkpoint. Although the darkness outside caused the interior scenery of the corridor to reflect back off of the long window panels, the lone traveler's image could not be seen. To an independent observer staring at the window's reflections, only the clipped sound of purposeful steps would mark the mysterious, phantom passage.
The traveler arrived at the Immigration counter, manned by a bored, uniformed official who looked like he would rather be anywhere else. Reaching into the breast pocket of an impeccably tailored, black suit, the traveler withdrew his passport and slid it across the counter toward the Immigration officer.
The officer glanced down briefly at the photograph in the passport and compared it to the refined, dark-haired man who waited patiently before him. Satisfied as to the man's identity, the officer asked, "How long do you intend to stay in the country?"
"A few weeks, unless complications arise."
"And what is the purpose of your visit?"
"Business."
Following his usual routine, the Immigration officer stamped the passport and slid it back across the counter. "Welcome to the United States, Mr. Diaz."
The official greeting was met with a silent nod.
Ramon Diaz proceeded toward the exit, where a limousine awaited him.
And after that...to business.
(To Be Continued)