Title: Judgment
Author: Medea
Email: medealives@hotmail.com
Pairing: Willow/Angel friendship, Buffy/Spike
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Willow's joyride in 'Wrecked' was only the beginning of her downward spiral.
Spoilers: Through BtVS "Smashed" and "Wrecked"; and AtS "Lullaby"
Archive: Please do.
Disclaimer: Joss created. I am not Joss. Therefore, not mine, never will be. Pity, that.
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. For Willow/Angel fans -- it comes later in the story, but it *will* come.
Feedback: Much appreciated: medealives@hotmail.com

~Part: 9~


In silent shadow, one rested, one watched.


It had been a long time since Angel had observed a human being in this way -- not since before the curse. When his soul had been restored, he'd hidden from people in shame, unwilling to seek the company of those he had brutalized for so many decades. Then, after he'd enlisted to fight the good fight, most of his time had been spent doing just that: fighting. He hadn't had the luxury, or the desire, really, to sit in the darkness and study those whom he had once viewed as prey.

He almost felt guilty at how naturally it came back to him.

Eyes honed to darkness, sharpened by the instinct of the hunt, he observed her bowed head, tensed shoulders...the slight tremble of her lips. To him, as to all his kind, this was but the first level of perception, a superficial artifice compared to what lay beneath the skin. He knew: truth was buried deep. In the ebb and flow of life, coursing warm through veins. In the tenor of breath: at times deep and full, at others shallow and fragile as a moth's wing. In the sudden extremes of heat, chill, flush, cool...the body had its own seasons, its own sudden storms. Each sign, each change was part of the body's hidden language, so familiar to him that he didn't just hear it.

He tasted it.

Fred had guessed that Willow was afraid, an explanation that satisfied the others. But Willow's body wasn't marked by fear. Fear had its own, addictive allure. Fear washed over Angel's palate with the savor of adrenaline and salt, spiced with breathlessness and thundering heartbeat. In his two-and-a-half centuries, Angel had acquired a highly refined sensitivity to every nuance, every variation of human fear.

None of which he sensed in Willow.

No, Willow radiated the subtlety of grief. Slow, shallow breathing; slight cooling of the body, like dying embers; and muted, dormant skin in lieu of the indescribable, almost electric vitality that hummed over living things.

Willow's entire body spoke of a sadness that ran far too deep for one so small.

Angel normally didn't like to read his human friends this way. It felt...rude. Intrusive. Using his acute, predator's senses to gauge their moods would be an unwelcome reminder of the unnatural distance that separated him from those he cared about. Although he wasn't always very good at it, Angel had discovered that he liked talking. Talking put him on an equal level with his friends: it created a connection.

But Willow wasn't talking.

Not to him, not to anyone.

Truthfully, he wasn't sure he'd know how to talk to her. He'd never really known Willow. They hadn't known each other -- they'd known each other through Buffy. She had been Buffy's shy, sweet, enthusiastic supporter -- and so painfully innocent. Always eager to include him, always quick to forgive...and, like the schoolgirl she was, always seeing him as Buffy's dark, mysterious, romantic hero.

From what little he'd been told, she'd changed since he'd left Sunnydale. And so he fell back on his primal senses, the only means he had for glimpsing what she might be going through.

She stirred. Her pulse increased slightly.

Slowly, Willow raised her head and looked at him. Angel saw her pupils dilate as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. When her brow knitted slightly, Angel remained silent and allowed her to scrutinize him. He had seen her retreat from her friends' efforts to draw her out, so he sat passively and waited for her to make contact.

Willow's stare told its own story. It wasn't blank -- indeed, her gaze was so intense it was almost unnerving. She blinked occasionally and frowned in concentration, but otherwise her face revealed nothing save great weariness. That, too, was unnerving. Willow had the look of someone too old for her own life.

Angel wasn't used to seeing that look on anyone under a century old.

When Willow finally spoke, her voice was steady but soft.

"Where am I?"

"You're in my hotel, in Los Angeles," Angel replied gently. He remained still, not wanting to disturb her with any movements or gestures that might be unwelcome.

"Your hotel?"

"Yes."

Willow was silent again for a few moments. Angel watched as she looked around her small room. When her eyes settled on him once more, they narrowed in recognition.

"Angel?"

"Yes."

"Is this...hell?"

"No, Willow. You're in Los Angeles. Buffy and your friends brought you here."

Willow nodded slowly and her gaze unfocused, as if turning inward. "I remember."

Angel decided to risk a question. "What else do you remember?"

Willow squeezed her eyes shut and exhaled a shaky breath. "Everything." She brought both hands up to her forehead and began massaging her temples. In a small voice, she confessed, "Too much...More than I can...oh, God..."

"It's okay, Willow," Angel attempted to reassure her. "You don't have to talk about this now."

Gulping for breath, Willow grimaced and leaned forward as if she meant to climb out of the bed. Angel tensed in alarm, sensing the increase in her pulse rate.

"I think I....I'm gonna be sick," Willow groaned.

Willow glanced frantically about the room, disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings, but even more so by the thundering pain in her head as three-hundred and forty-seven years of memories flooded her mind. Each moment, each experience resolved in crystal clarity like thousands of tiny daggers that threatened to carve her skull from the inside out.

It was too much information for her to handle all at once. She felt her stomach lurch and her scalp prickle with a sudden, cold flash of sweat. Dizzily, her eyes settled on a metal trash bin by the desk. Choking to keep her guts down in her gut until she could reach it, Willow lurched off of the bed and staggered toward her goal.

No sooner had she dropped to her knees and gripped the rim of the waste basket than she emptied her stomach in one fierce heave.

Leaning on shaky arms, she panted as the nausea slowly faded. Her head still felt swollen to the bursting point.

A gentle hand rested on her shoulder.

"Willow? Can I get you anything? A glass of water?"

Unable to find her voice, Willow shook her head weakly and wiped the sour traces of stomach acid from her lips. A moment later, Angel held a box of Kleenex before her and waited patiently for her to take one.

That small gesture of kindness nearly drove her to tears.

Pulling a tissue from the box, she cleaned her mouth and nose in one long swipe, then discarded it in the waste basket. Finally, she looked up.

A dark, steady gaze met hers.

Angel.

She recognized him. The sensation almost made her pass out.

What she remembered of him stirred a kind of hazy, double-vision in her mind. On the one hand, it had only been a few short years since the dark vampire had lurked at the periphery of her life, joining the gang for research sessions, helping them fight Sunnydale's nasties. Yet from another perspective, all of that had happened almost three-and-a-half centuries ago. The problem was, her mind visualized both perspectives at once, and she wasn't equipped to live in two different time-lines. Willow wondered if it was possible to have brain squints.

But what really made her want to curl up and retreat into herself was the way Angel was looking at her.

His expression held such compassion.

More than she deserved.

Willow wanted to hide herself in shame, but she was too weak. So she followed her next instinct and slumped against the wall, her eyes closed in a vain attempt to block out the guilt.

She was dimly aware of Angel moving away and heard the faint sound of a door sweeping open, then closed, across smooth carpet. Several minutes later, the door brushed open again, but Angel's tread was so soft that it startled her when she felt his hand on hers.

Willow's eyes snapped open.

Uncertainly, she looked down as Angel rested one hand over hers and guided her fingers around a glass of water. He steadied her grip until she managed to raise the glass to her mouth. The water was cool and soothing, but it was Angel's silent kindness that cleansed her to her depths.

When she had emptied the glass, she glanced hesitantly at him and murmured, "Thanks."

The word felt trite and inadequate.

"Better?"

Willow nodded. Gently, Angel grasped her by the arm and helped her back to the bed.

"You should get some sleep. You're going to have a lot of questions to answer tomorrow." Although Angel's advice summoned painful memories of the damage she'd caused, there was no judgment in his voice.

"How...long have I been here?" Willow asked.

"Only a few hours. Your friends are concerned about you, Willow, but they also had to consider the safety of others. They thought it would be best to bring you here until everything is worked out."

With a wistful, resigned lift of her eyebrows, Willow mused, "They were right."

Angel eased into the chair beside the bed and faced her, resting his elbows on his knees. "I can't say anything about what's happened. I wasn't there," Angel acknowledged. "But I saw how Buffy and Xander and Tara were when they brought you here. They're upset with you, and from what Buffy has told me, they had good reason to be. That hasn't stopped them from caring about you, though. They all want to help you through this."

Bitter tears began to spill over Willow's eyelashes and she vigorously shook her head. "No, it's too late. What's done is done. It's gone way beyond anything they could help with."

Earnestly, Angel leaned forward and insisted, "I know what you did to Dawn--"

Willow cut him off sharply, her voice low and trembling with rage. "What I did to Dawn was horrible. It was selfish and irresponsible, and I will never, ever be free of the image of my own hands making her suffer...causing so much pain."

She had to pause for a moment, finding it difficult to breathe. Then she continued, "But that was only the beginning. Angel..."

God, how could she say this? How could she face anyone and say this?

Willow closed her eyes for a moment, then looked directly at Angel and confessed, "What I did to Dawn triggered something...and because of that, because of *me*, at least seven worlds were destroyed. Worlds, Angel -- whole worlds. Lives beyond numbering."

Angel's stunned silence was almost deafening. Willow had never seen such an expression of horrified disbelief on his face, but it didn't rattle her. She deserved it.

"Giles was right," she whispered, wishing desperately that she could return to that night and make herself listen to her mentor. "I was arrogant and stupid. I played with things I didn't understand, without even thinking of the consequences."

"Don't."

Angel's simple command held equal measures of sympathy and rebuke. In a softer tone, he added, "Willow, you couldn't have known."

Sadly, Willow shrugged. "That doesn't bring anyone back."




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